Page 125 of Kotori
Around the perimeter, I count his witnesses. Six men in dark suits, positioned behind machinery but maintaining the proper distance for formal combat. They're armed, I can tell, but keeping weapons concealed out of respect for the challenge.
Or so it appears.
"Kaito-kun," Hiroshi calls, using the diminutive like I'm still a child under his authority. "You came. I wondered if you'd grown too soft, to answer a proper challenge."
I step into the cleared space, hands visible, showing respect for the ancient forms despite the industrial setting. "You called for traditional combat. I'm here to honor that."
His laugh echoes off rusted steel and broken concrete, harsh and bitter. "Honor. Do you even know what that word means anymore? Your father understood honor. Your father knew what it meant to be Japanese, to preserve what our ancestors died to protect."
"My father is dead." I let steel enter my voice, the tone that makes grown yakuza kneel. "I lead this family now."
"Lead?" He gestures to the darkness beyond the factory walls. "You mean corrupt. Pollute. Destroy everything he built with your foreign whore and your mixed-blood children."
The insult to Paige lands exactly where he intended, white-hot rage flooding my veins. But I've been controlling anger longer than most men have been breathing. It becomes fuel instead of distraction.
"Choose your words carefully, old man. Even neutral ground has limits."
"As does my patience." He draws his katana in one fluid motion, steel singing in the night air. "Thirty years I served your father. Thirty years building what you've spent four years destroying. Tonight, I reclaim what was lost."
I draw my grandfather's blade, feeling the perfect balance settle in my grip. "Then let's finish this."
We circle each other in the ancient dance, steel catching moonlight as we test distance and timing. He moves well for his age. Fluid, controlled, each step practiced from decades of training. But his hands shake slightly. Age, or nerves.
He attacks first, a vicious cut aimed at my neck. I parry, feeling the impact jar my arms, then slash back at his ribs. Steel parts expensive silk and finds flesh. He grunts, stumbling back as blood darkens his formal clothes.
"Years," he gasps, pressing his free hand to the wound. "So many damn years I served your father. Built what you inherited."
I don't answer. Just advance, katana ready. This isn't a conversation.
He swings wild, desperate now. I duck under the blade and drive my pommel into his solar plexus. He doubles over, retching, and I bring the katana up in a rising cut that should take his head.
But my foot slips on loose debris and the killing stroke goes wide, only opening a gash across his cheek instead of severing his neck. He stumbles backward, blood streaming down his face.
"Your wife," he spits, wiping blood from his mouth. "You want to know about your wife?"
The words hit like ice water. I freeze for half a second. Just long enough for him to recover his stance.
"What about her?"
"I killed her." He grins through bloody teeth. "My men. My orders."
White-hot rage floods my vision. I charge, abandoning technique for pure fury. Our blades meet in a shower of sparks, the impact sending vibrations up my arms. He's stronger than he looks, desperation lending him power.
"Not supposed to die," he pants between strikes. "Just supposed to talk. Give us leverage over you."
I drive him back with a series of brutal cuts, each one seeking vital organs. He parries desperately, technique crumbling under pressure.
"But she wouldn't break," he continues, backing toward a steel support beam. "Laughed at them. Said she'd die first."
"So you killed her."
"Sotheykilled her." His blade work is getting sloppy, blood loss and exhaustion taking their toll. "Brought me her head to prove they'd done the job."
I see it then. My beautiful wife's final moments. Her courage. Her defiance. The image makes rage snap inside my chest. My next cut opens a deep gash across his sword arm. Blood flows freely, weakening his grip, but he keeps fighting.
He stumbles backward, pressing his free hand to the wound.
"You want to preserve tradition?" I advance for the killing stroke. "Here's tradition for you."
