Ningen Series Vol 1 Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Killer Crimson (1)

Red.

Of the many colors in existence, red is the one that captures the greatest amount of human attention. For instance, the red cloth a matador waves in the bullring is designed not with the bull in mind, but with the intent of exciting the audience. Examples such as the red signal of a traffic light are so self-evident there is likely no need to list them.

Red.

The color generally symbolizes “pa.s.sion,” “victory,” “dominance,” “blessing,” “love,” “fervor”—and above all else.

“Strength.”

✦   ✦

“…Feels like I just rinsed out my mouth with eyewash.”

As he inspected a decapitated corpse, a boy with a tattoo covering the right half of his face made an expression that looked as baffled as his words suggested.

He stood in the deserted area beneath a certain bridge.

In addition to the uniformed body the tattooed boy was currently examining, six more corpses of all ages and genders lay sprawled in close quarters. Just like the first body, their heads had been cut off, but only next to the corpse of the boy in a school uniform did there lay a head that looked as though it had once belonged to the body.

“A school uniform, huh… That takes me back. Though judging by the look of him, he’s a high schooler, not a middle schooler… Yeah, looks like he hasn’t got a nameplate.”[1] Crouching down next to the corpse, the tattooed boy began a more thorough inspection. “This took an absurdly skillful hand—it’s definitely the work of my bro… But what’s with the six missing heads?”

The tattooed boy tilted his head to the side in puzzlement.

“So, basically… I guess this means Bro took the ‘six heads’ and moved them ‘somewhere else’… But a.s.suming that istrue, where is ‘somewhere’? And there’s also the question of ‘why’ he’d even do that… He ain’t Mr. Girlish Predilections, so I can’t imagine him doing that without a reason… Mm?”

As if he had just noticed something, the tattooed boy took the head in one hand and fit the cross-section of the neck together with the open cut on the remainder of the body. Naturally, being two cleanly separated parts of one whole, they fit together perfectly, without the slightest gap left between them—or at least, they should have.

There was one area where the two parts didn’t line up.

A section near the windpipe was missing, as if it had been gouged out.

“…This wound was made by a Western knife. Not Bro’s style at all… So does that mean what I think it means? There was a ‘third party’ on the scene, someone besides Bro and these other guys?”

While mumbling that under his breath, the tattooed boy searched the area and eventually found a b.u.t.terfly knife, which he presumed to be the murder weapon. Seeing as the blade was missing, it was no longer fit for use.

“Anyone who could deliver a fatal blow with a cheap knife like this is more than just your average murderer. Still, looks kinda like an amateur’s work… Now there’s a contradiction. It’s almost like the person was some kind of ‘psycho killer novice’… Hmm—if that Defective Product were here, I wonder what kind of ‘solution’ he’d arrive at…”

The boy crouched down once more to examine the corpse.

“This stab wound must’ve been dealt before Bro cut off the head… In fact, it looks almost like he intentionally aimed for that spot when he beheaded the guy, like the goal was to hide—t

o ‘erase’ the first wound. So, basically… Uhh, first, the ‘third party’ tried to kill this dude in the school uniform—and then Bro showed up to help? Hmm—he lent them a hand, huh? If it was someone that perverted b.a.s.t.a.r.d would help out, it’s gotta be…”

The boy muttered his speculation to himself.

Meanwhile, behind him, a shadow crept closer. He was a well-built man, so much that the outline of his muscles was visible through his clothes, and he was gripping something like a crowbar with both hands. His eyes were vacant, and his expression was difficult to read. When he was just a step away from the back of the boy, who didn’t seem to have noticed his approach in the slightest, he stopped where he stood and opened his mouth to yell:

“You’re a member of the Zerozaki Family—grrrk!”

…And he would never close it again.

The boy turned around with a, “Hm?”

There stood a giant figure, missing the top half of his head and spraying fresh red blood like a fountain.

“…Tch. Whoops, guess I killed him.”

And then, the boy nonchalantly rose to his feet.

“Anyway—one thing’s for sure, there’s some kind of masterpiece unfolding right now. I haven’t really got the time for this, but… oh well.”

Despite his complaining, the tattooed boy wore a callous smile on his face as he turned his back on the seven—as of just a moment ago, eight—corpses and left the area.

✦   ✦

About ten kilometers away from the apartment complex where Iori Mutou had lived with her family—there was a woodland. Not quite as large in scale as the term “woodland” would imply; too spa.r.s.e to be described as a “forest”; too thick to be called a “grove”; the mountain to its back overemphasizing its size, when in reality it wasn’t all that impressive; in which a child might be in danger of getting lost, but in which an adult would never go astray—it was a wood that would amount to little more than that under normal circ.u.mstances.

