Monkey was saying, “Have you seen anyone else? What’s going on aboveground?”
“Some are already dead.” Chicken didn’t need to be so blunt about it, but some malicious part of her hoped to smash that woman’s earnest idealism. “I know for a fact that Boar and Dog have been killed. Including Snake, that makes at least three out. That’s a quarter of us already gone.”
Chicken of course didn’t mention that she was the one who had killed Dog. She had washed her hands and cleaned off any telltale blood splatters from her clothes. The sole reason she wore such skimpy clothing was to make the blood easier to wash off.
Chicken asked, “Even with three dead, can your plan still work?”
“It can. But it’s still too soon to reveal the details, I’m afraid.” Then, with real disappointment in her voice, Monkey said, “So two more have died. That’s too bad.” She made no effort to hide the fact that this news came as a surprise; nor did she try to act like it didn’t disturb her. “That means we may see more victims yet. All right, I can’t afford inaction any longer. It’s time to do something … possibly as soon as after we eat. Niwatori, you’ll dine with us, won’t you?”
It was an innocent invitation, delivered as if there was no imaginable reason Chicken would refuse. Chicken only had one moment to decide. To accept or to kill?
She decided.
Five minutes later, Chicken was back aboveground. She had politely declined Monkey’s invitation and bade both her and Rat farewell—though the teenager had remained asleep through the entire exchange, so in truth, she had only really engaged with Monkey.
What the hell is wrong with me? Chicken asked herself. How stupid am I? I could have at least pretended to go along with her. Instead, she had declined not only the meal, but the alliance. Where’s that determined, crafty person I used to be? How she would have played it was obvious: pretend to be their ally, get close to them, and take Cockscomb in hand and skewer that trusting, chatty Monkey and the sleepy boy then and there. It was as if she had been poisoned by Monkey’s pacifism—like those clear, unsuspecting eyes had pierced right through her.
Chicken could still hear Monkey’s voice, disappointed but still friendly, and it ached in her chest.
“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Monkey had said. “If you change your mind, you’re welcome to return anytime. I’ll be here, waiting. Please don’t lose hope.”
It’s probably the fault of that One-Man Army stuff. That potion enhanced my mind along with my body. It made my stupid head smarter. Because I went off and gave myself this boost, I lost who I really am. That’s why I let myself become torn apart by some bogus notion of kindness and sincerity. What a fool I am. What good is this strength if it makes me too uncertain to act?
Whether her analysis was true or not was a mystery that would never find an answer. The theory wasn’t far-fetched. The toxic drug that coursed through her might very well have caused a resurgence in her normally suppressed nervous streak, taking away her usual determined self. But before she had the opportunity to examine her theory in detail, she stumbled across another fighter.
This encounter, as before, would have been avoidable had she been using her birds to keep watch from above.
“Are you alone?” the man asked.
With a little startled jump, Chicken turned to see who it was. Just her luck. Of all twelve fighters, it had to be the most famous. Of all twelve, it had to be the most renowned. Of all twelve, it had to be Ox. When Chicken was with Dog, she had feigned ignorance, but of course, she knew about this man. Any soldier whose feet have touched a battlefield wouldn’t need Eye of the Cormorant to know who he was.
But no one really knows how strong he is—because none have faced the Natural-Born Slayer and lived.
“I don’t suppose you’ll answer me, will you?” Ox was saying. “If there was anyone with you, I’d just like to know is all. Doesn’t really matter to me if there’s more of you or not.”
The saber he casually held, along with his matador garb, were coated red with blood—and enough of it to clearly not be his own. He hadn’t tried to hide it. While Chicken, despite having boosted her abilities to their absolute limits, had wiped herself clean of Dog’s blood and had made every effort to remove any trace she had been in a battle, Ox’s appearance announced without reservation: “I don’t need to hide or change who I am.”
And, Chicken thought, if he has someone else’s blood splattered all over him, that means he’s already been in battle. If the rumors—the legends—were real, whoever that person was, they were surely dead.
Chicken said, “I-I thought you were a pacifist.”
“No, I think that’s just Monkey. Sure, I volunteered to join her, but I was just looking for a team. Once we all got scattered, there was no point. That peace treaty was dead in the water.” Ox seemed to realize something. “Wait, what made you bring her up all of a sudden? Is she nearby?”
He was quick-witted—no enhancement drug needed there. Chicken gasped and raised Cockscomb, pointing its three tips toward him.
“Well, well,” Ox said, “I didn’t figure you for that type. You’re thinking about fighting me to protect Monkey, is that it? ‘If you want to pass, you’ll have to defeat me first,’ eh? I suggest you reconsider. That’s not the kind of motivation that will make you fight well. It’s not right for you. Someone else, maybe. But you’re the kind of person who needs to fight for herself.”
Ox seemed to be stating his thoughts as they came to him, and Chicken found herself in complete agreement. But then she was announcing herself.
“I am Niwatori, the Fighter of the Chicken. I kill by pecks.”
“I am Ushii, the Fighter of the Ox. I just kill.”
It was over in the blink of an eye. Actually, it happened faster than that. In less time than it took an eye to close, Ox’s two saber thrusts pierced through Chicken’s eyes so fast as to be near simultaneous.
Neither Chicken’s enhanced abilities nor her uncharacteristic motivation was of any use in the face of pure strength. She had been the same as dead the moment she had come face to face with Ox.
He’s so incomprehensibly powerful.
She had been defeated by a natural warrior—one who did not need to rely on skill, strategy, deception, bargaining, transformation, enhancement, or most of all, circumstance. A strong will meant nothing in the face of true strength.
So … this is all I could be.
Chicken certainly felt no satisfaction in dying a somewhat noble death. But to die without pain or suffering, by the well-honed edge of an expert swordsman’s blade, might have been the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Thank you for everything, my birds, Chicken thought just before the end. You must be getting hungry again. Come, eat your fill.
Ox vs. Chicken
End of the 3rd Battle