Tables Turned: Kakurangers’ Taste of Doom!

In a decaying mansion shrouded in mystery, the Kakurangers face an escalating horror that tests their resolve and humanity. With tantalizing temptations luring them deeper into danger, their loyalty and strength are pitted against an insatiable force. What awaits them is a twisted game where appetite and survival collide in unimaginable ways. Truly, this is a fight they’ll have to stomach.

As an end-of-year gift for the wonderful free members of the Heroic Peril Patreon page, this chilling tale dives into the haunting depths of courage and temptation. Set within a decaying mansion shrouded in mystery, the Kakurangers face an escalating horror that tests their resolve and humanity. With tantalizing temptations luring them deeper into danger, their loyalty and strength are pitted against an insatiable force. This story is shared with heartfelt gratitude, hoping to see all of you healthy, happy, and thriving in the coming year. Truly, this is a fight they’ll have to stomach.

Special thanks to my loyal and royal patron friends:

Violet Fentenstine

Tuck Lee

Matthew Thorn

fumitsu

俊介 星野

にとり 河城

Russell shuey

Bayu Pramana

clanna

park jong

Dominic Kohtz

George Hellerman

Flutterheart10480

brkfstinamerica

darkrai1986

시우 성

Nathaniel Grayson

's 쭌

John Barten

Eddie Hauck

Ken K

Ty smith

Robert Terwillger

snb

Daniel K

Mike020578

A bite too far seals their fate!

Saizou darted through the dark, decrepit hallways of the abandoned mansion, his movements swift and precise. The air was thick with dust, the faint creak of old wood echoing with each step, but none of it fazed him. He smirked beneath his helmet, the playful glint in his eyes betraying his cocky attitude.

“Creepy, but not bad,” he muttered to himself, leaping over a fallen beam with practiced ease. “I’ve been in worse places than this. A little dust, a little gloom—this is practically a vacation.”

his tone carried through the hollow halls, a deliberate challenge to whatever Yokai might be lurking in the shadows. He was always the first to rush in, always the one to crack a joke when things got tense. Being cautious wasn’t his style—besides, he was confident in his skills. If there was trouble, he’d handle it.

“Saizou,” came Jiraiya’s voice crackling through his Doron Changer, the communicator strapped to his wrist. “Stay with the team. We don’t know what’s in there.”

Saizou snorted, shaking his head. “Relax, Jiraiya. You’re such a worrywart. I’m just scouting ahead. You’ll thank me when I find the boss first.”

“Don’t get cocky!” Jiraiya’s tone was sharp, but Saizou cut the connection before he could say more, his smirk widening. “Too late for that,” he muttered, picking up the pace.

The further he went, the stranger the mansion became. The hallways seemed to twist in ways that didn’t make sense, and the air grew warmer, heavier. But Saizou shrugged it off, chalking it up to old architecture. He flipped over a crumbling banister, landing lightly on the floor below.

Saizou darted through the mansion’s decaying hallways, his movements quick and deliberate. The dim light barely illuminated the peeling wallpaper and crumbling woodwork, but he navigated it all with the ease of a seasoned ninja. His grin stretched wide beneath his helmet as he took another quick turn, light on his feet, his katana ready at his side.

"This place isn’t so bad," he said to himself, his tone playful despite the eerie quiet. "Creaky floors, creepy walls—classic haunted house setup. Definitely not the first time I've handled something like this."

His cocky tone echoed softly as he vaulted over a fallen beam, landing gracefully on the other side. It wasn’t arrogance exactly—it was confidence, finely tuned and well-earned. But his easy attitude faltered slightly when a faint aroma drifted toward him, rich and savory. His head tilted.

"Wait a second," he muttered, sniffing the air. "Is that… barbecue? In here?" His stomach growled loudly, startling even himself. "Alright, who’s the joker setting up a picnic in a spooky mansion? I mean, come on, at least leave out some sake to go with it."

