Each drumbeat rattled through my chest, buzzed in my bones, even made the strands of my hair tremble.
Then, beneath the stomps and claps, a low rumble began to roll through the crowd. At first scattered, almost swallowed by the rhythm, but spreading, gaining strength, until the word was clear, echoing from every direction:
“Nokoribi. Nokoribi. Nokoribi.”
The viewing box was set up with three tiers of seating, each one giving a clear view of the arena floor. I was directed to the sofa in front. No Ginji. No dancers. Not even the DJ. Just a handful of strangers I’d never seen before, lounging on the other couches with drinks in hand, watching the spectacle unfold like it was the best show in town. Masaki sat right next to me.
No sooner had we sat down than the stadium lights cut out, plunging us into darkness. The crowd erupted in cheers. Through the roar came a techno beat—low at first, then building, faster, louder.
Stage lights burst to life in flashes of color, beams slicing across the sea of people. Then a single blinding spotlight snapped on, locking onto a platform just above the arena floor.
The DJ stood at his turntables, fist pumping in the air as he drove the beat higher, the sound pounding through every inch of the coliseum.
I didn’t know what to feel. Half of me was confused, the other half weirdly impressed. The whole place shook with the music, the lights, the sheer energy of thousands of people losing their minds. For a second it almost felt like I’d stumbled into some massive music festival instead of whatever the hell Nokoribi was supposed to be.
I edged forward on the sofa, unable to sit still, craning for a better view, just like everyone else in the arena. But it wasn’t excitement pushing me forward; it was watching the excitement on their faces: men, women, children. If they only knew… No. They did. That’s why they were here. They knew exactly what they’d signed up for. They wanted blood, and the thought made my skin crawl.
The beat continued to climb.
Until finally?—
The drop hit.
The stadium exploded with light as the house lamps blazed back on. Flames erupted in towers around the arena floor, shooting skyward in perfect sync with the beat. Then, with a blast of smoke and sparks, a trapdoor in the center flew open and Ginji shot into the air, arms spread wide, before landing on the floor like he owned the world.
He stood there a moment, chin lifted, one arm raised to the roaring crowd. Fireworks cracked overhead, showering the arena in gold and crimson sparks. The smoke curled down like a curtain just as the track shifted into that silly J-pop song he’d been rehearsing in private, and the crowd roared louder. They weren’t cheering the music. They were cheering the man who was about to give them blood. Ginji was their star, their butcher in sequins, and they loved him for it.
His dancers appeared in a burst of strobe light, falling into perfect formation as Ginji launched into the routine. The crowd went wild, clapping and shouting in time with the beat.
The music blasted from the speakers, pulling everyone in the viewing booth to their feet. Masaki stood and joined in. A beat later he tugged me up too. It felt mandatory.
But I wasn’t fooled by the flashy routine. From what I’d seen, heard, and experienced, I knew if Reina was a monster, Ginji was a demon.
His performance ended with a standing ovation. Ginji stood there, chest heaving, grin wide, soaking in the admiration.
“Welcome, my esteemed guests, to the twentieth anniversary of Nokoribi.”
The crowd went wild again, stomping and clapping until the arena trembled.
“This year, you’re in for a treat. Something very special. Something Nokoribi has never seen. But before I let you in on what it is, let’s get to what we’ve all been waiting for. It’s time to meet your Blades. Say hello to your gladiator chefs!”
The house lights dimmed, the spotlight still locked on Ginji. Overhead, the massive jumbotron sparked to life. Letters burned across the screen in fiery strokes:
MEET YOUR BLADES
The crowd roared. My stomach turned. Was Ginji putting killers on a pedestal?
The screen cut to black, then flickered back on—revealing a man built like a fortress. A black-and-red chef’s uniform clung to his frame, stitched with gold trim. Across his face, a white-and-gold demon mask leered at the camera, horns curling high, mouth twisted in a devil’s grin. His chest and shoulders rose with each deliberate breath.
In his hands, he carried an oversize butcher’s axe that gleamed under the stage lights, the blade broad enough to split a man in half.
“First,” Ginji’s voice thundered, “a man whose axe has split more than timber. He is strength forged in muscle and steel. Give it up for—Ono Oroshi, the Axe Butcher!”
The arena door slid open, and a spotlight followed Ono Oroshi as he strode out, rolling his shoulders once before tapping the axe head against his palm.
The crowd went wild.
“O-ro-shi! O-ro-shi! O-ro-shi!” they chanted.
