Broken Blade Sakura: Blood Oath and Kaishaku

The virtual training room hummed with the faint, sterile drone of the simulation engines. 涧田秀人 stood at the edge of the tatami mat, his palms slick with sweat. He had designed this space—the layered textures, the scent of woven rush, the soft glow of paper lanterns—but he had never intended to be a participant. His eyes darted to the center of the room, where 川瓷静华 knelt, her long black hair pooling like ink over her bare shoulders. She was naked, utterly unashamed, her large breasts pressing against her thighs as she bowed forward. Beside her, the health teacher—a woman in her forties with a severe bun and a white coat over her kimono—held a katana with practiced ease.

“You will observe first, 涧田-kun,” the teacher said, her voice flat. “Then you will assist.”

Hideyuki swallowed. His mouth was dry. He had seen blood in simulations before—red paint, algorithms of splatter—but this was different. Shizuka’s skin glowed under the virtual sun, and the small blade she held trembled in her grip. She looked up at him, her cool mask cracked by a smile that was almost fond, almost predatory.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve done this hundreds of times. It’s just practice.”

She pressed the blade to her abdomen. The incision was clean—a horizontal cut, deep and deliberate. Blood gushed from the wound, cascading over her thighs, pooling on the mat. Hideyuki’s breath caught. The color was wrong. Too vivid, too arterial. The smell hit him a second later—copper, salt, something metallic and alive. His stomach lurched, but his pulse quickened.

The teacher stepped forward. “Kaishaku,” she announced, and raised the katana. The blade fell in a perfect arc, severing Shizuka’s neck with a single, crisp stroke. Blood erupted from the stump, arcing like a crimson tree branching into the air, splattering the teacher’s white coat, the tatami, Hideyuki’s cheek. He felt the warm droplets cool on his skin. Shizuka’s body crumpled, her head rolling to a stop at his feet. Her eyes were still open, fixated on him, a faint smile frozen on her lips.

The simulation paused. The body flickered, but the blood remained—a digital stain, but real enough to make his hands shake.

“Your turn,” the teacher said, wiping her blade with a cloth. She knelt beside Shizuka’s still form and gestured for Hideyuki to approach. “You will perform the kaishaku on a living simulation. 川瓷-san will guide your hand.”

Shizuka’s body reset—a blink and she was whole again, kneeling, naked, her long black hair restored. She turned to him with a soft laugh. “Come on, Hideyuki. Don’t be shy.” She reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him down to his knees beside her. Her skin was warm, her grip firm. She pressed her body against his side, her breast flattening against his arm, and he felt a flush rise to his cheeks.

“I… I don’t know how…” he stammered.

“I’ll help you.” She took his right hand, laced her fingers through his, and guided it to the katana’s hilt. Her hand over his, she raised the blade. “Just follow my lead. Cut clean. Quick. Don’t hesitate.”

The teacher knelt in front of them, her back to them, and bowed her head, exposing her neck. Shizuka’s breath was warm against Hideyuki’s ear. “Imagine it’s your enemy. Or someone you hate. Or someone you love. It doesn’t matter. Just feel the edge.”

Hideyuki’s heart hammered. He could feel the weight of the blade, the slight resistance as Shizuka adjusted his grip. Then she pressed his hand forward. The blade bit into the teacher’s neck—a soft, wet sound, like slicing through a ripe melon. The teacher gasped, a gurgle, and then the blade cleaved through sinew and bone. Blood sprayed, hot and slick, coating Hideyuki’s arm. The teacher’s body toppled forward, the head rolling away, and a fountain of red jetted into the air, splashing Hideyuki’s face.

He froze. A shiver ran through him—not of revulsion, but of something else. A thrill. A dark, pulsing delight that tightened his chest. The smell of blood filled his nostrils, and his mouth watered. He looked down at his hand, still gripping the katana, now dripping crimson. Shizuka released him and leaned back, a satisfied smirk on her lips.

“Good boy,” she whispered. “How does it feel?”

He couldn’t answer. His mind was a storm of images—the teacher’s severed head, the fountain of blood, the weight of the blade in his hand. And beneath it all, a single, sharp urge: he wanted to see more. He wanted to be the one kneeling, the one cutting, the one bleeding.

The simulation ended. The bodies vanished. The room reset to its default state—bright, clean, empty. Hideyuki stood alone, his clothes dry, but his skin still prickling with phantom warmth. The health teacher’s voice crackled over the intercom: “Practice completed. Return to the preparation room.”

He walked out in a daze. The corridor was quiet, the fluorescent lights humming. He wiped his face with his sleeve, but there was nothing to wipe. The blood had been digital. But the image was burned into his retinas.

He thought of 月柳佳子—her short white hair, her sharp blue eyes, the way her lips curled when she smiled at him after her duel. He had been saving a message from her on his wrist device. A sweet, clumsy confession about wanting to spend time with him after the match. He had felt his heart leap when he read it, a pure, innocent happiness.

Now, as he replayed the kaishaku practice, that purity felt tainted. The image of the teacher’s head rolling across the mat intercut with Yoshiko’s face. He imagined her kneeling, the blade in her hands, the red tree blooming from her neck. His stomach turned—but his pulse raced.

He pressed his palm against his chest, trying to slow his breathing. No. That was wrong. He cared for her. She was kind, gentle, beautiful. He should not want to see her like that.

But the urge writhed in his gut like a living thing, and he knew, with a cold certainty, that the practice had awakened something he could not unsee. Something he would have to face.

The virtual space materialized around them like a crimson dream—tatami mats stained the color of dried blood, paper screens glowing with an amber light that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. Shizuka knelt in the center, her long black hair cascading over shoulders bared by the simple white kosode she wore. The garment hung loose, deliberately so, the fabric gaping at her chest as she adjusted her posture.

“You’re nervous again, Hideyuki-kun.” Her voice carried a teasing lilt, the honorific drawn out with false sweetness. “Sit. Today we practice deeper strikes. The kaishaku must be decisive, but also… controlled.”

Hideyuki swallowed, his throat dry. His fingers trembled as he took the wakizashi she offered, the blade catching the virtual light. He had told himself this was just training—the school required competence in the ancient arts, especially after a duel. But each session with Shizuka-senpai felt different. Wrong. Necessary.

