Why Are You So Afraid?

The irritation of the open wound cut upon Xiomazu’s palm made the experience irritatingly frustrating, given that the chamber was supposed to relax him. Akuma spoke of being able to sleep within the blink of an eye, and yet that seemed far from possible as he could only focus on the stinging amplified by the salty waters he floated in.

Still he would make the effort. With no one to talk to, nothing to look at, or anything to listen to, Xiomazu would sleep eventually.

“Xiomazu,” he said to himself, “that’s my name now, and yet it feels…silly? I doubt the name is what will really make the difference, but the training I get out of this is what will change me for the better.”

“Really I shouldn’t find it silly, or anything else.”

The events from earlier replayed, positioning Xiomazu directly above Saeko’s corpse. The kunai flung into it with a sickening stick, and forced her final breaths to replay again. Over and over and over…

What sadness he had was replaced with frustration.

“Goodbye to dreams. You forfeit them to the next in line, your future heir, and they shall carry all yours. Sleep shall become but an afterthought, gone within the blink of an eye.”

“What cryptic meaning Akuma spoke then is what I’m afraid of. When I spoke with her during their confrontation at Daydream, little did I know fate had already chosen me as her heir. Her dreams were mine then, as I saw what she saw in the days gone by. For how long have I been chosen…” Xiomazu questioned out loud once more.

“Does that mean my heir has been chosen?”

A smirk coated his face quickly, as he held back laughter that eventually escaped.

“I’m naked in a tub of salt water and I’m already thinking of my future heir!” he laughed.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------

Just as midnight struck, a small underground fight club was underway in Chūbu. An impromptu event thrown together by an anonymous donor, guaranteeing a generous 100,000,000 yen on the winner of the event. The rules? Two opponents fought using their bodies, and you only won if your opponent admitted defeat. Rather simple for such a large prize pool for little risk.

However, these types of unlicensed fights were outlawed throughout the entirety of Japan due to the attention gained from Junkies.

This would explain the small venue of only 150 people to attract little attention.

Built underground in an old subway tunnel, the main centerpiece was the arena surrounded by its 8 chain link walls. Inside, the competitors were held inside transparent pods, as there was no referee to signal the start.

Outside were a variety of cushioned seats, each offering blood infusions intended to fill you with adrenalin at a moment’s notice. Throughout the venue were also pipes that occasionally produced steam, and there was even a jazz band.

Each member of the instrumental group had shades and an assortment of augmented features, while the woman up front wore a red beret that matched her red dress.

With a venue of just 150 people, the capacity was small, but still loud with energy.

In the center of the arena both members were ready to fight. Since there was no referee, it was up to the fighters to decide.

Aito Makanawa. Age 37. Tall, skinny, and bald. He taught math in school, and looked totally out of place, but Junkies were a different breed. Many Junkies were known to have several of their internal organs replaced with manufactured ones instead, allowing tuning and customization to one’s liking, such as with a prized car.

Before accepting the fight, he’d actually been sleeping and was woken up by a call that informed him about the match, as he was a part of a calling list. This kind of money was what he needed to finally change his life.

In his dream that night, Aito saw his favorite boxer, Tuff Buff, brawling with a kid much younger in a ring, whose name was Kazue as he’d heard shouted. He figured that was the sign to take a chance.

Aito would be fighting with sharpened nails, reinforced with titanium, and proposed to leave a cut every time he touched flesh.

Standing across from him stood Don Truffles.

An American man at just the age of 23, Don Truffles was a gifted wrestling star that failed to win the state championship that his school had won every year for the past 15 years. Don lost in just 10s.

As a result of this, his coach had no choice but to kick him off the team, and blackmailed his scholarships by spreading false lies.

Within just a year, Don Truffles was living in his car on the streets.

Having heard about the shifty fight clubs in Japan, he quickly joined and made a name for himself, but not without help from a Junkie product that allowed him to properly exhibit his rage into power.

Insomigone, when consumed in multiple doses rapidly, would cause the user’s eyes to stay opened without the need to blink, though they would look extra veiny in the process.

Don anxiously shuffled back and forward in his pod, awaiting the signal to attack.

A buzzer sounded with each light the room flashed, from red to yellow then green. The pods lifted, and each competitor sprung at the other.

Unable to even scratch the former star, Aito was demolished with ease.

Flung against the fence, his face was grated against the chains like cheese, then was forced into a submission maneuver known as the abdominal stretch.

Aito’s arms were completely restrained, preventing him from any attempt to release himself from the hold as Don wrenched harder on the squeezing grasp.

Don slammed his leg over the top of Aito’s neck, tightening the hold even further as his body was contorted in several ways with pressure. At any moment Aito would tap out to avoid potential damage.

But he was a Junkie prepared for this scenario.

In an instant, Aito’s entire body seemingly lost all structural integrity, as if each muscle in his body had just been removed entirely. All his ligaments dangled in Don’s grasp, causing Don to drop him entirely with a look of disgust. Aito’s body fell without a sound, and curled up like silly string.

Don shrugged.

“Man just wasn’t ready for my big comeback,” Don smiled, flexing his biceps.

Just then, Aito sprung back to life and retained his normal form. His entire right hand now was in the shape of one singular fingernail, titanium and all. He took a free swipe at Don’s leg and cleaved it completely off, bone included.

“FFFFFF-” was all Don could say within the sudden shock while he went down to hold his leg.

Aito would have continued, but Don had given up by signaling with a wave.

Aito held his arms up with glee, to the appeal of nobody in the crowd, except one.

Over the noise of Don’s agonizing groans, there was one slow clap.

