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After the Mikaboshi left the island, Shiba lay on the sand for some time, unable to get up.
It felt as though every bone in his body had been broken. He knew what it was — the adrenaline crash. But, come to think of it, he really had gotten the shit beaten out of him; with a single strike, Ariu had thinned out an entire forest with him, leaving his back more like a collection of splinters, and then Shiba himself had risked everything and increased the pressure Hiroto-san had created while they were trying to crush the prince like a bug… And that wasn’t even mentioning the final blow, when, on his last breath, he had tried to punch Ariu out of desperation — his ribs were definitely broken. Breathing hurt. Or maybe that was just because his entire body hurt, and he was starting to hallucinate.
But he couldn’t relax. If he closed his eyes, he’d definitely pass out. He had to go back. He had to report what had happened here. What those creatures wanted. Tell them everything. So the smart guys at headquarters could do something, protect Chiaki, whatever!.. That was their job, the eggheads’, and Shiba only had to deliver the message…
But he couldn’t return without the bodies. That would be wrong.
Then they’d ask — why only you? Didn’t you think about your fallen comrades? The guys in suits loved that kind of shit. One time, Shiba complained about it to Hasumi, and the man sighed so heavily it was obvious he disliked it too, but Hasumi couldn’t go against them because he was a responsible adult and all that, while only the younger ones were allowed to raise hell. Mashiro sometimes tried to rein Shiba in, saying, “Stop it, they could cut our bonus,” but Shiba always laughed in response because he considered his own opinion more important than anything else. In his system of values, first came himself, then his friends, and only after that — the rest of the world. Or at least, that’s what he liked to think.
But he couldn’t keep acting so selfishly anymore.
It was wrong. And too much was at stake. The whole country!.. They had let him go for a reason, so he could deliver the Mikaboshi’s message. Shiba couldn’t just die here or cowardly run away alone; if he’d lost this disgracefully, then he had to come back… properly. Right? So all those men in strict suits wouldn’t look at him like he was sick in his mind. The only survivor, all that… They’d definitely think he was a coward. Weak. Though maybe that would be true. He’d almost died, and if not for the prince, he’d be lying there as a corpse beside the others. But if he returned with everyone, maybe they’d show a little mercy. Maybe they wouldn’t stare at him so… judgmentally.
The blood loss made his ears ring. He felt nauseous. His head spun.
With difficulty, Shiba braced his hands against the sand and pushed himself onto his knees. Caught his breath.
It was only noon. The sun blazed at its zenith. It gave no warmth yet, springlike as it was, and the sea breeze felt cold because of it.
He sat there for a while longer, trying to focus on standing up. Come on, already. Move, damn legs. He couldn’t just waste time sitting on the sand. That was the same as wasting time! And he didn’t have any right now… He had to deliver the message. So Shiba clenched his teeth and jerked himself upright.
Right then. The bodies.
He didn’t have much strength left, and Shiba absently calculated: he needed to make… around ten jumps. Maybe a little more? He thought. Six bodies. There and back again, but after the sixth corpse, he wouldn’t have to return. Eleven, right. Exactly. Or not. Damn it… This wasn’t the time for math; he had bigger problems… Who was closest? The government guys. The ones who weren’t sorcerers. Right. Their leader was the most intact — something had killed him from the inside, he hadn’t been cut in half. Hopefully, the explosion they’d caused hadn’t carried him out to sea… The thought of swimming around searching for a corpse didn’t appeal to him in the slightest.
The first corpse he saw belonged to an enemy. Mashiro had decapitated him, right? The only enemy they’d managed to kill. Mashiro had been far stronger than him. And more honest. Poor Mashiro. It was Shiba’s fault he’d been sent here. Because they were partners. If Mashiro had been luckier, he never would’ve gotten involved with him. And he’d still be alive. Happy.
Forgive me, Mashiro. Some senpai I turned out to be.
Fortunately, the negotiator was lying not too far away in the sand, like a broken doll. His arms and legs were twisted, his head bent back at an unnatural angle. For several moments, Shiba stared at his face, drenched in blood streaming from the eyes, then absentmindedly lifted his gaze to the mockingly clear sky. So blue. What for? Better if clouds had swallowed it all up… Though no. Please, no rain. Dragging corpses around in the rain would be a nightmare… and who knew what would happen to them. He lowered his gaze back to the body and thought — strange. The face… like it had been painted on. But all dead people were like that. As though someone stripped the mask of life off them, turning them into dolls.
