I gripped the armrest of my chair so tight my knuckles whitened. He looked like he could split a person in half. I watched as he walked to the center of the arena and stopped near Ginji.
The jumbotron flickered to a new Blade—a man in a red-and-yellow chef’s uniform, flames curling around his masked face.
“And now, fire made flesh!” Ginji’s grin widened as sparks showered across the screen. “He lights up the arena, and this year he’ll light up his rivals. Welcome—Shokaki, the Fire Grill!”
The arena door opened, and Shokaki strolled in with calm swagger, stopping mid-floor to sweep both arms wide before kissing two fingers and raising them to the sky. In his other hand, he carried a flaming curved blade.
“Sho-ka-ki! Sho-ka-ki!” the crowd roared.
For a moment I couldn’t look away, dazzled and sick at the same time.
“Every banquet needs a pot—but this one takes heads instead of soup!” Ginji bellowed. “You know him, you love him—Kubikiri Nabe, the Executioner’s Pot!”
The jumbotron flickered with his heavyset form, mask painted with a cruel grin. Below, a hulking Blade stomped through the doorway, tugging at his belly before raising a stubby fist in salute. In his other hand, he swung a traditional cast-iron hot pot, its black surface scarred and dented. One look and I knew it could crush a skull instantly.
“Na-be! Na-be! Na-be!”
The cheers rattled my chest. How could these people worship a gladiator chef wielding a soup pot made for killing?
“The chain whirls, the mortar smashes—meat or bone, it all breaks the same!” Ginji’s voice cut through the arena. “Give it up for—Tetsu Tama, the Iron Mortar!”
The jumbotron lit up with the image of a masked Blade, chain coiled around his fist, eyes glinting under the lights. The arena door slid open, and he stalked out. In his grip was a massive pestle, its head dark with use, a spiked mortar chained to the end. As he advanced toward the center, he dragged the mortar behind him, the spikes leaving grooves in the sand before he whipped it upward, spinning it in circles overhead.
“Ta-ma! Ta-ma! Ta-ma!” the crowd roared, leaping to their feet.
I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.
“Some roast over fire. Some simmer in broth. But this man—he skewers his prey!” Ginji’s voice boomed as the jumbotron flared with the image of a Blade gripping a long black spear. “Step forward—Sumi Yari, the Charcoal Spear!”
He strode out at a steady pace, spear angled upright. With one practiced motion, he spun it and then slammed the butt to the floor with a crack that carried through the arena.
“Su-mi! Su-mi! Su-mi!” the crowd roared.
“And finally—” Ginji paused, his voice dropping. “Every feast ends the same way—cracked bones, crushed marrow. The one and only—Hone Giri, the Bone Crusher.”
The jumbotron lit with the masked Blade, his silhouette looming beside a massive iron meat mallet bristling with spikes. The arena door slid open, and Hone Giri stomped inside, adjusting his grip before driving his boot down again.
“Ho-ne! Ho-ne! Ho-ne!”
The booth around me rattled, and my throat tightened. If this was just the show, what would the fights be like?
Ginji let the Blades have their moment, basking in the crowd’s adoration. Then he raised his hand, pointing to a cordoned section high above.
“Ladies and gentlemen, honor the ones who make it all possible. The owners of the Blades. The Handles!”
Six couples stood as the spotlight hit them, decked out in tailored suits and gowns. Perfect hair, perfect smiles, perfect waves. They looked like a catalog spread of wealth and power. And the crowd ate it up.
“So those people—the Handles—they own the Blades? Like property?” I asked Masaki.
“Employed without the ability to quit,” he said after a beat. “When they’re not performing, they serve as private chefs for their Handles. They can be sold, bought, even traded. But once you’re deemed a Blade, you stay a Blade. It’s considered the highest honor.”
“Are they performing tonight?”
“No. Tonight is just celebration. Tomorrow the real games begin. Three nights, each ending with a main event featuring the Blades.” He paused. “That’s what everyone comes to see. Leading up to it are the smaller games: Soemono. The Blades don’t compete in those.”
“So who does?”
Masaki’s eyes settled on me. “The unfortunate.”
