AKAME ASSASINATION (63)
'I wonder what I thought when I first saw his image on the hologram,' Neil reflected, his mind racing even as his body stood still. 'Or when I read about him in the Vatican-prescribed texts. The man on those pages seemed unreal—a myth, like David and Goliath. They said seeing is believing, and I wanted to see him, to believe in something that grand. But I couldn't. The legend had vanished. And maybe… I was okay with that. Continuing the legacy he left behind was a duty I could shoulder, whether it made me happy or not. Blood, sweat, broken bones—I'd pay any price to become something like that. Someone like him.'
He stared at the man before him, bleeding but unbroken.
'But this man… what's the line between the legend and the flesh? Who is he, really?'
"Hey. Old man."
"?"
"Are you Akame Saikyo?"
Akame regarded him for a long moment, his green eyes unreadable. "Does it really matter?"
"Yeah. It does." Neil's voice lost its edge, replaced by something quieter, more sincere. "I called you a fraud. I came here arrogant, ready to defend a ghost's honor. And now… you've fed my own pride back to me."
"Jeez. What's so cool about that guy anyway?" Akame asked, a faint, almost tired amusement in his tone. "Do you even know what his name means?"
"I know Saikyo means 'strongest.'"
"And Akame means 'demon.' He was the son of a demonic woman who stripped him of his childhood. And here you are, stripping yourself of yours." Akame's gaze was steady, not accusatory, but observant. "You want to be like him, yet he wishes he could be like you."
"Why would he wish that?" Neil's brow furrowed. "And why are you talking about him in the third person?" A beat. "Aren't you him?"
"We might be the same person. But that doesn't matter anymore." Akame's voice softened, carrying a weight of years. "Old soldiers never die—they just fade away. There's no point in letting the next generation suffer the same path. There's a simpler way to surpass him. One with less blood. Less… regret."
Neil looked down, the adrenaline of the fight cooling into something more contemplative. After a moment, he sheathed his kodachi with a soft click.
"You're a real pain in the ass, old man."
"So I'm told."
Akame flipped Shizen in his hand, caught it by the blade, and extended the hilt toward Neil. "You'll probably need this now."
Neil stared at the offered weapon. Then, slowly, he reached for the empty sheath on his own back. He took the sword from Akame, slid it home with reverence, and tossed it back.
Akame caught it, perplexed.
"It's bad PR for a samurai to walk around unarmed," Neil said, a new, more natural smile touching his lips—one free of mockery. "And it would be shameful to accept a sword out of pity. I'll earn it. Later. You get what I'm saying, old man? I'll fight you again. And I'll win without you teaching me a damn thing."
Akame just stared at him. "I feel like you understood nothing from the conversation we just had."
"Relax. I'll figure it out." Neil's grin turned confident, almost boyish. "I am a genius, after all." He didn't fully grasp this "fun" thing people spoke of—when a job was just a job—but he'd work it out. That's what he always did.
"You better survive whatever's coming," Neil added, his tone shifting back to seriousness. "Because you and me? We're not done yet."
He brought his hands together in a sharp clap.
POOF!
A dense, greyish-white smoke erupted around them, swallowing the street in seconds. It wasn't normal smoke—it was laced with something that dulled the senses, muffled sound, and blurred spatial awareness. Akame's enhanced perception, usually sharp as a razor, suddenly felt smothered.
'Shinobi smoke. They're disrupting more than just sight.'
He could no longer feel the presence of others—only the solid asphalt beneath his feet.
Out of the swirling haze, a figure materialized behind him, silent as a shadow.
"Akame-kun."
He turned. Maomao Tatsu stood there, her green-blue eyes locked on him, stripped of their usual playful mischief. They held something heavier now—a deep, unresolved conviction.
"It's been a while," she said.
"I guess it has. If you're looking for him, he's already gone." Akame's eyes weren't on her face; they were fixed on the ground between them.
