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As the battle commenced, Kumanosuke rushed into the fray, thick brown fur spreading over his arms and chest and face. He drew the ancient sword from its sheath once more, and his blood began to rush ...

A young retainer to the Yamamoto clan, his life had been upended when the worlds began to overlap and the spirit of a werebear berserker had fused with his own. This duality of supreme discipline and wrathful frenzy had only been drawn into sharper contrast on his travels, when he came into possession of his family's long lost blade: Orochi no Zanmatou. And "possession" was certainly the word for it. Two warring spirits had long inhabited the blade: a vicious oni, and the warrior who gave his life to seal it away. Every time Kumanosuke entered the rage of battle, these spirits fought for brief dominion over his body. Sometimes the warrior took charge, and he defended his companions with a cold fury that was dancelike in its grace.

But this time, the oni was victorious in their little game. Kumanosuke felt a wild laugh peal from his mouth, and his swordplay lost any semblance of grace or mercy. Every stroke hit its mark, sending sprays of blood this way and that as Orochi no Zanmatou sliced through flesh and armor alike. The demon spirit drank in the carnage with a wild glee that only grew with each new slash of the cursed blade.

"More ... more!" It was Kumanosuke's voice, but tinged with a manic cruelty that was alien to the taciturn bodyguard. "Your blood is delicious, but it will never be enough to slake my thirst!"