Somehow, Shiba grabbed the corpse under the arms and dragged it farther from the sea. It hadn’t stiffened yet. That was good. Stiff corpses were horrible — looked human, yet not quite. It was especially bad when they were holding something, and you needed that something. He touched the dead man’s shoulder, already losing its warmth, then closed his eyes and focused on the coordinates of where he needed to go. Obviously headquarters. The place where all the bosses sat around. If he got lucky, Hasumi-san would be there. He was smart. He’d figure it out.
Headquarters. Somewhere farther from the road so civilians wouldn’t see. But not too tucked away either, so someone would notice him.
The inner garden?
Someone’s lunch was definitely about to be ruined, Shiba thought, and then the smell of ozone prickled in his nose.
Teleportation felt like dying and being reborn. The taste of blood in his mouth shifted into the taste of milk. The air smelled like a thunderstorm. The cells of his body evaporated in one place only to recreate him somewhere else. Did that mean he remained the same being? Or was a new Shiba Togo born each time in place of the one who died? Sometimes he thought about questions like that, but when he’d asked his seniors, they told him not to think too deeply about it. The more you analyzed your sorcery, they said, the harder it became to control. Better to just treat it as a miracle.
Shiba preferred to think of it as data tables he could edit.
When the metallic taste in his mouth was joined by sweet milk, he opened his eyes because he realized his legs had given out and he’d collapsed onto grass. The first thing he heard was a scream — meaning he’d teleported correctly. Into the inner garden. With effort, Shiba cracked one eye open and saw a crowd of colleagues staring at him, or rather, at the body beside him, in utter horror. Someone seemed to be saying something. His ears were ringing too hard. Damn it… He needed someone familiar, someone who could pass on the message… Not this shrieking crowd.
“Get someone. Please.”
Had he said that? Or only thought it?
When Shiba blinked again, he realized nobody else was around anymore, and he was kneeling on the grass. The area had been cordoned off with tape, and in front of him stood a familiar face — Hasumi. Apparently, he’d been there for a while already, because when Shiba lifted his eyes to him, a wave of relief crossed the chief’s face. He gripped Shiba’s shoulders tightly (had he been holding them the whole time?) and then shook him lightly. The senior’s voice was unusually gentle. Why was that?..
“Shiba. What happened?”
He blinked slowly.
“How long was I… unconscious?”
“Five minutes. That doesn’t matter. Shiba…”
Five minutes was short. That was good… Shiba shook his head, then muttered:
“I’m going back now. The others… are still there…”
“Wait!..”
But the coordinates of Irishima had already formed in his mind.
The hardest part was reconciling the knowledge — don’t overcomplicate your sorcery — with the understanding that he shouldn’t think of coordinates as exact numbers. Shiba teleported through visualization. He remembered what a place looked like and appeared there. The farther away it was, the harder it became, and Irishima was a challenge for him — it lay a hundred kilometers from headquarters. Luckily, it was near Chiba and not at the other end of the country; he still had enough strength for this much. But visualization helped him teleport safely without the risk of ending up halfway inside a tree. Which was actually pretty terrifying!
When he burst back onto the sandbar, salty wind struck him in the face.
Now came the difficult part.
The explosion had thrown the two government men who’d been sliced in half even farther than the previous guy. One of them had ended up in the water — or rather, his upper half had. Not fully, fortunately, so Shiba didn’t have to wade in; he managed to drag him out by the shoulders, but the sight of intestines trailing along the ground was so revolting he would’ve thrown up if he’d had anything left in his stomach. Then he found the lower half too (was it his? or the other guy’s? though did it really matter?). All of this took some time, maybe ten minutes; every now and then, he had to stop to catch his breath. Honestly, he would’ve given up on the whole thing, but the thought hammered through his skull like a bell — you have to bring them all back. It’s your duty. Bring your comrades’ bodies home. Report what the prince said. Then you can die.
Yeah… dying really would be nice.
When he teleported back to headquarters again, there were already people standing there with black bags. Cleaners. Shiba had seen them sometimes. They handled the bodies whenever someone did their job too messily. Usually, Shiba preferred not to work in ways that caused total destruction, but, well, things happened. This time, he managed to stay on his own feet. Beside Hasumi stood several other people he didn’t recognize; they were discussing something, but fell silent the moment Shiba appeared.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promised.
