I’d seen Yoshi spar at Suwa. I’d watched his power manifest in controlled bursts, but this—this was Yoshi unleashed.
Divine speed and strength channeled through every movement, every strike.
He was a fog of violence, the ceremonial sword swinging and slashing in arcs of light and steel that left afterimages burned into my vision.
The assassin gave ground.
Step by step, they were driven back by the sheer impossibility of Yoshi’s attack.
Esumi and I flanked, trying to cut off their escape, but it was like trying to corner smoke. The assassin was too fluid, too skilled, finding gaps we didn’t even know were there.
But Yoshi was relentless.
An overhead strike made the assassin stumble.
A thrust drew first blood.
A sweep forced a desperate leap backward.
For the first time, the assassin faltered.
Yoshi pressed.
Three strikes, four, five—each faster and stronger than the last.
The assassin’s defense began to crack.
Movements became more desperate, less controlled.
A throwing star flew wild.
A smoke pellet hit the floor, but Yoshi’s divine wind dispersed it before its cloud could expand and provide cover.
Then Yoshi stopped holding back. Dear gods, he’d been holding back!
Golden light erupted around him, and I had to shield my eyes.
His speed doubled—no, tripled.
I couldn’t follow individual strikes—could only see the result as the assassin’s blade shattered, as black cloth tore, as blood sprayed across marble floors.
The assassin cried out—sharp, pained, and surprised.
They stumbled backward, clutching their side where Yoshi’s blade had opened a deep wound.
Their other hand fumbled at their belt.
They were retreating toward the darkness, to the space between pillars where shadow-trained could vanish if they were skilled enough—where I’d learned to disappear.
“Stop him!” Esumi shouted.
But the assassin was already moving.
They hit the shadow and began to dissolve, to blur, to—
Their cowl caught.
Torn cloth tangled in decorative metalwork.
