AKAME ASSASINATION (62)
A LONG TIME AGO — THE MONASTERY ON MT. FUJI
SKIP!
A younger Akame sat at the edge of a still pond, a handful of smooth, flat stones resting in his palm. He flicked one sideways with a practiced snap of his wrist. Skiiiip… skkip… plop. Ripple after ripple disturbed the glassy surface, scattering water striders and sending tiny fish darting into the reeds.
The sun hung at its zenith, bathing the mountainside in sharp, clear light. A cool morning breeze tousled his dark hair.
"Yoo!"
Akame turned. A tall man approached, dressed in simple white linen and black trousers, his feet in straw sandals. Over his eyes were thick, crossed black bandages, forming an 'X' that obscured his vision. His own black hair fell loose and long past his shoulders.
"What do you want, old man?"
"Jeez, kid. You're so mean." The Sword Master's voice was a warm, amused baritone. "Why are you out here sulking by yourself?"
"Can't a guy have some quiet?"
"I suppose. Though Rika-chan doesn't seem to think so."
"Huh?"
"She sent me. Says you've been avoiding her all day. And 'mean-mugging' her, I believe were her exact words."
Akame's face scrunched in annoyance. "She has no evidence."
"Mhmm. Damn." The Sword Master sighed dramatically. "You know, you two should really work out your couple's troubles without involving me."
"We're not a couple. And she's the one who won't leave me alone." Akame threw another stone, harder this time. "That damn woman."
"Look, as her father, there are some things I'm obligated to do. Sadly, talking to her edgy, emotionally constipated crush is one of them. If you want her off your back, just talk to her. Trust me—women are that easy."
"Again. Not dating." Akame's correction was flat. "And I have no intention of being 'buddy-buddy' with her."
"Sometimes in a marriage, you gotta compromise. Give her what she wants, or you'll find yourself sleeping on the cold, hard floor."
"This is getting depressingly specific. And also—I'm down here." Akame looked up; the Sword Master was staring off toward a distant pine tree.
"Damn. I could've sworn we were making eye contact."
"You're taller than me. And I don't take advice from a guy who needs help crossing the street in broad daylight."
"Hey, those streets are dangerous! Especially during rush hour." The Sword Master sat beside him, the grass rustling. "And my advice is top-tier."
"We'll have this conversation when you decide to start seeing colors again."
"I need this blindfold," the Sword Master said, tapping the fabric over his eyes. "Maintains the hype. The mystery. People think I'm deep."
"The only thing people think is that you're a creepy old man."
The man was silent for a moment, then turned his bandaged gaze toward Akame. "So. You gonna tell me what happened, or…?"
"No."
"Man. You don't wanna make my job easier, huh?" He lay back on the grass, hands behind his head. "Alright. We'll stay like this until you say something."
"Do you have nothing better to do?"
"Nope."
They stayed that way for a long time, the only sounds the wind, the pond, and the distant ring of practice blades from the monastery below.
***
PRESENT — OUTSIDE THE CULTURAL CENTER
The clash of steel was less a battle cry and more a conversation.
To Neil's growing frustration, Akame fought not with explosive power, but with effortless precision. There was no wasted motion, no grand flourish—just clean, minimalist movement that seemed to anticipate Neil's every strike. It felt less like a duel and more like a sparring session where only one person knew the script.
'Where's the legendary fury? The overwhelming pressure?' Neil's mind raced even as his blades moved. 'This isn't chi enhancement… it's something else. It's like he's not even trying.'
Their swords met again the stolen blade in Akame's hand, Neil's Kodachi a silver blur. Instead of pressing the attack, Akame disengaged with a fluid spin, his attention seeming to drift for a split second, as if listening to a distant song.
Neil lunged, leading with his shorter kodachi. Akame sidestepped, his own blade descending in a casual, almost lazy arc. Neil parried, the impact shivering up his arms. He used the momentum to shove upward, throwing Akame momentarily off-balance—an opening.
Neil's foot snapped out in a kick aimed for the ribs.