Did anyone answer him? Hard to tell. His ears were ringing.
The second corpse was easier, and he didn’t have to go far either — it was close by. At least this one hadn’t been blown too far away. He returned a minute later, and when he straightened up, feeling a tickle in his nose (a nosebleed would start soon), the crowd waiting there stared at him. Hasumi approached cautiously, as though afraid of startling him; Shiba, meanwhile, was trying to catch his breath and gather himself. He still had to… make several more trips. Three corpses. Those would be difficult. Ariu had shredded them pretty badly…
“Shiba. Wait a minute.”
He raised a cloudy gaze toward his superior.
Hasumi spoke carefully and far too gently. Something inside Shiba growled — suspicious. He never talked to you like this. Something’s wrong.
“I need to… go back. There are still… people left there.”
“Tell me what happened. Please.”
Shiba stared at him blankly. Wasn’t it obvious? But Hasumi and the people behind him looked so expectant, as if that painfully obvious fact somehow wasn’t… well, obvious.
“Shiba. Are you with me?”
He blinked.
“We lost,” he muttered numbly. “Lost… there.”
“Did anyone else survive?”
“Survive?..” He lost the thread of the conversation. “Who could’ve survived?”
Nobody survived.
He had to go back.
This time, he teleported beside the forest. Shiba… somehow… couldn’t jump directly to the crater. At the last moment, fear seized him, and he ended up farther away. He could try again now, of course… he could, but he needed to save his strength. He didn’t have much left. Not enough for an extra jump outside the plan. So he trudged forward tiredly, weaving around the fallen forest.
Somewhere around here, Ariu Mikaboshi had dragged him along. By the hand, like a corpse. Which he was. A corpse. Or almost one. Hadn’t he died back then?.. He thought? Or had Ariu healed him at the last moment? He couldn’t remember anything after Ariu grabbed the sword. His throat had been slit… he’d been suffocating, right? Mashiro had tried to save him, but in his final moments, he’d seen Shiba nearly die. No, really, he was a disgusting senpai. If there were any justice in this world, Mashiro wouldn’t have died like a dog today.
It felt like eternity had passed, but in reality, only half an hour.
Probably.
Without remembering how, Shiba made it to the crater.
The trees here had been flattened. What a shame. It had been a beautiful place. Like a meteorite had fallen here… though that was basically what happened. That was almost exactly what they’d done — launched a giant metal sphere at the prince. Wasn’t a meteorite metal too? Damn, they’d come so close to killing him… It would’ve been so good if they’d succeeded… Then, with effort, Shiba tore his gaze away from a fallen tree and looked downward.
Stay calm. Hold it together. Don’t throw up. Duty first, feelings later. There’ll be time for that.
The first one in his path was Yoshinojo.
He’d gotten luckier than the others. Though he’d also been bigger, so maybe that was why the wounds didn’t look quite so… grotesque. Though what was there to say — there were three massive holes in his torso. His upper half lay some distance away from the lower. Compared to this, the guys on the beach had practically been intact. Their guts had only been hanging out. But here… There was so little left of him… of all of them. Fragments. Shiba tore his gaze away with difficulty from something scarlet lying off to the side. Something he wasn’t supposed to see. Don’t look. It doesn’t matter.
He had to drag the parts together.
Shiba chose the legs. At least there was… something to hold onto there. But then he thought — that wasn’t fair. Yoshinojo was a person! And a corpse. But he had been a person. He should be given his final respects. Shiba bent down, pressed his fingers over the man’s eyes, and closed them. Then he caught his breath, nausea rising in his throat. No. Later… Feelings later! Duty first!
Somehow, he dragged Yoshinojo’s torso over to the lower half. His shirt got even dirtier, but who cared? It was going in the trash anyway. It was already soaked in his blood. Couldn’t get worse. Then he awkwardly fit the halves together. Right here… a hole. Huge. Blood flowing out. The body was cooling, but still retained some warmth. A smile was frozen on Yoshinojo’s lips. Forgive me. If I’d been better, you wouldn’t have died. We should’ve run when we still had the chance. Better to return in disgrace, run away like cowards. At least we would’ve been alive. They would’ve sewn your arm back on, and you would’ve laughed like always.
This is my fault.
But he couldn’t cry. It was as if his eyes had dried out.
Maybe that was a good thing.
