Real Name: Yoshimi SŌMA
Born: September 9
Height: 230 cm
Weight: 150 kg
In his teens, Yoshimi was tall but slender, but after experiencing a decisive defeat in battle, he took up bodybuilding. He augmented his physical training by unhesitatingly reaching out for drugs to alter his body chemistry. The result is the most physically massive man in the history of the Sōma clan.
He is known as a man of few words, and only his closest associates have heard him speak, aside from when he announces his name before battle. (As a fact of little relevance to this document, he has a very nice voice.)
In battle, he fights with a stoicism befitting his quiet nature. It goes without saying that the attacks launched by those powerful muscles are extraordinary, but most notable is his defense. He has a special ability he calls “Stirrup,” which can increase the toughness of his body beyond normal human limits.
Incidentally, he intended to name this ability the rather unremarkable “Armor,” but he made a mistake when writing the kanji. Luckily, it still fits him rather well.
The Zodiac War, held once every twelve years—now that only half the participants remain, allow me to reveal what I can of the inner workings of the Zodiac Wars.
As I’m sure you’ve guessed, the chosen warriors do not stake their lives and souls in a bloody contest of ability, talent, skill, and sometimes luck simply to determine which among them is the strongest. For one thing, the Zodiac War militates against good sportsmanship, but its hidden workings are perhaps even uglier and more unsavory than its gory surface.
There is a reason these fighters, who normally do battle in war zones across the world, are assembled to compete in the same place.
When the organizers of this Zodiac War sacrificed an entire city to serve as the battle’s stage, the measure wasn’t some atypical extravagance or splurge. For one past Zodiac War, they destroyed an entire mountain range; for the ninth—the largest-scale event so far—they utilized a space station. Not only do the organizers go to great expense to prepare the battlegrounds, the prize—the granting of any single wish—could, depending on the wish, be of astronomical cost.
The organizers go to such extreme lengths to hold these Zodiac Wars, at the not so infrequent timing of once every twelve years, because it serves as a war via proxy.
The Zodiac War is held at a great cost of wealth, lives, and land, but only fought by twelve chosen warriors. The imbalance is, on its face, absurd. But the twelve fighters don’t fight as representatives of any particular nation; in fact, nations are nothing more than gambling chips in the hands of the ultra-elite.
A few individuals, wielding far more power than any country, compete for nations in a fair and controlled manner—for example, a Chicken win could be worth two countries; a Monkey win with Ox in second could be worth three. Depending on the results of the Zodiac War, nations can change owners, be created or destroyed, or merge or gain independence. The world map is redrawn.
Of course, the twelve fighters know nothing of this arrangement. Each puts their life on the line for their own reasons.
The betting takes place once six warriors remain, as they’ve now had sufficient time to display their strengths. For the Twelfth Zodiac War, the survivors’ odds have been ranked as follows:
1) Ox
2) Rabbit
3) Tiger
4) Horse
5) Dragon
6) Rat
Having shown astounding ability in his fight against Chicken, Ox has secured his place in the lead as many had expected of him, but Rabbit’s position in second comes as something of an upset. This is undoubtedly due to his powers as a necromanticist. Depending on how effectively he puts his two corpse followers to use, he has a solid chance at victory. Both he and Ox are far ahead of the pack.
As for the rest, Tiger, in third, also came into the contest with no expectations, but her defeat of the veteran among veterans was the likely cause for reconsideration. Dragon ranks low not because of anything he has done, but because he has lost his brother and partner. And Rat—on the one hand, he’s seen as too young, and on the other, he’s shown no interest in the fighting. Neither Dragon nor Rat has performed any noteworthy actions in the contest thus far, but Dragon likely places the higher of the two because at least something is known of his ability. The same can’t be said for Rat.
But what I want to focus on is not them, but the fighter in fourth place, which is not a good ranking, but also certainly not bad—neither a sure bet nor a long shot, but a bet with average odds. I’m talking about Uuma, the Fighter of the Horse.
In a survey conducted before this Zodiac War, the elite betters ranked Horse near the very top of the competitors. In a battle royale, where survival means victory, his impenetrable defense—equated by some to the aegis shield of lore—should be a considerable advantage.
Why then, at the halfway point, has he failed to follow through on expectations? The answer comes next in the story—but before you read on, perhaps you would like to consider the official odds and try to predict who will win. If you have any countries to wager, the ultra-elite will call all bets.
Before Chicken was defeated by Ox, and her body was given a Sky Burial, she saw the matador’s bloody saber and assumed that he had killed at least one other fighter, but that conclusion was a hasty one. Chicken could hardly be faulted for believing the rumors that surrounded the Natural-Born Slayer—indeed, up until that day, none had ever faced Ox in combat and survived—but his perfect killing streak had been broken just shortly before she met her death at his hands. Against his previous opponent, his saber had wounded its intended target, but he hadn’t been able to make the kill.
Even though a single thrust of his blade had always been more than enough to kill, Ox took the precaution to stab Chicken in both her eyes due to the experience he’d just had. If the encounter had been enough to rattle the Natural, it would have stricken terror into the heart of an average person.
That being the case, this enemy who faced Ox and lived should have been proud at breaking the Natural’s perfect record. But that wasn’t the kind of person Horse was.
Horse was Horse. Now, for the first time, he had been wounded—both in body and in spirit. Anywhere and anyone he fought, he had never—literally never—received a single scratch, but now his armorlike body, the product of the technique he called Stirrup, was covered all over with saber wounds.
None had been fatal, and most were mere scrapes. None had penetrated to his bones or internal organs, and few even reached his muscles—but wounds were wounds. A good number of them even looked like they would leave scars. The thought of it left his well-earned pride as shredded as his skin.