Under normal circ.u.mstances.

Under normal circ.u.mstances—that is all it would amount to.

The locals treated it like a nature park, and it was a place where residents could go to relax—nominally, that is, but in reality, there were close to zero people who ever stepped foot inside the woods. There were close to zero—and yet it was still regarded as a “relaxation spot.” It was perceived that way. Before anyone knew it, they had come to perceive it that way. Everyone was perfectly aware of its existence, but for some reason, it was always relegated to the fringes of their consciousness—it sunk into the depths of their subconscious. It was that sort of s.p.a.ce.

It was that sort of visible yet invisible s.p.a.ce.

“Heheh. I see, so it’s a ‘barrier.'”

At the entrance to those woodlands, Soushiki Zerozaki twirled a giant pair of scissors with a faint grin.

“What’s more, it doesn’t seem to be a fresh new barrier that was prepared just yesterday. Heheheh, it looks like I came to the right place. I was worried that combing the area would be a daunting amount of work, but it looks like the enemy has no intention of hiding or camouflaging themselves.”

Twelve hours had pa.s.sed since then.

The sun had risen long ago, pouring bright rays of light from a cloudless sky. The weather was far too pleasant to suit the literal bloodbath that was about to unfold.

Twelve hours.

Finding the place had taken him longer than he’d hoped, but it hadn’t taken as long as he’d expected. Just as it takes a thief to catch a thief, Soushiki’s special brand of intuition, best characterized as pack instincts, could pin down Iori’s approximate location—but that was, of course, not the only reason he had found her at such an early stage. During those twelve hours, he had gathered information from all sorts of sources, made three “miscues” before reaching the woods, and encountered a great deal of obstruction from Marionettes along the way. As such, nothing diminished the impression that he had gone through great pains to get there—but all the same, if the Sawarabi had truly been trying to hide, if they truly hadn’t wanted Soushiki to find them—he wouldn’t have stumbled upon them so easily.

In other words, this wasn’t their base of operations.

It was the battlefield they had chosen.

“I see the Niounomiya faction still has the same old fondness for old-fashioned methods—though that does make them quite a bit more likable than the Yamiguchi.”

Well then.

For the time being, how was he to deal with the barrier? Soushiki spent a full 3 minutes and 12 seconds considering what countermeasures he should take, but ultimately, the conclusion he came to was, “If it’s such a low-level barrier that I can identify it from the outside, I probably don’t have to worry about it.” In the first place, as a pure, unadulterated psycho killer, Soushiki Zerozaki had very little knowledge of the workings behind such charms, and so it was likely inevitable that he would reach that conclusion, but purely hypothetically, if Soushiki were just a bit more prudent, he surely wouldn’t have stepped through the barrier so unprepared.

Ultimately.

That which made him such an eccentric among the Zerozaki Family would drive him into an even deeper predicament.

“Well then, off I go.”

The moment he took his first step into the woods, on what could just barely be identified as the trail, the visibility took a turn for the worse. The overgrowth of trees seemed to block the light from the sun. It was almost like he’d walked into an ancient climax forest, but realistically, there was no way some mundane forest park would be so abundant with trees. Just as he’d thought, this wasn’t just any forest park—in that case, he would do best to a.s.sume there was some sort of trap set for him. A “trap.” Setting a snare and lying in wait seemed less like the style of the Sleight of Slaughter Company, the Niounomiya Troupe, and more like the tactics their very ant.i.thesis would use—but given that the Sawarabi had already discarded their principles to employ the help of Marionettes, it warranted at least the minimum amount of caution.

“…But would they really go to such elaborate lengths over the death of their sister? I have my doubts.” As he brushed tree branches out of his way, as he chose which path to take, Soushiki walked. He had no clear destination; he just followed his vague sense of intuition. The woods were bound to have several small cabins serving as rest areas, so logically speaking, he ought to have gone looking for one of those first, but there was no telling if Iori was actually being held in one of them. In Soushiki’s opinion, then, it was best not to establish any mistaken criteria. Rather than an opinion, perhaps it was better described as a piece of wisdom gained from past experiences. “Who knows about Naguma-kun—but I heard that his brother, Hawatari Sawarabi, isn’t so sentimental a person.”

That knowledge had come from the information gathering he had conducted over the past twelve hours.

The swordsman…

The Haze of Purple Bloodstains, Hawatari Sawarabi.

