Fireworks, Candy Apples, Fox Masks, and Slicing People (3)
Izuki looked around.
...Oh no.
Colorful lanterns everywhere. Stalls crammed side by side. A deafening crowd that hurt the ears. Si-ho was nowhere in sight.
Did a mayoi spirit lead me astray?
Mayoi were yokai that clung to passersby and made them lose their way. They were said to appear mainly in crowded places full of people. But as with most ghost stories, you could just as easily get lost in such spots even without any yokai. Especially since Si-ho and Izuki always kept a certain distance between them.
Even if they'd held hands tight, they might've gotten separated—and with that gap, it was inevitable.
She'd better be safe.
Izuki worried. Not just for Si-ho herself, but for any unlucky passersby who might get caught in her reflexive iaijutsu.
As he prayed for everyone's safety and pushed through the throng—
"Are you Ishihara Izuki?"
A low voice stopped the boy in his tracks. A sturdy-looking man with a blunt face stood there, arms crossed.
"Yes. That's me."
Izuki bowed politely. A face he'd never seen before. From his bearing, he seemed like a well-trained swordsman. What could this be about?
"I see."
The man nodded, then placed a hand on his sword hilt.
"From this moment, I grant you heaven."
Click.
His thumb flicked up the guard. The blade surged forth, reflecting the festival's flashing lights.
✿
"H-Hiiik...."
Si-ho trembled violently as she scanned her surroundings. A lion dancer pranced by, and a clown had just spat fire. Her eyes had wandered for a split second, and she'd lost Izuki.
C-Calm down. Calm...
She took a deep breath and pressed her mask down firmly.
Nothing about me stands out right now.
Her face was hidden by the fox mask Izuki had bought her. Her hair was covered by the wig the guardian had given her. She'd even bathed, and she wore a plain, unassuming yukata.
She could blend seamlessly into the festival crowd.
Keeping my posture straight all the time is a bit tough, though...
Dressed as a girl but slouching like an old man would draw eyes immediately. No choice but to focus and hold herself upright.
However.
One fact Si-ho had overlooked: A lone girl wandering a festival drew intense interest from a certain type of man simply by existing. And statistics in anthropology circles reported that this group's education level and morals were just a tad below the population average.
These colorfully painted thugs were prime examples.
"Your milk jugs look tasty. Gimme your address."
Bulky men harassing a stall owner. They were a violent gang (tekiya) collecting protection money—direct ancestors of modern yakuza.
Until now, they'd been cowed by Serizawa's real madness, sulking after losing their turf. But with him gone, they'd slunk back out.
"Oyabun. Look over there."
A scrawny yakuza pointed somewhere. At the tip of his finger stood a girl in a fox mask, alone.
"She looks prime, huh? Even with the mask, that figure's leaking sex appeal."
His eyes darted like lightning.
"Fuckin' hell, it's a kid. Rage filled his eyes in an instant. "What's leaking from a flat board that doesn't even need a bra? Sour milk smell?"
"Nah, look closer. It's not size—it's those subtle curves that are the art."
About to snap that nothing mattered more than size, the yakuza paused. He eyed the girl's movements, the fabric rustling softly over her form.
"You got a good eye, huh?"
"Heh heh. When it comes to eyeing women, even the Yuan Chinese are blind next to me."
The yakuza swaggered over, circling their new prey. They didn't block her path outright or step aside—they kept that perfect distance where she'd have to brush right up against them to pass. Surrounding her.
This delicate squad control was the ultimate technique yakuza honed their whole lives.
"......"
The oyabun's brow furrowed sharply. Up close, the girl's lines were far more exquisite than expected. And that uneasy tilt of her head. The slight quiver of her small shoulders. Her delicate fingers twitching.
The anxiety seeping from her petite frame gently stroked his sadism.
I wanna torment her.
Normally, he'd take it slow, step by step, to topple a woman. But as if her nervousness were contagious, he impulsively reached out toward her slender body.
"...?"
More accurately, toward her wrist. Because his hand vanished cleanly.
"Wha—? A-Aaaargh!!"
Blood fountained from the severed artery. He pressed the stump to staunch it, grazed the dangling nerves, passed out from pain—woke, pressed again, passed out. Repeat.
The surrounding yakuza paled and stumbled back.
...O-Oh. It... worked.
Si-ho's eyes widened as she stared at her blade. It was cracked all over, ready to shatter at a tap. But somehow, it had held this once.
Tremendous progress, right? The sword that always shattered into pieces had endured.
As Si-ho beamed at her blood-smeared blade, the yakuza wet themselves.
B-Blood demon.
As they realized they'd poked something nasty and turned ashen—
"Whoa now. Can't be makin' a racket this early."
A voice from behind the handless yakuza.
"U-Uwaa— Aaaagh?!"
The sword hilt slammed into the yakuza's nape. His hefty body crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
"What're ya doin'? Don't ya care 'bout yer oyabun?"
An assassin emerged from the shadows. Okada Izo tilted his head, and the suddenly alert yakuza hoisted their fainted boss and fled.
"Heh, tiny thing like ya's got some fire, unlike how ya look."
Izo grinned slyly as he approached Si-ho.
"Whose kin are ya, swingin' that blade so reckless? Festival's noisy enough—good thing, or the cops'd be swarmin'."
Izo closed the distance without hesitation. Si-ho flinched and shook, but suddenly—
His steps halted abruptly. Precisely one inch beyond Si-ho's striking range.
"......What the hell."
A chill ran up Izo's spine. His bewildered gaze lifted.
"What're ya... really?"
A massive killing intent billowed from the girl. Death's aura stretching to the heavens, churning the earth—Izo swallowed dryly.
"W-Wait a sec. Ya don't wanna cause a scene here either, right?"
Guts turning to ice, Izo backed away hastily.
...Nah?
She'd swung her blade in the middle of the street over some punk's grab. She wanted a scene... right?
"F-First, sheath that sword and let's talk. Yer scarin' me."
Izo meant for her to drop the killing intent. But to Si-ho, who only knew iaijutsu, it was like offering a second chance.
She sighed in relief and—without even shaking off the dripping blood—sheathed it.
Izo freaked out.
What the actual fuck is this girl?
After cutting someone, you wiped the blood off—chiburi. If time allowed, cleaned it proper before sheathing. Otherwise, blood caked the scabbard and ruined both.
But Si-ho's blades evaporated on every draw, so she'd never learned that. She just sheathed without thinking.
Her common-sense-shattering move horrified Izo.
B-But that fearless, no-holds-barred attitude...
...might not be half bad for an assassin.
People imagined "assassination" as sneaking in, killing quietly, slipping away. Reality? Not even close.
Even the Middle East's Assassins—the archetype—killed targets as publicly and gruesomely as possible in crowded spots. To maximize terror in the enemy ranks.
Japan's assassins of this era were the same. Flashy kills in plain view were prime assassinations. Sneaky back-alley stabs? Coward shit.
In that sense, old man Tanaka deserves his 'Prophet of Heaven' rep...
Anyway.
The era's consensus: A top assassin needed a few screws loose.
And here, on a festival night swarming with eyes, ripping a man's hand to shreds and spraying blood everywhere. Then lovingly sliding the gore-smeared blade back into its sheath. That madness.
Izo sweated coldly but eyed Si-ho with growing anticipation.
Lately, the newbie assassins have been total duds...
MZ assassin traits: Only easy kills in empty spots to pad stats. Blame gear on failures, whine. Baby their blades, then get cut themselves. Bad sword condition? Take "vacation" to polish it.
This fox-masked girl... might have assassin talent?