He paced the length of the viewing box, his words dripping with mock sympathy. “I gave them the stage. I gave you the dream. But look at your dream now.”
He gestured to Sora clutching the head, and Jiro and me standing in the blood. “This is your Flamebound.
“But fear not!” Ginji cried, his voice booming through the arena. “I would never let you down. No, no, no—you all mean far too much to me. I have prepared a surprise. One I promise will wipe the taste of their lie from your tongues. One that will remind you why Nokoribi exists.”
A spotlight snapped to the arena doors. The heavy bolts groaned, iron doors creaking open to reveal the dark tunnel beyond. The crowd leaned forward, breath held.
“For the first time since his retirement”—Ginji’s voice dropped in reverence, then rose again like a drumbeat—“a true champion of Nokoribi returns! The first and only True Flame! The one who built this festival! The reason you come back year after year to cheer!”
He thrust a hand toward the opening, grinning.
“I bring you… Ogon no Hono—the Golden Flame!”
For a heartbeat, silence—the name hanging in the air. And then the arena exploded.
The stands shook with the force of thousands of voices screaming as one.
“Ogon no Hono! Ogon no Hono! Ogon no Hono!”
The chant thundered through the coliseum like an earthquake. People stamped their feet, fists pumping, faces lit with awe. Some were crying, others laughing in disbelief, all swept up in the return of the name they’d only whispered as legend.
The tunnel remained dark as the crowd shifted, leaning forward as one. Their roar thinned into a chant, every eye locked on the black opening, waiting for someone I’d never heard of to appear.
And then he stepped into view—the Golden Flame.
The crowd screamed.
I had no idea who he was, but his presence pulled every eye—even mine. He wore a chef’s jacket of deep gold, trimmed in black, the fabric embroidered with curling flame patterns that shimmered under the spotlights.
His mask was larger than ours or any of the other Blades I’d seen. Painted gold with black accents, its mouth twisted into a wide, cruel grin. Two blackened horns curled from the brow, the tips gold as if tipped in fire.
Across his shoulders rested a weapon: a massive butcher’s saw, its teeth polished to a golden sheen. He carried it like it weighed nothing, casual and terrifying. And unlike the props we’d been handed, this one looked real.
The arena shook with the chant of his name.
“Ogon no Hono! Ogon no Hono! Ogon no Hono!”
He didn’t move. He stood there, soaking in their worship, their screams climbing higher than they ever had for us.
When he took his first step into the arena, the chant grew louder, rattling the stage beneath me.
That’s when I realized this wasn’t planned. One look at the Handles told me everything—the way they leaned forward, whispering, flipping through their pages. This wasn’t in Naomi’s script. Not in Arata’s notes. None of the Handles were expecting this.
But Ginji knew. He’d planned this moment all along. He’d set everyone up.
His gaze locked on me. He smiled, petty and satisfied, as if reclaiming the crowd had been the only prize he’d ever wanted. The cheers that had once been mine belonged to him again.
“Tonight,” Ginji declared, “for the first time in Nokoribi history—Flamebound will face off against the Golden Flame!”
Ogon no Hono lifted his butcher’s saw high above his head. The chanting grew so loud I thought my eardrums would burst. With one hard strike he brought the saw down on the stone, sending sparks flying.
70
Naomi’s script had promised a fairy-tale ending: a rescue, a kiss, and a clean escape. Instead, there was chaos. The chant of “Ogon no Hono” pounded through the arena as the jumbotron flared with bold text: The Golden Flame versus Flamebound. The crowd no longer belonged to me. It belonged to Ginji. And he had just summoned their god.
More Chopmen poured onto the stage, each armed with iron skewers. Within seconds we were surrounded, the sharp ends jabbing in, driving Sora, Kai, Jiro, and me into a tight circle.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the crowd roared, their voices drumming through the arena.