Out of the three siblings, only he had held a “post” and carried out “missions” even prior to the family’s generational turnover. The Sawarabi were known as one existence in the form of three people—but as an individual existence, the eldest brother demonstrably towered above the others. It would be no mistake to consider Hawatari the effective commander of the Sawarabi’s current lineup.

Nevertheless, ordering harm on the Zerozaki Family certainly didn’t seem like a reasonable call to make as an organization leader. Even if they stood a chance at winning the fight, the sacrifices they would have to make along the way were far too great—and there was no reason to go out of their way to destroy the balance between the seven Killing Names.

Not for the sake of one measly sister.

“…Mm. But perhaps it’s unfair of me to spin a narrative where ‘familial love’ is a privilege reserved for the Zerozaki—but then again, the majority of narratives are filled with unfair plot conveniences.”

As he walked and deliberated, little by little, step by step, the path began to transform into something less and less defined. It no longer even qualified as an animal trail. However, that did not strike Soushiki as a result of natural growth; rather, it had the whiff of something artificial and contrived.

“I see, I see. Heheh, this truly is the perfect battlefield for a fight among brutes. Not the easiest place for Naguma-kun to wield his naginata, however.”

Far from it. The environment would make even swinging a sword difficult. If anything, the density of the forest gave the advantage to Soushiki’s Mind Render. It could almost be considered his own personal stage. Knock-down drag-out matches in close quarters were where Soushiki shined brightest. The Sawarabi should have known at least that much, so why would they pick a place like this as a battlefield? a.s.suming they weren’t stupid, they must have prepared some kind of “trap”—or a “strategy” of which they were rather confident.

“A ‘strategy,’ hm… If it’s anything reminiscent of a certain lovely ‘strategist’ I once knew, I could live with defeat…”

“Talents and disposition? What utter nonsense.

“Possibilities and hope? What a pathetic pipe dream.

“To rely on any of that is proof that you’re third-rate.”

If his memory served him correctly, that was what she had said.

Back then.

Two years ago—when, for the first time in history, although it was purely incidental, the Niounomiya Troupe and the Zerozaki Family had formed a united front—a girl who had sided with the enemy forces, one with oddly beautiful hair, had spoken those words to Soushiki Zerozaki.

She had claimed that talents and dispositions were meaningless.

She was a strange girl, he reflected.

It was a memory that had proven difficult to forget.

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant memory, either.

But all the same, whenever Soushiki thought of that girl—for some reason, he would unconsciously break into a smile.

She was probably around the same age as Iori—and yet, he couldn’t envision the two on the same playing field. No, in all his years of experience, he’d never met another person who could stand in the same arena as her.

In reality, that girl hadn’t done anything at all. Back then, the ones who had run helter-skelter were the six people that made up the Niounomiya Troupe’s “Fragment,” “Mind Render” and “Seamless Bias” of the Zerozaki Family, and a handful of small fry hardly worth mentioning—and meanwhile, that girl hadn’t done a single thing. Everyone else had been thoroughly led around by the nose. No—with the way things unfolded, it was more like they had been moved around like pieces on a board. Before anyone knew who had won or lost, before anyone could even figure out what was going on, the ordeal had come to an end still cloaked in confusion and chaos, everything shut away in obscurity. In the end, the only one to catch sight of the girl who had been standing in shadows of it all was Soushiki Zerozaki.

And even then—he hadn’t been able to do anything.

He had been thoroughly, utterly moved around like a piece.

He had been unable to stand on the same stage as her.

What she had said back then.

It had been a rejection of Soushiki’s entire philosophy.

“You are… completely mistaken.

“Talents and disposition? What utter nonsense.

“Possibilities and hope? What a pathetic pipe dream.

“To rely on any of that is proof that you’re third-rate.

“You’re laughable—every single one of you.

“…It’s maddening.

“It’s so mottled.

“Enough that I want to break it all down and rebuild it.

“That is how very mistaken you are.

“Understand the error of your ways.”

Although he had no plans to acknowledge those words of rejection, she was no enemy of the Zerozaki Family. He understood that much.

She was no one’s enemy.

She didn’t see anyone else as an enemy—and she didn’t see anything as an obstacle.

She was standing on a different stage.

Most likely—that girl had nothing.

The girl who had done nothing had nothing.

Neither talent—nor disposition.

Neither possibilities—nor hope.

Nothing to believe in, nothing to rely on.

Not a single possession of her own.

It was possible she didn’t even have a self.

“Oh, I see now… In that case.”

Only now, he finally realized.

There was one other.

One other person who could stand on equal footing with her.

