The silence before the next match was not one of anticipation—but dread. The nobles whispered, some leaning forward in their seats, others already placing bets. The blood from Raiko's previous opponent still stained the arena floor, dark and sticky beneath the torii gates. It hadn't even dried when the next door opened.
Out stepped a woman clad in ash-gray armor, thin and lightweight, her presence like a coiled serpent ready to strike. Her face was concealed behind a demon-shaped mempo mask, only her sharp eyes visible. In her hands, she held two sickle-like kama, blades curved like crescent moons, glinting wickedly in the lantern light.
Raiko watched her with a stillness born of trauma, discipline—and experience.
He could feel it.
This one was like him.
A trained assassin. A shinobi. But not one seeking glory or redemption.
She was here to kill.
High above, Lord Tetsuo observed with folded arms, expression unreadable. Behind him, the cloaked figure who whispered into his ear earlier spoke again.
"She's from the Oni-blade Clan. Raised in the swamps of Kiga. Born without mercy."
Tetsuo exhaled a plume of smoke from his pipe. "Perfect. Let's see how much pain the traitor can swallow before he breaks."
The drums began.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The woman—Raiko had yet to hear her name—moved with terrifying grace. No wasted motion. She circled him like a wolf, each footstep deliberate. Her kama twirled with mechanical precision.
Raiko didn't draw his blade.
Not yet.
Instead, he stepped into a low stance, both hands resting loosely at his sides.
She charged without warning, her left kama slashing in an arc aimed at his neck. He twisted just enough to let it graze the side of his mask, sparks flying.
The second kama came in horizontally—he caught her wrist.
Their eyes met.
No words exchanged. No battle cries.
Only instinct.
She spun, using his grip as leverage to lift herself off the ground, wrapping her legs around his neck and twisting violently. Raiko staggered but planted his foot and slammed her into the gravel.
She rolled out of the impact, unharmed, and came back fast—two more slashes, one aimed at his stomach, the other at his thigh.
He ducked the first.
Blocked the second with the sheath of his katana.
Tested. She's fast, but she's not faster than me.
Still, the crowd didn't cheer. They watched in awe, as if witnessing two gods clashing beneath the moonlight.
Raiko stepped back and drew his sword, slowly this time. A silent declaration: Now I fight for real.
The woman tilted her head, finally speaking in a voice like broken glass.
"They promised me your head for a name."
He blinked. "And what did they offer for your soul?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she exploded forward, one kama extended while the other circled behind for a blindside slice.
Raiko sidestepped and caught her hand mid-motion. He pivoted on one foot, dragging her with him—and slammed his elbow into her mask.
It cracked.
She hissed and reeled away, mask broken in half, falling to the ground.
Raiko saw her face now.
She couldn't have been older than him. Maybe even younger. A long scar marked her jawline, but her eyes—her eyes were the same as his the day he watched his daimyo die.
Eyes filled with fire and no direction.
For a moment, they both hesitated.
Then she roared, rage consuming her.
Raiko didn't retreat.
He stepped in.
Their blades danced.
Steel rang like thunder. Sparks flew like fireflies. He parried a high slash, ducked a knee, retaliated with a quick slash across her side. She cried out but didn't fall. Instead, she leapt, swinging both kama in a wide arc meant to decapitate.
Raiko blocked both. But it pushed him to the ground.
She landed on top of him, straddling his chest, her blade pressed to his throat.
Blood ran down her face. Raiko's nose was bleeding.
"Why don't you fight to kill?" she spat.
"Because I've killed enough to know the weight," Raiko answered, voice even.
"Weakness," she growled.
She raised her kama.
But Raiko headbutted her before the strike could fall.
She reeled again. He flipped her off him, straddled her this time, disarmed one kama, then pinned her free arm with his knee. His katana rested against her collarbone.
The crowd rose.
Waiting for the execution blow.
She stared up at him, defiant, breathing heavily. "Do it. Or you'll never be free of this place."
Raiko stared back.
Then… withdrew his blade.
Gasps from the crowd.
He stood and turned to face Lord Tetsuo. "I won. But I'm not your monster."
The warlord's face twisted in amusement.
"Then you're a fool."
Raiko heard the scraping of metal.
He turned too late.
The woman had risen—barely—her last kama clenched tight.
She struck—
But not at him.
At the chains binding her collar.
They shattered, broken from her own force and Raiko's earlier blow.
She met his gaze.
Not with rage.
But understanding.
"We're all chained, Raiko. Some of us just hide the links better."
And then, she ran.
Vaulted the arena wall.
Vanished into the mist.
That night, Raiko was summoned.
Alone, he walked the long corridor into the palace.
Guards lined the walls like statues. They did not meet his eyes.
At the end of the corridor, he found Lord Tetsuo waiting in his private chamber.
Lavish. Opulent. Rotting with power.
"Do you know why I've kept you alive this long?" the warlord asked, pouring tea without offering him any.
Raiko didn't answer.
Tetsuo continued. "You intrigue me. You survive when you shouldn't. You still believe in things like mercy. You still dream of 'honor.'"
He leaned forward.
"But make no mistake, Raiko. You are mine. Every breath you take is borrowed."
Raiko clenched his fists.
"You made me kill for your pleasure. But the more I survive, the closer I get to reclaiming what I've lost."
Tetsuo smirked. "And what exactly is that?"
Raiko turned.
"My name. My truth. And one day—your head."
The guards stepped forward.
Tetsuo raised a hand. "Let him go."
They paused.
"I want him angry. I want him focused. When the time comes for him to break, I want it to hurt."
Back in his cell, Raiko washed the blood from his hands. The water ran red, then pink, then clear.
He stared at his reflection in the water bowl.
His scars.
His eyes.
"I am still me. No matter what they try to make me become."
He placed his katana on his lap and began to sharpen it.
Outside, the wind blew through the bamboo trees, whispering secrets only he could hear.
"Soon," he muttered, "I will rise."
"And when I do…"
"There will be no chains left in this world strong enough to hold me."