"Demon, demon..."
Matsuura Takamori, his forehead bulging with hysterical veins, wailed hysterically as his eyes tore at the corners and blood spurted out: "On the day of your death, the eight million gods of Takamagahara will drink your blood with relish, gnaw on your bones, sleep on your skin, seize your achievements, trample your..."
"Really?"
Yang Ge, with a smile, detached his jaw: "Then I'll just have to slaughter them and use their carcasses to build my palace!"
He turned the Kanabo Stick upside down, facing his mansion, watching as one katana after another, wild long swords levitated, shattered, and turned into a river of broken sword fragments that surged into his mansion, piercing through figures scrambling around, blooming into splendid splashes of blood.
A gentleman keeps his distance from the kitchen, out of sight, out of mind.
"How about it?"
