AKAME ASSASINATION (59)
Jessica's explanation had been a deliberate oversimplification. Echo-Step: Phantom Driver was not a simple technique. It was an intricate, high-stakes dance on the edge of physics and perception, placing her firmly in the Elemental category, like Gil. But where he mastered lightning, she wielded light.
Through transmutation, she converted her Fragment Energy into photons, not to blind or burn, but to trace. She painted pathways in the air at a rate of 24 to over 60 "frames" per second—a personal animation reel only she could see and follow. These luminous frames became her absolute roadmap.
She moved again, a staccato burst of impossible motion. A fist aimed for Gil's nose. He barely countered, flooding his body with F.E. at the last second to reinforce his face.
CRACK.
The impact still rocked him, but he held. The sensation for Jessica was jarring; interacting with his reinforced body felt like grinding coarse sandpaper over her knuckles. His energy was abrasive, untamed.
She disengaged, recalculating.
To visualize it: think of an animator drawing a sequence. Jessica was the animator, light her pen, and her F.E. the glowing ink. She didn't just move; she authored her motion frame-by-frame. This allowed her to cheat one of reality's fundamental laws: Newton's First Law of Motion—Inertia.
An object in motion stays in motion. Not for her. If her drawn path required an instantaneous stop, she stopped. If it demanded a 90-degree turn in mid-air, she turned. Reality bent to accommodate her pre-scripted sequence.
Gil saw it this time—the faint, pink after-image, a ghostly sketch of her next position left hanging in the air. But seeing and reacting were galaxies apart. The sketch flickered, and she was behind him, Hoshi already in a devastating swing.
He couldn't block. He could only brace.
The trade-off was the technique's brutal leash: once a path was drawn and initiated, she could not deviate. To erase a frame mid-sequence would cause a "burnout"—the accumulated, ignored inertia of every cheat would snap back into her body at once, liquefying her organs and shattering her from the inside out. It was speed bought with absolute commitment.
'She's so fast… I can't even block.' The realization was a cold splash of water. 'But… I have speed too. Not like hers. Different.'
She'd already decoded his electrostatic teleportation. But maybe the trick wasn't in the how, but in the when.
'I've got an idea.'
***
MEANWHILE
"I take it you fancy yourself a swordsman as well," Neil stated, dropping soundlessly from the balcony railing to the museum floor.
"So I'm told," Akame replied, hands still in his pockets.
"Good. You're not talkative. I prefer that. It makes for a concise fight." Neil reached behind his back, drawing not the long katana, but the twin kodachi—shorter, deadly companion blades. The longer sword remained sheathed across his back. "Draw your weapon. We'll settle this with dignity. Steel to steel."
"I don't actually have one on me at the moment."
Neil stared, his composure cracking for the first time into pure disbelief. "A swordsman… without a sword? And you dare carry the name of a legend?"
"A legend?"
"Saikyo Akame. The greatest swordsman in recorded history. The one who single-handedly annihilated the Nichiro Dojo for their heresy. The one who retrieved the Chains of Amaterasu from the heart of the Greek Sky-Tramps. The prodigy who mastered every major sword style by fifteen." Neil's voice was reverent, edged with zeal. "A man of that caliber would never be separated from his blade."
(Unknown to Neil, Akame had largely abandoned the sword after leaving the Five Swords. When he did wield one, it was often as a catalyst, not a creed.)
"Huh. I really did all that?" Akame mused, a faint, distant look in his eyes. "Weird. The memories are… foggy."
"Stop pretending," Neil snarled, his patience evaporating. "Find a sword. Any sword. Draw it. I will judge whether you are worthy of that name with my own blades."
"Sounds like a lot of effort. Violence is… kind of a drag these days."
Neil was rendered utterly speechless. The silence stretched. "That… that proves you're an imposter. Saikyo Akame was a warrior who craved the forge of battle. He honed his art to its razor edge. He didn't shrink from a challenge."
Akame sighed, a weary, genuine sound. "What's this obsession with fighting? And how well do you think you actually know me?"
"I don't know you," Neil spat. "I know Saikyo Akame. And I know him because I now stand where he once stood. I am the First of the Five Swords."
"Ah." A flicker of understanding in Akame's green eyes. 'So Rika didn't take the title… I wonder why.' "So that's what you meant by 'predecessor.'"
"Enough. Find a sword."
"Why?"
"To defend your fraudulent claim! You cannot walk around wearing the name of my predecessor and expect no consequence!"
Akame studied him closely, his gaze stripping away the polished skill and righteous anger. "How old are you?"
"Sixteen. Why does it matter?"
"Just a kid," Akame said, almost to himself. "Tell me something. Do you have fun being the First Sword?"
"Fun?" Neil recoiled as if struck. "It's a duty. A sacred responsibility. It's not about 'fun.'"
"I know it's a job. But if you're not finding any joy in the art itself—in the learning, the movement, the sword—then what's the point? You're upholding a standard set by ghosts for an audience of strangers. That's a heavy coat for a sixteen-year-old to wear."
"Are you accusing me of being a copycat?" Neil's voice rose, sharp with wounded pride. "I am not! I admire his resolve! His discipline!"
"Admiration is a tombstone. It's static. Even if your idol didn't have fun, why not strive to be better than him by making the art your own? By finding your own reason to hold the blade."
"Enough of your… philosophy!" Neil's hands tightened on the hilts of his kodachi. "I'm tired of listening."
DUAL KODACHI TECHNIQUE: CROSSING FATE – "X"
He didn't step forward. He simply slashed the air in a sharp, intersecting 'X' with both short blades. The distance was too great for a physical cut.
Akame, almost lazily, leaned back to avoid the invisible attack.
A searing, numb sensation shot through both his forearms.
He looked down. His hands, from the elbows down, were gone. Cleanly severed. They lay on the marble floor between them, fingers still slightly curled.
'He bypassed my durability. A spatial or conceptual cut. Not bad.' Akame's face remained placid. No shock. No pain. Just clinical assessment. The stumps didn't even bleed—the flesh seemed cauterized by the technique itself.
"I will finish you with the next strike," Neil declared, his voice cold with finality. He raised his blades again, their edges humming with contained power. "You are a fraud. A pale shadow. You are not Saikyo Akame."
TO BE CONTINUED!