“I don’t think the academy requires this level of detail,” he managed, his voice cracking on the last word.

Shizuka laughed, a low sound that vibrated through her chest. “The academy teaches survival. I teach… artistry.” She turned, presenting her back to him as she knelt, then slowly, deliberately, let the kosode slip from one shoulder. The pale skin of her neck and upper back gleamed, unmarked. “Position yourself. Left side. Behind me. The stroke must cross the spine at a perfect diagonal—from the carotid to the opposite collarbone. But first…”

She took the short dagger from the floor—the tanto she used for the ritual wound—and pressed it against her own belly. Her eyes met his over her shoulder, dark and knowing. “Watch. Learn. Feel the moment of commitment.”

Hideyuki watched as she pushed, the blade sinking into the soft flesh below her navel. Blood welled, dark and rich, and she gasped—not in pain, but in something that made his stomach tighten. She drew the blade left, then up, the cut widening. Her breath hitched, and her hand found his, guiding the wakizashi he held.

“Now,” she whispered. “Before I lose my nerve. Clean stroke. Right here.”

His blade trembled against her neck. He had done this before—six times now, once a day for the past week. Each time, the blood spilled hotter, the sounds she made cut deeper into his memory. He pressed, and the blade bit through skin, muscle, sinew. Her body arched, a shuddering cry escaping her lips, and then she went limp.

The simulation reset.

Shizuka was whole again, turning to face him with a satisfied smile. A single bead of blood still clung to her lip. She wiped it away with her thumb and offered it to him. “Taste. It helps you understand what you’re taking.”

Hideyuki recoiled, but his hand moved of its own accord, his lips parting. The iron tang coated his tongue, and his head swam with vertigo and hunger.

“Good boy.” She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “Next time, let’s try something more… creative. A cross-shaped wound. Two cuts, deep and slow. I want to feel you carve your name into my flesh.”

He nodded, unable to speak.

The next session, he asked for it.

“The cross,” he said, his voice steadier than he expected. “Like you mentioned.”

Shizuka’s eyes glittered. She knelt without a word, arranging the kosode to bare her entire torso. The virtual world shifted around them—the room grew dimmer, shadows stretching like sentinels. She handed him the tanto, her fingers brushing his.

“You do the cutting first,” she said. “The horizontal stroke must be just below the navel, deep enough to graze the stomach wall. Then the vertical, from the sternum down. The intersection must be exact. If you hesitate, the pain will make me convulse, and you’ll ruin the pattern.”

Hideyuki’s hand was steady as he pressed the point into her skin. She didn’t flinch. The blade dragged, blood welling in its wake, and she moaned—low and pleased. He finished the horizontal line, then began the vertical. At the third inch, her hand came up and cupped his cheek, her thumb tracing his jawline.

“You’re trembling,” she said, her voice thick with exertion. “Don’t. You’re doing beautifully. I can feel every millimeter of your will.”

He cut deeper, faster, wanting to finish, wanting to stay. The cross was complete when the two lines met, a crimson flower blooming on her belly. She gasped and fell forward, her forehead resting against his knee. Her blood soaked through his trousers, warm and wet.

“Again,” she breathed. “Let me see it once more before I go.”

The simulation reset. Hideyuki didn’t wait for instruction. He took the tanto and cut again, and she laughed as she bled.

Outside the virtual space, the corridors of the academy felt cold and empty. Hideyuki walked with his head down, the phantom scent of blood clinging to him. He passed Yoshiko in the courtyard, her white hair catching the sunlight, and she stopped.

“Hideyuki.” Her voice was sharp, cutting through his haze. “Where have you been? I came to find you yesterday, but your room was empty.”

“Training,” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

Her blue gaze narrowed. “Training for what? You haven’t been to the forge in three days. And your hands”—she grabbed his wrist, turning his palm over— “they’re clean. Not a single burn or callus from work. But there’s a tremor. A small one. Like someone who’s been gripping a blade too tightly.”

He pulled away. “It’s nothing.”

Yoshiko’s expression darkened. “Is it Shizuka? I’ve seen her looking at you. When you think no one notices, she watches you like you’re a meal.”

“She’s teaching me kaishaku,” he said, too quickly.

“Kaishaku.” Yoshiko’s laugh was bitter. “You don’t need lessons. You’ve never even held a sword in a real duel. You watch, Hideyuki. That’s all you do. Watch and… what? What does she give you in that virtual space?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words would have spilled from him like blood—the sounds, the heat, the terrible intimacy of cutting someone open and feeling them thank you for it.

Yoshiko left him standing there, her footsteps echoing as she strode toward the senior dormitory. She found Shizuka in the common room, lounging on a cushion with a cup of tea, her long black hair unbound and flowing around her.

“What are you doing to him?” Yoshiko demanded.

Shizuka sipped her tea, unperturbed. “Training. As I told you.”

“He’s different. Haunted. There’s a light in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and it’s not good. It’s hungry.”

A slow smile spread across Shizuka’s face. “Hungry. Yes. That’s the word.” She set down her cup and rose, stepping close to Yoshiko. The height difference was negligible, but the weight of her presence pressed down like a physical force. “He’s seen me die, Yoshiko-chan. Died beautifully, in perfect submission. And he wants more. He’s addicted to it—to the moment of my surrender, the gift of my blood.”

Yoshiko’s hand flew to the hilt of her wooden practice sword. “You’re turning him into something vile.”

“I’m giving him purpose,” Shizuka whispered. “He was lost before. A quiet boy with sharp eyes and no direction. Now he knows what he wants. He wants to watch beautiful women empty themselves for him, piece by piece. And I’m the first. The one who teaches him how to love the end.”

“You’re insane.”

“Perhaps.” Shizuka’s voice dropped to barely a murmur. “But so is he, now. And you, Yoshiko-chan, with your pure love and your gentle touch… you’ll never be able to give him what I do. Not unless you’re willing to bleed for him.”

Yoshiko’s grip tightened on her sword, knuckles white. “Stay away from him.”

Shizuka only smiled, turning back to her tea. “Too late. He’s already mine.”

That night, Hideyuki lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His hand reached for the tanto he kept under his pillow—a real one, cold and sharp. He pressed the edge against his thumb, just enough to draw a bead of blood.