He had to finish what he started. All that remained was figuring out how to teleport the body. Two halves. Fine. With one arm, he wrapped around Yoshinojo’s torso and pulled it against himself, while placing the other hand on the man’s knee. That should probably be enough.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Oh, shit!..”
“Shiba!”
When he opened his eyes again, he saw that the negotiators’ bodies had already been packed into black bags. There were more people standing there now. In white. Medics? Why?.. Nobody had survived. There was no one left to help.
Hasumi-san looked visibly tense. He tried not to look down at Yoshinojo’s body, grabbed Shiba’s shoulders again, and his thin, bony fingers painfully dug into Shiba’s skin. Stop it. It hurts…
“Shiba. Enough. We’ll handle the rest. Just…”
“I can’t!” he suddenly exploded, staggering sideways. “There are still two left. How can I leave them there?!”
“Shiba, you’re not in your right mind. Stop. Please.”
“Later. Once I’m done. I promise!”
The next moment, he opened his eyes on Irishima.
No birds around. Because of the Mikaboshi. The slaughter had scared them all away. Dead silence. Only the waves crashing far away.
He had to finish the job.
His legs felt heavy, as though shackled in metal. Cold. He was freezing. He had to finish the job, yes, quickly, while he was still conscious. Two bodies left… two comrades remaining. There was Hiroto-san. He’d gotten it worse than Yoshinojo. Three pieces in total: an arm, a head, and the rest of the torso. One strike had shattered his skull. Don’t look. Don’t look at the brains. Don’t look at the eye that leaked out, or you won’t endure it. You’ll definitely throw up. With effort, Shiba closed the one eye that remained, then tried to gather all the pieces into a pile. He no longer had the strength to arrange them properly. Forgive me, Hiroto-san. Your cigarettes were great. Shame I won’t be able to repay you. He should’ve… supported the head. Otherwise, the brains would just stay here. They would leak?.. No. No, no, no. That wasn’t right… probably. Right? That would be bad…
He jumped back to headquarters.
Judging by the sound, someone threw up.
“That’s enough, Shiba.” This time, Hasumi’s voice sounded like an order, yet at the same time, pleading. He grabbed Shiba’s shoulders again, and Shiba sagged in his grip, barely thinking straight. Keep going, his thoughts pounded. Don’t stop. Just a little more, and you can rest. “We’ll take care of the rest ourselves. There’s a patrol near the island, they’ll retrieve…”
“I can’t leave Mashiro,” he mumbled helplessly, then looked at Hasumi with tearful eyes. “He’s waiting for me there… Mashiro.”
Sadness entered Hasumi’s gaze.
“Shiba. Mashiro won’t be angry.”
“I can’t?.. I can’t leave him.”
When he opened his eyes again, he was back on Irishima, collapsed on the ground. Get up. Just a little left. There he was, Mashiro. Looking at him. Judging him, of course. How could you, Shiba? How could you drag him here? Agree to do that? You killed him. You should’ve refused Hasumi-san. He would’ve understood. He’s smart… But it was too late. Mashiro…
Half-crawling, Shiba dragged himself toward him. Past a puddle of his own blood. He only stopped beside the discarded katana. Rokuhira’s gift. A sword made specifically for Mashiro. He’d loved it so much. Shiba’s hand reached for the blade involuntarily… He had to take it too. Bury it. With Mashiro. Right? But where was the sheath… No sheath. Left somewhere back on the beach…
In the end, he had no choice but to grab the hilt.
Four pieces. An arm, there… a little farther away. A leg. And two halves of the torso. Mashiro’s expression was strange. Staring into nothingness, yet somehow straight into his soul at the same time. He’d been crying before he died. You could tell. From pain? No, not pain. From bitterness. Because he thought he’d killed you. In his last moments, he tried to save you, idiot, and instead just handed Ariu the sword. Though maybe that saved you. Otherwise, you’d be lying here too, scattered into chunks across the ground, peacefully rotting under the sun.
Forgive me, Mashiro. I’m such a worthless senpai.
When his fingers neared his partner’s face, they started trembling. Somehow, he managed to close Mashiro’s eyes, then pulled him into an embrace. Stop, whispered reason. Don’t do this. He’s already dead. A corpse. You’re only hurting yourself more. The sword clanged as it fell to the ground. Mashiro, Mashiro… His shirt grew wet. Blood. So much blood. Did it hurt that badly to die? Forgive me… I wish your final seconds had been kinder.
