AKAME ASSASINATION (68)
"This fight," Junichi said, settling onto his side of the mat with the casual grace of a man lounging in his own living room, "it's getting interesting, isn't it?"
For a man of his build, kimonos were an exercise in futility. The one he wore strained at every seam, his bare chest exposed where the fabric refused to close, his legs thick and hairy beneath the too-short hem. He looked less like a man in traditional dress and more like a bear who'd stumbled into a tailor shop and demanded the finest they had.
"I don't see why you say that." Akame sat across from him, and where Junichi was chaos in fabric, he was precision. His kimono—a deep charcoal with subtle silver threading—fit him perfectly, draping in clean lines that somehow emphasized rather than concealed his presence. There was a feminine elegance to the cut that complemented his features, yet the air he gave off was pure, unshakeable dominance.
"Of course you do." Junichi reached for the bottle on the small table between them—cherry blossom wood with an oak inlay, polished to a mirror shine that caught the warm lamplight. "The thrill of battle is always something you feel, regardless of whether you admit you're into it."
He poured himself a glass of amber liquor, the liquid catching light like liquid gold.
"Those who take it in small doses pretend they aren't exhilarated," he continued, "but in truth? There are no killers who don't find the hunt exciting. It's in the blood. In the soul."
"Some people just want to live a normal life." Akame's voice was flat, uninterested. "It's never that deep."
"I don't know anyone like that."
The table separated them like a boundary line. Small. Intimate. The kind of setting meant for tea ceremonies and quiet conversation, not the pause between two men trying to kill each other at 11.2% the speed of light.
Junichi raised the glass to his lips and threw it back in one motion. The liquor burned going down—cheap, potent, perfect.
"I have manners, you know," he said, smacking his lips. "I know how to share."
"I wasn't questioning it." Akame's gaze remained fixed on the center of the table, where the bottle stood beside a small tray of wrapped sweets. "Where even is this place, anyway?"
"Wish I could tell you." Junichi refilled his glass. "But I heard a rumor—when two fighters get in 'the zone,' they can communicate without talking. Souls touching. Something like that."
"Telepathy?"
"Nah." Junichi waved the notion away like an annoying insect. "C'mon, bro. Telepathy's boring as hell. Too simple. Too..." He searched for the word. "Human."
He poured another shot, watching the liquid swirl.
"Personally? I like to think 'the zone' is a meeting place for souls. A neutral ground. Somewhere the body can't reach, so the spirit has to show up instead."
"I forget you're religious." There was no mockery in Akame's voice—just observation. "Probably because you're always brute-forcing everything. But regardless... what do you mean, a meeting place for souls?"
Junichi set down his glass. For once, the feral grin softened into something almost thoughtful.
"The soul is the body," he said slowly, "and the body is the soul. But the soul can exist without the body—and the body can't exist without the soul. Isn't that the basis for mitotic regeneration?"
He was referring, of course, to the fundamental principle of sorcerous healing. The mechanism that allowed warriors to walk away from wounds that should have been fatal.
"When you're cut with a physical attack," Junichi explained, warming to his subject, "the only reason a sorcerer can pour energy into regeneration is because only the body was damaged. The soul? Untouched. Intact. It gives you a blueprint—a perfect memory of how that arm was supposed to look."
He held up his own regenerated hand, flexing the new fingers.
"You use that blueprint. You pour F.E. or chi into the wound as fuel, and the body rebuilds itself according to the soul's instructions. Like following a recipe."
"I understand that." Akame's voice was quiet. "It's possible with chi too—all you need is an energy source. But if you have a weapon that bypasses durability and splits the soul..." He trailed off.
"Then you can't regenerate." Junichi nodded, excited now—the way only a true combat junkie could get excited about metaphysical biology. "No blueprint. No instructions. The body doesn't know what it's supposed to look like anymore."
He leaned forward, the table creaking under his weight.
"All this to say—the knowledge of the soul? It's as important as it gets. Maybe more important than the body. The body's just the house. The soul's the resident."