He thought of Shizuka’s crossed wound, the way her flesh parted like a mouth whispering his name. He thought of Yoshiko’s blue eyes, bright with worry and love. And he wondered what sounds she would make if he cut her, what color her blood would be against her white hair.

The hunger yawned open inside him, vast and insatiable.

The weapons lab was a sterile cave of steel and concrete, lit by the cold blue glow of computer monitors and the harsh white of overhead fluorescents. 涧田秀人 sat hunched over a stainless steel table, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted the clamp that held the white rabbit’s hind leg in place. The creature’s nose twitched, oblivious, its fur soft and warm against the cold metal. Hideyuki’s breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. He had been here for hours, his mind spiraling down a dark corridor he had only ever glimpsed in the fevered edges of half-formed dreams.

On the table beside the rabbit lay a katana. It was his latest creation—a blade forged from a new alloy, honed to a molecular edge that could part a silk scarf dropped across its length. The tsuba was plain, unadorned, but the hamon line danced with a subtle, rippling pattern like waves of frozen blood. He had named it *Ikiru no Kizu*—The Living Wound. It was not for battle. It was for something else, something he had only begun to understand when he saw 月柳佳子’s eyes after her duel, that mixture of triumph and adoration. That look had ignited a hunger he could not name.

Now, alone in the lab, he was naming it.

He picked up the blade. The grip felt natural in his palm, the balance perfect. He ran his thumb along the spine, feeling the faint vibration of the metal as if it were alive. His other hand stroked the rabbit’s back, feeling the rapid flutter of its heartbeat. *So fragile,* he thought. *So easy to open.* The image flooded his mind—a clean, precise cut, the way the blade would slide through fur and skin and muscle, the sudden release of warmth, the scent of copper and life. He felt a tightness in his groin, a stirring that made him gasp.

He closed his eyes and let the fantasy play. It was not a rabbit on the table. It was a woman—beautiful, proud, kneeling before him in a white kimono. She held a blade, her own, and she was smiling. Then the smile broke, and her eyes filled with tears of relief as she turned the blade toward her belly. He watched, paralyzed with awe, as she pressed the tip into the soft flesh below her navel. The skin parted, a thin red line that widened into a gaping mouth, and she groaned—not in pain, but in ecstasy. Her blood poured over his hands, hot and wet, and he felt himself harden, felt the rush of power and terror mingling in his veins.

He opened his eyes. The rabbit was still there, still alive. His hand was shaking as he brought the katana down. The blade cut through the rabbit’s belly with a sound like tearing silk. The animal let out a single, high-pitched scream that died in a gurgle. Blood pooled on the stainless steel, dark and thick. Hideyuki’s breath hitched. He watched the intestines slide out, glistening, and he felt his erection strain painfully against his trousers. He set the blade down, his hands slick with gore, and unzipped his fly. He did not think. He could not think. He wrapped his fingers around himself and began to stroke, his eyes fixed on the ruin of the rabbit’s body, imagining the woman again, imagining her scream, her smile, her blood.

The door hissed open.

Hideyuki’s head snapped up. His heart stopped. 川瓷静华 stood in the doorway, her long black hair falling over her shoulders, her large breasts rising and falling under her tight black turtleneck. Her eyes—dark, intelligent, sharp—took in the scene: the dead rabbit, the bloody katana, his exposed erection, his hand still frozen mid-stroke. For a long, terrible moment, neither spoke.

Then Shizuka smiled. It was a slow, knowing smile that did not reach her eyes. “I wondered when you’d start,” she said, her voice low and smooth. She stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft click. “I’ve been watching you, 涧田. You think you’re so quiet, so careful. But I saw the way you looked at Sakura’s sword after the duel. I saw the hunger in your eyes.”

Hideyuki scrambled to pull up his pants, his face burning. “I—this isn’t—I was just—”

“Don’t.” She walked toward him, her hips swaying with deliberate grace. She stopped inches away, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral, sweet, out of place in the metallic scent of blood. “Don’t lie to me. I know exactly what you were doing. And I know what you want.” She reached out and took his chin in her hand, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You want to see a woman open herself. You want to feel her life spill over your hands while you take your pleasure.”

Hideyuki’s mouth went dry. He tried to pull away, but his body refused. Her touch sent a jolt through him, a strange mixture of fear and arousal. “I don’t… I’m not…”

“You are,” she whispered. “And I’m going to give it to you.” She released his chin and stepped back. Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned her turtleneck and pulled it over her head, revealing a pale, smooth torso and breasts that strained against a black lace bra. She unfastened her skirt, letting it fall to the floor. Then she knelt on the cold metal floor, her hands resting on her thighs. Her eyes never left his.

“I lost my duel today,” she said, her voice flat. “I was supposed to be the one to bring honor to my house. But I failed. The system will reset me, but before it does, I want to give myself to you. I want you to use me.” She picked up the katana from the table, holding it by the blade, offering the hilt to him. “I want you to take this blade, and I want you to drive it into me while you drive yourself into me. I want to feel your heat and your steel at the same moment.”

Hideyuki stared at her. The rabbit’s blood was cooling on his hands. The blade gleamed under the fluorescents. His erection, still half-hard, stirred again. “You’re insane,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said, and she smiled. It was a broken smile, full of longing and self-loathing. “But so are you. That’s why you’ll do it.”

He took the katana. His fingers closed around the hilt, and he felt the familiar weight, the perfect balance. He looked down at her—the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine, the way her hands trembled slightly on her thighs. She was so beautiful. She was so fragile. He could see the bulge of her stomach, the soft skin where he would carve her open. His breath quickened.

“Lie down,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She complied, stretching out on the cold metal floor, her arms at her sides. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her nipples hard against the lace. Hideyuki stood over her, the katana in one hand, his other hand fumbling with his belt. He dropped his trousers to his ankles. He knelt between her legs, the blade resting on her stomach. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide, her lips parted.

“Do it,” she breathed. “Make me yours.”

He pushed the tip of the katana against the fabric of her bra, just below her sternum. She arched her back, gasping. He pressed harder, and the blade sliced through the lace, parting it like water. The steel kissed her skin, drawing a thin line of blood. She whimpered, but her eyes were bright with joy.