I wish you were sitting here alive instead of being a pile of meat. I wish I could hear your voice.
Then he tightened his grip on the katana’s hilt again.
His nose started tickling once more. Something ran over his lips. Salty. Thick.
He didn’t need to hold on anymore. Mashiro was the last one. Damn, sorry, buddy, Shiba thought, but I can’t hold onto you anymore. I’ve got no strength left. I’ll just rest a little… then I’ll join you. Just don’t get lonely on the other side. Hiroto-san and Yoshinojo-san will look after you there. Okay?
When Shiba collapsed onto the grass, people he didn’t recognize descended on him like vultures. They’ll devour my body like carrion, and then I’ll journey through the bardo. Wander the void for forty days, then return to the cycle of reincarnation… no. I can’t. I didn’t tell Hasumi what happened. Didn’t deliver the message. I can’t die before I do that. That’s the most important thing. More important than my life. Hasumi-san… I can see him. There he is. Leaning over me. He’s saying something, but I can’t understand. Shaking my shoulders. Something… Something…
“…don’t close your eyes, do you hear me?..”
The following fragments came in flashes. Like damaged film reel snippets.
Someone lifted him into their arms. Laid him somewhere. A stretcher? People in white all around. A ceiling above… the bright lights hurt. They all kept whispering the same thing — don’t close your eyes. Don’t sleep. Shiba wanted to snap at them so badly. He was so tired. So… But he couldn’t. He had to deliver the message. He remembered that, and the thought rang in his head in Ariu Mikaboshi’s voice.
Then — a vehicle. The people in white tore his shirt off him. Hold on, their voices whispered. Just a little longer. Their hands touched his skin. Pain. It hurts so much. He almost wanted to cry. A stop. Sky overhead… then lights again. Like a cycle. Two lamps — dark tiles. Two lamps — tiles. He blinked. Bright light overhead. A new man in white leaned over him.
“Administer anesthesia.”
And finally, blessed permitted sleep and darkness.
For some time, Shiba drifted through the void.
It was nice here, and he thought about nothing, it reminded of primordial soup. All that remained of him was a spark of consciousness, and it slumbered in the middle of a black ocean where no one disturbed him. But something kept him from dissolving completely into that pleasant dark warmth. Something seemed to be calling him upward, demanding that he wake up, that his consciousness take on the shape of a human again and return to the world of senses and colors. He didn’t want to… But it was too late, and he was already rising.
And when he opened his eyes, his very first thought was — I’m so tired. I want to sleep. Again. To think about nothing…
But there was something he had to do. Something… Only he couldn’t remember what.
“Hello.”
A vaguely familiar voice distracted him from trying to make out the ceiling, and Shiba turned his head with effort. His limbs wouldn’t obey him, his body responded poorly to commands in general, but he still managed to look toward the speaker and, after a moment, finally understood who was sitting there. The face… familiar. Right. Azami and his obnoxiously stylish bangs.
Shiba didn’t answer him and only blinked. Thought, how ridiculous it was. Why is he sitting there eating an apple? Why didn’t he share with me? He wanted to ask — can I have some too? But his tongue wouldn’t move; it felt more like a thick, heavy rag stuffed into his mouth. Azami looked at him in confusion at first, then clicked his tongue. He picked up a glass of water and brought it to Shiba’s lips; lifted his head and let him drink a little. The numbness dissolved like sea foam.
“Don’t tell my old man that I’m just sitting here instead of heroically trying to save your life. Though there’s not much left to save at this point,” Azami shot him another pointed look. For a brat his age, he was unbelievably irritating, and Shiba wanted to smack him. He wanted to so badly!.. But he couldn’t move at all. “Shiba. You scared the living shit out of the staff here. You looked like you crawled out of a horror movie, covered in blood. Do you remember what happened?”
What happened…
Shiba jerked. Suddenly, he understood what was around him, like a flash of realization. It smelled of antiseptic… a hospital! He was in a room, lying on a bed. Shiba blinked slowly and looked at himself as best he could. His arms were bandaged. Whenever he tried to move, his body responded strangely, sluggishly. The pain hadn’t disappeared, but it had become dull.
What happened… Irishima surfaced in his mind. Then, like a whirlwind, the events on the island flashed before his eyes. The slaughter. Six corpses. Mashiro. Mashiro. Mashiro. His katana in Ariu’s hands. He was suffocating again. Blood, so much blood… That damned couch. And the demand… about Chiaki.
