Wood Demon - Chapter 6
Chapter 6: A Map to Misfortune
Several days, or rather, nights, bled into one another in a disorienting cycle of sunless activity and sun-drenched, fearful hiding. Jack’s existence settled into a strange, almost meditative rhythm. By day, he was a prisoner of the earth, huddled in the cool, damp darkness of Woody’s root-cave, drawing sustenance from the ancient tree, feeling the slow, steady trickle of EXP soothe the raw edges of his demonic cravings. He’d talk to Woody, his silent, wooden confidant, peppering the darkness with cynical observations and increasingly desperate jokes that never received so much as a rustle in reply.
“You know, Woody,” he’d said one afternoon, his palm pressed to the familiar roughness of the root, “for a giant, millennia-old organism, you’re a remarkably good listener. Or just really, really patient with my particular brand of crazy. Appreciate it either way. Most folks would have called the authorities by now. Or, you know, the local exorcist.”
By night, he’d cautiously explore the immediate vicinity of his arboreal sanctuary. Each new plant he touched, from the most insignificant patch of lichen to the sturdy young oaks, added another entry to his ‘Botanical Compendium.’
`[New Flora Data Acquired: Grey Whisker Lichen.]`
`[New Flora Data Acquired: Young White Oak.]`
His internal encyclopedia was growing, a bizarre collection of potential ingredients for his Verdant Arsenal. He practiced his BDA, coaxing thorny vines from his flesh with less revulsion now and more grim practicality, cultivating his toxic Blisterblooms in secluded patches (far from anything he might accidentally step on), and attempting, with frustratingly limited success, to make his leaf vortexes more than just an aggressive exfoliant.
The EXP from Woody was consistent, a slow but steady climb.
`Level Up! You are now Level 15!`
`All stats moderately increased. Blood Demon Art: Plant – [Thorn Volley] unlocked. You can now detach and launch thorns from your generated vines.`
“Thorn Volley, huh?” Jack had mused, testing it out by shooting a surprisingly sharp thorn into a rotten log. “Getting a bit more offensive, are we? Moving up from passive-aggressive gardening to actively hostile horticulture. I like it.”
A few more nights of dedicated tree-sapping and cautious BDA practice brought another chime.
`Level Up! You are now Level 18!`
`Overall demonic capabilities significantly enhanced. Your connection to botanical life deepens.`
He checked his status. `Demon: Jack. Level: 18. Status: Lowest Rank Demon.`
A bitter laugh escaped him. “Level 18 and still rocking the ‘Lowest Rank Demon’ title. It’s like being the world’s most experienced intern. All the work, none of the respect. Or, presumably, dental benefits. Does Muzan even offer a 401k? Probably not. Seems more like a ‘die for me horribly’ kind of employer.”
The tree-feeding kept the monstrous hunger at bay, a constant, quiet miracle he was profoundly grateful for. But it did nothing for the nightmares. The farmhouse, the family, the blood – these were his constant companions in the dark, replaying with sickening fidelity whenever his guard was down. He meticulously avoided the area where he’d committed his first, terrible act, the guilt a raw, open wound.
Driven by a morbid curiosity, a need to know if his monstrous debut had made the local papers, or rather, the local terrified gossip circuit, he began to venture further afield during his nightly explorations. He kept to the deepest shadows, his demonic senses on high alert, his ‘Root Sense’ giving him an eerie awareness of the forest floor beneath his feet. One night, skirting the edge of a sparsely populated area a few miles from the scene of his crime, he overheard hushed, fearful whispers drifting from a poorly lit cottage. Two elderly farmers, their voices tight with anxiety.
“…another patrol passed through this morning…”
“…swordsmen, they were, asking questions… about that terrible business up at the old Kenji place…”
“…said it was a demon’s work, no doubt… looking for it, they are…”
Jack froze, melting back into the impenetrable darkness beneath a thicket of pines.
Demon Slayers.
Here.
Actively hunting him. His blood ran cold, a sensation quite different from the chill of the night air. The abstract threat he’d pieced together in Woody’s cave was now a concrete, immediate danger. His earlier, flippant remarks about attracting critics suddenly felt horrifyingly prescient.
“Oh, great,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. “My murderous rampage has officially attracted the attention of the professionals. And by professionals, I mean highly skilled, katana-wielding individuals whose entire job description is ‘make demons go away permanently, preferably in many small pieces’.” A fresh wave of guilt washed over him, colder and sharper this time. His actions, his monstrous loss of control, had brought this scrutiny, this fear, to these innocent people. He was a blight, a walking disaster.