The figure stood up high above the rest of those present.

“What was that? A snake playing dead? HAHAHA!” Tsunami laughed, and stepped towards the arena. The doors opened, allowing him inside.

“Mr Tsunami!” Aito said surprised, dropping to his knees. “Had I known you were here, I wouldn’t have done something so cowardly!” He said this with his face to the ground.

“AH, don’t lie! Victory is all that mattered, right? Stand, champion!” Tsunami smiled above him.

Aito did as told.

In Tsunami’s hands was a microchip worth the prize money when exchanged at the nearest bank.

He tossed it backwards, allowing it to land directly atop Don.

Aito eyed the microchip, but made no move.

“Go on! Kill him, and you earn it!” Tsunami motivated him.

Aito had never killed anyone, or wished anyone harm, even if he was a Junkie. He fought in these competitions to release his anger from long stressful days, and meaningless living without goals in life.

And now was finally his chance to achieve everything he wanted with enough money to kill for.

Aito ran towards it wildly like a hungry dog.

The emerging smile on his face slowly faded as blood had begun to drip down his forehead.

Ahead of him a giant blade had emerged, impaling both Don and himself.

Several of the viewers in attendance entered the ring to dispose of Don and Aito, leaving just Tsunami alone. The rest of the audience had dispersed along with them.

“That was rather…dull, wouldn’t you agree?” Tsunami said to the company of noone.

“You got your blood heir, didn’t you?” a voice claimed, as one lone cloaked figure joined Tsunami, standing behind him. “With far less trouble than your spectacle presented.”

“It’s no fun claiming when there’s hardly any emotion to season that blood!” Tsunami complained as he turned around. “You took my crowd, not once, but twice! These fake congregations provide little energy, and so I will need another heir very soon!”

“I’ve saved your reputation twice now as well. The world doesn’t see things the same way you do, lest you forget that, Daimyo.” The cloaked man crossed his arms.

“BAH! I care little about warnings they might utter,” Tsunami said as he lowered himself to the cloaked man’s height. “That includes you, Shinobi,” he said as he pressed a finger against Shinobi’s chest, twisting it.

“And yet here you are,” Shinobi said, unphased.

“Here I am!” Tsunami smiled widely.

“It appears our mutual interests are important enough to bind our cooperation still. I’m glad. Still, I’m wise enough to understand your growing impatience. You must kill to live, and so must I, but the future I seek is still ever present. A world in which-”

“BLAH BLAH BLAH! My blood shall run dry soon, so it's best you arrange a new fight for me. Make it juicier next time!”

Tsunami stomped, placing a hole in the arena floor.

“This place is a dump!”

“Consider it acknowledged…” Shinobi said softly.

“Better yet, just let me fight Akuma next time!” Tsunami smiled. “Even if it was your excuse of a crowd, I believe that would have complimented her blood!”

A puff of steam blew through a pipe, creating a high pressurized sound.

“We leave the girl alone…” Shinobi nearly whispered.

“WHY? Kitsune has been missing for years, Donburi’s days are numbered, and Chugoko’s Daimyo, is that even the right word for someone with such worthless power? HAHAHA! We could take over the rest of Japan tonight!” Tsunami shouted.

The audience had returned on that note, crowding around the arena, each expressionless. They gripped the sides of the chain link walls, locking their fingers between the holes, and shaking the walls together, creating a ruckus.

“As far as Japan is concerned, Tsunami, I already own it. And as for Akuma, well, let's just say I have big plans for her, and her underling too. We’re just waiting for the right moment. Timing is important for meaningful spectacles, right? And so is patience…”

Shinobi reached forward, revealing a black glove beneath his sleeves, and pressing his finger against Tsunami’s chest. A black marking began to sprout in directions where he touched.

“Let’s not forget that, shall we? Or else Chūbu will need a new replacement Daimyo instead of just a new heir.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE NEXT MORNING…

The door to Xiomazu’s capsule opened as it rose to the surface of the hot spring. From above, Akuma looked in, temporarily shielding Xiomazu from the morning light. She did not have her mask.

Xiomazu’s eyes were wide open, red, with bags gathered beneath.

“You did not sleep,” she simply said, tossing a towel at him before turning away.

“I-I how…” he muttered, stepping out as he covered himself. His body was completely wrinkled, and he could hardly move.

“How would you know if sleep is only a brief instance now? Why, you’d feel refreshed, it isn’t that complicated,” she said back. “Aside from that, you were talking to yourself all night, though perhaps mumbling might be more appropriate.”

“You were here the entire time?” he asked as the towel was fastened around his hip. He was struggling to keep his balance.

“No. I’ve passed the trials myself, so I am well aware of how things go. Last night was only one day of deprivation, and you’ve still many more to go until we reach a year.”

Xiomazu took a deep breath.

“Before you begin to state the obvious, tell me the name that Inari has gifted you,” Akuma said as she tossed him a red apple.

“Xiomazu,” he said, allowing the excess air to escape with a sigh, catching the apple as he did so.

“Interesting.”

“Today you will run one mile. When I say run, I deliberately mean run. A consistent pace through and through, which means find that pace even if it’s slow. Each day we shall add an additional mile to that, conditioning you to be a representative of what Inari’s disciples have to offer. Your days will consist of eating, stretching, running, resting, until a year has passed. Only then will you be ready for the next trial, and one step closer to Shinobi.”

Akuma closed the capsule, sending it down.

“Do you fear the unknown?” she then turned to ask him.

“Yes,” he said, taking a bite out of the apple as he shivered.

“Good. That just means you’re taking things seriously.”