Seeing him pale, Azami frowned.
“Want me to bring a bucket? Feeling sick?”
“No need,” Shiba rasped, and it felt like someone had poured sand down his throat. He could hold it back. Mostly because there was nothing left to throw up. “How much… how much time passed?..”
He needed to report the situation to Hasumi-san. Hasumi would probably refuse, say something like, you idiot, you’re injured. You’re talking nonsense, hallucinating. But he had to…
When he tried to sit up, Azami grabbed his arm, and Shiba flinched again. For a moment, it seemed to him that the bloodstain on the bandage was the imprint of one of the corpses he’d carried from the island. But it was only a delusion: they had washed him clean, not a trace of grime remained on his skin. Swallowing hard, he realized there was nothing on his neck either. No wound. Though the sensation… the sensation remained, as though there…
“Shiba,” Azami’s voice pulled him away from the panic, and he looked at his friend in confusion. Azami looked unusually serious. “Your boss asked me to watch for when you woke up from the anesthesia. It’s been two hours.”
So it was still the same day.
Anesthesia? Why did he need anesthesia?..
“You’ve got around twenty broken bones. Your spleen’s damaged, along with a couple of other organs. The muscles in your arms are practically shredded, and you lost a massive amount of blood. It’s a miracle you’re alive at all. If there’s blood in your urine, don’t be surprised. The best doctors in the hospital worked on you so you’d wake up as soon as possible, and they really gave it their all, but you were in such a fucked-up condition that…” He hesitated. “Never mind, anyway,” Azami leaned closer, then added more softly, “Everyone’s waiting for your report. The higher-ups tried to wake you up right after surgery so they could interrogate you, but thank the doctors for not letting them. They bought you a little time.”
Waiting. So he’d tell them then. Right. Great…
“But why are you the one waiting?” he blurted out, and Azami clicked his tongue irritably.
“Well, your partner died, and Rokuhira’s busy with Urita-san. So that only leaves me.”
“Sucks to be you.”
Azami shot him a look that wordlessly promised Shiba would’ve gotten kicked if he weren’t bedridden, then stood up. Shiba should’ve stood too, but he felt so wrecked he suspected he barely had enough strength even to sit. Still, he was ready for the interrogation. He didn’t have a choice anyway. He had to deliver the Mikaboshi clan’s message. That was the reason he was still alive. And afterward… afterward he could rest.
Somehow, he managed to sit up on the bed, then swung his legs down. He looked himself over — he was dressed in hospital clothes. Not surprising; his old clothes were fit only for the trash. He gathered his hair into a ponytail with difficulty; by then, several people had entered the room after Azami, including Hasumi and Joji shadowing him from behind. Honestly, Shiba had no desire to look at those unpleasant faces; he just wanted to hide under the blanket and cry like an idiot, but he wasn’t a child, and too much was at stake. Duty first. Feelings later.
If pity was still visible on Hasumi’s face, the others looked indifferent. Of course they did. They’d never cared.
“Shiba Togo. Have you been informed about the interrogation?”
His gaze slid toward Azami, and Shiba slowly nodded.
“Yes.”
“Come with us. We’ve prepared a room.”
Right here? In the hospital? He wouldn’t even have to leave?.. Nice. Though it was probably the hospital near the headquarters. Shame it wasn’t in the room itself, but they’d likely be recording everything, and that required preparation…
Joji approached him and held out a hand, silently offering help; normally too proud to accept something like that, this time Shiba didn’t resist. He didn’t trust his own legs yet. Joji hauled him upright in one motion, then let Shiba lean against him. For such a pedantic asshole, it was incredibly generous, but Shiba didn’t even have the strength to snap back or laugh about it. Nothing about this was funny anyway, and his head was still foggy… But the important thing was to remember what he had to deliver.
Ariu’s words.
“The enemy demands Tokyo, Chiba, and…”
When Shiba blinked, he was sitting in a stuffy, half-dark office without any windows. Across from him sat a man with a notebook whom he had never seen before; his expression was so serious that it made Shiba uneasy. In the corner of the room stood Hasumi and Joji, and it seemed as though they were watching him like vultures. Strange. For some reason, the way they were looking at him made him uncomfortable. Not in the usual way, like when he’d pulled some stunt again, like the time he dragged Rokuhira into the laboratory.
