Tres' expression hadn't changed in spite of the sword pressing into his neck from the side. "That's a negative, Sword Dancer," he muttered softly, ignoring the raindrops bouncing off the sword, wetting his cheek. "You're the one who fell into the trap — Begin Operation Attachment."
All of a sudden, Hugue's body, which had been wrapped around Tres, flew up into the air. The ferocious blow felt as though an invisible fist had hit him in the abdominal cavity and forcefully threw his body backward, causing it to bend into a V shape. As he plummeted to the ground, a giant splash formed around the area in which he landed, "Gahhh!" A gasping scream escaped from the swordsman's mouth as he convulsed helplessly. Because his respiratory system had been paralyzed, his breathing was rough and sounded as though he were breathing using only his throat.
"Clear—confirmed that the enemy Sword Dancer is down," said Tres, watching as the smoke rising from Hugue's body formed quivering white lines in the rain. Metal rods protruded from Tres' twisted left wrist. As he reeled the high-voltage stun gun with an instantaneous electrical discharge of three hundred thousand volts back inside his wrist, Tres looked apathetically at Hugue. After confirming that Sword Dancer hadn't died from the shock, Tres approached at a slow but dauntless pace.
Before he reached Hugue, Tres' body suddenly started flying from side to side. No sooner had the tactical computer confirmed that Tres had been hit in the left side of his chest by a large-caliber bullet than the second volley fired directly into his stomach. His short body, which took a direct hit in the abdominal cavity, doubled over as though it were modeled on Hugue's figure a few moments earlier, rolling into a nearby muddy ditch.
"Did you bring him down?" asked a voice.
"Probably, but who in the world are they? Were they really human?" inquired another voice.
Under the lights that shone upon a group standing in the darkness, voices engaged in intense discussion overlapped with the sound of raindrops. As the policemen spoke to one another, they ran up toward the scene where the duel-to-the-death had unfolded only seconds earlier.
"Who are they, inspector? Are they really terrorists?" asked the mobile military police commander carrying an antimateriel rifle on his shoulder; he was a member of special forces that specialized in riot and felony criminal suppression. Peering down suspiciously at the blond man who kept twitching, the police commander compared the figure with the photograph on the notice in his hand. "Hugue de Watteau—it's him. I'm positive this man used to be the oldest son of the Watteau family. Why would a man like that...?"
"I don't know—but it would be best if you didn't look into it," replied the commanding officer, cutting his subordinate's questions short. The commanding officer glanced in the direction of the airship, proceeding to put handcuffs on the swordsman's wrists. "How's that one? Is he dead?" he yelled angrily at his subordinates who ran in the direction of the gutter.
"Urn, that's . . . Sorry, but could you come over here for a minute, inspector?" asked the mobile military police officer gloomily as he stared down into the ditch, hefting the machine pistol to his hip.
"What's wrong? Something abnormal?" asked the shady inspector, who wore a cold expression.
"Yeah," answered the policeman.
The team members all pointed their superior officer toward the gutter. What had fallen into the ditch were black rags that seemed to be scraps of clothing, several cartridges that were still smoking, and . . .
"What does this mean?" asked the inspector. Wearing the same awestruck expression that his subordinates wore, the inspector knelt closer to the ditch. There was no sign of a man anywhere near it.