He leaned forward, his body covering hers, the blade still pressed between them. With his free hand, he guided himself to her entrance. She was wet, slick, ready. He pushed inside her in one smooth motion, and she cried out, a sound of pure pleasure. He began to move, his hips thrusting, the blade in his hand trembling against her belly.

“Now,” she hissed. “Cut me. Cut me open.”

He looked down. He saw the point of the katana dimpling the skin just above her navel. He saw her eyes, pleading, adoring. He felt the heat of her body, the tightness of her around him. The rabbit’s blood was smeared across his hands. The fantasy was real now. The woman was here, offering herself, demanding to be opened.

He thrust deeper, and at the same moment, he pushed the blade forward.

The resistance was brief—a moment of tension, then a soft give. Blood welled up around the steel, hot and bright. Shizuka’s body convulsed, her back arching, her fingers clawing at the floor. But she did not scream. She laughed. A low, guttural laugh that turned into a sob. “Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, yes, yes…”

He pulled the blade sideways, widening the wound. The blood poured out, pooling beneath her, soaking his knees. Her body shuddered around him, and he felt himself reaching the edge. He drove into her harder, faster, the katana still lodged in her belly, her intestines sliding out in a wet, red coil. Her eyes were glassy, her lips blue, but she was still smiling. She was still watching him.

He came with a cry that was half a sob, his seed spilling into her as her blood spilled onto the floor. The two fluids mixed, a grotesque union. He collapsed on top of her, his face buried in her neck, her pulse fluttering against his cheek like a dying bird.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing—his ragged, hers a wet, bubbling gasp. Then the virtual space flickered. The blood began to fade, the wound closing, the spilled intestines dissolving into pixels. Shizuka’s body grew warm again, her eyes clearing. She looked up at him, her smile soft, gentle.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll see you again.”

And then she was gone, reset to the last checkpoint, leaving him alone in the lab with the dead rabbit and the clean katana and the feeling of her absence like a wound in his chest.

Hideyuki sat there for a long time, staring at the floor where her blood had been. His hands were clean. The room was sterile. But he could still feel the heat of her, the slickness of her, the way her eyes had never left his.

He picked up the katana. He held it to the light. The blade was immaculate.

He smiled. It was a small, twisted smile, and it did not reach his eyes.

“Yes,” he said to the empty room. “I’ll see you again.”

The afternoon sun filtered through the café window, casting a gentle glow across Yoshiko’s face as she set down her latte. Across the table, Hideyuki stirred his coffee in a mechanical rhythm, his gaze fixed on the white column of her throat as she swallowed.

“—and then Nakamura-sensei actually said my stance was too aggressive,” Yoshiko laughed, her blue eyes sparkling as she recounted her morning duel. “Can you believe it? I won in three seconds.”

Hideyuki’s lips moved, forming a sound that might have been agreement, but his mind had already drifted. The delicate curve of her neck, the subtle pulse beneath the skin—he imagined a clean horizontal cut there, just below the jaw. Her voice faded to a distant hum as he traced the line of her collarbone, down to where the fabric of her blouse met the gentle rise of her abdomen. There, beneath her ribs, a blade could slide in so smoothly, drawing a red smile across her belly.

“—Hideyuki?” Yoshiko’s hand touched his wrist, and he flinched.

“Sorry,” he said, forcing a smile. “I was thinking about... a new alloy composition.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she softened. “You’ve been distant lately. Is everything okay?”

He nodded, quickly raising his cup to hide his face. The coffee was bitter on his tongue, but he welcomed the distraction. *No, nothing is okay. I keep seeing you cut open. I keep wanting to see it.*

She talked on about their next joint project, but when she reached for her phone to show him a schematic, his own device buzzed on the table between them. The screen lit with a message from Shizuka: *“Same time tonight? I’ll wear the shorter hakama.”*

His heart seized. He lunged for the phone, but Yoshiko was faster.

“What’s that?” Her voice had lost its warmth. She stared at the glowing words, her fingers tightening around his phone as she raised it to read the older messages. He watched her face drain of color, watched her lips part in silent shock.

“Yoshiko, it’s not what you think—”

“Training?” she whispered, scrolling. “You’re meeting her for *training* at nine at night? With *shorter hakama*?” She turned the screen toward him. “Then why did she say she’ll bring sake? And why did you reply ‘I’ll bring the knife’?”

Panic clawed at his chest. *Knife.* She’d think... no, it *was* that, but he couldn’t tell her the truth.

“It’s a new kata we’re developing,” he said, forcing his voice steady. “She needs a sharp edge to demonstrate some maneuvers. The sake is... celebratory. For our progress.” He met her eyes, willing himself to believe the lie. “I swear, Yoshiko.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, her blue irises searching for cracks in his wall. Then she set the phone down and looked away. “I trust you,” she said, but her voice cracked on the last word. She took a breath, composing herself. “I just... I worry. You’ve been strange since the tournament. And that girl, Kawachi Shizuka—she has a reputation.”

“It’s just a technical partnership,” he said, reaching for her hand. She let him take it, but her fingers were cold.

“Then I want to formalize it,” she said suddenly. “Our partnership. I can request registration as your primary partner with the Duel Commission tonight. That way...” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing. “That way, when people see us, they’ll know.”

*Primary partner.* He felt the trap closing around him. Such a registration meant they would be paired exclusively for all official duels and projects—and more importantly, for seppuku ceremonies. The thought made his stomach twist with a dark thrill.

“Isn’t that a bit sudden?” he asked.

“Is it?” She turned to face him fully, her white hair shimmering in the light. “We’ve trained together for three years. We’ve won tournaments together. I—” She stopped, biting her lip. “I thought you felt the same.”

*Felt the same?* He felt something, but it was not the pure love she hoped for. It was a hunger, a fascination with the idea of her blood spilling at his feet. And yet, the thought of losing her—losing this sweet, trusting face—was unbearable.

“I do,” he said, and for a moment, he almost believed it. “I’ll schedule the registration.”

Her smile returned, soft and relieved. She squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I knew you were just stressed.” She lifted her latte to toast. “To us. To the strongest partnership in the academy.”

Hideyuki raised his coffee and clinked her cup, but as she drank, his gaze drifted again to her exposed wrist. The blue veins there looked so fragile. *One cut, and she would bleed out so beautifully.*

Yoshiko set down her cup and laughed, unaware. “You know, I think I love you.”

