I clung to Jiro’s arm, pressing into him as he swiped at the skewers, knocking them away whenever they got too close.
“Sora,” Kai snapped, voice low and cutting, “you’ve put us in a hell of a position with your theatrics. Couldn’t you have just stuck to the plan? It was working!”
“I told Haru I would come for him,” Sora said flatly. “I’m a man of my word.”
“Yeah, well, your ‘word’ screwed us royally,” Jiro shot back. “Got a plan to get us out of this?”
The Chopmen pressed closer, iron skewers darting in from every side. The jabs came faster, harder, until I was certain one would pierce me clean through—skewering me like yakitori.
I clung to Jiro, but the circle tightened and the points drove deeper between us. One thrust forced me to stumble back. Another twisted me sideways. In seconds I was peeled away, herded by steel, until Jiro’s arm slipped from mine.
“Akiko!” Jiro shouted, but more skewers shoved him back toward Kai and Sora. The three of them were driven into one cluster while I found myself stranded just beyond reach, ringed in by Chopmen of my own.
The skewers kept pressing me back, step by step. At first I thought it was chaos, the Chopmen driving us wherever the circle broke. But then it was obvious—Jiro and the others were being pushed one way while I was forced the other, no matter how hard I tried to hold my ground.
The roar of the crowd made it worse. Just moments ago they’d cheered for me, for us, but now their voices shook the air, chanting for someone else—for him, the Golden Flame. My chest tightened at how quickly they’d turned, how easily they’d discarded me.
I stumbled again, another jab forcing me farther from Jiro’s reach. My heart pounded; my throat went dry. Something was wrong. I felt it in my gut.
Only then did I glance at Ginji. He was smiling. Not wild, not unhinged—just pleased. Like this was exactly what he wanted, exactly what he’d planned.
Next to him stood Miki. She was on her feet, leaning against the railing, one hand stretched toward me. Her face was stricken with horror, as if she already saw where this was headed.
The Golden Flame walked slowly toward the center of the arena, and the Chopmen’s skewers herded me the same way. My pulse hammered. This couldn’t be happening. Was I really about to face this monster one-on-one, like in Soemono? We were Blades. There was supposed to be a challenge, a performance, not a real fight to the death.
The Chopmen drove me to the center, until I stood fifteen feet from him. The Golden Flame loomed across from me, towering over my small frame. Even through the mask, I saw his eyes locked on mine. Cold. Unblinking. A shiver raced down my arms.
This can’t be happening.
I had no weapons. Both my knives and shield had been taken from me as part of the performance. My hands were empty. I glanced toward Jiro. He and the others were still being shoved back, the Chopmen corralling them like cattle, keeping them far from me.
“Here we have Ogon no Hono—the Golden Flame!” Ginji cried, and the arena erupted in thunderous cheers. He waited, smiling, letting it crest before turning, his arm cutting toward me. “And Chisana Itamae—the Little Sushi Chef!” Another wave of noise followed, sharper, higher pitched, almost frenzied.
“Both have received your admiration, your cheers, your love,” Ginji went on, voice smooth as silk. “But at Nokoribi, there can be no tie. There must be a winner.” He let the pause stretch, savoring it, eyes sweeping the stands like he owned everyone.
“As hard as it may be, you must choose your champion! Will it be the undefeated seven-time Nokoribi champion, Ogon no Hono?” He lifted his arm high, drinking in the roar. “Or will it be the feisty newcomer, one-half of Flamebound—your one true love?”
Four Chopmen rolled out two massive iron baskets, each overflowing with puzzle bricks larger than cinder blocks. They were painted to look like wood, but even at a glance I knew they weren’t. They were like oversize kumiki pieces, the joints cut at odd angles. They resembled a toy a child might play with, if the child was a giant.
One was brought to a stop at my side, the other wheeled to the Golden Flame.
“Tonight, you shall witness a trial unlike any before,” Ginji said. “A contest of skill, of speed, of will itself.”
The jumbotron flickered to life, showing two enormous kumiki puzzles: one shaped like an onigiri, the other a flame. The animation split them apart, scattering the blocks, then snapped them back together in perfect order.
“I present to you… En no Kumiki!” Ginji spread his arms wide as the words echoed. “The Puzzle of Flames!”
With a rumble beneath my feet, two towering frames rose from the stage, the outline of a flame on one side, a rice ball on the other. Fire exploded along the edges, tracing the shapes in orange light. The crowd roared.
“Tonight our Blades must assemble their puzzles into their true form,” Ginji declared. “The first to complete theirs wins.”
He swept an arm toward me, then to the Golden Flame. “Piece by piece, they will build their symbols—flame against onigiri, fire against love. And with every piece, the scales will tip.”
I crouched, lifting one of the blocks from the basket. Even though it was made from plastic, the oversize toy piece was heavier than I imagined.
Then the grinding of gears cut through the arena. The stage split open, and a wooden platform rose from the pit. It resembled a large chopping board. And there on top of it… Miki.
My heart stopped.
