The walls were stone, the doors wood, the floor dirt. Where there was no door, iron bars sufficed.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, hurrying to keep in step with him.
He said nothing.
A Blade ahead caught my eye—it was Kubikiri Nabe, the one with an iron pot as his weapon.
He was larger than I’d imagined. His arms were thick, his belly solid. He looked every bit the celebrated gladiator the crowd rooted for. But now his shoulders slumped, his head bowed as he trailed behind a well-dressed man and woman—his Handles. They didn’t seem pleased. The man’s voice stayed low, but his sharp gestures and the vein in his neck made it seem he was screaming his disappointment.
Kubikiri didn’t argue. He nodded, the pot clanking against his back with every step—a punishment he couldn’t set down.
We moved past them, and the corridor thickened with more Blades and Handles. The roar of the arena was gone; down here the only sound was defeat. Masks hung in hands, weapons dragged along the dirt floor. Up close, the weapons were props, stage pieces, nothing more.
And the Blades—out of costume and out of character—looked nothing like the idols they played in the arena. Their faces were ordinary, slack with exhaustion, some streaked with sweat or blood. Stripped of the lights and stage, they weren’t larger than life at all. They were just people. Even their Handles, once pristine, carried the weight of failure in the set of their shoulders.
That’s when it struck me—this was all a show. A spectacle. The blades, the masks, the weapons—it was theater dressed as blood sport, staged for commercial gain. Ginji didn’t need gods or monsters. He only needed the illusion of them, long enough to keep the crowd screaming and the money flowing.
And while there had to be bloodshed to satisfy the crowds, he couldn’t kill off his prized Leftovers at every Nokoribi. They were too valuable, and limited.
“We don’t have much time,” Masaki said.
“Time for what?” I asked.
He stopped, grabbed my shoulder, and turned me toward an open area.
And there she was—Akiko.
I recognized her foxlike mask, her white outfit. She stood alone in the half light, chest rising and falling, body still rigid from the challenge she’d survived. But she was alive.
A sharp breath escaped me. Her name was ready to spill out, but Masaki’s palm pressed hard across my mouth, silencing me.
“Be quiet.”
I squeezed my fists, fighting the urge to scream her name.
Then Akiko lifted her head toward us. Her eyes—just visible through the mask—found mine across the dim corridor.
For a moment the chaos fell away: the shouting Handles, the shuffling Blades, the clank of weapons. It was only her and me.
I hurried toward her, pulling Masaki along, forcing him to keep up. As I closed the distance, tears streamed down my face, my breaths sharp and uneven. I slammed into her, pulling her in and holding her tight.
“Akiko.”
“Miki.”
The sound of her voice broke me. I buried my face against her shoulder, laughing and crying.
“My God, I can’t believe I’m here with you.” I pulled back, my hand reaching to remove her mask. Masaki stepped in, unbuckling the straps. When it fell free, I finally saw my friend.
Her face was slick with sweat. Her eyes, though tired, clung to me with relief.
We both cried again. For a moment, it didn’t matter where we were or what waited for us. We were just two friends who had found each other in the middle of hell.
I clung to her like I’d never let go, and she held me as tight. For once, neither of us had to be strong.
Then we were torn apart, the warmth of her chest replaced by the cold air of the corridor. Another Chopman seized my arm, his grip tight as he flung me aside. Masaki stepped in, catching his wrist and forcing him back.
The Chopman backed down. The look on Masaki’s face said he outranked him and wasn’t afraid to show it.