He forced a smile. “I know.”

But as she reached across the table to kiss his cheek, Hideyuki felt a fracture—something sweet and terrible splitting open inside him. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to watch her die. He wanted both, and the contradiction was a blade twisting in his own gut.

Outside the café, the sun was setting, casting long shadows that stretched like hungry fingers across the floor.

The morning sun cast long shadows across the school grounds as the announcement blared through every speaker on campus. A special dual—a life-or-death match between Tsukiyori Yoshiko and Kawashira Shizuka—would commence in thirty minutes, broadcast live to every classroom, every hallway monitor, every corner of the institution.

Hideyuki sat in the front row of the outdoor arena, his hands trembling slightly against his thighs. His heart pounded not with fear, but with a strange, rising anticipation. He could feel the heat of blood before it was even spilled.

Yoshiko stood at the opposite end of the arena, her short white hair catching the light. Her blue eyes were fixed on him for a moment, softening with something tender, almost desperate. She was not fighting for honor. She was fighting for him. For the right to be his. The thought tightened something in his chest, but it was not love—it was the electric thrill of ownership.

Shizuka approached from the side, her long black hair swaying with each deliberate step. She wore a fitted black kimono top over hakama, her large breasts straining against the fabric. The senior's dark eyes held a glint of knowing amusement. She stopped before the referee and presented her blade.

"The terms are set," Shizuka said, her voice smooth, projecting to the cameras that dotted the arena. "The loser will perform seppuku. Real seppuku. No virtual, no simulation. The winner will claim Hideyuki as their spouse for life."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd of students watching from the bleachers and the screens in classrooms. Sensation. Blood. These were the school's new currencies.

Yoshiko's jaw tightened. She stepped forward, her hand resting on her katana's hilt. "I accept the terms."

Hideyuki's breath caught. *Yes.* The word echoed in his mind, ugly and hungry. *Yes, yes, yes.*

The referee raised his hand. "Begin."

Yoshiko and Shizuka drew their blades in a single, fluid motion. The steel sang, catching the morning light. They circled each other, footsteps silent on the dirt.

"You think you deserve him?" Shizuka whispered, just loud enough for the nearest microphones to catch. "A shy, inexperienced boy like that? He needs a woman who knows how to handle him."

"He is not a toy," Yoshiko replied, her voice cold.

"He is." Shizuka's lips curled. "And I intend to make him mine. Even if I have to carve my claim into your flesh."

They clashed. Steel rang against steel in sharp, violent bursts. Yoshiko's style was precise, economical—every strike aimed to disable. Shizuka's was more fluid, more theatrical, her long limbs extending into graceful arcs that betrayed brutal intent.

Hideyuki watched, his mouth dry. The way their bodies twisted, the flex of muscle, the sheen of sweat on Yoshiko's brow—it was beautiful. *More,* he thought. *Show me more.*

Shizuka disengaged, stepping back with a feigned stumble. Yoshiko pressed forward, her blade aiming for Shizuka's shoulder.

And then Shizuka's free hand snapped forward.

A glint of metal—a small, three-bladed shuriken—spun through the air. It struck Yoshiko in the side, just below the ribs. She gasped, her momentum faltering. Shizuka moved in, her katana sweeping low, catching Yoshiko's leg and slicing through the fabric of her hakama. Blood bloomed across the white cloth.

Yoshiko fell to one knee.

The crowd erupted. Some cheered, some gasped, some leaned forward in morbid fascination. Hideyuki's hands curled into fists. His pulse was a drum in his ears.

Shizuka stood over her, the tip of her blade resting against Yoshiko's throat. "Concede," she said, her voice soft, almost kind. "You'll live. I'll take the boy. It's simple."

Yoshiko looked up, her blue eyes blazing. "I won't concede."

"Foolish girl."

"I won't concede because I lost to a trick." Yoshiko pressed her hand against the wound in her side, her fingers slick with blood. "I won't concede because I will not give him to you."

Shizuka sighed. She stepped back, lowering her blade. "Then perform seppuku."

The silence that fell over the arena was absolute. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Yoshiko struggled to her feet, her left leg shaking. She held her katana in both hands, the blade facing toward her. She looked across the arena—not at Shizuka, but at Hideyuki.

His heart raced. He could see the adoration in her eyes, the desperate love that she had carried for weeks, the hope for a future that would now end in blood. And he felt something rising inside him—not sorrow, but a dark, greedy excitement. He wanted her to do it. He needed to see it.

Yoshiko smiled, a sad, beautiful curve of her lips. "For you, Hideyuki," she said. "Even this."

She lowered herself to her knees, positioning the point of the blade against her abdomen. Her hands trembled. Tears streaked down her cheeks, but her resolve did not waver.

Shizuka folded her arms, watching with cold curiosity. The cameras zoomed in.

Hideyuki's breath came in shallow gasps. The world narrowed to the image of Yoshiko, kneeling, poised to tear open her own belly for him. It was the most intimate gift he had ever been offered.

“Wait,” Shizuka said suddenly.

Yoshiko paused, looking up.

Shizuka walked closer, her footsteps light. She knelt beside Yoshiko, leaning in to whisper something into her ear. The microphones could not catch it. But Hideyuki saw Yoshiko’s eyes widen, then narrow with pain and resignation.

“If you insist on death,” Shizuka said, loud enough for all to hear, “I will honor it. But know this: he will watch. He will remember. Every drop of your blood will be his memory."

Yoshiko closed her eyes.

And then she pulled the blade across her abdomen in a single, clean cut.

The blood poured forth, dark and thick. She gasped, choking, her body convulsing. The crowd erupted in screams and roars, a mixture of horror and excitement.

Hideyuki watched, frozen. His hands were clasped together, his face pale, but inside—deep inside—something sang. The red spread across the dirt, pooling around Yoshiko’s knees. She slumped forward, her katana falling from her hands, her white hair stained with crimson.

Shizuka stood, looking down at the fallen girl with an expression of calm victory. She turned, walked toward Hideyuki, and knelt before him.

“It is done,” she said. “She is dead, and I am yours.”

Hideyuki’s gaze did not leave Yoshiko’s still form. The blood was still spreading, still soaking into the earth.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Mine.”