The scent was growing stronger now, tantalizing in its complexity. He sniffed again despite himself, his mouth watering involuntarily. Roasted meats, delicate spices, and the faint sweetness of freshly baked bread filled the air. His stomach growled again, this time so loudly it echoed off the rotting walls. He rubbed it absently, chuckling nervously.

"Okay, I get it, stomach. You’re mad. Breakfast wasn’t great today, but seriously, keep it together. We’re here to investigate, not to—"

His words died as he reached the end of the corridor. The paper doors before him were slightly ajar, and golden light spilled out in soft, flickering waves. That smell—it was pouring out from whatever was behind those doors, wrapping around him like an unseen hand.

"Alright, fine," he said, squaring his shoulders and stepping forward. "Let’s see who’s trying to distract me with a home-cooked meal." He pushed the doors open with a deliberate motion.

"What the…?" Saizou whispered, stepping into the room. His eyes scanned the feast, then darted around the room for any sign of movement. It was empty, eerily silent except for the faint crackle of the chandeliers above. A single chair sat at the head of the table, draped in silk, with an empty plate before it.

"Alright, this is officially weird. A haunted house with a full banquet? Who left this here? And for who?" He hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to leave. But the smell was too much. It was intoxicating, each breath filling him with an ache in his stomach that grew sharper by the second. He stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of the table.

"Saizou, don’t be stupid," he muttered to himself, shaking his head violently.

The sight froze him in place. The room beyond was enormous and impossibly opulent, a stark contrast to the rest of the decrepit mansion. A massive dining table stretched out before him, piled high with food. Platters of glistening roasted meat sat beside steaming bowls of rice and noodles. Trays of delicately arranged sushi gleamed like jewels under the golden light of chandeliers. Desserts of all kinds—fluffy cakes, golden taiyaki, sweet dango—were arranged in perfect symmetry. The aroma hit him like a wall, almost staggering in its intensity.

"Now this," he said, stepping cautiously into the room, "is weird. A five-star dinner in a zero-star mansion? Someone’s got their priorities all wrong." He took another step, his boots silent on the polished floor. The door slammed shut behind him with a deafening crack, and he spun, his katana out in an instant.

"Whoa! Hey! What gives?" He rushed back to the door, striking it with the blade in a swift, precise motion. The edge of his katana bit into the wood, but the door didn’t budge. Instead, the vibration from the strike rattled up his arm like he’d hit solid steel. He slashed again, harder this time, but it was as if the door absorbed the blow.

"Okay, this is officially annoying." He turned to the walls, driving his blade into the plaster with a powerful thrust. Again, nothing gave way. It was like trying to cut through air—there was no resistance, no damage, just… nothing.

He stepped back, his chest heaving slightly as frustration bubbled up inside him. His hand darted to his Doron Changer, flipping it open with practiced ease.

"Guys! Sasuke! Jiraiya! Somebody get over here—" his tone faltered. The scent of the food reached him again, stronger now, almost physical in its weight. His grip on the Changer loosened, and it slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly to the floor. He blinked, dazed, as the golden light from the table seemed to grow brighter, the aroma thickening like a fog around his mind.

The hunger hit him like a punch to the gut, sharp and relentless. His knees buckled, and he stumbled toward the table, his stomach growling loud enough to fill the chamber.

"Alright, alright, I get it!" he said, his tone shaking but still laced with a nervous humor. "You want me to eat. Fine. But I’m warning you, I’m picky about my sushi."

His gloved hand hovered over a platter, trembling. He hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to stop, but the smell was overwhelming, clawing at his resolve. His hand dropped, brushing the edge of the platter.

"No," he muttered, pulling back. "Not yet. I’m not that easy to fool." He turned, gripping the sides of his helmet as though the act of holding it would somehow ground him.

The voice came then, soft and melodic, oozing with false kindness. "You’ve traveled so far. You’re so tired, so hungry. You deserve this. Just one bite."

Saizou froze, his breath hitching. His hand dropped from his helmet as he turned back to the table. The food seemed brighter now, the colors impossibly vivid. He groaned, clutching his stomach as the hunger sharpened.

"Look, I don’t know who you are," he said, his tone shaking, "but you could’ve just sent an invitation instead of slamming doors and messing with my head."

