The pounding of feet beside me caught my ear. Kai surged forward, shield braced, axe gripped near the head as he ran. Relief flickered through me—at least one of them had chosen Jiro.
From the corner of my eye, Sora burst into view—gyuto in one hand, his shield in the other. I hadn’t expected him, but right now, I’d take all the help I could get.
As we closed in on Jiro, I realized we’d reach him first, barely. Only seconds separated us from the Yakumi’s charge.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than we were there. I swung around Jiro, putting myself between him and the oncoming rush. To my right I caught sight of Kai, axe poised, shield ready. Daiki had joined him with his spiked mallet. Somewhere on my left Sora moved, but I couldn’t see him clearly. Haru and Yoshi were nowhere in sight.
A man in an orange chef’s outfit with black trim barreled toward me. In his right hand he carried a cleaver big enough to split bone; in his left, a shield just as massive. My sashimi knives felt pitiful in comparison. How was I supposed to break through that defense?
My instinct screamed at me to move away before that cleaver could carve me open. But that would leave Jiro exposed.
Remember, Akiko, you’ve used knives like these for years. They’re an extension of you.
When he came close enough, I snapped my arm forward and hurled a knife straight at him—sacrificing one of my knives, the other still pressed tight at my belt.
The blade sank into the upper right of his chest. For a heartbeat he just stared at it, shock slowing him more than the wound. Then he roared back to life and swung his cleaver at me.
I twisted aside, the blade slicing air, and yanked my remaining knife free. I couldn’t believe he was still coming at me with steel sticking out of him.
I slammed my shield against him, to drive him back, but he barely budged. He was a wall of muscle and fury.
Around us, the clash of steel and the roar of fighters echoed, but I didn’t dare glance away. If Kai and Daiki had one and Sora another, that left one Yakumi unaccounted for. I could only hope Haru and Yoshi had found the courage to face him.
My opponent slashed again and again, driving me back toward Jiro. If I gave up more ground, we’d both be in danger. I lashed out with my knife whenever I found an opening, but it wasn’t enough to slow him. His focus was on Jiro and nothing else.
Then blood splattered across his mask. He froze. So did I. I hadn’t cut him, and from the look in his eyes, he knew it too.
A head rolled across the dirt between us.
I turned and saw Sora standing over a headless body, his black-and-gold shield held up, his gleaming gyuto dripping.
In a flash, he rushed my opponent. His shield smashed aside the cleaver strike, and his blade came down in a crushing arc. The Yakumi’s arm fell to the ground, severed cleanly. He staggered, clutching his shield in shock, but Sora gave him no chance to recover. One brutal thrust drove the gyuto straight through his chest. Sora ripped the blade free, and the man collapsed lifeless in the dirt.
I stood speechless. Sora wasn’t just fighting—he was dismantling. Before I could even process it, he was on Kai and Daiki’s opponent, hacking him down like a celery stalk. Limbs flew, blood sprayed, the dirt clumping beneath the torrent.
I spun around. Behind us, Yoshi was struggling, his shield barely holding against the relentless blows of his Yakumi attacker. And farther back, Haru lingered, watching, unwilling to lift a finger but content to let the rest of us keep him alive.
Kai, Daiki, and Sora rushed to Yoshi’s side. Together they cut his opponent down in a matter of seconds.
It was over.
The Yakumi lay scattered across the arena floor, defeated with such brutal force that the crowd had fallen silent, shaken by what they had witnessed, especially by the ferocity of Sora. No one had expected that.
I crashed into Jiro, arms locking tight around his body, pressing myself against the cold iron links that bound him. He sagged into me, his breath hot against my ear, and for a moment the arena, the blood, the danger—everything fell away. There was only us.
Then the chains split under Sora’s strike, and Jiro was free.
His arms were around me before I could even breathe. He lifted me clean off the ground, spinning me in a circle, holding me so tight I thought he’d never let go. My mask pressed into his shoulder, and I buried my face there, sobs breaking free. His chest was hot and damp against mine, his heart pounding like it had been waiting for this moment as long as I had.
I pulled back just enough to see his eyes through the narrow slots. I could tell he was smiling under the mask. My hands found his jaw, trembling as I touched him, really touched him, without bars between us, without Chopmen hovering nearby.
“Jiro,” I whispered.
His hand came up, cupping the side of my face. His thumb traced the edge of my mask. Then he slid lower, a finger brushing my mouth through the mask’s slit, grazing my lips so lightly it sent a shiver through me. Then he hooked a finger under the bottom of my mask.
I should have pulled back. Every rule, every warning screamed at me not to let him lift it. Exposing even a fraction of my face was a risk.
But I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. I had waited too long for this, dreamed of it in the silence of my cell.