He retreated back towards Woody’s sanctuary, his mind racing. This place, his haven, was no longer safe. Woody was great, the best damn inanimate therapist a guy could ask for, but he wasn’t worth dying for if Slayers started combing these woods with a vengeance. He needed to move. He needed to find somewhere more remote, more defensible, somewhere he could continue to level up and master his bizarre plant powers without constantly looking over his shoulder for a Nichirin blade.
The problem was information. He was lost, both literally and figuratively. He needed a map. And a map, invariably, meant interacting with humans. Which meant a village. Which meant… potential complications.
And then there was the other, more sickening problem.
Money.
He had none. Well, almost none. He remembered, with a fresh stab of self-loathing, the few tarnished coins he’d found clutched in his hand after the blood frenzy at the farmhouse. He’d thrust them deep into his pocket then, trying to forget their origin, but now, the memory surfaced with unwelcome clarity. Blood money. The price of a slaughtered family.
The thought of using it made him feel physically ill. “So, this is what it comes down to,” he muttered, pacing restlessly in the small clearing around Woody’s base. “I have to use the ill-gotten gains from Act of Unspeakable Horror Alpha to fund my desperate attempt to prevent Act of Unspeakable Horror Bravo, Charlie, and probably the entire rest of the damn alphabet. That’s some seriously twisted demonic logic right there. Does it count as moral laundering if it’s for a theoretically good cause? My ‘try not to eat people and get brutally murdered by heroes’ fund?”
He wrestled with it for what felt like hours. The alternative was to risk approaching a village with nothing, to perhaps be driven by desperation to steal, or worse. No. He couldn’t risk another loss of control, another stain on his already blackened conscience. The coins, however tainted, were a means to an end – a less horrific end, he desperately hoped.
But he couldn’t just stroll into a village looking like… well, like himself. Even if he suppressed his demonic aura, his pupil are red, and has vertical demon like look. His teeth are sharp, his nails are like demon. And even some wood branches coming out from different parts of his body.
He needed a disguise. His thoughts snagged on one of his listed abilities: `Flesh Manipulation`.
“Right, ‘Flesh Manipulation’,” he said aloud, the words feeling strange and squishy in his mouth. “Sounds… messy. Let’s see if I can dial down the ‘terrifying creature of the night who subsists on tree sap’ vibe and go for something a little more ‘harmless, non-threatening, please don’t stab me with a sword’.”
He found a secluded spot, far enough from Woody that he wouldn’t accidentally damage his friend, and began to experiment. He focused, trying to will his body to change. It was a deeply unsettling sensation, like his bones were made of putty, his skin a malleable shroud. There was a wet, pulling, popping sound as his frame began to shrink, his features to soften. It wasn’t precisely painful, not in the way being stabbed by Muzan had been, but it was profoundly, existentially weird. He felt his jawline receding, his shoulders narrowing, his limbs shortening.
“Okay, cheekbones, a little less ‘gaunt harbinger of doom with a penchant for brooding,’ a little more ‘apple-cheeked cherub who wouldn’t hurt a fly’,” he grunted through the bizarre process, his voice shifting, becoming higher, lighter. “Eyes, let’s dial down the ‘windows to eternal damnation and recent trauma,’ maybe shoot for ‘wide-eyed innocence with a hint of mischievous curiosity.’ This is like Extreme Makeover: Demonic Fugitive Edition. And the results are… deeply unsettling.”
He had to guess at the result, having no mirror, but he aimed for the appearance of a ten-year-old boy. Small, unassuming, someone who could plausibly be lost or running an errand, unlikely to attract undue suspicion or predatory interest. When the grotesque reshaping finally ceased, he tentatively touched his face. It felt… small. Smooth. Disturbingly unfamiliar. His clothes, already tattered, now hung on his shrunken frame like ridiculous, oversized sacks.
“Perfect,” he said, his new, childish voice a fresh source of horror. “Who’s going to suspect little Timmy? Unless little Timmy suddenly sprouts thorny vines and tries to sell you a cursed fern while demanding all your tree-related snacks. This is fine. I am fine. Just casually committing identity fraud via grotesque bodily contortion. Standard Tuesday night for Jack, the friendly neighborhood… abomination.”
