Fubuki stood frozen, her mouth unconsciously forming a perfect 'O'.
How did he—in the air—I saw it—he was about to be hit—
Akira discarded the two lampposts with a casual flick, turning to face her with elegant composure.
"Well? Did I disappoint you, Miss Fubuki?"
She closed her mouth. Took a step forward. "Not bad."
Not bad? NOT BAD? I want to grab you and shake the answers out.
But she said nothing. Akira simply returned to his villa's curb and sat down, waiting.
The Hero Association arrived in force—cleanup crews, logistics personnel, the whole apparatus. They swept through the villa district with absolute superiority, neutralizing every remaining Monster. The crisis was declared resolved.
Akira stood, dusted himself off, and stretched.
"Well. My villa survived its first siege. Mission accomplished." He turned toward his Maybach, still parked where he'd left it. "Goodbye, Miss Fubuki. Remember—you owe me a meal."
"I'll call you!"
He waved without looking back, then drove slowly into the night.
Only when his taillights vanished did Fubuki approach the Vanguard's still-standing corpse.
The cuts—smooth. Clean. Precise.
She examined the severed right arm more closely. A paper-thin layer had been shaved from the outermost fist—a microscopic adjustment that must have altered the punch's trajectory by millimeters.
That's not swordsmanship. That's surgery.
Her mind raced through the Hero Association's roster. Apart from Atomic Samurai, she couldn't name anyone who surpassed Akira in blade work.
Atomic Samurai. S-Class, rank 4.
And this man—this convenience store clerk with amnesia—is his equal?
Akira. Truly an enigmatic man.
Busujima Dojo — Nightfall
The drive back took longer than expected. The Hero Association had needed half a day to fully suppress a mere Ghost-level incursion—understandable, given the swarm's size and spread. Without their response, the entire district would have been overrun.
Akira parked the Maybach, walked through the dojo's entrance, and let his thoughts drift.
"I'm back." He glanced around. "Where's Nao? She didn't come today?"
Saeko lowered her shinai, expression carefully neutral. "She had matters to attend to."
She certainly wouldn't tell Akira that she'd complained at lunch, and Nao had decided to skip practice in response.
Akira hesitated for one beat. Then he smiled.
Must be important. Couldn't possibly be a water park.
"So only you need training tonight?"
He set down the convenience store bag—roadside purchases, quick and easy—and caught the shinai Saeko tossed him.
"I'm in excellent form today."
"So am I."
They faced each other across the dojo's polished floor.
The practice session was hearty, vigorous, productive.
In swordsmanship, Akira was now fully qualified to guide Saeko—not just spar, but teach. And teach he did, though most of his instruction came with incidental 'tuition fees.'
Saeko, it seemed, genuinely didn't treat him as an outsider. After intense exchanges, a slight shift in angle, a momentary lapse in her guard, and Akira could reap a harvest of benefits.
To prevent anyone else from collecting, he reasoned, I should teach her properly.
And he did. Practical techniques. Real applications. Things that would keep her safe.
Saeko felt the difference in his blade tonight—something had changed during his day out. She focused harder, learned faster, pushed herself until exhaustion finally claimed her.
Hiss. Hiss. Hiss~
The bathroom.
Cold water cascaded over her skin, washing away sweat and exertion. Saeko's thoughts drifted.
I sent Nao away to get closer to Akira. And instead of some romantic evening, we practiced until now.
But the practice was good. Better than before.
She lathered, scrubbed, and found his image surfacing unbidden in her mind.
No.
Martial artist's will. Discipline. She wouldn't be so easily defeated.
The showerhead reopened. She rinsed clean.
She dressed—sleeveless white T-shirt, black lace underwear (bottom only, because tonight felt like a lace kind of night)—and emerged just as Akira approached the bathroom.
He stopped dead.
Lace. Only on the bottom.
"Uh... Saeko?"
"Oh, Mr. Akira. I'm finished. Go ahead."
She walked past him, casual as sunlight, leaving behind the scent of soap and something floral.
Akira swallowed.
Is she... does she not see me as a man anymore?
Fine. I'll demonstrate.
He'd brought beer tonight—part of his roadside purchases. Alcohol. Liquid courage. Liquid facilitator.
After his shower, they'd chat. Have a few drinks. And the plot would unfold naturally.
Under the cold spray, he hummed a happy tune.
A rogue ability, given by eroge. And yet in reality, it's become something extraordinary.
He remembered holding those two streetlights—feeling, for one crystalline moment, like the world was his to conquer.
Like a Musou game. One man against an army.
And winning.
Even without formal training, he captures details in combat that most miss.
Saeko's mind replayed the image—Akira in mid-air, telephone pole obstructed, adjusting his trajectory mid-stroke to leap over the Monster's shoulder. One decisive slash. Perfect efficiency.
The elegance of that single strike.
How incredibly cool.
She returned to the dojo, intending to practice more, but her gaze fell on the bags Akira had left on the floor. Curiosity drew her closer.
Beer. And snacks.
Her eyes lit up.
Tonight's breakthrough depends on you.
She grabbed a can, popped the tab, and drank deeply. The alcohol hit her system fast—empty stomach, post-exercise exhaustion, perfect storm. Blush crept across her cheeks. Her eyes grew hazy.
The bathroom door opened.
Akira emerged, toweling his hair, and froze.
Saeko stood in his path. Before he could speak, she closed the distance, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him.
What—
The taste of beer. The warmth of her body. The complete, unexpected initiative.
Did she drink? Where's her—never mind.
God's Hand. Backstabber. Ambidexterity.
Stop.
He pulled back—gently, firmly—and looked at her flushed face, her unfocused eyes, her complete lack of inhibition.
This isn't the game. This is reality.
And she's drunk.
He scooped her up—she weighed nothing to him now—carried her to her room, and laid her on the bed. Pulled the blanket up to her chin.
Will she wake up tomorrow and try to chop me with a sword?
Probably not. Busujima Saeko, for all her intensity, was traditional. Follow-her-husband-to-the-gates-of-hell traditional.
Besides. She made the first move. I was defending myself.
His mind was muddled—conflicting impulses, racing thoughts—but the clock glowed ten, and the game waited.
He burrowed into his covers, pulled out his phone, and tapped RUN.
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