'Understanding more about it,' Akame thought, the wheels turning behind his impassive eyes, 'might help us figure out what's going on with Catherine. Surprisingly enough, even Blake doesn't know the full answer there.'
But he had doubts that was where this conversation was headed.
"Getting to the point." Junichi spread his massive hands. "The zone? It's what I like to call..."
SOUL RESONANCE.
"...when two people's souls vibrate on the same frequency. They mix. They merge, just a little. Form a pathway where we can interact without speaking—a bridge made of pure being." He tapped his chest. "That way, the fight can keep going, even when our bodies are too busy trying to murder each other to hold a conversation."
Akame regarded him for a long moment. "You know, you're only this smart when it comes to fighting."
"And?" Junichi grinned, unashamed. "What else really matters? War is god, and god is war. Everything else is just... waiting."
"Would Buddha agree?"
"Who knows?" Junichi shrugged massively. "Pick something to eat. It'll be important that you do."
Akame's gaze drifted to the center of the table. Beside the liquor bottle sat a tray of wrapped sweets—mochi and yokan, small delicacies arranged with the precision of a tea ceremony.
"You're the only one of us who doesn't drink." Junichi laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "Such a child."
"I won't deny that." Akame reached for a sweet, unwrapping it with careful fingers. "After all, I'm fighting you for absolutely no reason."
The laughter faded. Junichi's expression shifted, the playful gleam in his eyes dimming to something more serious—more final.
"I do hope you understand," he said quietly, "that only one of us is making it out of this alive. Right?"
Akame didn't answer. Perhaps because he knew. Perhaps because he genuinely didn't care about the arithmetic of survival anymore.
"Sit tight." Junichi poured himself another glass—his fourth, fifth, who was counting? "Before this fight ends, I want us to talk."
"Talk about what?"
Junichi took a long sip, the liquor disappearing in one burning swallow. When he lowered the glass, his eyes—those wild, crimson eyes—were fixed on Akame with an intensity that had nothing to do with combat.
"Amanai. The past." He paused, letting the weight settle between them.
"And the future."
***
FAR AWAY FROM THE ACTION
A FABRICS STORE, IN A MALL SOMEWHERE IN NAIROBI
"Yay! Can I really get this, Mr. Koji?"
Catherine twirled in front of the full-length mirror, her new outfit catching the warm fluorescent light of the boutique. It was a sundress—pale yellow with white floral embroidery, the kind of thing that belonged at a garden party or a picnic in someone's idealized memory of peace.
She looked, Koji thought, like she'd never been happier in her entire existence.
'She reminds me of Maomao,' he realized, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the weight of their situation. 'Whenever I got her something cute. A plushie. Anything pink. That same brightness in the eyes.'
The dress itself had caught Catherine's attention as they'd passed the shop window. They'd had strict instructions—head to the port, wait for Akame and Gil, don't draw attention—but those pleading eyes...
Koji was many things. A hunter. A swordsman. The Fifth Sword. But immune to Catherine's pout? Absolutely not. It was a physical impossibility, like expecting the sun not to rise.
"Oh wait!" Catherine spun, her mouth twitching with barely contained excitement. "Can I get another one?"
Koji sighed. It was a long, patient, deeply fond sound.
"Well," he said, settling into a waiting chair outside the boutique, "we still have to wait for those two. Might as well take all the time you need."
"YaaaaY!"
The dressing room curtains closed with a dramatic swoosh.
Koji picked up a magazine from the small side table—a well-thumbed issue of Weekly Jump, left behind by some previous shopper. He flipped through it, the familiar manga pages a small comfort in the chaos.
'Let's see what's new this week.'
Outside, the world burned. Two men were rewriting physics in the ruins of the cultural district. A city held its breath. Governments watched from satellites, waiting to see which way the wind would blow.
And here, in a quiet mall, a dead girl tried on sundresses while the Fifth Sword caught up on his weekly manga.
Two opposite places.
Two different kinds of waiting.
TO BE CONTINUED!