Beside them stood a magnetic recorder coil, capturing everything he said. Shiba swallowed hard.
“That’s not all… of their demands.”
Chiaki… they wouldn’t trade her, right? They wouldn’t send her to the island? She didn’t deserve that. Better she keep exchanging letters with Rokuhira, better her mother keep yelling at Shiba — he’d endure all of it, honestly, just not that insect hell. Nobody deserved that, especially not Chiaki. Chiaki, Chiaki…
Mashiro…
“Describe what happened on the island. We are interested in the Mikaboshi clan’s abilities…”
Back then, Mashiro had said — it’s fine. I’m injured, but Shiba will get me out before I bleed to death. But Shiba hadn’t gotten him out. He had simply watched as Mashiro was literally turned into mince meat. What was left of him? So little. His face remained. It had worn such a horrible expression. Empty. What had Mashiro died for? What did his death accomplish? Ariu Mikaboshi could’ve just humiliated them all and left it at that, but no, he decided to kill everyone. Why hadn’t he chosen Mashiro as the messenger? He was younger. That would’ve been fairer.
Shiba would’ve gladly died for that.
That was a good senpai’s duty, wasn’t it? To protect the junior. And he had failed. And now, Mashiro was just a heap of flesh instead of a person.
Because he got involved with me. Everyone who gets involved with me is doomed. Danger already hung over Chiaki. Rokuhira and Azami would be next. And the others… He needed to run away. Hide somewhere and stop bringing misfortune to people like a black cat.
“…then the prince instantly killed Hiroto-san and Mashiro… It happened in a second, I couldn’t teleport them away. I think he planned to deal with me too, but Mashiro threw the katana at him in his last seconds,” evidence clattered onto the table. Still stained with his blood. “But the prince… He didn’t care, he caught it, and…”
Mashiro’s katana lay on the table.
And that feeling came again.
He couldn’t breathe.
They say suffocation is the worst kind of death. Because you stay conscious the entire time you’re dying. In that sense, Hiroto-san had been lucky. He died instantly. Ariu had blown away half his skull; he probably never even felt pain. But when the prince sliced open Shiba’s throat… Shiba tried to inhale, but couldn’t. It was a panicked gasp. He got scared. Tried again and again, and blood simply poured from his mouth and the wound in his throat. His head spun, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching at his neck. He wanted to claw it open with his nails just to let oxygen in. Need to breathe… Have to… Can’t inhale, can’t…
Back then, Ariu had looked at him indifferently. From above, the way people looked at a dead bug lying on the ground.
“…Shiba!”
“…hyperventilating…”
“Call the medics…”
“I’ll handle it,” Joji’s voice.
Something seized his hands before they could reach his throat. Rolled him onto his back, then pressed against his lips. Oxygen flooded into him. The roaring in his head quieted, his vision cleared, and at last he blinked away the delusion.
He wasn’t on Irishima. The one in front of him wasn’t Ariu, but Joji. And his throat was perfectly fine; blood wasn’t pouring from it. As he slowly came back to himself, he realized he had fallen off the chair. Damn, what a humiliation, huh? How was he supposed to look Hasumi in the eyes after this?.. The man appeared in his field of vision almost immediately; he sat down beside him, placed a hand on his back, and rubbed in slow circles. Shiba wanted so badly to sneer — wow, so it took me nearly dying for you people to finally stop scolding me, huh — but he had no strength at all, not even enough to snap at Joji for brazenly forcing mouth-to-mouth on him like that.
Hasumi looked him in the face. Out of the corner of his eye, Shiba noticed how irritated the man at the table looked. Of course. All of them, those jackals, were like that. But Shiba knew he was causing trouble. Duty first. Feelings later.
“Sorry.”
“Feeling bad?” Hasumi turned around. “Listen, we’ve already learned the enemy’s demands, and it’s terribly stuffy in here. He’s fresh out of surgery. Maybe we should postpone…”
“It’s fine, Hasumi-san. I’ll finish.”
Judging by his superior’s expression, he didn’t really believe him.
Joji helped him back to his feet and into the chair again, and after taking a deep breath, feeling his breathing slowly steady itself, Shiba spoke firmly, as firmly as he could, while dragging a finger across his throat where the skin still tingled:
“The prince slit my throat.”
In the end, he told them everything he could remember. Even about the damned couch. Choke on it, Ariu Mikaboshi, with your stupid couch!