'People say when you look into his eyes, you see chaos,' Maomao thought, her heart tightening. 'But why do I only see someone who's been holding back tears for years? Even back then…'
"At least have the decency to look me in the eyes!" she shouted, the tremor in her voice betraying her calm façade. "It's all the same to you, isn't it? You leave, you get yourself into trouble, and you expect none of us to care? It would be fine if—"
"I'll stop you right there." Akame's voice cut through, cold and flat. He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "And I'll be completely honest."
He paused, letting the silence choke the space between them.
"I couldn't care less about any of you."
Maomao's breath hitched. The words didn't feel like a blow—they felt like a guillotine. Her world didn't shatter; it emptied. The shock was so total it hollowed out her chest, leaving her face pale, eyes wide and uncomprehending.
"You refused to listen to my thoughts. My reasons."
"You know I would never—"
"Then you should have spoken up, Maomao-san. You should have voiced your own thoughts instead of hiding behind everyone else's opinions." His tone wasn't angry. It was… weary. Disappointed. "Tell me, haven't you gotten tired of being so fake?"
The question didn't feel like an attack. It felt like a diagnosis.
Her composure shattered. Real, hot tears welled and spilled over, tracing clean lines down her dust-smudged cheeks.
"Is that… really how you feel?" Her voice was a broken whisper. "About me, Akame?"
Akame rolled his eyes, a gesture so casually cruel it felt more brutal than any blade. "As self-centered as always. I have no feelings for any of you. So much so, I'd even forgotten you existed."
"THAT'S NOT TRUE!"
Her scream tore through the smoke, raw and furious.
"You have the audacity to call me fake? Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie! Why don't you try speaking your mind for once in your damned life!"
BRRRRRR—!
The ground beneath them erupted.
A massive slab of asphalt and earth tore free from the street, lifting into the air like a giant's hand. Maomao stumbled but regained her footing, balanced on the rising platform. Akame stood calmly at its center.
From the edges of the forming plateau, figures clad in sleek black tactical gear—the elite of the Okinawa Group—leaped into position, encircling Akame in a ring of drawn blades and ready stances.
'The whole squad,' Akame noted internally. 'Even I can't fight this many shinobi without taking damage.'
"Tatsu-sama! Are you alright?" one ninja called, eyes never leaving Akame.
"I'm fine. Stand down. He's not the one controlling this."
"But Tatsu-sama, he's extremely danger—"
"That's an order!"
The air thickened. A new pressure descended, dense and primal.
"Damn, females are always so loud." A voice, rough and dripping with disdain, cut through the tension. "Can y'all just shut the fuck up and get out of my way?"
On the rim of the floating earth-platform, Suzaku Junichi appeared, a thick glass bottle of amber liquor in one hand. His chest was bare, scarred, and gleaming with sweat. He took one last, long swig, then smashed the empty bottle against his own forehead. Shards tinkled to the ground, ignored.
He began walking toward the circle of ninja, his aura radiating pure, violent intent.
"Junichi-kun, wait—"
"Shut it, Maomao. I ain't hearing it." His eyes were locked on Akame, a wild, hungry grin spreading across his face. "I'm just here to fight. So tell your little friends to step aside."
"No! You listen to me—"
"Jeez, Maomao." Akame's voice cut in, calm and final. He waved a dismissive hand in her direction. "Can you please just leave? You're getting annoying."
He turned his head slowly, his emerald eyes meeting Junichi's burning gaze.
"I have a sudden, innate desire," Akame said, his voice dropping to a lethal quiet. "To kill Junichi."
Junichi's grin widened into something feral, ecstatic.
"Oh," he rumbled, cracking his neck. "I was hoping you'd say that."
The Okinawa ninja glanced at Maomao, uncertain. She stood frozen, tears still wet on her face, caught between the man she once knew and the monster he had become—or perhaps, had always been.
The platform hung in the air, a stage set for blood.
The air itself seemed to chant:
FIGHT. FIGHT. FIGHT.
DO YOU REMEMBER END!