His attempt at humor fell flat even to his own ears. He staggered forward, his knees nearly giving out as his hands reached for the food again. He snatched them back, trembling.

"I’m not—" His words caught in his throat, and he doubled over as the hunger twisted through him like a knife. He groaned, sweat pouring down his face beneath the helmet. His hands shot up, gripping the sides of it.

"I can’t breathe… Damn thing’s too tight!" His fingers dug into the edges of the helmet, pulling at it desperately. With a shuddering cry, he ripped it off and let it fall to the ground with a hollow clang.

The air hit his face, thick and intoxicating, and he gasped as his senses were overwhelmed. The golden light of the room dimmed, flickering strangely as his Kakuranger suit shimmered and faded. The connection to his powers unraveled like threads being pulled from fabric, leaving him exposed.

His hands moved on their own, grabbing a piece of sushi and shoving it into his mouth. The first bite sent a wave of euphoria through him, and his body trembled, his muscles relaxing even as they twisted into something unnatural. He ate faster, stuffing food into his mouth with trembling fingers, unable to stop.

The air rushed against Saizou’s face the moment his helmet hit the floor, his gasp sharp and desperate, as though he’d been suffocating. He fell to his knees, his head spinning as the aroma of the feast filled his lungs unfiltered. It was overwhelming, clinging to every thought, every breath. His hands, slick with sweat, trembled violently as they hovered between the table and the fallen Doron Changer. The Changer’s blinking light pulsed faintly behind him, and the distant voices of his teammates buzzed in broken fragments, just out of reach.

Saizou groaned, his chest heaving as he clutched his stomach. "What… What’s happening to me?" he muttered, his tone fractured, panicked. He reached for the Changer again, his fingers brushing against its smooth surface, but his head snapped back toward the table, drawn by the glistening platters. His lips parted as the smell wrapped around his senses, deeper now, drowning out reason with a primal ache.

"Come on, Saizou, get it together," he hissed, his tone trembling as he dragged his eyes away from the food. "It’s just food. Just food. You’ve skipped meals before—" His stomach growled loudly, cutting him off, the sound reverberating through the chamber. He groaned, curling over himself, his hand gripping the edge of the table to steady his shaking body.

The sushi platter gleamed inches from his face, and his grip tightened. "What’s in this stuff? Why can’t I think straight?!" his tone cracked, laced with a mix of confusion and desperation. His head jerked toward the Changer again, the blinking light flickering in his blurred vision. "Tsuruhime! Sasuke! Somebody! I’m—"

He choked on his words as another wave of hunger crashed over him, sharper and more insistent. His hand fell away from the Changer as his trembling fingers twitched toward the food instead. His breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps, his vision tunneling toward the sushi. His lips moved, the words faltering before they could form, a garbled mess of panic and indecision.

"I just need… one second… I just—" His hand jerked back, clutching his chest as if he could physically wrench the hunger from his body. His head tilted down, his sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. He tried to speak again, but the words tangled in his throat, his tone breaking into fragmented whispers. "Why… Why can’t I… think…?"

The platter called to him, the shimmering sushi taunting him with its impossible perfection. His fingers twitched again, curling into a fist before shaking loose. He pounded the floor weakly, his body jerking as though he could shake off the pull. "It’s not real… It can’t… This isn’t…" He groaned, his forehead pressing against the edge of the table. his tone dropped to a whisper, almost inaudible. "Just… one. One bite. That’s all… I’ll stop after one."

His hand moved, almost involuntarily, trembling as it hovered over the platter. His breaths came in short gasps, each inhale pulling him closer, his fingers brushing against the edge of the dish. He paused, staring at the food, his lips trembling. "No! Don’t—don’t do this!" his tone was sharp, a desperate attempt to command himself, but it was too weak, drowned beneath the insatiable hunger.

His fingers gripped a piece of sushi, his knuckles white as he brought it to his lips. He hesitated, his entire body trembling, his breath hitching as the scent filled his lungs. "It’s just one… one won’t…" The first bite exploded across his tongue, a wave of flavor so intense it overwhelmed his senses. He shuddered violently, his eyes rolling back as a low groan escaped his throat.

