Eight-Seven-Eight (Itsuki, Matsunaga, Cameo of Reiji)

His steps echoed out in hallowed, vaunted halls bathed by bright twilight.

Each step echoed a shadow, veiled in dark and red.

His shadows projected into the walls behind him, like the rolls of a film coming undone.

His reflection on the pristine floor, a recollection of a past event.

The shadows told the film.

I know what you have done. That blood won’t unspill itself.

His reflection stared back at him, with blue, determined eyes, the expression of a killer on the run.

A man on a mission.

The shadows continued.

I really liked that man. He won’t be coming back.

His fingertips tapped against the palm of his hand.

Higan’s halls felt empty, nearly haunted, as the lack of students made the scenery ethereal. A crossroads of reality and the fantastical delirium of a diseased mind.

Red, orange clashed against grays and blues.

Where the river meets the sea.

Reality and unreality coexist as one.

I have the means to help in your quest, if you are willing to cooperate. I have seen what you and that woman from the Virtuosos are capable of.”

Itsuki’s mouth felt dry, but his mind was collected. Far sharper, far more precise than it has been.

There is that one Shinai the school will be using as the reward for the champion of the next kendo tournament. I want it; it will fill a nice spot in my collection.

Like the floods breaking through a gate, the sky grew darker.

The light became tendrils amidst the growing dark, tendrils of red and violet that cut through the dark and hazing black of the night, like a myriad of chains that held onto his body as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, steering him.

It told him to what direction he should move, as the light became as red as blood, and those corridors of ethereal haunting became dimmer and, as if the very walls and floors were bleeding.

He truly hated that person.

He could tell he was a manipulative sort, with less than clear intentions and objectives, but… Itsuki could not follow him, deny him now.

Of everyone, out of everyone, he was the one with the most power, the reach to help him in his quest. He also knew how to play Itsuki.

That bottoms to press to make him agree to this quest.

As much as it hurt him, alongside Sumi’s methods, were his best shot at achieving what he desperately wanted.

He stopped making any sound, as if he had become a ghost.

Itsuki remembered where they used to store the paraphernalia, relics, and useful trinkets to reward students when they won something.

His time in the council was not wasted; his memories remained the same, of those bright, hopeful days.

Even without Reiji’s guidance, the data for this mission, Itsuki would’ve remembered where they stored that kind of stuff.

He also knew there would be guards. Probably the Kendo Club, or some other martial arts club.

They were there because people tried to steal the blessed bokkens and cursed shinais in the past. Some won, some lost.

The reward for victory was the prized item. The reward for failure was detention, sometimes even expulsion.

If you managed to beat the guards and escape, you had proven yourself worthy of the item.

Itsuki would not fail. He had no room for failure now.

He came with his own Shinai for this mission.

It did not take long for him to see the guards. In any other situation, his heart would be racing. Blood would be pumping hot in his system.

Now, it was cold. Beyond cold, it was freezing inside his veins. His eyes unblinking, expression motionless. There was nothing behind his gaze.

It was as if his blood had become stagnant and rotten inside him; it may have been rotten since the instant she died, for all he knew.

He sighed, cold steam left his mouth, as he readied his own Shinai. They were in six. One without anything at all. One with an elite uniform, three with kendo-gear, and one with… a strangely tokusatsu-esque suit.

It didn’t matter. Six strokes would be needed to defeat them all.

Like a possessed shadow, he pounced on them. They had no time to react to him. The first was met with a blow to his solar plexus. He felt unconscious immediately.

The other five noticed Itsuki that instant, but it was too late. The second readied his own shinai and advanced against Itsuki. He wore an elite uniform of Higan.

So, Itsuki headbutted him with everything he had. A loud “tac” echoed in the corridor as the guy fell on the ground, knocked out.

The other four didn’t wait to come one by one against Itsuki. They all advanced at once.

One hit Itsuki on the head with a bokken. The other did the same move. Itsuki started with a blow to the solar plexus.

The third attacked Itsuki’s weapon hand, and the fourth his shoulder.

A normal person would’ve flinched or dropped the Shinai.

Itsuki was not normal.

He grabbed the shinai of the one who hit him on the solar plexus and pulled him forward. He wore full-on kendo gear.

Itsuki smashed his head against his mask, and broke it, and downed the student, as small fillets of blood ran past Itsuki’s forehead.

Without wasting any time, Itsuki changed his target to the bokken on his head and pulled it, and its wielder forward. He heard a gasp from that person.

She was a girl. Quite younger than him. She was with kendo gear on, so it would be hard to know she was that young and a girl from the get-go.

Itsuki would be nice to her.

He changed his grip on his shinai and hit her in the belly with its handle. He didn’t put all of himself in the head, just enough to make her gasp louder, and grab her belly in pain, just enough to put her out of the fight.

The ones who hit him in the hand and shoulder retreated and readied themselves. One with kendo gear, and another with a DIY Tokusatsu costume.

