The forest thinned after six hours of brutal march.
We emerged into hill country—rocky terrain, sparse vegetation, limited sight lines. Not ideal for ambush, which made it marginally safer than dense woodland.
"We can't keep running," Takeshi said. He was breathing hard, bow slung across his back. "Eventually we'll collapse from exhaustion."
"We need a base," Master Yamada agreed. "Somewhere defensible. Somewhere the Ghost Slayers won't immediately find."
I scanned the horizon with [Psychic Defense], searching for hostile signatures.
Nothing. The trackers had fallen back after the shrine engagement. Regrouping. Planning.
"How long before the Containment Master arrives?" I asked.
"Depends on where they're coming from." Kasumi was studying a mental map, calculating distances. "If they're dispatching from Kyoto, three days minimum. If they have someone closer..." She shrugged. "Could be tomorrow."
Three days. Maybe less.
Not much time to prepare for someone specifically trained to neutralize my abilities.
The Ghost Stomach stirred with low-level hunger. [Magma Body] was self-sustaining, but my other abilities still needed fuel. And I hadn't eaten properly in over twelve hours.
"There." Master Yamada pointed northeast. "Old checkpoint station. Abandoned for decades after the northern border conflicts ended. It's technically neutral territory—no Daimyo claims it, no military presence."
"Why abandoned?" I asked.
"Spiritual contamination. Several battles were fought there. High casualty counts on both sides. The area became saturated with residual death energy." He smiled grimly. "Most people avoid it. Consider it cursed."
"Perfect," Kasumi said. "Cursed ground means no civilian interference and no official patrols."
"Also means potential hostile Specters," Takeshi pointed out.
"Which Ryan can consume." Kasumi looked at me. "Can't you?"
Fair point.
"How far?" I asked.
"Eight miles. Maybe nine." Master Yamada was already moving. "We can reach it by nightfall if we maintain pace."
We moved.
The terrain got rougher. Hills became small mountains. Vegetation gave way to bare rock and twisted scrub. The air felt heavier here—not physically, but spiritually. Like walking through invisible sludge.
"You feel that?" I asked.
"Death resonance," Master Yamada confirmed. "Spiritual echoes from the battles. This place saw thousands die over a ten-year period. That kind of concentrated death leaves marks."
My [Psychic Defense] was picking up fragments. Not hostile intent exactly, but residual emotion. Fear. Rage. Despair. All compressed into the landscape itself.
The Ghost Stomach stirred with interest.
This wasn't food exactly. More like ambient energy. But it was something. The system was analyzing it, categorizing it, determining if it could be processed.
"There." Takeshi pointed ahead.
The checkpoint appeared through the rocky terrain like a broken tooth.
Stone walls, crumbling but substantial. Guard towers collapsed into rubble. A main gate hanging askew on rusted hinges. Everything covered in decades of neglect and weathering.
But the structure was solid. The foundations intact. With work, it could be defensible.
"Perimeter check," Kasumi ordered. "Standard sweep. Watch for—"
A low moan echoed across the rocks.
We froze.
Not wind. Not animal. Something else. Something that existed in the boundary between physical and spiritual.
"Residual Specter," Master Yamada said quietly. "Formed from accumulated death energy. Not truly sentient, but dangerous if provoked."
I activated [Psychic Defense], pushing awareness outward.
Multiple signatures. Dozens of them. All weak individually, but clustered throughout the checkpoint ruins. Fragments of soldiers who'd died here, unable to move on, slowly degrading into pure hostile energy.
"Can you handle them?" Kasumi asked me.
I tested the Ghost Stomach's response.
Hunger. Definite hunger. These weren't High-Tier Specters, but quantity had its own value. Dozens of small essences could add up to significant energy.
"Yes," I said. "But I'll need time. And you'll need to stay back—once I start consuming, it might trigger a feeding frenzy response."
"Feeding frenzy?"
"The Ghost Stomach doesn't always discriminate between hostile Specters and nearby allies when it's actively processing essence." I'd learned that the hard way after consuming the Vengeful Spirit. The system had briefly registered Kasumi as potential food before I'd forced it to recognize her as friendly.
Not something I wanted to repeat.
"Understood." Kasumi gestured to the others. "Defensive perimeter. Fifty yards out. Let Ryan work."
They moved back, taking positions on high ground where they could observe without interfering.
I walked into the checkpoint alone.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the moaning intensified. Shadows detached from the walls—human-shaped, translucent, moving with the jerky motion of things that didn't quite remember how bodies worked.
Residual Specters. The spiritual equivalent of echoes. Not truly alive, not fully dead. Just... persistent.
One lunged at me with a rusted spear that existed more in concept than reality.
I didn't dodge.
Let it strike my [Magma Body].
The spectral weapon passed through my superheated aura and evaporated. The Residual Specter recoiled, its form destabilizing from contact with concentrated heat.
The Ghost Stomach surged forward.