The morning sun cast long shadows across the school courtyard, where the entire student body had assembled in silent rows. A wooden platform had been erected at the center, its bare planks stained dark from previous rituals. The air was thick with anticipation and the faint metallic scent that always preceded bloodshed.

Hideyuki stood at the edge of the platform, his hands clammy against the hilt of the longsword they had given him. His fingers trembled, not from fear, but from a strange, electric excitement that coiled in his gut like a living thing. He had never held a blade meant for kaishaku before—the stroke that ends the suffering of a seppuku. His eyes darted across the crowd, avoiding the gazes of the students, until they landed on Yoshiko.

She knelt at the center of the platform, her white hair stark against the crimson silk of her kimono. Her blue eyes were clear, calm, and fixed on him with an intensity that made his breath catch. She wore no armor, no sign of her status as a genius swordswoman. Today, she was merely a vessel of honor, and her gaze held no resentment, only a soft, almost tender light.

“Hideyuki,” she said, her voice steady despite the gravity of the moment. “Will you be my second?”

The words hung in the air, and he felt the weight of every student’s stare. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to nod. “I will.”

She smiled, a fragile curve of her lips that spoke of love and resignation. “Thank you.”

The school principal, a gaunt man with sunken eyes, raised his hand. The crowd fell silent. “Yoshiko of the Moonwillow clan has chosen to restore her honor through seppuku. Let the ritual begin.”

Yoshiko bowed deeply, then reached for the tantō lying before her on a silk cloth. She drew it slowly, the blade glinting in the morning light. Her fingers wrapped around the white hilt, and she pressed the tip against her left side, just above the hip. She took a deep breath, her chest rising, and then with a single, swift motion, she drew the blade across her abdomen.

The sound was wet, tearing. Blood welled along the cut, dark and thick, spilling over her kimono and pooling on the wooden planks. Yoshiko let out a low groan, her body shuddering, but she did not cry out. She continued the cut, dragging the blade from left to right, her muscles parting under the steel. The wound gaped, and a loop of intestine slipped free, glistening in the sun. The crowd gasped, some turning away, others leaning forward with morbid fascination.

Hideyuki’s heart pounded. The sight of her blood, the smell of it, the way her white skin parted so easily—it stirred something deep within him, something dark and hungry. His hands stopped trembling. They became steady, almost eager.

Yoshiko’s breathing was ragged, her face pale, but her eyes remained locked on him. “Hideyuki,” she whispered, her voice strained with pain. “Please… be quick.”

He stepped forward, the longsword in his grip. The blade was sharp, honed for a single purpose. But as he approached her, the impulse that had been building in him since the first drop of blood erupted. He could not stop it. He would not stop it.

He dropped the sword. It clattered on the platform, and the crowd murmured in confusion. Yoshiko’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing her pain-ridden face. “Hideyuki? What—”

He did not answer. Instead, he knelt before her, his hands reaching for her kimono. He pushed aside the silk, exposing her breasts, her blood-smeared stomach. She gasped, but she did not resist. Her body, wracked with agony, was still her own, and she offered it to him.

“I love you,” she breathed, the words barely audible above the gasps of the crowd. “I have always loved you.”

Hideyuki pressed her onto her back, straddling her hips. The wound was still open, the intestines pulsing with life. He lowered himself, his pants rough against her skin. He entered her in one swift motion, and she cried out—not in pleasure, but in a mix of pain and sudden, overwhelming sensation. Her body arched, the wound stretching, more blood spilling. He thrust again, and again, each movement driving his body against her torn abdomen. His hand found the blade still in her grip, and he guided it, pushing it deeper into the wound as he drove into her.

Yoshiko’s eyes rolled back. Her hands clawed at the wooden planks, leaving streaks of red. “Hideyuki… please…” Her voice was a broken whisper, but her lips smiled. In the haze of her agony, she found a strange, twisted ecstasy. Her body convulsed, and she cried out, a scream that was both pain and release. The orgasm wracked her, and her blood soaked them both.

Hideyuki thrust harder, deeper, the blade in his hand sawing through flesh. He felt her walls clench around him, then relax. Her eyes grew glassy, her breath shallow. She was dying, and in that moment, she was beautiful.

He pulled out, his body slick with her blood. He picked up the longsword again, his hands steady. He placed the blade against her neck, just below the jaw. “Thank you, Yoshiko.”

Her lips moved, but no sound came. Only a silent, loving smile.

He swung.

The blade cut clean through. Her head separated from her body with a wet, snapping sound. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, drenching Hideyuki’s face, his chest, his hands. He felt the warm liquid on his tongue, and he did not flinch. He watched her head roll across the platform, her blue eyes still open, still gazing at him with that same love.

He stood, the blood dripping from him, and looked out at the crowd. The students were frozen, their faces masks of shock and horror. The principal’s sunken eyes were wide, his mouth agape.

Hideyuki felt an unprecedented satisfaction, a surge of power that made his blood sing. He had been the one to end her. He had been the one to claim her. And in that final act, he had found something he never knew he craved.

He dropped the sword. It clattered beside Yoshiko’s body, the headless form still leaking blood onto the planks. He turned and walked away, his footsteps steady, his heart calm.

Behind him, the silence broke. Cries of alarm, of horror, of confusion rose from the students. But Hideyuki did not hear them. He only heard the echo of her last breath, and the whisper of her love.

And he smiled.

The cherry blossoms were falling that evening, their pale pink petals drifting like snow through the amber light of the setting sun. Kawashiri Shizuka had chosen the oldest tree on the academy grounds, its gnarled roots breaking through the soil like the fingers of the earth itself, its branches heavy with blossoms that seemed to bleed color into the darkening sky.

Hideyuki stood beneath it, his hands trembling at his sides. The tanto lay on a silk cloth between them, its blade catching the last light and throwing it back at him like an accusation.

"You're nervous," Shizuka said, and though her voice was calm, there was something else beneath it—a tremor of anticipation that made Hideyuki's stomach clench.

He couldn't look at her. Not directly. But he saw her in fragments: the fall of her black hair over bare shoulders, the curve of her spine as she knelt on the grass, the way her breasts pressed against the white fabric of the kimono that hung open, unfastened, revealing everything beneath.

"I've never—" Hideyuki started, then stopped. His throat was dry.