Involuntarily, Itsuki smiled.

He didn’t want to smile, nor did he feel any joy in what he was doing, but to smile in pain, in battle, in hurt, in numbness, in crushing despair, has become automatic, even when he didn’t mean to.

It was an empty smile.

He hoped they realized that.

His last two adversaries nodded to themselves and advanced against Itsuki together.

They unleashed a flurry of attacks together, in synch with each other. Itsuki blocked the hits with his Shinai and used his other hand to block and parry the attacks his Shinai couldn’t parry, much to the shock of his foes.

He continued to parry and not move at all, tanking the blows he couldn’t deflect or protect, as his foes exhausted themselves.

They were exasperated, scared, and baffled at how Itsuki didn’t flinch, like a zombie. As if the hits he was enduring were nothing in the end. They were getting desperate at trying to make Itsuki stop, admit defeat.

Itsuki could’ve easily gone on the offensive and taken on both of them, but he didn’t want to hurt them; they were just doing their job. He was the wrong one here; he had to minimize the damage.

Until Itsuki noticed a gap.

He reacted immediately to it, his Shinai thrust against the last kendo-gear-wearing foe, like a bullet going off.

He broke through his foe’s weapon, and drove his shian right into his chest, and threw the guy on the ground with a loud thud. His foe immediately went unconscious.

As the last foe remained, Itsuki held on to his shinai with two hands and finally took the offensive. His weapon clashed against his enemy’s, with loud echoes.

With thrust, his enemy parried.

He tried to slash Itsuki, but Itsuki blocked.

Itsuki did an overhead slash, but his enemy dodged.

They attacked at the same time and clashed.

This dance continued for a few moments, their powerful hits like thunder in the hallway. At first, one would think they were evenly matched. But Itsuki got faster, and faster.

One attack became two, and then three, and four. Soon, his enemy was pushed on the defensive.

What should’ve been six strokes became twenty-five.

At the thirty-stroke, Itsuki noticed a gap and moved. He moved past his foe’s weapon and slid past his effective range.

In a single motion, he attacked three times. Three moves landed.

Thirty-three strokes.

And the fight ended.

The last guardian of the Cursed Shinai fell on the ground, unconscious.

Itsuki moved in to spoil the reward.

“That was a nice performance you put there. But sadly, I’m all too aware of those curmudgeons who would try to steal the Shinai. I won’t allow it to happen. Sorry.”

For the first time in a long time, Itsuki was taken by surprise.

His body moved in an automatic knee-jerk reaction, his shinai moved like it was possessed, with the intent to draw blood.

It was far faster and stronger than the strength he intended to use.

Yet, it was parried.

This time, the echo, the impact, was so strong that even the ground beneath their feet trembled.

Something in Itsuki told him this was not a fight he could slack off. His muscles tensed, his pupil shrank, and he focused.

They moved at the same time, and another clash occurred.

They both held their weapons with both hands.

And pushed.

Itsuki’s foe had greater strength; he could feel it through the bokken against his shinai, but Itsuki was unmovable, his feet solid like a mountain.

Every time they pressed against each other, it felt like a rift would open right where their weapons collided.

Itsuki ’suki’s mind already worked on a myriad of scenarios, ways to break past his foe’s strength and weapon.

Meanwhile, as he stared into that man’s eyes, he saw nothing short of absolute certainty and physical prowess, indomitable like a lion, as resilient as a wolverine.

“You are not half-bad yourself. My name is Matsunaga Kei.” The man spoke lightly as Itsuki pushed his foot forward alongside his body, shifting his body’s momentum and mass. Matsunaga stepped back, placing space between himself and Itsuki.

Itsuki hated it, but it would be disrespectful not to tell his name. “Itsuki, no Surname that would be proud of having my first name,” Itsuki spoke clearly, not wanting to repeat himself.

For a moment, Matsunaga’s expression darkened, but it shifted to laser focus again. “I see. I cannot let you steal this shinai.”

“You won’t stop me.”

A quick exchange, before they began to trade hits again.

Matsunaga was smooth as the rain, and suave as the brushstroke of a calligraphy master, each move of his full of purpose and intent, refined and regal.

Itsuki was violent, like the contents of a cup about to overflow, a bucket of pain in the middle of an earthquake, as the waves broke against the cliff.

Brutality and skill clashed, just like their weapons.

Itsuki moved and slithered like a beast, his moves frenetic and explosive, his weapon echoed the loudest, but it did not have the most raw strength in it.

Matsunaga moved like a peacock, a phaisant in full glory, his blows practiced to near perfection, and with the power of discipline behind them.

Two opposites clashed.

Through their weapons, intent was transmitted, and a conversation was had.

Matsunaga felt the pain, the hurt, the sadness, and despair in Itsuki’s shinai, like a storm that never stopped raining ever since it began, and turned into a typhoon because of it.

As Itsuki felt how calm his foe was, despite facing each other.

