As Ginji slowed, the details in the arch came into focus. The carvings etched into the stone weren’t soldiers or emperors. They were chefs, faces twisted in exaggerated triumph as they hoisted giant knives, cleavers, even battle-axes. Some carried silver platters piled high with fish and roasted animals. Others leaned over banquet tables crowded with figures whose mouths gaped wide, frozen mid-scream or mid-laugh—I couldn’t tell which.
But that wasn’t what stole my breath. Some of the diners were carved with their stomachs split open, food spilling out as if their insides had been served for the feast. Others were beheaded, mouths still open, stuffed with chicken legs like grotesque centerpieces.
From a distance it looked like celebration. Up close, it was a feast straight out of Dante’s circles of Hell.
Ginji parked the cart, and we continued on foot into the village. The path opened onto a stretch lined with food stalls, each one spilling smoke, steam, and mouthwatering scents into the air. Skewers sizzled over open flames. Pans cracked and popped with oil. Guests leaned forward eagerly, snapping photos, laughing as vendors handed out samples on tiny bamboo plates.
It had the energy of a summer festival—colorful banners flapping, voices rising, the air thick with roasted meat and sweet sauce.
And then I saw him.
Flame Toro stood behind his stall, smiling, a chef’s knife flashing in his hand. A long line snaked in front of him, guests bouncing on their toes for a taste of what he was serving. Trays on the table filled with his “endangered apps” were devoured with delight.
We drifted into the arts-and-crafts section, where stalls overflowed with lacquered masks and polished steel. Oni masks leered from the displays—demon faces with horns, fangs, bulging eyes.
Beside them gleamed rows of chef’s knives and cleavers, blades displayed like jewelry. Beyond that—swords, maces, even spiked morning stars.
What did any of this have to do with cooking? Unless Ginji thought bloodshed counted as garnish.
Guests didn’t seem to care. They laughed as they strapped on masks, brandishing weapons in mock duels while friends cheered and snapped photos. From a distance it passed as harmless play. But watching them lunge and clash under those snarling faces made something crawl up my spine.
That feeling only deepened when we rounded the next row of stalls.
We passed a group of Chopmen running an axe-throwing booth, teaching guests the “proper” way to hurl a hatchet. The targets weren’t circles or bull’s-eyes—they were wooden silhouettes shaped like human bodies. Every time an axe thudded into the chest or split the head, the crowd roared with laughter and applause.
Farther on, people posed for photos at cutouts painted with Chopman execution scenes. Guests slipped their heads through the holes, grinning while their painted bodies lay chopped to pieces. Children smiled brightest, their tiny faces poking through cartoon corpses.
A few recognized Ginji and asked for photos—even autographs. I stared in disbelief. Did they really know what kind of person he was? Did they know his sister was a monster?
A child brushed past me, a wooden oni mask strapped to his face, a tiny shield on one arm and a toy chef’s knife clutched in the other.
Last night Ginji had violated me. Now kids were laughing their way through the same kind of violence. That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned to him.
“What kind of festival is this? Violence, dead bodies, massacres—are you freaking kidding me?”
Ginji slowed his pace, then stopped in the middle of the path. That smile of his stretched wider than ever. With a flourish, he swept his arms toward the village, toward the arena towering above it all.
“This isn’t violence, Miki. People love a little blood if you wrap it in fireworks and food. This”—his voice rose over the drums and cheers—“is where we deliver the greatest spectacle on earth. This is Nokoribi—home of the gladiator chefs.”
37
We gathered in an air-conditioned skybox perched on the outer rim of the arena, its broad windows overlooking the festival grounds below. I drifted toward the glass, pressing close enough to feel the chill of the AC against the heat outside.
Down there, everything looked normal. Festive, even. I watched the crowd shuffle between stalls while stuffing their faces and carrying armfuls of festival merch.
All while Ginji’s words gnawed at me. Gladiator chefs.
Ridiculous, right?
Except here I was, staring at hundreds of people who’d shown up for it.
Did they know what Nokoribi really was? That behind the music and decorations was a blood-soaked freak show? They had to, or else why would they be here?
I turned back to the room. Ginji was holding court with his dancers and the DJ, a few randoms orbiting him like he was the sun. But I knew the darkness he could become. The others had to know it too. Did everyone here just fall into line?
Two Chopmen stood by the walls, not talking, just scanning everyone. Against the back wall sat a breakfast spread that looked like it belonged in a hotel buffet—croissants next to trays of tamago; smoked salmon beside bowls of miso soup; piles of fruit, bread, and pastries. People picked at plates, chewing and chatting like this was just brunch before the show. My stomach cramped at the smell. And then Ginji called from across the room?—
“Miki, come and eat. You must be hungry.”
