I tilted my head back, plotting a route to the top. Still dead last. I didn’t know if finishing last would still count and I wasn’t about to find out.
Hook. Pull. Hook. Pull.
Above, the leader had already passed the halfway mark—Shokaki, the pyro with the flaming knife. He climbed fast, skirting the rotted slabs without hesitation. He knew the trick.
Just ahead was Kubikiri Nabe, the stocky brute who’d swung his iron pot on the first night. He’d chosen two short-handled hooks. Had someone tipped him off too? They gave him grip, but not enough to fight his own weight. Even in fresh carcasses the hooks tore, and he dragged himself upward with visible strain.
I wanted no part of being beneath him. If he fell, he’d crush everything in his path. So I angled my climb, carving a line around him.
Soon we were level. He glanced over, and through the slits in his mask I caught his eyes—he wasn’t happy.
He swung a hook at me, steel flashing past my arm by inches.
I jerked sideways, scrambling farther out of reach, and pushed upward—eyes fixed on the leader.
Shokaki had slowed, stuck at a stretch of blackened carcasses. His hook strike ripped through meat, slipping uselessly free.
He carried one short-handled hook and one long. With two shorts, he might’ve muscled through. Instead, he was forced to climb back down, shift left, and try again.
That was his mistake.
Right below him was Tetsu Tama, the one with the spiked mortar chained to a pestle. Tall, long-armed, close enough to do the unthinkable.
His hook shot up and sank into Shokaki’s left calf. His scream rattled the wall.
Then the second hook punched into the back of his right thigh. Tetsu Tama hauled himself higher, using Shokaki’s body like rungs on a ladder. Flesh split, blood poured, Shokaki thrashing as he was climbed over.
By the time Tetsu Tama swung clear, Shokaki hung there, a bleeding waterfall.
A beat later, he lost his grip and fell. His body slammed into the arena floor with a wet thrawp, a plume of dust bursting around him.
The crowd went wild. Cheers thundered through the coliseum, stomps and claps shaking the stands. They howled his name one last time, then roared even louder for the man who had gutted him.
I pushed higher, hooks biting into fresh red slabs. I kept to the outside, away from the pack, away from their claws and boots. My arms burned, my lungs seared, but every time I found a hold I swung, climbed, and kept moving.
The others were slowing. One dangled by a single hook, legs thrashing. Another slipped and barely caught himself, meat tearing under his weight.
But me… I was gaining.
Hook. Pull. Hook. Pull.
I passed one Blade. Then another. Until only Tetsu Tama loomed above, climbing like a beast, his hooks still wet with Shokaki’s blood.
That’s when I heard it, just a ripple at first.
“Chisana… Itamae…”
My heart stuttered. The words came from the crowd. Were they chanting my name?
“Chisana Itamae! Chisana Itamae!”
And then it shifted, voices breaking into English—the title Ginji had branded me with:
“The Little Sushi Chef! The Little Sushi Chef!”
It spread, swelling until the arena shook with my name. Not Tetsu Tama, still clawing above me. Not Sumi Yari below. Me. I was the one they wanted—the crowd favorite.
Though I wanted to glance back at Ginji, I kept climbing. I was close to winning my second challenge of the night. I clenched my jaw and climbed faster, chasing the Blade above me as the chant pounded through my bones.