"Never killed anyone?" Shizuka's lips curled into a smile that was almost gentle. "Neither have I. But I've imagined it. Haven't you?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

The duel had been brief. Shizuka had challenged him after watching his match with Yoshiko, claiming she wanted to test the mettle of the boy who had defeated the school's finest swordswoman. But her blade had been slow, her movements deliberate, and when she fell, it was with a grace that spoke of surrender rather than defeat.

"I lost," she had said, kneeling in the dirt with his practice sword at her throat. "And according to the code, I owe you my life."

Now she lay back on the grass, her kimono falling open completely, her body pale and perfect in the dying light. The cherry blossoms continued to fall, landing on her skin like kisses, like tears.

"Help me undress," she said, and her voice was soft now, almost shy.

Hideyuki's hands shook as he reached for the fabric. The silk was warm from her body, and beneath it her skin was smooth, unmarked. He pulled the kimono away, leaving her naked beneath the tree, her hair spread around her head like a halo of ink.

"Is this what you wanted?" she asked, and there was a challenge in her eyes, a dare.

Hideyuki felt something shift inside him. The fear was still there, but beneath it, something else was stirring—a hunger he had never acknowledged, a curiosity that bordered on obsession.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was steadier than he expected.

Shizuka reached for the tanto, her fingers closing around the hilt with practiced ease. She held it up, letting the light play along its edge.

"Will you do it?" she asked. "Or shall I?"

Hideyuki took the blade from her. The weight of it surprised him—heavier than the practice swords he was used to, more substantial. More real.

"There's a ritual," Shizuka said, settling back on the grass. "First, I must cleanse myself. Then I write a death poem. Then—" She paused, and her hand found his, guiding the tanto to her belly. "Then you cut."

"I don't know how."

"I'll teach you." She pulled his hand closer, and the tip of the blade touched her skin, just above the navel. A bead of blood welled up, dark and red against the pale expanse of her stomach. "The first cut is horizontal. Left to right. Deep enough to reach the intestines, but not so deep you sever the spine."

Hideyuki's hand was steady now. The blood on the blade seemed to quiet something inside him, to focus his thoughts into a single point of clarity.

"And then?"

"Then you cut upward." Shizuka's voice was calm, almost dreamy. "A second cut, perpendicular to the first. So that your intestines spill out. So that you die properly."

The cherry blossoms continued to fall, landing on her skin, on the blade, on the grass around them. Hideyuki leaned over her, and the world narrowed to the space between them: the warmth of her body, the smell of her skin, the pulse beating in her throat.

"Will it hurt?" he asked.

"Of course it will hurt." Shizuka laughed, and there was a wildness in it that made his heart race. "But that's the point, isn't it? To feel something. To feel everything."

Hideyuki lowered the blade, pressing it against her skin. She gasped, and her hips rose to meet him, her body arching into the steel.

"Do it," she whispered. "Cut me."

He did.

The blade slid through her skin like it was made of water, parting flesh and muscle with an ease that shocked him. Blood welled up, hot and sticky, coating his hands, his wrists, pooling beneath her on the grass.

Shizuka cried out, but it wasn't a sound of pain—not entirely. There was pleasure in it too, a release of something she had been holding back for years.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, keep going."

Hideyuki cut deeper, and her body opened for him, the wound gaping like a second mouth. He could see the glistening coils of her intestines beneath the torn muscle, could smell the copper tang of her blood and something else, something deeper and more intimate.

He was hard. He hadn't noticed when it happened, but now it was impossible to ignore—the pressure of his erection against his trousers, the desperate need growing inside him.

Shizuka saw it in his eyes. She smiled, and there was blood on her teeth.

"Fuck me," she said. "While you cut me open. I want to feel both at once."

Hideyuki didn't hesitate. He dropped his trousers, pushed her legs apart, and entered her in one motion. She was wet, slick with blood and arousal, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper.

"Now cut," she said, her voice ragged. "Cut me deeper."

His hand found the tanto again, still wet with her blood. He pressed it into the wound sheared her flesh apart, and the heat of her blood mixed with the heat of her body as he thrust into her.

Shizuka laughed, a wild, broken sound that echoed through the empty courtyard.

"Harder," she commanded. "I want to feel everything. I want to die knowing I felt everything."

Hideyuki cut deeper, his hand plunging into the cavity of her abdomen. Her intestines were warm and slick against his fingers, and he felt them coil around his wrist as he moved inside her.

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, pull them out. Show me."

He did. He pulled her intestines out of her body, a long, glistening rope of flesh that steamed in the cool evening air. He wrapped them around his waist, around his hips, and the sensation—warm, wet, alive—drove him to the edge of madness.

Shizuka's body arched beneath him, her back bowing as the final spasms of pleasure and pain wracked her frame. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open, and she was laughing and crying at the same time.

"Don't stop," she said, but her voice was fading, her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. "I want to feel you come inside me while I die."

Hideyuki thrust harder, faster, his hand still buried in her abdomen, her intestines wrapped around him like a lover's embrace. The blood was everywhere, on the grass, on the blossom petals, on his skin, and it was beautiful.

He felt her orgasm ripple through her body, a shudder that started deep in her core and spread outward like a wave. At the same moment, he felt himself come undone, his release pouring into her wound, into the cavity of her body, mixing with her blood.

Shizuka's eyes met his one last time. She smiled, and then the light went out of them.

She was gone.

The cherry blossoms continued to fall, covering her body in a shroud of pink and white. Hideyuki pulled out of her, his hands wet with her blood, her intestines still wrapped around his waist.

He looked down at her, and for a long moment, he felt nothing at all.

Then the hunger stirred again, stronger than before.

He wanted to do it again.

The morning light filtered through the academy's cherry blossoms, casting dappled shadows across the courtyard. Already, a group of first-year female students had gathered near the entrance, their eyes scanning the path with barely concealed anticipation. When Hideyuki appeared, clutching his bag against his chest, a ripple of whispers spread through them like wind through wheat.

"That's him."

"The one who performed kaishaku for Yoshiko-senpai."

"They say his blade never trembles."

Hideyuki kept his head down, but the words burrowed into his ears, warm and intoxicating. He had expected hostility, perhaps disgust. Instead, he found something far more dangerous: hunger.

"Kandata-senpai!" A petite girl with pigtails broke from the group and bowed deeply before him. "Please, would you consider me for your next training session?"