The second bite came faster, his hand already reaching for another piece before he finished chewing. his tone bubbled up in between bites, fragmented and frantic. "So good… Why’s it… so good?!" His words slurred as he tore through the platter, his hands moving faster, more desperate, grabbing and shoving food into his mouth.

He tried to stop himself, tried to speak, but his tone came out garbled, barely human. "Wait! Wait, I—" Another piece disappeared into his mouth, the flavor pulling him deeper. His head snapped to the side, his bloodshot eyes catching the blinking light of the Changer. His bloated, trembling hand reached for it, clawing weakly. "Help me! Jiraiya! I can’t—"

His words dissolved into a guttural groan as his body convulsed. His gloves tore open as his fingers thickened, pink bristles pushing through his skin. His nails darkened, curling into blunt, hoof-like shapes, but his hands didn’t stop. They moved with mechanical desperation, grabbing food and stuffing it into his mouth.

He whimpered, his face contorting as his jaw elongated, his teeth sharpening. "No! Not like this! I can—" The words twisted into snorts and guttural squeals as his nose flattened into a snout, the transformation consuming his features. He slammed his bloated hand against the floor, his distorted fingers grazing the Changer again. The soft light reflected in his tear-streaked eyes as his trembling hoof scraped against it.

The faint voices of his teammates broke through, frantic and panicked. "Saizou! Hold on! We’re coming for you!"

He squealed, a warped, broken sound that carried the last shred of recognition. "Please!" he garbled, his tone muffled beneath the deepening snorts. His hoof slammed against the Changer, silencing it with a sharp crack as his head snapped back to the table. The hunger surged again, erasing all else.

His bloated body hunched over the food, his hooves scraping against the polished floor as he devoured endlessly. Plates shattered beneath him, fragments cutting into his bristled flesh, but he didn’t care. Grease dripped from his snout as his squeals echoed through the chamber, guttural and animalistic. His limbs swelled grotesquely, his once-toned body bloating into an unrecognizable mass. 

***

Jiraiya burst into the chamber at a full sprint, dread prickling through every nerve at the sound of Saizou’s muffled voice. The moment he crossed the threshold, he stopped short, heart hammering. Every sense reeled at the scene: Saizou, hunched over a massive table groaning with food, shoveling mouthfuls of sushi, rice, and steaming meat past his quivering lips. The air was thick with the stench of spices, roast, and something else—something foul and unnatural that made Jiraiya’s stomach twist in knots.

“Saizou!” Jiraiya cried, voice echoing off the chamber’s warped walls. “Hey! Get away from there, you hear me?”

He took a stumbling step forward, shocked by how the floor itself seemed to bulge and contract beneath his feet, almost like a living thing. The walls whispered and bent in the corner of his vision, as if the room were warping to keep him inside.

Saizou didn’t look up at first, so lost was he in his frenzied feast. His mouth worked at the food, shoving it down in spasms of uncontrollable hunger. Finally, with a trembling gasp, he lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, streaming tears that traced down cheeks shining with sweat. His helmet lay discarded on the floor, but that was the least of Jiraiya’s worries. Saizou’s nose had lengthened slightly, bristly hairs peppering his jawline. His fingernails—no, more like hooves—clutched a handful of grilled fish so tightly that flakes fell in greasy clumps to the floor.

“Jiraiya…” Saizou’s voice cracked on the name. “It’s… it’s no use. I… I can’t stop…”

He shuddered, attempting to push himself back from the table. But the moment he let go of the food, his body spasmed, as if starved beyond reason. He lurched forward, bringing yet another bowl of rice to his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he muttered between frantic bites, “I—I don’t know how to fight this.”

“Stop it!” Jiraiya lunged, grabbing Saizou’s arm. “Whatever this is, we can break it! You’re still a Kakuranger! We’ll figure this out if you just—”

Saizou wailed, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a squeal. “I tried… it’s too strong. I’m so hungry. Hungry all the time!”

