And just like that, the job was done.
Though this exorcism was unusually dangerous, Soujun and Mishima Utako came away basically unscathed—aside from being drained of cursed energy.
After they swept the entire school to confirm every curse was gone, Soujun dispelled the veil and the two of them returned to the car.
Back to her usual self, Mishima made the same offer again. "Mission success—how about we celebrate?"
Soujun hesitated.
"Last time I said I'd treat, but you ended up paying. This time it's on me, for real!" She thumped her chest in oath—producing two very solid thuds.
Soujun's mouth twitched as he looked at her.
She noticed and immediately raised three fingers to swear. "I promise I won't get drunk this time!"
Only then did Soujun nod.
…
Why did I agree to go drinking?
She didn't even bother to name a penalty for breaking her promise.
He'd managed to build a bit of tolerance for this sort of awkward situation, but Mishima was the type to get tipsy at the first sip; oaths from her were just pretty lies.
As before, she kept venting and ranting. Having seen it once, Soujun let it roll off him.
Never mind the tears—by the next morning she'd be bursting with energy again like nothing had happened.
…Huh?
Something felt off to Soujun.
Don't tell me… this is the whole point?
He was underage and didn't drink—and didn't like drinking—so was she using the drinking excuse just to chew him out and vent?
He studied her face for a moment, then gave up. A drunk's face tells you nothing.
People say "truth comes out when drunk." Not with this one—she guards her tongue; all that comes out is emotional garbage.
…
In the morning Mishima woke on a familiar sofa.
Breakfast on the coffee table was still steaming, but Soujun was nowhere in sight.
He was at Yaga Masamichi's place.
"You think someone targeted you?" Yaga mused.
Soujun's habits were simple and clear: missions and training, hardly any mingling with other sorcerers—low profile. If someone was coming after him, the likeliest reason was Yaga.
Soujun recounted the whole mission.
Yaga thought a moment. "That's 'normal' competitive maneuvering."
"'Normal'?"
He nodded. "The mission was listed as Grade 1—within your range. It just so 'happened' there was a fetus-class curse hiding; it just so 'happened' the front desk missed it; it just so 'happened' you still had a compulsory slot left; and it just so 'happened' they assigned it to you."
Soujun got it. Enough coincidences stop being coincidence.
As a candidate for principal, Yaga was bound to clash interests with people. As his nephew and student, Soujun would draw eyes—that's something he'd braced for before coming to the High.
He'd come to flag it for Yaga so he'd be aware. Seeing how familiar Yaga was with such tactics, Soujun relaxed.
He really fusses over things, huh.
Soujun stood, stretched, tilted his head so his face was hidden. After something like this, some irritation was natural—
So sooner or later, I'll kill them all.
Yaga suddenly clapped a hand on his shoulder, grave. "Leave this to me. From now on, you have the right to refuse any compulsory assignments."
"…"
Watching Soujun leave, clearly reluctant, Yaga sighed inwardly. He had experience handling underhanded moves and never worried about them.
What worried him was Soujun—afraid he'd go extreme. Lift your head and I can't read you anymore? That killing intent is loud.
He really does fuss over things.
…
When Soujun got home, Mishima was still there, out in the yard abusing the flowers again.
His figure flickered and, in the next instant, he was in front of her. Without a word he threw a punch.
She hastily brought her blade up to block. Fist met steel; the blade bowed with a groan, then sprang back, humming shrilly.
Mishima stumbled back a few steps, shock on her face. "What are—"
Soujun didn't let her finish.
His blood was up. What am I doing? You'll know in a moment.
He drifted in on her like willow fluff—seemingly slow, actually very fast.
Before she could react, he was already at close range. His footwork was elusive, infuriating—she felt like she was being surrounded by just one man.
It seemed like the next strike could come from any direction, from every blind spot. She slashed again and again, always short by a hair.
And that hair's breadth never closed.
"Slow. Way too slow."
Soujun's evasion was exact—no wasted movement.
He even had breath to talk. "This is all you've got?"
"All those years of sword work and you can't land a hit?"
Her mouth twitched. She knew he was prodding her, but she couldn't swallow it. She flared all out; her sword sped up.
Still not enough for Soujun. She lacked that edge of crisis. He planted, spiked his speed, slipped past the blade, and drove an elbow into the side of her neck.
Her brain blanked for a beat; her vision went dark; her ears rang. She nearly blacked out.
She tried to counter, with little effect.
Then a great force wrenched at her hands; her katana went flying—the sensation overlapped with the curse swatting her blade away, and anger surged.
She lunged to grab him—of course at air.
"See? When the crutch you rely on fails, you lose your head. 'Fine, I'll just die'—if that's your attitude, you're just a brute."
He chopped her shin with his foot; she dropped to one knee.
"Argh—"
She staggered up—
—and took a punch square in the back.
"Ghk—"
Half a mouthful of blood sprayed out; she swallowed the rest by force. The pain cleared her head a fraction. She felt like a little skiff in a storm, waves rearing, the next one ready to flip and drown her.
What else can I do?
Can I do anything at all?
A fist stopped in front of her eyes. The wind of it tugged her hair back, making her scalp sting.
She didn't care; she clenched her teeth and stared that fist down. If I'm dying, I'll at least see how.
Only now did she understand—she was afraid of death too.
But what she feared more was hitting a ceiling—being stuck here forever…
The fist opened. An index finger swelled in her sight and tapped her forehead.
Pop.
"You're dead," he said.
Mishima froze, then a nameless fury surged up.
She was about to speak when she noticed a nine-square grid had appeared on the ground. She had stood dead-center the entire time—never moved an inch—while the eight surrounding squares boxed her in.
She knew that footwork—the simplest "井"-grid step.
"You're too impatient."
"No matter when, keep your cool. Even going to your death, stay composed. Only then do you catch that thread-thin chance at the limit and break through the gate."
Soujun reached out and closed his hand on empty air.
"…"
Mishima's jaw was clenched so hard her face twisted—pure emotional phase separation.
She understood the logic. She wouldn't be discouraged, either. But why did he suddenly beat her down—and so hard?
"Thank you for teaching me. To show my gratitude, how about I buy you a drink?"
…?
Soujun's face was one big question mark.
Confirmed.
He uses her for practice; she uses him to vent.
Hard to say who's getting the better end.
…
They walked down the road.
Mishima: "Why help me this much?"
"Because you're my first friend."
Mishima looked deeply moved. Actually… you're my only friend, too—
"Just kidding. You do the work, I take the money. Where else do you find a deal that sweet?" he added.
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