One other person who existed on the same playing field.

Just one—and someone very close to him.

Someone who was very close to him—yet he couldn’t pin down.

Strangely elusive and difficult to understand.

“Hitoshiki, hm…?”

The reason for his brother’s vagrancy—the person he was “looking for”—might have been that girl with the beautiful hair all along; Soushiki was struck by that sentimental thought. In that case, would the two ever cross paths? And if they did meet…

What sort of conversation would they have?

For more than just curiosity’s sake—he wanted to know.

“…Heheheh.”

I hope they do meet, he thought.

“…Hm?”

And then.

After walking through the woods for about thirty minutes, Soushiki spotted a strange object. Along his path stood an incredibly thick, old-looking tree—and there, nailed to its trunk, a single piece of red cloth fluttered in the wind.

He steeled himself, wondering if it was some sort of trap, but there was no way a plain old piece of fabric could have any sort of trap or strategy to it. It wasn’t as if the other side of the cloth led to another dimension. Just in case, he watched for any signs of life in his surroundings, but he sensed nothing beyond the wriggling respiration of insects and other lower life forms. At the very least, “right now,” “right there,” there didn’t seem to be any trickery at play.

“Heheh… I wonder what this is all about.”

He moved closer and took the cloth in his hand. But nothing happened; it was an impeccably commonplace, ordinary piece of cotton cloth. He couldn’t find a single unusual thing about it.

“Mm…? I don’t get it. What is this? Or is it supposed to be some kind of metaphor?”

A red cloth.

Red.

The color red.

And this particular shade of red…

“Hmm… It’s ‘Killer Crimson,’ I suppose…”

Right then—he felt a pat.

Someone had tapped him on the shoulder from behind.

Casually, as if it were no big deal, someone had tapped his shoulder.

“…Huh?”

He had checked. He had checked to make sure there was no one around.

And yet—why?

Who could have tapped Soushiki on the shoulder?

a.s.suming it wasn’t just the wind—there was nothing that could have done that.

Soushiki immediately looked back over his shoulder—

”                       ”

Pride.

Although he had never expressed it aloud, subconsciously, unconsciously, there was something he took great pride in. No matter who the opponent, no matter how uncompromising the circ.u.mstances, he had never run away in the face of an enemy. Whether it was a Niounomiya, a Yamiguchi, a Susukino, a Hakamori, a Tenbuki, or an Ishinagi, or even that girl with the beautiful hair, he had never run. He had lost countless times, but they had all been “honorable defeats” or “meaningful losses,” and never once had he accepted defeat from the bottom of his heart. Never once had he felt true despair. While he had experience with strategic retreats, in the true sense of the word, he had never once “fled” from an enemy out of fear—and he took “pride” in that “strength” of his.

Pride.

And in that moment, Soushiki Zerozaki…

Abandoned that pride of his.

“W-Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

After shamelessly screaming at the top of his lungs, he ran.

He ran,

and ran,

and ran,

and ran,

and ran,

and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran,

fleeing like a madman.

He paid no attention to the trail.

He neglected to clear away the branches in his path, paid no heed to the stinging pain as they slapped across his body, and without any concern for his direction or bearings, focused only on pure velocity as he sprinted.

“Ah, ah, ahhhh, ahhhh, hrk…”

His tongue was tied, no longer able to form words.

He didn’t care.

He was choking, barely able to breathe.

So what?

The trees were blocking his way and his hair was a mess.

It didn’t matter.

At some point, he had lost his gla.s.ses.

Who cares? He only wore them as an accessory.

For now.

For now. For now.

For now. For now. For now.

For now, for the moment, for the time being, he just had to run—

“Guh, wah!”

He stumbled over a tree root that crept from the ground and lost his balance. But Soushiki Zerozaki hadn’t lost his touch; instead of clumsily falling to the ground face first, he did a somersault in the air and managed to land on his rear end. Still, there was not a trace of composure in his expression. Judging from the way he shivered, it was doubtful that he was keeping hold of his sanity. Without moving out of his position, he dragged himself over to the shadow of a nearby tree, where he placed his back to it as if it to hide himself.

“W-Wh—”

He reached a hand into his suit. To the side opposite of where Mind Render was stored. What he took out was a cigarette box and a lighter. He picked out one cigarette with a trembling hand and put it in his mouth.

“…Why, why, why?”

Click. Click. Click.

He flicked the lighter.

But perhaps because of the way his hand was shaking, he couldn’t get a flame.

“…Why, why, why?”

Click. Click. Click.

The fire wouldn’t light.

