Jiro reached for me. I didn’t take his hand right away, just stared at his fingers hovering between us, anger and grief warring inside me. Finally, against my better judgment, I let him lace his fingers through mine. His thumb brushed slowly over the back of my hand, steady, grounding.
I leaned into him, resting my head against his shoulder. I wasn’t ready to forgive him—not even close—but right then I needed his warmth more than my anger.
The thought gnawed at me: Would we ever escape the Sakamoto curse, or were we meant to always be tangled in its grip?
“Now, now, Akiko,” Naomi said lightly. “Jiro was right. You need to stay focused, especially now. I expect both of you at your very best. So kiss and make up.”
Our driver veered away from the festival’s main entrance, steering us toward a smaller gate, where a group of Chopmen waited. Arata’s cart pulled in beside ours, and he and Kubikiri Nabe stepped out in unison. The Chopmen closed in, forming a circle around us as we headed inside.
No sooner had we stepped into view of the attendees than the crowd surged.
At first, voices screamed for Kubikiri Nabe, just as I expected. But the moment they spotted me walking behind him, the chant shifted to Chisana Itamae, the Little Sushi Chef.
The crowd closed in around us. Hands clawed at my arms, tugged at my clothes, even tried to unmask me. It was overwhelming. The Chopmen shoved their way forward, forcing a path until at last we broke through into a secured area where a stage had been set up.
On the stage, Ono Oroshi sat at a long table. He and Kubikiri Nabe were the only Blades left from the original six to survive this year’s Nokoribi. Behind him, the Handles beamed and waved to the crowd, their smiles polished.
We were ushered up and directed to our seats. Spread across the table were dozens of black markers. Naomi wasn’t joking about signing autographs. They actually wanted mine—Chisana Itamae scrawled like I was some kind of pop idol instead of a girl fighting to survive.
Naomi had drilled it into us: Jiro and I were to sign only as our stage names. No questions, no conversations. Just photos and autographs. We weren’t people here—we were characters. Walking, breathing merch. It gave me a pretty good idea of how those theme park mascots must feel, sweating behind a mask while kids tug at their hands.
Arata picked up a microphone from the table and turned to address the sea of fans.
“Welcome to our annual Blade Meet and Greet! We’re delighted to have you here. Are you having a great time, or what?”
The crowd roared back in unison.
“Wonderful. Then let me introduce your Blades.”
He swept an arm toward the first fighter. “Kubikiri Nabe—the Executioner’s Pot!”
Kubikiri rose to his feet and swung the massive black pot over his head. The fans howled.
“Next, Ono Oroshi—the Axe Butcher!”
He stood, twirling his axe in a brutal flourish that drew another wave of cheers.
“And now,” Arata said, his voice rising with practiced showmanship, “two very special additions. You saw her risk everything to save him. You saw him hold her as if nothing else in the world mattered. And now… they’re back!”
Naomi nudged us from behind, and Jiro and I rose to our feet.
“Chisana Itamae—the Little Sushi Chef!”
The crowd erupted, chanting my name.
“And at her side… Kuro Tate—the Black Shield!”
The roar grew deafening. Arata beamed, lifting both hands toward us.
“Together, your favorite lovebirds are Flamebound!”
The crowd picked it up instantly, chanting in unison: “Flamebound! Flamebound! Flamebound!”
Behind us, a banner unfurled, its logo blazing into view—a heart bound in flaming chains. Flamebound.
“And now, just for you,” Arata boomed, “for the first time ever—Flamebound merchandise!”
He gestured toward a stand overflowing with souvenirs: T-shirts, hoodies, framed pictures, dolls, posters, all of them stamped with images of Jiro and me as Flamebound—masked lovers forever entwined.