Jiraiya’s grip tightened as he braced both feet on the floor, trying to haul his comrade away from the table. But Saizou had gone disturbingly heavy, his muscles bloated and strangely dense beneath the ragged remains of his Kakuranger suit. With a snarl, Saizou threw his weight sideways, and Jiraiya stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing.

“No!” Jiraiya hissed. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the twinge of pain in his shoulder. “I’m not letting you stay like this.”

He lunged again—only to freeze as something drifted through his senses. The smell. That overpowering, mouthwatering smell, radiating even stronger from a second table nearby. Large bowls of steaming rice, plates of grilled fish basted in sweet sauce, fresh vegetables dappled in savory miso. The aroma crashed over him like a wave, and his stomach twisted with sudden, ravenous need.

“S-Saizou,” he gasped, trying to fight the haze creeping at the edges of his vision. “We gotta… we gotta call the others.”

He shook his head violently, fumbled for his Doron Changer. The device flickered to life in his hand, and for an instant, the voices of Tsuruhime, Sasuke, and Seikai spilled through in a frenzied jumble.

“Jiraiya! Are you there? What’s happening?”

“We lost Saizou’s signal—can you reach him?”

“Jiraiya, talk to us!”

Jiraiya managed to press the button, swallowing hard against the unbearable urge to turn around and devour everything in sight. “It’s… it’s a trap,” he croaked into the communicator. “Saizou—he’s… not himself. Don’t come here. The food—”

“Jiraiya, what do you mean, ‘the food’?!” Sasuke’s sharp tone cut in. “Where are you?”

Before Jiraiya could answer, Saizou let out a tortured squeal, slamming a fist—or what was left of it—onto the table. Jiraiya’s gaze snapped over to see his friend’s features warping even further: the nose lengthening into a porcine snout, ears curling, cheeks puffing, eyes wide and haunted. Saizou’s suit sparkled with dying energy, flickering as if it couldn’t decide whether to cling to him or vanish altogether.

“No… no, no,” Jiraiya groaned, torn between horror and pity. “Saizou, hold on!”

But Saizou was beyond hearing him. He lurched forward, scooping fistfuls of food into his mouth. The table itself pulsed with ominous power, renewing each dish so that it never emptied. Plates refilled moments after Saizou finished devouring them. The nightmarish spectacle made Jiraiya’s stomach churn.

He tried to focus, to tune out the savage growls of his own hunger, pressing the Doron Changer to his lips once more. “Sasuke, Tsuruhime, Seikai—stay back. Don’t let the smell get to you. This place…”

The walls rippled like liquid as if on cue. The door slammed shut behind him, the exit dissolving into warped timber and tatami. Shokuton’s voice, or maybe just mocking laughter, echoed somewhere overhead, though Jiraiya couldn’t pinpoint any source.

“Jiraiya! Hello? Jiraiya!” Tsuruhime’s voice crackled sharply. “What’s going on? Are you two—”

The communicator fizzled out as Jiraiya felt his legs buckle. The device slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground. The smell of freshly grilled fish coiled around his senses, each breath sending sparks of hunger through him.

“No… I can’t… I can’t do this,” he muttered, staggering a step toward the second table, then whirling back to Saizou. “Saizou! Look at me! Talk to me, man!”

Saizou barely seemed to register him. The final vestiges of his heroic suit faded, revealing something that was neither fully man nor beast, but a twisted hybrid in the outline of a ninja uniform. Globs of sauce dripped down bristles sprouting on his chin. Tears tracked through the grime on his cheeks.

“Jiraiya,” Saizou slurred, his tone hardly recognizable. “Hurts… so hungry…”

Jiraiya reached out a shaking hand, desperate to pull Saizou away. Suddenly, with a squeal of panic, Saizou lashed out, knocking Jiraiya to the floor in a single blow. Jiraiya cried out as he hit the tatami, the breath slammed from his lungs. His vision swam, and in the corner of his eye, he saw the second table’s sumptuous dishes flicker invitingly.