My jaw unhinged, and the devouring force exploded outward. Not targeted this time—just raw, indiscriminate consumption. A spiritual vacuum that pulled in everything within range.
The Residual Specters tried to scatter. Tried to dissipate back into the walls, the ground, anywhere that offered escape.
The Ghost Stomach didn't let them.
One by one, they were pulled into my mouth. Their essence was thin—barely qualified as food—but there were so many of them. Twenty. Thirty. Forty ghosts compressed into pure energy and processed in seconds.
[GHOST STOMACH SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
[MULTIPLE RESIDUAL SPECTERS CONSUMED]
[LOW-GRADE ESSENCE DETECTED]
[MASS PROCESSING...]
[ENERGY RESERVES: REPLENISHED]
The hunger faded. Not completely—never completely—but enough. The constant drain from maintaining multiple abilities stopped feeling like a crisis.
I moved deeper into the checkpoint, systematically clearing each section. Guard tower remnants. Barracks. Command post. Everywhere I went, Residual Specters emerged and were consumed.
By the time I reached the central courtyard, I'd processed over sixty individual essences.
And found something interesting.
In the center of the courtyard, a small shrine. Not to any particular god, but to the dead themselves. A memorial erected by survivors, commemorating those who'd fallen.
The shrine was intact. Protected somehow from the decay that had claimed everything else.
And around it, the spiritual pressure was different. Calmer. Almost peaceful.
I approached carefully, deactivating the Ghost Stomach's active consumption. Placed a hand on the shrine's stone surface.
Memories flooded in. Not traumatic ones like the Grudge Spirit or Vengeful Spirit had shown me. These were... quiet. Gentle. Final moments of soldiers accepting death. Making peace with their fate. Asking to be remembered.
The Ghost Stomach stirred, but not with hunger. With something else. Recognition? Respect?
The system couldn't process this. Couldn't consume it. Because there was no malice here. No corruption. Just memory and loss.
I pulled my hand back.
"I'll remember," I said quietly. To the dead. To the shrine. To whatever fragments of consciousness might still linger here.
Then I turned and walked back to the checkpoint entrance.
Kasumi, Takeshi, and Master Yamada were waiting. They'd set up a basic camp—supplies organized, defensive positions established, fire started (ironically unnecessary given my [Magma Body], but comforting anyway).
"Status?" Kasumi asked.
"Clear. Sixty-plus Residual Specters consumed. The area is spiritually stable now." I sat down near the fire. "This place will work. We can hold it."
"For how long?" Takeshi asked.
Good question.
I pushed [Psychic Defense] outward, searching the surrounding territory. No immediate hostile signatures. But I could feel something in the distance—multiple someones—moving with purpose. Not directly toward us yet, but searching. Hunting.
"Three days," I estimated. "Maybe four if we're lucky. Then the Ghost Slayers will triangulate our position through elimination."
"Then we use the time wisely." Master Yamada was already sketching defensive array patterns in the dirt. "This checkpoint has good bones. With proper preparation, we can make it a fortress."
"Against a Containment Master?" I asked skeptically.
"Against the initial assault, at least. After that..." He shrugged. "We adapt."
Kasumi was studying me. "You're different. Since the shrine."
"How so?"
"Calmer. More controlled. The Ghost Stomach's influence seems less..." she searched for the word, "...volatile."
She wasn't wrong.
The fusion into [Magma Body] had done something to the system's architecture. Made it more integrated with my consciousness. Less a foreign parasite and more an actual part of me.
Which was either good news or terrifying news, depending on perspective.
"I'm adapting," I said. "Learning to work with the Ghost Stomach instead of fighting it."
"And if it consumes you completely?"
"Then you kill me." I met her eyes. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Insurance. If I become too dangerous, you're the one designated to eliminate me."
She didn't deny it.
Takeshi cleared his throat awkwardly. "So. Defensive preparations?"
"Right." Kasumi stood, transitioning smoothly to tactical mode. "We have three days to turn this ruin into something defensible. Ryan, you'll need to experiment with your abilities—understand their limits, test fusion combinations. The Containment Master will come prepared. We need to be more prepared."
"Understood."
Master Yamada began drawing complex seals. "I'll establish bounded fields around the perimeter. Nothing that will stop a determined assault, but enough to give us early warning."
"I'll fortify the high ground positions," Takeshi added. "Create kill zones. If they want to take this checkpoint, they'll pay for every foot."
Professional efficiency. We'd gone from enemies to allies to a functional combat unit in less than forty-eight hours.
Necessity makes strange teams.
I looked at the ruined checkpoint—my new temporary home, my fortress, my training ground.
Three days to prepare for a battle I probably couldn't win.
But the Ghost Stomach pulsed with dark anticipation.
Because it didn't care about odds.
It only cared about consumption.
And in three days, when the Containment Master arrived, I'd discover whether I'd become strong enough to survive.
Or whether I'd just provided the Ghost Slayers with a convenient location for my execution.