The fire wouldn’t light.

The fire wouldn’t light.

“…Why won’t it light?! Isn’t a lighter supposed to be a tool for lighting, huuuuuuh?!”

He raised his voice in a violent yell.

His ability to reason was gone, and his emotions were a mess.

Yet still, he flicked his lighter.

Click—and then.

The fire finally lit.

A red, red flame burned brightly before him.

And then—

And then, on the other side of that red…

“Hey. You dropped your gla.s.ses.”

Something even redder—the crimson of death came into view.

✦   ✦

There came the creak of a door opening.

Next—the soft sound of footsteps.

He’s here, thought Iori, steeling herself.

Three times now, the man called Hawatari had come to where Iori was being held (inside? outside?), asked two or three questions, and then left. Iori’s best guess was that Hawatari suspected she might be up to something. Of course, Iori didn’t have the brains to come up with a plan that could get her out of there, but he was free to be as wary as he liked. In fact, Iori had seen those visits as an opportunity for peace negotiations and made an active effort to talk profusely, but her conversation partner had ignored the majority of what she said. Iori was forced to conclude that Hawatari suffered from a serious lack of communication skills. Still, she couldn’t afford to take it easy much longer. She wasn’t sure how much time had pa.s.sed, but she’d lost feeling in her arms to the point that she worried about the possibility of necrosis, and as a more immediate and pressing concern, she was hungry and thirsty, she wanted to take a bath, and she had to go to the bathroom. In other words, her girl problems were rearing their heads one after another. There was no way such inhumane treatment of a prisoner could be permitted under the Antarctic Treaty.

The footsteps stopped.

Alright, Iori resolved.

She was going to give him what for.

“You—”

Whoosh—came a sound like a gust of wind, and then suddenly—before she had time to process anything—before she had time to feel anything—Iori was brought down by gravity’s pull.

To put it more simply, she fell.

“E-Eep?!”

She did take the time to let out a scream, and thus Iori collapsed legs first in a pathetic heap, hitting her whole body against the ground. She hadn’t been strung especially high off the floor, so the impact itself wasn’t that strong. But she was blindfolded, so the fear she felt was three times as intense.

“W-Wah-wah-wah…”

She hurriedly placed both hands on the ground. Apparently, the rope or cord she had been hanging from had been cut—and it seemed the elastic string binding her hands together had been undone at the same time, as she was able to extend both hands in either direction. As confused as she was, Iori groped around the floor, reflexively grabbed hold of “something” there, and then, with her other hand, adjusted her knit cap out of its place as a blindfold and back into its regular position. Now that put her mind at ease.

“…”

From the looks of things—she was inside a very basic prefab hut. It was so dim that Iori’s eyes easily adjusted to the light, even after all that time she’d spent blindfolded, and what’s more, it was incredibly dreary, a cramped room furnished with little more than a chair. While there was something that resembled a window, wooden boards had been nailed over it, completing the feel of a secret room. Goodness, no wonder it had been so swelteringly hot. Glancing upwards, there were several st.u.r.dy-looking beams running across the ceiling, so it appeared she had been hanging from one of those.

“…Just as I thought.”

A sudden remark.

Surprised, Iori looked over to where it had come from—

And there stood Naguma Sawarabi.

Dressed in anachronistic clothing, holding a giant naginata by his side—the younger brother of Hawatari Sawarabi. With a strangely cold gaze, he stared at Iori as though he were looking down on her. No, rather than a cold gaze—yes, it was the same as earlier.

A look of pity.

“…A-Ah, you’re…”

Iori scrambled backwards.

She realized that the bindings on her ankles had been undone as well. Was it safe to a.s.sume that Naguma had cut them apart with his naginata? What happened to that Hawatari guy? No, more importantly, if Naguma was here, then what about Soushiki? What had become of that—that perverted wireframe model of a man?

“If you’re worried about Mr. Mind Render, he’s fine.”

As he said that, Naguma tugged at his tunic, exposing his bare chest. There, he bore a deep, deep wound, grotesque enough to send shivers down the spine. The flow of blood had already stopped, but there was no room to rea.s.sure him that it would heal without a scar, not even as consolation or a polite gesture. Only made worse by Naguma’s haphazard attempts to clean it up, it was a wound so hideous it was hard not to avert the eyes.

“…Then again, I can’t guarantee that he’s still doing fine ‘at this point in time.’ He’s in the midst of fighting a real monster, you see.”

Naguma spoke in a frosty tone.

Or perhaps not frosty, but simply cold.

His voice was just as cold as his brother’s—Hawatari’s.

