Matsuyama appeared on the horizon like a promise and a threat.
Sprawling. Dense. Alive with movement even from miles away. Smoke rose from hundreds of cooking fires. The sounds of commerce and conflict drifted across the fields—merchants hawking goods, animals protesting, steel clashing against steel in practice yards.
And underneath it all, spiritual pressure so thick I could taste it.
"You feel that?" Master Yamada asked quietly.
I nodded. [Psychic Defense] was picking up dozens of signatures. Hundreds, maybe. Most were weak—ambient spiritual noise from concentrated human activity—but scattered throughout were stronger presences. Deliberate. Hostile.
"Specter infestation," Kasumi said. "Worse than I expected. The city must be crawling with them."
"Good for us," I said. The Ghost Stomach was practically vibrating with anticipation. "More targets means more opportunities."
"Also means more chaos." She studied the city with tactical assessment. "We'll need a base. Somewhere defensible where Ryan can operate from without drawing immediate attention."
"The eastern district," Kenta said. Everyone looked at him. "What? I've heard stories. Matsuyama's eastern quarter is controlled by the Crimson Blade gang. They run protection rackets, gambling dens, illegal trade. Local authorities don't patrol there."
"Perfect." Kasumi started moving toward the city. "Criminal territory means fewer questions and more freedom to operate."
We entered Matsuyama through a minor gate—just another group of travelers among dozens flowing in and out. Guards gave us cursory glances but didn't stop us. Too busy, too overwhelmed, too underpaid to care.
The city swallowed us immediately.
Narrow streets packed with humanity. Vendors shouting prices. Children running between stalls. Samurai in clan colors pushing through crowds with casual arrogance. And everywhere, the smell—cooking food, human waste, incense, sweat, life compressed into dense urban chaos.
My enhanced senses were overwhelmed for a moment. Too much input. Too many signatures blending together.
"Stay close," Kasumi ordered. "Easy to get separated here."
We navigated through the commercial district into residential areas, then toward the eastern quarter. The transition was obvious—buildings became shabbier, crowds more dangerous, guards nonexistent.
And the spiritual pressure intensified.
"There's something here," I said, activating [Psychic Defense] more deliberately. "Something big. Maybe a quarter-mile east."
"The Blood Hand territory," Kenta said. "Gang headquarters. That's where—"
Screaming erupted from a nearby alley.
We moved as a unit, weapons drawn, rounding the corner to find chaos.
A young woman—maybe sixteen, merchant's daughter judging by her clothes—pinned against a wall by something wrong. It looked vaguely human-shaped but wrong—limbs too long, fingers ending in claws, and its hands were literally dripping blood. Not metaphorical blood. Actual crimson liquid pooling on the ground.
Blood Hand Specter.
Three gang members lay around it, torn apart. Their blood was flowing toward the Specter, being absorbed into its body.
"Mid-Tier," Master Yamada assessed. "Feeds on violence. Gets stronger with each kill. If it's been operating in gang territory—"
The Specter sensed us. Turned. Its face was a nightmare—human features melted and reformed into something predatory. Eyes pure black. Mouth too wide, filled with too many teeth.
It dropped the girl and lunged.
I activated [Rapid Movement] and intercepted. Caught its wrist mid-strike.
The contact burned—not from heat but from sheer concentrated malice. The Specter's essence was toxic, corrupted by years of feeding on murder and violence.
It slashed at me with its free hand. Claws raked across my [Magma Body], and for the first time since acquiring the fusion, I felt damage. Not serious—the superheated skin resisted penetration—but enough to matter.
This thing could hurt me.
Good.
I activated [Magma Body]'s offensive heat, superheating my skin to maximum temperature.
The Specter shrieked—not pain exactly, but fury. Its blood started boiling where we made contact, steam rising from our locked grip.
"Ryan, wait!" Master Yamada's voice. "Blood Hand Specters are—"
The Specter exploded.
Not literally. Its body burst into dozens of blood tendrils, each one moving independently, striking from multiple angles simultaneously.
I tried to dodge but they were too fast. Too many. Tendrils wrapped around my arms, legs, throat. Started draining.
I felt energy flowing out of me. Not just physical strength—spiritual essence. The Specter was consuming me.
Turnabout's a bitch.
The Ghost Stomach erupted in rage.
My jaw unhinged and the devouring force exploded outward with unprecedented intensity. This wasn't just hunger—this was territorial fury. Another entity was trying to consume what belonged to the Ghost Stomach.
Unacceptable.
The blood tendrils writhed, trying to pull away, but the Ghost Stomach was stronger. Faster. More refined.