They traded blows, without ever reaching a point where they could hit each other.

The fight was a waiting game until one found a gap to exploit.

Something in Itsuki started to burn again.

A sensation he thought he had buried and killed long ago.

Excitement. Bloodlust.

True, not the simulacra he had nurtured those days. His body, his mind, acted on their own in the face of this challenge.

He had a true enemy before him again.

Instinctively, he left his guard open to exploit.

A gap that Matsuraga took gladly, his bokken hit Itsuki on the chest, and Itsuki answered with a hit to Matsuraga’s belly, which sent his fellow swordsmaster a few steps back.

A sharp gasp exited his mouth as he held his belly. Itsuki smiled, but this time it was genuine. He shouldn’t be this excited, but for some reason, he was.

“Tsc,” Matsunaga whined and took the pace of the battle up a notch.

What was a slow dance became a lively one. Their blows were more frenetic and more frequent. This time, both of them were aiming for all the gaps they could find.

They moved back and forth through the hallway.

Their colors bleeded into the dying twilight.

Itsuki’s blues and purples.

Matsunaga’s red and oranges.

Contrary but similar.

One like a torrential flood.

The other was a ground-shattering earthquake.

Their blows started to land on each other.

Itsuki became faster and stronger the more he endured, as if the hits didn’t matter at all.

Matsunaga kept the offensive despite the hits he took to his body, his boundless energy and stamina unaffected by the crushing endurance of his foe.

One thing became clear as the combat progressed and twilight died into the night: Itsuki could not be moved. Whatever hurt, whatever wound he had, kept him going despite the damage.

Like an undead.

It gave Matsunaga flashbacks, rewinds of how he used to be.

He tightened his grip on his bokken and pressed the offensive even more, with greater power and strength. “You are making a mistake, my friend. You are so full of strength, skill. You could use it for more than stealing a shinai.”

Matsunaga spoke calmly. As they entered a “blade lock” with each other, they locked each other’s weapons, and struggled to get out or find a suitable gap to exploit or put up distance.

“I have something I need to do. Something I can’t run away from or deny. I need this shinai for that.” Itsuki spoke through his teeth.

His vacant blue eyes were full of violent focus, like a beast unleashed, as Matsunaga’s black eyes sharpened like an obsidian blade.

Two warriors at their peak. “You are not half bad, although. What about a compromise? If I win, I get the Shinai, and you get to join a gang. They will have great use for you, your skills. They are good people, and they need good people on their side.”

Itsuki spoke.

Matsunaga reminded him of Momo, for some reason.

He could see that guy in the Fujiwara-Senki. It would be good for the gang to have someone a skillful as him. Matsunaga gritted his teeth.

“If I win, you will take the punishment the Council gives you… And before I accept it, tell me one thing:” Matsunaga wound up to talk.

“What hurts you so much? I can feel it through you, this emptiness. This misery. I can feel your violence. Why?”

For a moment. Itsuki saw nothing, just the void inside his own heart.

His body moved like it was possessed by a demon of hatred. He immediately broke the blade lock and raised his shinai for an overhead slash.

Matsunaga moved up with a full-body thrust with his bokken.

Both hit each other and were sent back. Matsunaga was thrown to the ground, while Itsuki stumbled on his feet, but didn’t fall.

But the fight was not over.

Matsunaga got up and advanced.

Itsuki rushed him,

They continued to hit each other with their weapons, their uniforms battered, dusted, but their fighting spirit unmoved.

Itsuki became even faster and stronger, as Matsunaga started to feel the weight of the damage already, but his relentless determination kept him going.

He felt in Itsuki that grief that festered into hatred, and hatred that turned into despair. And the soul that turned said despair into strength.

Yet, Matsunaga felt something was wrong.

He moved to attack Itsuki one last time, and they both would execute a last exchange.

But Itsuki moved past him.

His attack clashed against the door to the shinai room and busted it open.

Itsuki scowled.

He was foaming at his mouth.

Matsunaga saw the hatred and pain he invoked in the man, so why didn’t he press the attack and continue their fight?

“It is a draw, for now. As I said, I have something important, and I need this shinai.” Itsuki quickly stole the Shinai and opened the window.

And dramatically jumped out of it with reckless abandon in a cinematic display.

It would’ve been cool, if not for the fact that they were on the ground floor, and that Matsunaga could see him getting up and frantically running like a madman with two shinais.

Matsunaga face-palmed and laughed.

Pain finally reached his pain, alongside tiredness and muscle cramps.

He fell on the ground, laughing.

“What a figure.” A figure full of pain, but entertaining, and strong.

Maybe he should look more into that guy.

He looked troubled and in need of help.

Maybe see what that “gang” of “good people” was all about.

But that was for later.

For now, he was on the ground, biting down, pained whines due to muscle cramps, and jumping into such an intense fight without a warm-up. “Staying late for club activities was not that bad after all…”

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Pub: 09 Sep 2025 17:39 UTC

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