Cold and quiet.

“U-Ummm.” Iori unsteadily rose to her feet. She had been strung up for so long that it was hard to move her body. “N-Naguma-san—”

“Don’t you think it’s strange to address an enemy with ‘san’?” Naguma forced a wry smile. “All the more when the one standing before you is the very man who murdered your family.”

With scrutiny.

With suspicion.

Naguma focused a sharp gaze on Iori.

Frosty eyes.

Cold eyes.

“…”

“…I see. So you’re like that, too.”

As he watched Iori struggle with how to react, Naguma nodded as though something had become clear to him. And yet, absolutely nothing was clear to Iori.

“U-Um, why did you undo these—”

When she attempted to point out the elastic string around her wrists, Iori’s bewilderment only grew. Only now did she realize that she was holding a dangerous, unsheathed blade in her right hand. It was the type of j.a.panese-style short sword cla.s.sified as a dagger.

Why?

Why was something like that in her hand?

“It was an experiment. Just a silly experiment,” Naguma spoke in an apathetic tone. “And the results weren’t particularly satisfactory. Before you even removed your blindfold, before you even understood what was happening, you went for the blade that was lying nearby. How can one describe that but as pure instinct?”

“…”

If she met with someone, she’d only be able to think about killing them.

Considering how to kill someone took priority over considering her own safety.

No.

She wasn’t even thinking about “killing someone.”

She wasn’t even considering “how to kill someone.”

“You are—Iori ‘Zerozaki’-san. Even if you kill someone, you will no longer feel ‘guilt’ or ‘liability.’ Even if the man who killed your family stands right before you—you will not feel the ‘urge to kill.’ Why? Because the ‘urge to kill’ is your constant companion.”

“N-No, no!” Iori reflexively raised her voice and denied Naguma’s words. “C-Come on, you all need to stop deciding things about me! Listen to what I have to say! I’m not like that! I’m just an ordinary, everyday girl!”

She wasn’t like that. Although she a.s.serted that…

She couldn’t let go of the dagger in her hand.

On the contrary.

Before she knew it, she was pointing it at Naguma.

What kind of ordinary girl was that?

As he watched Iori’s reaction, Naguma let out a sigh.

There was not a trace of the flippant demeanor she had seen during their encounter at the apartment—he was as cold as his brother Hawatari—but there was a chance that this melancholy att.i.tude of his was the man with all pretensions dropped, the true face of Naguma Sawarabi.

“Say… How does it feel? To one day suddenly find yourself a ‘psycho killer,’ whether you like it or not?”

“…U-uugh…”

“I wouldn’t quite compare it to Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, but still… To wake up one morning and find yourself a ‘psycho killer’ would be no less of a shock than ‘waking up one morning only to find that it’s nighttime’—though I can’t personally discern whether it should be considered a ‘talent’ or a ‘disposition.'”

“T-That’s not—”

“No matter the field, natural-born geniuses will always exist, irrevocably and ubiquitously—whether they like it or not.”

“…”

“People can’t choose their talents. I doubt Murasaki Shikibu herself really wanted to write The Tale of Genji. If her name is one that can only be spoken alongside The Tale of Genji, it’s as though her life—her very existence—amounted to no more than an automatic writing apparatus, isn’t it?”

“A-An apparatus—”

“If not an apparatus, then let’s call it her role on the stage known as history. But when it comes to those of us with an abominable role thrust upon us, wouldn’t we be better off not having an ident.i.ty at all? Wouldn’t we be far better off blending in with those purposeless, unprincipled, mindless ‘ordinary’ ma.s.ses, carelessly living life as part of the backdrop?”

“…”

What’s with this guy? Iori asked herself, taken aback.

What was he thinking, posing a question like that to her? She couldn’t understand the reason why he would ask her that—why he would talk to her about that. Had something happened while he was fighting Soushiki? In that case—what in the world was he trying to get Iori to say?

“Iori-san. Do you know the difference between a ‘murderer,’ a ‘psycho killer,’ and a ‘hitman’?”

“H-Huh…? I-I…”

“Of course you don’t. I don’t know, either. But I believe it’s nothing more significant than the distinction between ‘adviser’ and ‘advisor,’ between ‘a.n.a.log’ and ‘a.n.a.logue,’ between ‘gray’ and ‘grey.'”

“O-Or like the difference between ‘like’ and ‘love.'”