One by one, the tendrils were sucked into my mouth. Processed. Broken down. The Blood Hand Specter tried to reform, to escape, but I grabbed its core—the central mass where all the tendrils originated—and pulled.
The entity thrashed. Showed me visions of every murder it had committed. Decades of violence compressed into seconds. Throats cut. Bodies stabbed. Blood flowing freely while victims screamed.
The Ghost Stomach didn't care.
It processed the memories like data. Extracted the useful components. Discarded the pure malice.
[GHOST STOMACH SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
[BLOOD HAND SPECTER CONSUMED]
[MID-TIER ESSENCE DETECTED]
[WARNING: AGGRESSIVE REGENERATION ABILITY DETECTED]
[ANALYZING...]
The Specter's essence fought even as it was consumed. It had survived this long by being almost impossible to kill—reforming from any injury, regenerating from scattered pieces, adapting to threats.
But it had never encountered something that could consume essence directly.
[ABILITY EXTRACTED: RAPID REGENERATION]
[INTEGRATION COMPLETE]
The last of the Blood Hand Specter dissolved. Its blood pooled on the ground, then evaporated into nothing.
I collapsed to one knee, gasping.
"Status!" Kasumi was beside me, sword ready to cover against additional threats.
"Fine. Just..." I caught my breath. "That thing was stronger than expected."
"Blood Hand Specters are ambush predators," Master Yamada said. "They exploit violence-saturated environments. In gang territory, it was probably feeding constantly. Growing stronger with each conflict." He studied me carefully. "You absorbed its regeneration ability?"
I tested it mentally. Felt the new power settling into place alongside my other abilities.
[RAPID REGENERATION]: Accelerated healing of physical injuries. Energy-intensive but extremely effective.
"Yes. I can heal now." I stood, testing my balance. "Fast healing. The damage it did is already closing."
I looked down at my arms. The claw marks were knitting together in real-time. Flesh reforming, skin sealing. In thirty seconds, they'd disappeared completely.
"Useful," Takeshi observed. "But probably expensive."
He wasn't wrong. I could feel [Rapid Regeneration] burning through energy reserves. The healing was fast but demanded constant fuel.
The Ghost Stomach growled with renewed hunger.
"We need to move," Kasumi said. "That fight drew attention."
She was right. Crowd forming at the alley entrance. Faces staring. Some terrified. Some calculating.
And through [Psychic Defense], I felt new hostile signatures approaching. Multiple sources. Moving with coordinated purpose.
"Gang response team," Kenta said. "We just killed something in their territory. They'll want answers."
"Or revenge," Takeshi added.
"Neither." I activated [Shadow Stealth], darkness pooling around me. "We disappear. Now."
We moved through the eastern quarter like ghosts. Kasumi led, navigating alleys and back streets with the confidence of someone who'd operated in hostile urban environments before. Master Yamada deployed concealment seals that made us forgettable—not invisible, but easy to overlook.
Twenty minutes later, we emerged in a quieter section. Abandoned warehouse district. Buildings crumbling from neglect but structurally sound enough to serve as shelter.
"Here," Kasumi said, indicating a three-story structure with good sight lines. "Secure the perimeter. Ryan, top floor—you're on watch."
I climbed to the roof while the others fortified ground positions.
From up here, Matsuyama spread out like a living organism. Chaotic. Dense. Dangerous.
And absolutely saturated with Specter activity.
Through [Psychic Defense] fused with [Night Vision], I could see spiritual energy like threads of light woven through the city. Dozens of moderate signatures. Several strong ones. And deep in the center, something massive. Ancient-class, probably. Dormant but present.
The Ghost Stomach pulsed with dark anticipation.
This city was exactly what I needed. A hunting ground filled with prey strong enough to matter.
But it was also a powder keg. One wrong move and I'd trigger gang wars, Ghost Slayer interventions, political chaos.
"What's the plan?" Kenta asked, joining me on the roof.
"Hunt carefully. Target isolated Specters. Build strength systematically." I looked at him. "And figure out which parts of this city connect to Grand Master Kurosawa's conspiracy."
"The Blood Hand Specter," he said quietly. "That wasn't natural. Blood Hands don't usually operate in cities—too much light, too many spiritual defenses. Someone placed it here."
"Someone like Kurosawa."
"Exactly." Kenta's expression was grim. "The gang wars, the Specter infestations, the political instability—what if it's all connected? What if Matsuyama is a test site for the False Night Parade?"
The pieces clicked together.
A major city. Saturated with deliberately positioned Specters. Criminal elements keeping authorities distracted. Spiritual contamination building toward critical mass.
This wasn't random chaos.
This was engineered catastrophe.
And I was standing right in the middle of it.