If shame were a color, I would've been dyed head to toe in it by the time we reached the central hall.
Music echoed through lacquered corridors—flutes and drums threading like silk through scented smoke. We were ushered into a performance chamber lit by dozens of oil lamps. Above us, silk drapes swayed like slow waves. Lord Daizan reclined on a raised dais, his body spilling over the armrests of his ornate chair, flanked by a dozen retainers whose eyes sparkled more from alcohol than loyalty.
Kento leaned toward me, adjusting the plum-colored obi tied around his waist. "This is either going to be the funniest thing we've ever done, or the last."
"If we survive," I whispered, "I'm burning this kimono."
"I'm framing mine."
Souta, as expected, looked unbothered. He had already stepped forward, fan in hand, and delivered the most flawless introductory bow I had ever seen. If anyone here deserved to assassinate Daizan, it was him.
"Gentlemen of the court," Souta said with the grace of a theater actor. "Tonight, we offer beauty, poetry… and the honor of your eyes upon our humble dance."
I almost clapped. Then I remembered I was part of the performance.
The music began again—slow, twining melodies—and we moved.
Badly.
I had no training in dance beyond childhood festival steps, and neither did Kento. He flared his sleeves too wide, kicked a fruit platter off the stage, and pretended like it was part of the act. I tripped on my sleeve once and blamed it on spiritual transcendence. The retainers didn't seem to care. Daizan laughed until he wheezed.
Souta moved like flowing ink, each motion precise and hauntingly still. The rest of us? Less haunting. More haunted.
At one point, Kento struck a pose that clearly wasn't from any oiran school and mouthed to me, "Am I glowing?"
"You're convulsing," I mouthed back.
By the end of it, Daizan was red-faced and pounding the armrest of his chair. "Enough!" he barked, in the tone of a man who'd had too much wine and not enough attention. "You! With the eyes!"
We froze.
He was pointing at me.
My stomach dropped.
"You will join me in my chamber," he slurred. "Now."
We were escorted down a corridor lined with expensive tapestries and fading war banners. My heart pounded louder with every step. Once inside, the guards bowed and closed the doors.
The chamber was vast—lit with golden lanterns, floor padded with silk mats, and a low table set with a fresh meal no one intended to touch. Daizan rose slowly from his seat, his presence massive, his frame wrapped in robes too rich for his behavior.
"You're not bad-looking for a dancer," he said, licking his lips. "Quiet type, hmm? That's fine. I prefer them shy."
I swallowed.
[System Activation: Mission Assigned – ASSASSINATE TARGET: LORD DAIZAN]
[Reward: Kettai Surge +8% | Emotional Sync Impact: High]
[Warning: Opponent Class – High-Grade Martial Kettai User | Strength Index: Unknown]
The window to act was narrowing with every breath, each tick of silence winding tighter around my ribs like a silk noose. The guards were gone. The chamber was ours. My heartbeat was loud enough to drown out thought, but I forced my mind to split the moment clean: I had two options. Stab him now—risk failure, maybe die—or stall. Distract. Bait the hook and hope he was as stupid as his reputation.
I chose the second. Against every instinct screaming otherwise.
I took a slow breath and tilted my chin with what I hoped passed for seductive mystery. My lips curled upward. I tried to soften my gaze the way I'd seen Souta do it—like I held secrets in my eyelashes. In truth, I probably looked like someone who'd eaten a bad plum and didn't want to admit it.
"You honor me, my lord," I murmured, raising my voice just a touch—half a note higher, a little breathier, as if I'd been sighing my way through poetry recitals all evening instead of plotting murder.
Daizan's eyes gleamed, sharp and unblinking like a toad who'd just spotted something to swallow whole. "Oh? You speak now?"
"I do more than speak," I purred, sliding closer to the low dining table. My hand brushed delicately across the lacquered wood, fingers curling toward the cloth where my blade lay tucked beneath a stack of untouched dumplings.
He chuckled, a thick rumbling noise that sounded more like indigestion than desire. "I like that. Come here."
Every step closer made my skin crawl.
"I heard," I said, circling behind him with exaggerated slowness, "that you're not just a general, but a conqueror… A man who wins more than battles."
"Oh?" he said, tone rising with amusement. "Who told you that?"
I leaned in close, lowering my voice to a whisper. "Everyone. Even the lanterns outside seem to flicker differently when your name is mentioned."
He snorted, clearly delighted. "You're smooth. I enjoy smooth."
At this point, I was practically vibrating with anxiety, my fingers brushing over the cloth concealing my weapon. Just one clean pull, one good strike—he wouldn't even know what hit him. He turned ever so slightly in his chair, revealing the side of his neck. There. Exposed. Soft. Arrogant.
I moved.
Blade in hand. Wrist angling.
And then—nothing went according to plan.
His hand snapped up with sudden, terrifying speed. His fingers locked around my wrist like iron shackles, crushing bone and blade alike.
The fake smile fell from my face like glass hitting stone.
His eyes met mine, and the warmth in them evaporated. The drunk haze, the slurred words—gone. What stared back at me now was cold and calculating, the mind of a man who had survived a hundred ambushes and was ready for a hundred more.
"Ah," he said with maddening calm. "You're not a dancer."
"I—"
That was as far as I got before he slammed me into the table.
Hard.
The force knocked the wind out of me and scattered the entire meal. Rice sprayed across the silk floor. Dumplings hit the wall with an undignified splat. A porcelain sake bottle rolled into a corner and shattered. I wheezed, face pressed to the wood, blade spinning out of reach as pain bloomed across my ribs.
Daizan rose from his seat, slower than before, but with all the menace of a storm cloud rolling across a dry plain.
"You know," he said, flexing his fingers as he reached beneath his robe, "I've had many come for my life. Poison. Arrows. Even a woman who tried to kiss me with a hidden needle in her tongue."
He pulled out a curved saber, etched with faint crimson lines that pulsed faintly in the dim light. His Kettai had awakened. The air around him thickened, turned heavier. Each breath I drew felt like it dragged molten iron through my chest.
"But never," he continued, raising the blade, "has someone come for me wearing lipstick and silk slippers."
"I wore them for you," I gasped.
"Flattered," he sneered.
The breath whooshed out of me as I hit the lacquered surface, the food scattering to the floor. Daizan moved like a bear with a blade—power over precision. He reached beneath the folds of his robe and pulled out a short saber crackling faintly with red energy. His Kettai was active. Violent.
"Who sent you?" he snarled, raising the weapon.
I rolled just in time, blade slicing past my shoulder. Sparks flew. I scrambled to my feet, drawing my sword with trembling hands.
[System Sync – Combat Adaptation Mode Enabled]
[Enemy Pattern: Daizan – Heavy Core | Kettai Type: Crimson Bind (Crush/Lock Mechanic)]
Daizan charged. I dodged. Barely.
His sword met mine in a crash that nearly numbed my fingers. I blinked back stars and parried, then ducked under a sweeping arc that would've split me down the middle. He moved fast for a man his size, each swing meant to break—not wound.
"Thought I'd be easy prey, didn't you?" he growled. "I've killed faster blades than yours, boy."
"Yeah?" I hissed. "You've never danced with me."
I slashed low, forcing him back. He laughed, spun, and slammed a fist into my side that sent me crashing into the decorative screens.
I coughed blood.
Outside, I could hear shouts—Kento and Souta, engaging the retainers, holding the line.
Inside, I had seconds.
One breath. One strike.
[Inazuma Nuki Available – Critical State Override Engaged]
I rose.
Lightning pulsed beneath my skin.