Although she still didn’t understand what he was getting at, Iori attempted to go with the flow of the conversation, only to be shut down with, “Those two are as a different as different as Ryoma Echizen and Combat Echizen.”[2]

“At any rate—when you boil them down to their most basic meanings, there is no disparity between a ‘murderer,’ a ‘psycho killer,’ and a ‘hitman’—that’s what I think. They all kill people, just the same as the others. …But, according to Mr. Mind Render, there is one clear difference between them. …You see, Iori ‘Zerozaki’-san…”

Naguma spun his naginata around with a whoosh.

“I was made ‘like this.’ For as long as I can remember, I have been built so I would turn out ‘like this.’ Most likely—that was something decided before I was even born into this world. I never had any choice or any say in the matter—I have lived only for the sake of becoming ‘like this.’ Not just me, but my brother and Yumiya-san, too.” There, Naguma gave a small chuckle and smiled. “We may call ourselves the Three Sawarabi Siblings, but there used to be more of us, you know. Candidates—if you count all the ‘candidates,’ there were quite a few. But in the end—the only ones to successfully turn out ‘like this’ were us three.”

“…”

“But… he said the Zerozaki are born ‘like that’ to begin with. To borrow my brother’s words, ‘they are Zerozaki by birth, and yet not Zerozaki by birth.’ There’s still no choice or say in the matter, but to be made ‘a certain way’ and to be ‘a certain way’ from the start are entirely different. I can place the blame on my destiny—but you Zerozaki have no one you can blame. Even the Ishinagi ‘reapers’ can hold G.o.d accountable for their actions—but you Zerozaki aren’t even accountable for yourselves. After all, it isn’t even something ‘inherent,’ and it isn’t even something ‘innate.'”

“…”

“A psycho killer—’homicidal monster’ is another way of expressing it. That term describes you people perfectly.”

Without incentive, without intention, without basis, without benefit, without design, without deliberation, without pretext, without pretensions, without ties, without thoughts, without liquidation, without legitimacy, without insanity, without interest, without claim, without comprehension, without heroism, without hesitation, without achievement, without a.s.surance, without rage, without ruse, without dignity, without deficit, without adulation, without adversity, without illusion, without ignorance, without dearth, without deduction, without anguish, without adaptability, without point, without promise, without veracity, without victory, without fixation, without finality, without principle, without panic, without enc.u.mbrance, without elegance, without farewell, without fussiness, without dominance, without deterioration, without restraint, without reasoning, without hard work, without high-mindedness, without consequence, without cornerstone, without evanescence, without enigma, without sanctimony, without spite, without inclinations, without idolization, without cunning, without compromise, without struggle, without shame, without sincerity, without silence, without captivation, without contradiction, without extremity, without error, without prejudice, without peculiarity, without solace, without sadness, without emotion, without equivocation, without consultation, without clamor, without cheers, without conflict, without concept, without contemplation, without rigor, without retreat, without calculation, without contract, without regret, without reverie, without clemency, without childishness, without data, without difficulty, without loneliness, without liability, without libel, without lethargy, without facade, without a fight, without completion, without a care, without dexterity, without deceit, without request, without plea, without procedure, without preference, without precedent, without examination, without enmity, without subject, without subst.i.tute, without cordiality, without confusion, without taboo, without tension, without malaise, without mandate, without presence, without posturing, without temporizing, without temperance, without amplifying, without anxiety, without explanation, without evasion, without strategy, without stipulations, without disrespect, without discretion, without arrogance, without abnegation, without defense, without disremembering, without facsimile, without fulfillment, without merriment, without misconception, without inertia, without infection, without admonishment, without abas.e.m.e.nt, without peril, without perspective, without feeling, without fury, without persuasion, without prestige, without frame of mind, without fear, without manipulation, without machination, without penchant, without philosophy.

With only a simplistic yet extravagant murderous impulse.

They kill people.

Psycho killers.

The Zerozaki Family.

Related not by blood, but by bloodshed.

“…You’re wrong.”

Iori gently shook her head.

Quietly, this time.

She denied Naguma’s words.

Quietly.

She killed a cla.s.smate, yet she felt no guilt. Her family had been murdered, yet she barely felt sadness. The man who had slain her family was standing right before her, yet no rage welled up within her.

That wasn’t because her meeting with Soushiki had driven her crazy. And it wasn’t because killing someone for the first time—or nearly killing someone for the first time—had stirred or awakened her “talent” or “disposition” or what have you.

She hadn’t gone crazy. She already was crazy.

The reason she went crazy was because she was crazy.

Those crazy aspects had only come to the surface.

For a long time now—for who-knows-how-long—

Iori had been “like that.”

From start to finish, through and through…

Iori had been the protagonist of her own life.