“Snap out of it,” Jiraiya whispered, though it wasn’t clear whether he was talking to Saizou or himself. “We’re ninjas, right? We handle… anything… right?”

He crawled back up, every muscle shaking with effort, his stomach twisting in anguish. The air was thick, saturated with the cursed aroma, and each time he gulped for breath he almost drooled at the thought of tasting whatever waited on that other table. Just one bite. It would solve everything, just for a second. But then he looked at Saizou, hunched in a trembling mass of piggish features and tearful eyes, and the thought turned his blood cold.

“There’s got to be a way out,” Jiraiya muttered to himself, fighting to keep from crawling to the second table. “I can’t let him… I won’t let myself—”

A groan escaped him as his stomach clenched painfully, and his gaze flickered to the nearest bowl of rice. He could feel the strength draining from his limbs, the scream of instinct that told him to eat, to soothe the unbearable ache.

“Hey!” Tsuruhime’s voice crackled from the fallen Doron Changer. “Jiraiya, answer! We’re outside! Just tell us where you are!”

He scrambled for the device, brushing it with the tips of his fingers. “T-Tsuruhime…” he managed, voice shaking. “Don’t… the door’s gone… don’t… can’t let you—”

The next wave of hunger slammed him like a punch. His eyes rolled back, and for a moment, he nearly slumped to the floor. In the corner of his vision, he saw Saizou letting out ragged squeals, face contorted with both agony and voracious need.

“Jiraiya! Don’t give in!” Tsuruhime’s voice was frantic, but the static was rising, cutting her off. “We’re trying to—”

The communicator sputtered, and Jiraiya’s hand fell away. His gaze locked on Saizou, who was lost in his feeding frenzy, monstrous body shuddering with each slurp and crunch. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jiraiya recognized that Saizou was practically gone—trapped in a hideous nightmare of endless gluttony.

Jiraiya turned slightly, eyes drifting to that second table. His mouth went dry at the sight of steaming fish, plump dumplings, and fresh rice bowls. His hand rose, hovering in midair, trembling. His body screamed for relief, for one simple taste, even as his thoughts warned him that the same horror awaited him if he gave in.

“S-Saizou… I won’t— I’m not losing you,” Jiraiya managed, dragging himself upright one last time. But he felt his resolve slipping like sand through his fingers. His mind swirled, half delirious with the craving.

Saizou let out another anguished squeal, and Jiraiya’s stomach gurgled in sympathy. The cursed chamber seemed to breathe around him, the golden light pulsing like a heartbeat. He clenched his fists, struggling for a final shred of self-control, while his drooping gaze lingered on that delicious spread.

Far down the hall, just beyond the twisted walls, he could almost make out Tsuruhime, Sasuke, and Seikai calling his name. But their voices were distant and muted, overshadowed by the deafening roar of his own hunger and Saizou’s tortured squeals.

Jiraiya shut his eyes, fists shaking. “No matter what,” he muttered, voice catching, “I have to hold on. If I don’t… then who will save him?”

Yet the smell—oh, that smell—wrapped around him like a seductive poison, erasing logic and reason with every breath. His trembling hand inched closer to the nearest bowl, even as tears lined his eyes. And in front of him, Saizou feasted on, devoured by a monstrous hunger that seemed determined to claim Jiraiya too.

Jiraiya felt the shift before he saw it—an almost visible shockwave of aroma and dark magic rolling off the feast table in front of him. One moment, he stood trembling, torn between duty and hunger; the next, his entire body seized as if caught in an electric current. His back arched, eyes rolling up into his skull, and he dropped his weapon with a dull clatter, the sound drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

“No—!” his tone rattled in his throat, turning into a harsh croak as his muscles locked. A strangled sob tore from him. The smell—spices, sizzling fish, warm rice—invaded every breath, making his lungs and mind burn. It was too powerful, too impossibly good and terrible, and he felt his grip on reason buckle.