Akame caught his ankle with his free hand. Not with a grunt of effort, but with the calm acceptance of someone catching a tossed apple. He lifted, twisted, and threw Neil across the width of the cobblestone street as if he weighed nothing.
Neil skidded, blades scraping stone, and came to a crouch. No words were exchanged. The silence between them was more unnerving than any taunt.
But beneath the surface, Akame's purpose was different. This wasn't about winning. It was an audition. He couldn't speak of nurturing a new generation if he didn't first understand the material he had to work with.
Akame passed the sword from his right hand to his left, then back again, not with uncertainty, but with a playful, fluid rhythm. He shifted his grip—forward, reverse, side-hand—as if the sword were a living thing he was coaxing through a dance. Then he struck.
The style was unorthodox, unpredictable. It wasn't a school Neil recognized. It was swordsmanship distilled to its purest, most adaptive form—a style that seemed to rewrite itself with every motion.
Neil gritted his teeth, his dual blades moving in tight, efficient patterns to block strikes that came from angles that shouldn't exist. Akame feinted high; Neil raised his long sword to intercept. It was a trap. Akame dropped low, his foot snapping into Neil's abdomen.
THUD.
Neil staggered back, breath knocked out, but he didn't fall. Instead, something shifted.
He stopped trying to win and started trying to read.
And slowly, he began to.
The randomness resolved into a pattern—not of memorized forms, but of principles. Economy of motion. Weight distribution. The blade wasn't just a tool; it was an extension of Akame's intent, and his intent seemed to flow like water, finding the gaps, testing the structure.
They fell into a rhythm. Not the frantic, desperate tempo of a life-or-death fight, but the steady, resonant beat of a shared practice. Steel rang, not in fury, but in recognition.
Neil landed a shallow cut across Akame's forearm. Akame reciprocated with a flick that opened a thin red line on Neil's cheek. Neither was fatal. Neither was meant to be.
The world seemed to slow. The distant sounds of the city faded. There was no heavy breathing, no burning muscles—just the cool, blue clarity of total focus. Neil's mind, usually a storm of ambition and calculation, grew still.
'In the beginning, it was chaos,' he realized. 'But it wasn't random. It was… adaptive. The blade and he aren't master and weapon. They're partners. They're dancing.'
Akame switched to a reverse grip, blade held low, and cut upward in a rising crescent.
Neil was ready. He crossed his swords into an 'X', catching the strike at its apex. He pushed down, breaking the lock, and with a swift, clean motion of his kodachi, he slashed upward.
SHINK.
The blade traced a line from hip to shoulder across Akame's chest. Fabric parted. Blood welled and began to soak the white shirt.
Akame stepped back, looking down at the wound as if mildly inconvenienced.
"Take that, old man!" Neil's voice burst out, triumphant, a grin spreading across his face for the first time. He leveled his kodachi, its tip pointed at Akame's heart. "I cut you!"
Then the realization washed over him, cold and sobering.
'Wait. He was open. I could have thrust. I could have pierced his heart or his lung. Why did I slash? Why did I… hold back?'
Akame studied him, his expression unreadable. The blood seeped, but he made no move to stem it.
"Tell me," Akame said, his voice calm, almost gentle. "Is it fun? Learning the sword?"
"What are you talking about?" Neil snapped, but the defiance was hollow, confusion seeping through.
"I asked if it was fun."
Neil stared. The adrenaline, the pride, the fury—it all drained away, leaving something raw and unfamiliar. His body answered before his mind could censor it.
"Yeah," he heard himself say, the words soft, almost surprised. "Yeah… a little bit."
And for the first time in years—maybe ever—a genuine, unguarded smile touched Neil Blight's lips. It wasn't the smirk of victory or the scowl of ambition. It was the simple, bright smile of discovery.
Akame's own expression softened. Not into a grin, but into something quiet and approving.
"I'm glad," he said.
In that moment, the legend of Saikyo Akame melted away. He wasn't a calamity or a ghost or a figure in a dusty Vatican file. He was just a man who loved the sword. And Neil, for the first time, felt not the weight of a title to defend, but the joy of a path to walk.
He felt, for the first time, that he too could reach that pinnacle.
And smile.
TO BE CONTINUED!