The Drunken Demon King Story
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That night, another beautiful noblewoman vanished from the capital. The only thing left behind in her elegant bedchamber was a single wooden comb, dripping with fresh, crimson blood. Where were these women being taken before they could even scream? 'If you catch the eye of the demon of Mount Oe, you will never return alive.' This whispered rumor spread like wildfire, escaping the trembling lips of the most powerful lords in Kyoto.
The Heian period. It was a time of breathtaking elegance, where aristocrats spent their nights composing delicate poetry under the full moon. But beneath the surface of this refined capital city, an unfathomable terror was breathing steadily in the dark. It arrived night after night, heralded by an unnatural silence and the sickening scent of rusted iron and sweet, fermented sake.
Kikyo, a young servant working in the grand estate of the Minister of the Left, was walking down a long wooden corridor late at night. She carried a small paper lantern to guide her master's way. Suddenly, an unnatural, freezing wind swept through the courtyard, making the ancient pine trees rustle violently. She looked up. The moon was bright and clear, yet a massive patch of absolute darkness seemed to bleed into the garden, swallowing the light.
'Is someone there?'
Kikyo's voice trembled, swallowed instantly by the heavy night air. In the next heartbeat, a gargantuan hand materialized from the shadows, its thick fingers wrapping entirely around her slender waist. Before her vocal cords could even form a scream, her consciousness was ripped away by overwhelming, crushing violence, and she was dragged violently into the pitch-black sky.
When Kikyo finally opened her eyes, the elegant wooden architecture of the capital was gone. She found herself lying on jagged rocks inside a cavernous hall. Above her loomed a horrifying structure made entirely of cold, dark iron columns—a palace that no human hands could have ever built. This was the 'Iron Palace,' the legendary fortress of the demons hidden deep within Mount Oe.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim, red light of torches, she saw the other missing women. They were huddled together on the freezing stone floor, their faces pale and their eyes empty with despair. And all around them, piled high in grotesque mounds, were the bones of those who had arrived before them. The floor was slick with layers of dried and fresh blood.
'Let the banquet begin.'
A voice that sounded like grinding boulders echoed from the back of the hall. A colossal figure stepped into the light. He had the muscular build of a giant, his wild hair burning like red fire. His sharp fangs gleamed in the firelight, already stained with a fresh, wet red. Surrounded by hundreds of monstrous underlings, this was the absolute ruler of the mountain—Shuten-doji himself.
To plunge the surviving women deeper into despair, Shuten-doji raised a massive ceremonial bowl filled to the brim with 'crimson sake.' It was the lifeblood of the young men who had been living peacefully in the capital just days ago. He drank it down with terrifying enthusiasm, laughing as it spilled down his chin.
However, into this hellish feast stepped a group of men dressed as humble mountain monks. Unbeknownst to the demons, they were Minamoto no Yorimitsu, the greatest warrior of the era, and his elite retainers. Feigning respect, Yorimitsu offered Shuten-doji a special barrel of alcohol. It was the 'Jinben Kidokushu'—a divine poison granted by the Shinto gods themselves.
'Ah, a rare vintage from the human world,' Shuten-doji rumbled.
Blinded by his insatiable love for alcohol, the demon king lowered his guard completely and drank deeply. Almost immediately, the divine poison took effect. His massive body collapsed, paralyzed. Seizing the moment, Yorimitsu and his men drew their swords. As the blades flashed, Shuten-doji's body violently convulsed, shedding its human-like disguise and revealing his true, horrifying form—a gigantic demon with five jagged horns and fifteen furious, bloodshot eyes. But it was too late. The gods' poison had weakened his invincible flesh, and Yorimitsu's blade sliced cleanly through his thick neck.
The battle seemed over. The giant head flew into the air, spraying a fountain of black blood. But even severed from its body, the demon king's sheer willpower refused to die. The fifteen eyes snapped open, glaring with pure, unadulterated hatred at Yorimitsu. Baring its fangs, the decapitated head flew through the air and bit down viciously onto Yorimitsu's helmet.
'Demons do not use trickery! It is you humans who are the true monsters!'
The roar of the severed head was not just the anger of a dying beast; it was the profound sorrow and fury of a king who had been defeated by deception. Yorimitsu was saved only because he wore two heavy helmets, a protective gift from the gods. But the overwhelming malice radiating from the fangs embedded in the metal sent shivers down the warriors' spines all the way back to Kyoto.
The terror of Mount Oe was finally extinguished. Yet, as the aristocrats celebrated their victory, a haunting question lingered in the shadows. Was the creature who cursed human deception until his last breath merely an evil monster? If you ever walk down a dark mountain path and catch the faint scent of blood and strong sake, you might just be breathing in the eternal sigh of the lonely, betrayed king.