By the end of the interrogation, Shiba felt wrung, like a lemon. He was barely thinking straight anymore and answered questions in monosyllables, only the ones he understood; apparently, even the government man had grown tired of tormenting him, and after a brief exchange with Hasumi-san, he left the room. From then on, they would handle it themselves… Shiba’s job was done. He needed to stand up… he barely understood what he was supposed to do now, his head felt heavy, and everything seemed to hurt even worse than when he first woke up. The painkillers were probably wearing off…
“Shiba. How are you holding up?”
He blinked and, with difficulty, tore his gaze away from the sword to look at Hasumi-san. Then looked back again.
“What about his body?..”
“I’ll take care of it. We’ll bury him properly, don’t worry. I’ll arrange everything. You should rest instead. You got badly beaten up, but none of this is your fault. You understand that, right?” He knew Shiba wouldn’t believe him, and Shiba himself understood all too well that he had failed by not getting everyone out in time. “You need rest. Sleep heals.”
Why aren’t you blaming me for Mashiro’s death? Why aren’t you shouting that the strongest fighter of the Soga clan died because of me? Why aren’t you scolding me like usual? But Shiba didn’t ask those questions. He merely shrugged, then swayed. He had no strength left at all. When he weakly rested his forehead against Hasumi’s shoulder, the man hesitated for a moment, then stroked him on the back. It was a pleasant gesture. Usually, Shiba couldn’t stand being treated so condescendingly, like a child, but sometimes it was nice to know that he didn’t have to pretend to be a titan holding up the heavens on his shoulders.
“There, there. Don’t worry.”
Joji helped him stand and walk back to his room. He promised he’d take care of Mashiro’s katana — clean the blood off it. Shiba didn’t even have enough strength left to answer; he barely crawled onto the bed, collapsed into it, burrowed under the blanket, and instantly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Maybe someone came to visit him. He thought he heard muffled voices. Maybe it was just his imagination. Who needed him now? He’d said everything he remembered. Nothing more was required of him. So Shiba allowed himself not to react to those illusory sounds, sleeping on, but this time it wasn’t merciful warm darkness — it was a restless black sea, like the abyss from which the Mikaboshi clan had crawled out.
Mashiro… Mashiro…
Forgive me, Mashiro. For turning out to be a bad senpai. It’s a shame Ariu chose me as the messenger instead of you. It would’ve been better the other way around.
Mashiro…
When he woke up, the sun had long since sunk below the horizon. How long had he slept?.. He didn’t want to get up, didn’t even want to move, and Shiba stared dully at the window where the moon was slowly climbing into the sky. Like a blind eye… It didn’t care about his tragedy. About the fact that this morning, Shiba had been a happy person, with an excellent partner and friends who were in no danger, and now Mashiro was dead, and Chiaki was under threat. He couldn’t just lie around. He needed to join Hasumi-san… He probably needed help. Shiba couldn’t fight right now, but he could probably at least run errands like a secretary. He just needed to endure the pain.
But then he noticed something that hadn’t been in the room before. An object lying on the bedside table.
Mashiro’s sword, in its sheath.
Was this Joji-san’s doing?..
Shiba’s hand reached for the blade involuntarily.
There was no smell of blood. The hilt was clean… When Shiba drew the blade from the sheath, there were no traces of the recent slaughter there either. A beautiful sword. Rokuhira had been so talented… Such a shame Mashiro carried this blade for less than a year. It suited him so well. A beautiful sword for an excellent friend.
With a click, Shiba shut the sheath, then clenched it in his fingers so hard that his hands began to ache and bloodstains bloomed through the bandages.
Something fell downward. Onto the bedsheet, onto the lacquered surface of the sheath. Something wet.
Sorry, Mashiro. There’s still so much we never did together. We never went drinking at that bar Joji-san once told me about. I never properly introduced you to Chiaki. She would’ve liked you. And in the end, we never went to see that movie, even though I talked about it to you so many times. I never cooked you anything to thank you for buying me lunches…
Clutching the sword tighter in his hands, Shiba pulled it against himself, as though he could still feel Mashiro’s warmth lingering in it, the last traces of his smile and existence. His soul. The reason why, damn it, Shiba used to brag to Rokuhira — my kohai is amazing!
But metal would never answer with warmth. That was the nature of metal.
The dead don’t care.