(Inside the light screen, time seemed frozen. The razor-sharp blade hovered inches from Yukinoshita Ayano's neck; she could feel the metallic chill. Eyes shut, she waited for the final verdict—would it be the pain of death, or something even worse?
Yet the expected cut never came.
Kuchiba Hiro's arm hung motionless in mid-air. Beneath his visor, his eyes flickered wildly. Ayano's sophistry—elevating hatred until it pointed at all humanity—was a chaotic whirlpool trying to drag him into madness.
That vortex came from his upbringing, from his schooling, from the universal values quietly instilled by society.
They stood for "good," for "virtue," for every positive ideal, straining to cover up every evil that happened.
"Kill her—then what? Kill everyone?"
"She's only one person, a mother… maybe even a woman who didn't fully know, or couldn't resist her husband's deeds?"
These thoughts surfaced unbidden, filling him with irritation and self-loathing.
The instant he sensed his own weakness, he snapped back, appalled that the victim in him was automatically hunting for "innocent" excuses for someone on the offender's side.
"Hah… still too 'kind'," he mocked himself. This kindness wasn't nobility —just a reflex drilled in by modern schooling and universal ethics.
That system coddled people so well that many forgot the world's true, brutal colors: the strong devour the weak. It bred docile sheep, not wolves that could survive.
Past crises had forced his father to teach what books never would —how to spot the trap at once and break free of its invisible snare.
"Thought is a dangerous weapon; never let it aim at yourself," his father had said.
He still believed kindness existed —but his kindness absolutely excluded this woman before him, this foe who tried to twist his will with sophistry.
Clang—
The blade retracted into the wrist armor.
Just as Ayano's eyes fluttered open, a flicker of triumph crossing her face—
Smack!
A heavy, ringing slap crashed across her cheek.
Kuchiba Hiro had held back most of his strength; otherwise, her head would have burst like a melon. Even so, the blow flung her to the floor. Her coiffure flew apart, a scarlet palm print bloomed on her pale skin, and pain blazed through her skull, bells ringing in her ears.
She lay prone, unable to rise; her poise and provocation shattered, leaving only disgrace and raw hurt.
As he stood over her, Kuchiba Hiro's voice remained flat behind his visor, as though the violent act had nothing to do with him. In a matter-of-fact tone, he "praised" her:
"Not bad at crooked tricks."
He stepped forward; the wooden floor thudded underfoot like a drumbeat in Ayano's chest.
"Now hear mine."
His voice, low and cold, cut through the fog of lies with hard, real-world logic:
"People are the masters of everything. Any truth, any concept, must bow to humanity."
"Capital has no will of its own; people must steer it. People give capital intent and direction, not the other way round."
"Machines don't run themselves; people design and drive them. People give machines intelligence and purpose, not vice versa."
"Markets aren't objective gods outside us; they are made and moved by concrete people —producers and consumers. Our activity constitutes the market; the market doesn't create us. We are the core of the economy. Without people, the economy cannot function and is meaningless."
His gaze seemed to pierce through the helm, through Ayano lying on the floor, straight at the essence hidden behind every social structure.
"No matter how splendid or terrifying the mask —whether it's an ideology, a set of values, a nation, or any other abstract concept—behind it stand concrete individuals."
His voice turned sharp, thick with long-suppressed loathing for hypocrisy and evasion.
"It's the unchecked greed in you! The endlessly swelling selfishness! The empathy lost to cold indifference! The arrogance that lets you stop at nothing to serve your own interests!"
"Precisely these concrete human vices manipulate capital, write the rules, drive the machinery of state… and plunge people into agony and distortion!"
"And you—" He focused again on Ayano struggling to rise. "—would use hollow abstractions to excuse your husband, to excuse the crimes your class has committed, trying to dissolve individual guilt in the ocean of all humanity?"
"Absurd."
That final verdict shattered the maze of sophistry Ayano had crafted. He drove the spear of responsibility back—precisely, ruthlessly—at every concrete person who had taken part and profited.
Revenge remained concrete; his aim had never shifted.
Yukinoshita Ayano lay prone. After several seconds, she propped her upper body on trembling arms. With the sleeve of her kimono, she dabbed away a thread of blood at the corner of her mouth, the gesture still carrying a broken grace. She showed no rage or wail; instead, she shook her head and let out two soft, complicated laughs, half self-mockery and… something like acknowledgement?
"Seems… I underestimated you."
She lifted her gaze to the cold black armor, the earlier frenzy and provocation gone, replaced by appraisal and a fresh calculation.
"When I saw you release those two—" she meant Emiya Shirou and Artoria "—I wondered if you'd swallow universal values, maybe even guide you toward a 'grander' path." She paused, her voice tinged with rare, almost sincere admiration. "A youngster like you, so clear-minded… refreshing. You didn't let your books rot your brain."
She even sighed softly, the sound carrying both resignation at her own plight and a complex verdict on the young enemy before her: "If only my youngest daughter were half as sharp and awake as you."
The words, so different from her earlier sophistry and taunts, seemed to strip away a layer of disguise and let real emotion seep through.
Having said it, she drew a deep breath, braced against the floor, and with difficulty yet utmost gravity adjusted her posture. She no longer tried to stand; instead, she knelt formally, then bowed low—
A perfect, even humbling dogeza.
Her forehead pressed the cold floor, hands properly beside her head, her voice stripped of allurement and mockery, holding only a mother's purest, most humble plea:
"Do as you wish… kill me, torment me, vent your rage —anything."
"Whatever compensation you demand —wealth, estates, even information my husband commands that might interest you —name it, so long as the Yukinoshita Family can provide."
"But…"
A tremor crept into her voice, fear and supplication rising from her soul: "I beg you… I implore you… do not harm my children."
"They… know nothing. They are innocent."
In that instant, she was no longer the grandiose figure twisting hatred with grand narratives, no longer the detached analyst of systems —only a mother before absolute power, trading everything she possessed, dignity and life included, for one slim chance her children might live.
In the parlor, only her stifled breathing remained, and a silence heavy as iron, waiting for Kuchiba Hiro's answer.)
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