He managed a sputtering gasp, half-choking, half-sobbing, his fists balled at his sides. “Gotta… fight…” The sweat on his forehead stung his eyes, and he forced himself to look away from the curse-laden feast. His gaze landed on the paper door they’d come through—now fused with the warping walls—and a spark of desperate resolve flared within him.

He snarled, reached to his wrist, and deployed his Black Bow, the small crossbow springing into form on his forearm. “I’m not done yet,” he rasped, heart hammering as he raised the bow at the door. “Break… you… open!”

With shaking arms, he fired bolt after bolt into the paper door. Each projectile thudded uselessly—no tear, no hole, as though he were firing at solid stone. “Come on!” he shouted, voice raw, anger mixing with the stench of desperation. His entire body trembled under the hunger’s assault, but he refused to buckle completely.

When that failed, he roared in frustration and hammered the door with the crossbow itself, bashing it with a frenzy that sapped what little strength he had left. “Open! Let me out!” But nothing gave. The twisted walls simply rippled as if mocking him, the door’s surface unblemished.

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. “Ugh—fine!” he spat, staggering back. Adrenaline and despair warred within him, leaving his limbs quaking. The smell drew him inexorably toward the table, but he forced himself to turn instead, raising the crossbow to smash the corner of the banquet.

He struck the table once, twice, each blow ringing hollowly against the heavy wood. Platters clattered, a few dishes tumbling to the floor, spilling their contents in greasy arcs. A wave of guilt rushed through him at the sight of all that food wasted, as though some part of his mind mourned every grain of rice flung aside. The nonsensical regret rattled him almost more than his failure to open the door. He realized, with horror, that the hunger had already started warping his thoughts.

“No… get it together…” He crumpled to his knees, shuddering, tears mixing with sweat on his cheeks. His crossbow dangled from his wrist, spent and useless. He could still feel that craving throbbing at the base of his skull, the scent beckoning him back to the feast. “I shouldn’t be… feeling bad over… spilled sushi…”

“Jiraiya!” Tsuruhime’s voice screamed from the communicator. “Jiraiya, answer me!”

He drew in a ragged breath, trying to focus. “Tsuruhime… I’m…” But a new wave of hunger slammed into him, worse than before, igniting every cell in his body with desperate need. His crossbow slipped from his shaking grasp, clattering to the tatami with a dull clang.

A violent spasm coursed through him, and he collapsed forward, fists braced on the floor. He could feel hot liquid trickling down his thighs—shame flared inside him, but there was no time to process it. Pain, heat, and the all-encompassing smell drowned him. He tried to resist, tried to stay upright, but the infernal feast table loomed ahead, unrelenting in its allure.

“Don’t… want…” he hissed, clenching his jaw. He forced himself to glance one last time at the fallen crossbow, the door, anything that might save him. But it all blurred into the distance, overshadowed by the sight of Saizou hunched over the banquet, pig-like and sobbing, devouring plate after plate with a frantic, hopeless hunger.

Jiraiya’s body jerked again, and his shaking hands snapped up to his helmet. The protective seal felt suffocating now, pressing in on his skull. Tremors racked him, tears streaming down his face as he fumbled with the release. He heard Tsuruhime’s shout crackle through the communicator. “Jiraiya, don’t you dare take that off! Jiraiya!”

His reply came in a choked sob. The helmet loosened, tilting on his sweat-soaked hair. For one final moment, he hovered there, clinging to the last shred of sense. “I can’t… hold…” he managed, voice shivering on the brink of hysteria.

Then the helmet fell away, clattering to the tatami. In that instant, the full potency of the cursed aroma slammed into him, tearing through any final barrier. A raw, ragged scream tore from his throat, and he staggered backward, arms flailing. Every trace of the Black Bow’s power—indeed, every last spark of Kakuranger energy—drained from him like water from a broken jar. The communicator fizzled once, then fell silent, as though his link to the team had been severed.

His suit flickered with dying light. “No—my powers…” he rasped, staring down at his trembling hands. Panic flashed in his eyes, replaced quickly by the unstoppable surge of hunger. He stumbled forward, knees threatening to give out as he clutched the edge of the table. “Need… to eat…”