/jp/ - Otaku Culture

(3/3—p2)
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And this stupid, dumbass shrine maiden thirsting for praise from her superiors held the sun still for just one more second, trying her best to perfectly align it as she was taught—Danmaku, for as random as it may see sometimes, is still a game of many traps and illusions used to manipulate your opponent; so you always must be considerate of spacing and timing, both which can be enhanced by arithmetic, though the basis of talent and instinct are ultimate—, screams for me to 'leave' and 'move' were completely ignored, the skin burning off my dermis and hair losing some tones of coloration, teeth bared and nails about to be pushed beneath the skin…

… But I held on anyway! So what if I wasn't born into a family that, for generations, has practiced Shinto and magic? If I'm not the protector of Gensokyo or whatever; if I had to be taught 'death' in front of everyone yesterday?—or if, even after all this training, sweat and tears, more than a decade of sheer dedication, I'm still so far from being the very best?

I'm still a Moriyan shrine maiden!

With the math right, I finally move out of the way, the absence of a constant source of magic being poured into the seals meaning that, before one second had passed, they all had already shattered like cheap glass.

One more second there, and I'd be obliterated.

Heavens…

Still, I left with just enough time for my legs to graze the inferno as it shot up with the speed of a meteor, perhaps even faster than those missiles Mr. Hieda is throwing at the revolutionaries, all those flames aiming directly at Fujiwara no Mokou, who, with less than a millisecond to react, could only look at her own sun darting towards her...

Flames, of course, wouldn't do any damage.

… But pent-up kinetics?

Her own ocean of fire hits her upper half, ripping her body as if a blind axe met damp lumber, the cut downtrodden and poorly made, viscerally ripping a chunk of her lower body too and dragging it, making the bleeding flesh spin frantically in the air as if an uncontrollable industrial kappa water hose.

The youngest between us comes straight at me, holding one of my arms with concern in her face, trying not to look at the gruesome scene. “Are you okay, Sayori-chan?!”

“You're fucking suicidal!” The second-oldest yells/laughs in disbelief. Ugh, knew it…

All their voices and the others that sprinted to me were ignored, my mind completely focused on not throwing up—I almost fucking died, but I think did it…

… Heavens, I wanna throw up so badly.

Sanae-sama, much stronger than me, immediately lunged forward and caught the crazed flesh with one hand—gohei between her teeth—, her thousands of seals rushing to cloak the about to revive Fujiwara no Mokou, words leaving her mouth quickly and automatically as warm blood cascaded down her torn uniform and body, the amount of power lacing each word enough to hold that Sun for seconds, her veridian hair maddeningly yet somehow elegantly wavering about, the Gohei held between her teeth shining with the blessed energy coursing her body and leaving her hand, feeding the seals and smoothly—

—No, not smoothly: flames began exploding out of the massive mountain of faith, trying their best to burn down the forming cage, talk between us ceasing as we watched in utter expectancy, spent and weakened—should she fail, nothing would be able to seal Fujiwara no Mokou…

But Sanae-sama is THE Moriyan miko and fought those infernal flames with all she had, stars and scriptures rupturing the air, eclipsing all those flames, her very divine power exuding naturally and marking the air with golden words from the past, future or maybe a mixture of both—auric columns that chronicled the Moriyan history compressed into one single sealing.

A true goddess far away as possible from her final twilight, doing what she does best, against the backdrop of a hell of reds.

It was like a magnificent painting.

And like all great masterpieces, its end proved the worth of its run as those scriptures, acting like chains, snuffed the fire and collapsed the sealing chamber into a star, silence arising then…

For Sanae Kochiya had sealed Fujiwara no Mokou.

… The smile on my face was confusing, same thing for the tears: why am I crying so suddenly? I'm not one of the rookies or something alike; I'm the next in line to become the Moriyan miko—w-why the hell am I crying?! And hugging my sister maidens, all of whom also cry and laugh in delight?

I should be up there with Sanae-sama, helping her: all she did was the inner shell of the seal—the hardest part—now we need to complete the outer shell, a bastion to hold Fujiwara no Mokou; otherwise, with just the inner shell, she can easily escap—

—Gunshots echo; nothing out of the ordinary today…

… But why did Sanae-sama jolt forward, her body shivering?

W-Why is there blood pouring and tainting what remains of the white part of her dress…?

I blink, and it's as if rain is reversed, coming from below…

A rain made of bullets.