Wood Demon - Chapter 7
Chapter 7: Caught in the Spider’s Thread
The journey to Mount Natagumo was a blur of sunless nights and sun-drenched, fearful days. Jack traveled with a grim determination, the crudely drawn map his unwilling guide. Each night, he’d push himself further south, the terrain gradually becoming more rugged, the forests older, denser. Each day, he’d find a new temporary burrow, usually beneath the roots of some less-than-ancient tree, whispering a half-hearted apology as he drew just enough energy to sustain himself and keep the monstrous hunger dormant. Woody had spoiled him; these younger trees offered meager EXP, a mere trickle compared to the generous flow from his old sanctuary. It was enough to live, but not enough to thrive, not enough to feel truly secure.
His guilt was a constant, leaden weight in his belly, a companion far more faithful than any he’d known in his previous life. The memory of the farmhouse, of the family… it was a raw, festering wound that throbbed with every beat of his unnaturally strong heart. His BDA practice, conducted in the deepest parts of the night when the world was asleep, was his only distraction. He was getting better with his thorny vines, quicker to manifest them, more precise in their control. His `Thorn Volley` could now reliably puncture thick bark from a dozen paces. The Blisterblooms he cultivated were potent, their sickly-sweet scent a warning he’d learned to respect. But his attempts to influence existing flora remained stubbornly ineffective beyond a faint tremor.
“Still no luck playing puppet master with the local shrubbery,” he’d mutter, glaring at an unresponsive bush. “Guess I’m more of a ‘create from scratch’ kind of demonic botanist. Less ‘nature whisperer,’ more ‘unlicensed, invasive species generator’.”
As Mount Natagumo finally loomed into view, a vast, multi-peaked silhouette against the bruised pre-dawn sky, a profound sense of unease settled over Jack. The mountain was colossal, its slopes draped in a forest so dark and ancient it seemed to swallow the light. Tendrils of mist clung to its higher elevations like ghostly shrouds, and an unnatural stillness emanated from it, a silence that felt less like peace and more like the baited breath of something vast and predatory. Even from a distance, it reeked of wrongness.
“Well, Natagumo, you certainly live up to the ‘ominous’ part of your job description,” Jack murmured as he finally stepped onto the mountain’s lower slopes under the cloak of a moonless night. The air here was different – heavy, damp, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible scent of decay and something else, something sharp and faintly metallic, like old blood or spider silk. “Getting distinct ‘you’re probably going to die horribly here’ vibes. Ten out of ten for atmospheric dread, zero for ‘makes me feel warm, safe, and fuzzy inside’.”
His demonic senses were on high alert, prickling with a constant, low-level anxiety. The forest was eerily quiet. No birdsong, no insect chitters, not even the rustle of small animals in the undergrowth. Just the sigh of the wind through the unnaturally thick canopy and the crunch of his own footsteps on the damp, leaf-strewn earth. His immediate priority was to find a new “Woody,” another ancient, powerful tree that could serve as both a sanctuary and a sustainable power source. This urgent need forced him deeper into the unsettling, oppressive woods, further into the palpable miasma of dread that clung to the mountain like a disease.
He noticed the webs then. At first, they were subtle, a few strands here and there, almost blending in with the natural gloom. But as he ventured further, they became more prevalent, thicker, more disturbingly deliberate in their placement. These weren’t the delicate, dew-kissed creations of ordinary spiders. These were like silken cables, unnaturally strong, strung between trees with an architect’s precision, creating an eerie, almost invisible labyrinth.
“Okay, either this mountain has a serious arachnid infestation, or someone’s been redecorating with a very specific, very creepy theme,” Jack muttered, carefully avoiding a particularly thick strand that shimmered faintly in a stray beam of starlight. “Little Miss Muffet would have a conniption fit in here. And frankly, so am I, just a little bit.” The feeling of being watched intensified, evolving from a vague unease into a certainty that unseen eyes were tracking his every move.
He was just beginning to think he’d spotted a suitable candidate for his next arboreal refuge – a truly colossal, dark-barked tree whose roots spread like grasping talons – when the world exploded into a flurry of white, constricting lines.
One moment he was walking, the next he was airborne, yanked off his feet with bone-jarring force. Razor-sharp threads, erupting from the shadows with impossible speed and silence, wrapped around his limbs, his torso, his neck, biting deep. He cried out, a strangled gasp of shock and pain, as he was slammed against a tree trunk, the impact driving the air from his lungs.
“Hey now! Unhand me, you stringy aggressor!” he choked out, a desperate, pathetic attempt at bravado as he thrashed against the bonds. “Is this how you greet all your charming, roguishly handsome visitors? Because your hospitality skills? They need serious, immediate work!”
The threads were incredibly, impossibly strong, like living steel wires. They tightened with every movement, cutting through his clothes and into his flesh. His demonic regeneration was working, knitting the wounds almost as fast as they were made, but the constant, searing pain was immense. He tried to summon his thorny vines, to lash out, but the threads were too constricting, binding his arms, his very will. His newly acquired powers, his Level 18 strength, felt laughably inadequate against this sudden, overwhelming assault. He was pinned, helpless, a fly caught in a monstrous, invisible web.
He could feel himself being dragged, or rather, puppeteered, deeper into the woods. The threads were controlled, he realized with a fresh wave of terror. This wasn’t some natural hazard. This was an attack. Someone, or something, was doing this to him.
Then, from the deepest shadows, a figure emerged with the silent, fluid grace of a phantom. Small, almost childlike in stature, with pale skin that seemed to glow faintly in the gloom, and stark white hair that framed a delicate, eerily beautiful face. But the eyes… the eyes were cold, dead, crimson-flecked pools that held no warmth, no compassion, only an ancient, chilling emptiness. Strange, web-like markings adorned his face and hands.