Never able to reach any destination.

An image of being chased.

A picture of running away.

A marathon without a goal.

Iori—Iori Mutou had always run away.

And now she was paying the price for running all that time.

It wasn’t that “something” had suddenly changed the other day when she struck back at Yasumichi after his attack. From beginning to end, Iori was consistent. She didn’t just become “like that” out of nowhere. She had postponed and postponed her payment, putting it off until the interest she owed reached its limit, just like a debt.

Or maybe—it was that she was scared.

What is the person known as Iori Mutou really “like”?

She was scared to learn that.

And so—she never took anything seriously.

She never faced anything head on.

She lived like she was running away.

When she heard her family had been killed and thrust the tip of her fork at Naguma, was it really “rage” she had been feeling? Given that she never checked to see if her family was still alive—and that she was now having a normal conversation with the man who ought to have been the target of her vengeance, was she really someone capable of feeling such a righteous emotion?

Had that simply been a manifestation of her “murderous impulses”?

Murderous impulses.

A disposition detached from both emotion and reason.

The result of someone messing up at some point—and making a mistake somewhere along the way.

Indeed—in that case, it really was quite the tragedy.

The “wrong kind of apt.i.tude.”

What Naguma said rang true—so true that it would be no mistake to consider that answer almost entirely correct.

But—all the same.

“…It’s not like that.”

She had loved her dad and her mom and her sister and her brother—and she never wanted to kill anyone. No matter what anyone else said—no matter what Soushiki Zerozaki or Naguma Sawarabi said, no matter what Iori Mutou’s true character was really “like”—that alone she would not concede.

She wouldn’t concede it.

She wouldn’t allow it.

“I think you’re probably closer to the truth than Soushiki-san… When it comes down to it, for all intents and purposes, you and Soushiki-san aren’t all that different.”

“Oh?” His lips quirked upwards. “If you say we aren’t all that different—then what is different? Please, do tell.”

“I… I’m not sure. I don’t know that… But still, you and Soushiki-san and I… each one of us is a different person. We’re all people. We each have our own personality, and we each have our own character. We aren’t apparatuses. None of us can ever be an apparatus.”

No matter how much we may long to be.

Even knowing we would be happier that way.

“And so… I don’t think we can generalize each other as ‘psycho killers’ or ‘hitmen’ or anything else. We shouldn’t make generalizations like that.”

“Well, well… What an answer, my goodness. You hate categories? How very admirable.” Naguma took in Iori’s words with disdain. “You hate categories… Hah! Then what the h.e.l.l else do you even have?! Take away murder, and you have nothing! Take away murder, and we have nothing! We don’t know how to do anything but murder, we don’t have anything but murder, and there’s nothing we can believe in but murder! You, me, Mind Render, my brother—every d.a.m.n one of us!”

After suddenly yelling as though he’d lost himself in a rage, Naguma Sawarabi raised his naginata high above his head, pointing it towards Iori. Iori adjusted her hold on the dagger at once, but being the complete amateur she was, there was something almost comical about her stance.

“…Iori-san.”

Still holding his naginata at the ready, Naguma’s voice regained its icy tone as he spoke.

“If you put it like that, ‘as of now,’ you are neither a ‘psycho killer’ nor a ‘hitman.’ You’re just a regular ‘murderer.’ You haven’t fully become a Zerozaki yet.”

A Zerozaki in the making.

In the process of “mutating.”

That was what they had said about her.

“And so—I’ll give you the choice. To you, the Iori Mutou who is not a Zerozaki, I will offer the right to make your own decision. Right now—at this point in time. You can still die as a human.”

“…”

“Technically speaking, you have yet to end the life of a single person—so you have the chance to die as neither a ‘monster’ nor a ‘brute,’ but a ‘human.’ So long as you do it now.”

“…In other words, you’re giving me the choice of whether or not to fight you…?” she asked, backing away.

But her back soon hit a wall.

There was nowhere to run.

She couldn’t escape.

She couldn’t run away.

She couldn’t run away.

She couldn’t run away any longer.

“I can’t make—”

“No.”

Iori’s body came within range of his naginata.

“Will you kill yourself, or will you die by my hand? Pick whichever you prefer.”

“…”

No thanks.

————————————————————–

[1] In j.a.pan, many middle schools will designate that students wear a nameplate with their last name on their school uniform. This does not carry on into high school.

[2] Ryoma Echizen is the protagonist of the manga and anime series Prince of Tennis. Combat Echizen is the protagonist of a memetically bad j.a.panese light gun shooting game called Death Crimson.