"Training?" Hideyuki blinked, genuinely confused.

"For seppuku practice." Her cheeks flushed, but her eyes held a feverish intensity. "I've been studying the procedures, but no one cuts with the precision you do. Everyone says—they say it's almost beautiful to watch."

Before he could respond, two more girls pressed forward, their voices overlapping in eager competition.

"I can provide my own tanto—"

"I've already prepared my death poem—"

Hideyuki's mouth went dry. The morning air seemed to thicken, carrying the phantom scent of copper. His fingers twitched, remembering the weight of his blade, the hot spray of blood across his face. *They want this*, he realized. *They want me.*

"Perhaps," he heard himself say, the words emerging from somewhere deep and unfamiliar, "we could arrange something... private. In the weapons development lab. I have equipment there that can ensure—" He paused, searching for the right word. "—proper conditions."

The girls exchanged glances, then nodded with solemn gravity, as if agreeing to a tea ceremony rather than their own deaths.

---

The lab had changed in the weeks since his first kaishaku. Hideyuki had rearranged the furniture, cleared a space in the center of the floor, and laid down absorbent mats he'd requisitioned for "hydraulic testing." The overhead lights cast sterile white illumination, but he'd installed dimmer switches, preferring shadows.

That afternoon, three girls waited for him. They had changed into white kimonos, traditional and pristine, and knelt in a row facing the door. The smallest one, Chinatsu, trembled slightly, but her expression remained resolute.

Hideyuki's heart pounded as he set down his case. Inside lay his katana, freshly sharpened, and a collection of tanto knives, each polished to mirror brightness. He had prepared for this, studied anatomical charts, practiced his cutting technique on gel dummies until his arms ached. But theory and practice were different things.

"I want to thank you," Chinatsu said, her voice barely above a whisper, "for taking me seriously. My parents think I'm studying advanced kendo forms."

"Many people don't understand," Hideyuki replied, the words feeling practiced, natural. "They see seppuku as an end. But it's a transformation. A moment of perfect truth."

The other girls nodded, their eyes bright with religious fervor.

Hideyuki chose Chinatsu first. She knelt before him, untying her kimono to bare her abdomen. The skin was pale, unmarked, impossibly vulnerable. She held the tanto with steady hands, positioning the blade against her left side.

"Do not hesitate, senpai. I trust you."

The first cut was always the hardest. The blade bit into flesh with a wet, tearing sound that no gel dummy could replicate. Chinatsu gasped, her body arching, blood spilling across her white kimono in a crimson bloom. Hideyuki watched the second cut, the crosswise slice that would complete the wound, then raised his katana.

The arc of the blade caught the dim light. A clean stroke. Chinatsu's head fell forward, her body slumping, and a profound silence filled the room.

The second girl wept as she cut, but did not falter. The third, a fierce-eyed young woman with calloused hands, smiled as the tanto pierced her skin, and Hideyuki found himself smiling back.

By the time he finished, the mats were soaked through. Hideyuki stood among the bodies, breathing hard, his katana dripping. The lab smelled of iron and voided bowels. He should have felt horror. Revulsion.

Instead, he felt alive.

---

Word spread, though not the kind that reached official channels. Female students began approaching Hideyuki in corridors, in the library, at the practice fields. They offered themselves with varying degrees of subtlety: a touch on his arm, a whispered invitation, a note pressed into his palm. Some wanted the cutting. Others wanted simply to be near the one who performed it, as if his presence might confer some special grace.

Hideyuki chose carefully. He preferred those with a certain look in their eyes—the ones who had already decided, who needed only permission to cross the final threshold. He scheduled them in small groups, always in the lab, always after hours.

The first week, three more died. The second week, five.

He learned to be quick, efficient. He learned to read the precise moment when the tanto cut went deep enough, when his katana's stroke would be most merciful. He learned that each death was unique, a fingerprint of flesh and spirit.

And he learned that he wanted more.

---

The academy administration notice arrived on a Tuesday, slipped under his door with official seals. Hideyuki read it three times, his pulse quickening.

*Recent anomalies in student attendance records have been detected. Some students have not returned to their dormitories for extended periods. Additionally, irregular usage of the weapons development facility has been flagged. An investigation has been initiated. Your cooperation is requested.*

Below the text, a time and date: the following morning, 9 AM, in the administrative building.

Hideyuki's first instinct was panic. His second, born from weeks of practiced deception, was calculation.

He accessed the academy's virtual space management system through his research terminal, using the permissions granted for weapons development. The system was designed to track student movements, record lab access, and maintain attendance logs. With a few keystrokes, he began rewriting history.

Chinatsu's last entry: transferred to an external kendo tournament in Kyoto. The fierce girl: family emergency, indefinite leave of absence. The weeping girl: medical withdrawal, signed by a physician whose name Hideyuki forged using a template from the university hospital.

He created classes that had never met, scheduled training sessions that never occurred, logged equipment usage that perfectly matched legitimate research parameters. The bodies he had disposed of in the incinerator, reduced to ash that mingled with the trash from the cafeteria.

By 2 AM, the records were clean.

---

The administrative interview was conducted by a stern-faced woman with graying hair and tired eyes. She asked about the lab usage, about the students listed as his assistants, about the spike in requests for sharpening supplies.

Hideyuki answered calmly. The lab was conducting stress tests on new blade alloys. The students were part of a research cohort studying traditional sword maintenance techniques. The sharpening supplies were necessary for maintaining consistent cutting edges for data collection.

"Your work has been... noticed," the administrator said, studying a holographic display. "The Academy Council is impressed with your progress. Some have suggested accelerating your research timeline."

Hideyuki kept his expression neutral. "I would welcome additional resources."

"I'll note that." She dismissed him with a wave. "Continue your good work, Kandata-kun. The academy supports innovation."

Outside, the cherry blossoms had begun to fall, carpeting the path in pale pink. Hideyuki walked slowly, savoring the cool air, the weight of his secrets.

A first-year girl passed him, bowing deeply. He recognized her from the group that had approached him weeks ago. She looked at him with that same hunger, that same desperate hope.

"Senpai," she whispered, "I heard you're taking new applicants."

Hideyuki smiled.

"Come to the lab tonight," he said. "We have much to discuss."