Under the cloak of the deepest night, “Timmy” set off towards the nearest village the farmers had mentioned, a small, rustic hamlet nestled in a valley a few miles away. He stuck to the shadows, his small, disguised form moving with an unnatural silence that would have terrified anyone who noticed. The village was asleep, lights extinguished in all but a few hardy establishments. He located what looked like a general store, a dim light still burning in its window.
Taking a deep, unnecessary breath – the child form didn’t seem to need much air – he plastered on what he hoped was a suitably lost and pathetic expression and pushed open the door. An elderly shopkeeper looked up from behind a cluttered counter, his eyes rheumy.
“Well now, son, what are you doing out so late?” the old man asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.
Jack, or rather, Timmy, summoned every ounce of acting ability he possessed, which wasn’t much. “Lost, sir,” he piped up, trying to inject a wobble into his voice. “I got separated from my papa in the woods, and I… I don’t know how to get back. Do you… do you maybe have one of them map-things?” He tried for a winning, slightly tearful smile. Internally, he was cringing so hard he thought his manipulated spine might snap. “This is a new low, Jack. A new, despicable, yet strategically necessary low. I hope my old drama teacher is looking down… or up… or wherever… and feeling vaguely proud of this horrifyingly convincing performance.”
The old shopkeeper’s face softened with pity. “Poor lad. Of course, got a few maps of the region.” He rummaged under the counter and produced a worn, creased parchment. “That’ll be ten mon, son.”
Jack reached into the oversized pocket of his tattered trousers, his small fingers closing around the tainted coins. They felt cold, heavy, each one a tiny weight on his conscience. He placed them on the counter, avoiding the old man’s gaze. The shopkeeper swept them into a wooden drawer without a second glance. The transaction was complete. Blood money, successfully laundered for a piece of paper that might just save his unlife. The irony was a bitter pill.
“Thank you, sir! You’re super-duper kind!” Timmy chirped, grabbing the map. He practically fled the store, the shopkeeper’s sympathetic gaze feeling like a brand on his back.
Once clear of the village, concealed by the darkness of the forest, Jack let the child disguise melt away. The process of reverting was just as unsettling, his body stretching and reforming with a series of sickening pops and pulls until his familiar, adult demonic form was restored. He leaned against a tree, breathing heavily, the phantom sensation of being small and vulnerable clinging to him. The child disguise had felt like a profound violation, another layer of wrongness heaped upon his already burdened soul.
“Okay, Timmy, you were surprisingly effective, you little sociopath,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Managed to buy a map without anyone suspecting you secretly photosynthesize and occasionally debate the ethics of your existence with inanimate objects. Top marks for deception, kiddo. Now let’s burn that memory forever.”
He unfurled the precious, hard-won map. It was crudely drawn but detailed enough. He found the village he’d just left, then painstakingly traced his way back to his approximate current location near Woody. His eyes scanned the surrounding region, searching for dense, remote, and hopefully Slayer-free areas.
And then he saw it. A sprawling, dark green patch dominating the southern portion of the map, labeled with stark, spidery characters: `Mount Natagumo`. It was a significant mountain range, heavily forested, and seemingly isolated from major settlements. The name tickled a distant memory from the manga, something vaguely ominous, but the immediate tactical advantage was undeniable. It looked like the perfect place to disappear, to hide, to continue his bizarre horticultural training.
“Mount Natagumo,” he murmured, tracing the outline with a finger. “Sounds… pleasantly foreboding. Or maybe it’s old Japanese for ‘place with excellent, nutrient-rich tree-sap and a distinct lack of sword-wielding, demon-hating maniacs.’ One can only hope, can’t one?” He gave a grim smile. “Probably filled with giant, demon-eating spiders, knowing my luck. But hey, at least it’s not a well-lit public park.”
The decision was made. This was his next destination. A concrete goal, a direction. It was something.
He carefully folded the map, now his most prized possession, and tucked it away. He took one last look in the direction of Woody’s ancient form, a silent farewell to his first, unwitting ally. Then, with a new, grim sense of purpose mixing with the ever-present fear and the undying ember of guilt, Jack set off towards Mount Natagumo. The faint, fragile hope that his plant-based sustenance could offer him a different kind of demonic existence was the main driver now, pushing him onward to find a safer, more secluded place to cultivate both his powers and his precarious sanity.