The pressure of this new demon’s aura was suffocating, a physical weight that crushed down on Jack, far more potent, far more terrifying than anything he had encountered since Muzan himself. This was no ordinary demon. This was something far older, far more powerful.
As if on cue, the System chimed in Jack’s mind, its blue screen flaring with unwelcome information.
`Scanning Target…`
`Target Identified: Rui`
`Member of the Twelve Kizuki: Lower Moon Five`
`Level: 38`
`Blood Demon Art: Destructive Death – Spider Threads (Customizable Properties)`
Jack’s mind reeled. Level THIRTY-EIGHT?! And Lower Moon Five?! One of Muzan’s elite?! He was only Level 18, a pathetic ‘Lowest Rank Demon.’ The disparity wasn’t just terrifying; it was a cosmic joke.
“Are you freaking kidding me, System?!” he screamed internally, his external voice still a choked gasp. “Lower Moon Five?! Did you miscarry a decimal point somewhere? This isn’t a fight, it’s a freaking execution! I have BDA: Plant! I was going to offer him a nice potted fern as a welcome gift! This is so unfair!”
Rui glided closer, his dead eyes fixed on Jack, who was still struggling feebly against the unyielding threads. The small demon tilted his head, a gesture of cold, analytical curiosity. “Another stray demon,” Rui stated, his voice as soft and devoid of emotion as a winter breeze. “Weak. Pathetic, even. But…” A pause, as if considering. “…you’ll do.”
Jack, despite the terror that was threatening to liquefy his insides, felt a spark of his old, defiant self ignite. His mouth, as always, moved faster than his brain. “Well, hello there, short, pale, and terrifyingly powerful,” he managed to rasp, the threads around his neck making speech an agonizing effort. “Love what you’ve done with the place. Very… web-chic. Minimalist, yet undeniably effective at restraining unwanted guests. Are you the decorator? Or just the resident evil overlord with a penchant for haberdashery-based violence and a surprisingly youthful complexion? Seriously, what’s your skincare routine? Asking for a friend.”
Rui’s expression didn’t change. The attempt at humor, at misplaced, panic-induced flirtation, bounced off his icy demeanor like a paper airplane off a battleship. “Silence,” Rui commanded, and the threads around Jack’s throat tightened, cutting off his air. Jack clawed at them, his vision starting to blur at the edges.
Just as he thought he was about to black out, the pressure eased slightly, allowing him to take a ragged, desperate breath.
“You have a purpose now,” Rui continued, his voice a monotone. “I am Rui. And I am forming a family. True bonds, bound by love. I need an older brother.” His gaze, if possible, grew even colder. “You will be my older brother.”
Jack stared, dumbfounded, his mind struggling to process the sheer, unadulterated insanity of the situation. “Older… brother?” he wheezed. “Look, kid, I appreciate the offer, really, it’s… unique. But I’m not exactly ‘big brother material.’ More like ‘slightly neurotic, sarcastic acquaintance who occasionally forgets to water his plants’ material. And I’m pretty sure my resume doesn’t include ‘willing participant in a creepy, web-themed murder cult’.”
“You misunderstand,” Rui said, a hint of something sharp, like splintered ice, entering his tone. The threads pulsed, digging deeper. “This is not an offer. It is a role you will fulfill. You will protect me. You will obey me. You will be part of my family, and you will adhere to the bonds I dictate.” He took another step closer, his small form radiating an immense, suffocating pressure. “If you refuse, or if you fail in your role, I will tear you apart, piece by piece, until nothing remains but scraps for my spiders. Is that clear?”
Jack looked into those dead, crimson-flecked eyes. There was no bluff there, no room for negotiation. Only the absolute certainty of agonizing annihilation. He was outmatched, outclassed, and utterly at this creature’s mercy. The Demon Slayers were a terrifying, abstract threat. Rui was a terrifying, immediate threat.
His desperate hope of finding a quiet place to cultivate his plant powers, to live a semblance of a non-murderous unlife, seemed to crumble into dust. But survival. Survival was paramount. If he died here, torn apart by this psychotic spider-child, then everything – his guilt, his hope, his bizarre tree-sap diet – was meaningless. Becoming part of this horrifying “family” might offer temporary, albeit nightmarish, shelter. A chance to live another day, to find another way.
The words felt like swallowing broken glass, but he forced them out. “Right,” he croaked, trying for a casual tone and failing miserably. His voice was a strained, terrified squeak. “Big Brother. Got it. Role accepted. Always wanted a younger sibling who could, you know, casually dismember me with killer string if I forget to take out the trash. Family bonding, here we come. Sign me up for the newsletter and the matching t-shirts.” His attempt at sarcasm was a thin, pathetic veil over the stark terror that gripped him.
A flicker of something that might have been satisfaction, or perhaps just an acknowledgment of his complete and utter subjugation, passed through Rui’s cold eyes. “Good,” he said. The threads around Jack loosened slightly, though they didn’t release him entirely. He was still bound, still a captive, but now, he had a title. He was property.
Rui turned, his white hair fanning out behind him. “Come. You will meet the others.”
Dragged by the relentless threads, Jack was pulled deeper into the nightmarish heart of Mount Natagumo, his mind reeling. He had traded the vague threat of Demon Slayers for the immediate, terrifying certainty of Rui’s cruel dominion. His desperate search for a sanctuary had led him straight into another, perhaps even more insidious, trap.
He was Jack, Level 18 Demon, specialist in sarcastic remarks and reluctant botany, and now, apparently, the newest, unwilling member of the Addams Family’s even more dysfunctional, spider-themed cousins. This, he thought with a fresh wave of despair, was going to be a whole new level of hell.