Chapter Eighty-One: Escape

Arthur detested being hunted—especially when he was not the hunter.

After so many days on the run with Momiji Kari and that little one, he had grown accustomed to drawing his gun anywhere, at any time. The GOC agents were like mosquitoes in the dark: you could look around all you wanted and still find nothing, but they always struck when least expected.

It was already two in the morning. After enduring four ambushes during the day, Arthur’s left arm was now dislocated. He led a pale-faced Momiji through the deserted streets, searching for shelter.

They couldn’t stay in inns or hotels; for days now, they’d been taking turns resting in their car. But an hour ago, their vehicle had disappeared in flames. Fortunately, Momiji had sensed the impending explosion—otherwise, this trio, masquerading as a family, would not have been wandering the streets of Tokyo tonight.

At this hour, even Tokyo’s streets were almost deserted, save for the occasional night-shift worker. Time did nothing to change the Japanese tradition of gathering at izakayas after work; some of these taverns still blazed with light in the dead of night.

Arthur and Momiji, who held the child in her arms, were so exhausted they had no choice but to rest—even sitting down to eat something was a blessing for Arthur, whose entire body ached. Momiji, too, needed a place to recover her strength. The repeated use of her arcane arts had left her as weak as any ordinary woman.

“The targets have entered the izakaya. Kurosawa, Ishihara, circle around to point B as planned. Aoi Fukikoshi, you’re going in. Ihei, prepare for fire support,” Taku Ichihara spoke into his communicator, repeating the tactical plan they’d reviewed countless times. Then he stepped out of the car and into the night.

The izakaya, called Shirakiya, was rather empty at this late hour. Only a stern, silent young man sat eating eel over rice. Arthur glanced at him, then looked away—the man seemed barely in his twenties, too young to be Foundation, and the Foundation’s people would never be so foolish as to watch Arthur and Momiji so openly. Arthur offered a polite smile and withdrew his gaze.

With new customers entering, the chef and owner, Ryo Takenouchi, perked up. He was a little surprised at the odd trio—one carrying a baby—but maintained his professionalism. “What would you like?”

Arthur ordered a few simple, quickly prepared dishes and a cup of sake. The low-alcohol drink would warm him without dulling his reflexes. He didn’t ask Momiji what she wanted; he already knew she didn’t draw energy from human food—she had her own means.

When Ryo brought the dishes, Arthur glanced at Momiji. Only after she gave him a reassuring look did he begin to eat. Though it cost Momiji precious arcane energy to test the food for safety, she’d rather not lose a temporary companion over a pork cutlet.

Arthur was halfway through his crisp, golden tonkatsu when two more customers entered the small tavern.

“That guy is the worst—utterly unreasonable! I only forgot to pass him a document in the morning, but I gave it to him that afternoon, nothing was delayed, and he still docked a week’s pay for 'neglecting duty.' Total bastard.”

“Same here. Last time, I filed for leave in advance, but he called me while I was off and demanded I come in for overtime. Because of that call, my blind date failed. Jerk.”

The two men, dressed as office workers and grumbling about their boss, walked in, glanced around casually, then sat at the counter and chatted with the owner as they waited for their yakitori.

Aoi Fukikoshi and Taku Ichihara’s banter was indistinguishable from that of real salarymen venting about their bosses after work. Their rehearsed conversation successfully diverted Arthur and Momiji’s attention.

At the grill, Ryo Takenouchi sprinkled his special seasoning over the sizzling skewers, the golden chicken fat dripping and crackling, releasing an irresistible aroma.

“Here you are, special yakitori, please enjoy,” Ryo announced with confidence, proud of the family recipe that enabled him to own a tavern in Tokyo’s expensive real estate market.

Yet those perfect skewers were not destined for the salarymen.

As Aoi rose to retrieve the plate, she drew a pistol concealed in her briefcase. At the same moment, Taku drew a tactical knife from his belt and lunged at Arthur, who was still chewing his tonkatsu.

The clear crack of gunfire echoed along the empty street, a trumpet blast ending the night’s silence.

The moment Aoi reached for her bag, Arthur was ready. A man who’d survived as a GOC freelance operative wasn’t a fool—no matter how certain he was, he always prepared for the unlikely. Even a one-percent chance of danger was enough.

Without hesitation, Momiji spent the last of her energy to conjure a shield. The golden bullets slowed as if sinking into a mire, coming to a halt in midair just in front of Arthur, then dropping harmlessly to the floor.

Arthur dodged Taku’s thrust, kicking his chair into Taku with a heavy thud.

Without delay, Arthur dragged Momiji toward the rear exit. The first thing he’d done upon entering was locate a second way out.

The attackers didn’t relent. They hurled everything at hand—guns, briefcases, tables, chairs, even the yakitori—at Arthur. Unmoved, he continued toward the back door. Only by escaping here did they have a chance; every extra minute meant a hundred more GOC agents closing in.

As Arthur neared the door, he put on a final burst of speed, causing Momiji, who’d been half a step behind, to fall right behind him. As the door swung open, Arthur was ready.

But as a burst of gunfire raked the exit, he hesitated for just an instant. As expected, someone was already lying in wait.

This was classic GOC strategy—herding their targets onto a preordained path. The two “salarymen” didn’t expect to succeed with the initial ambush; their role was to drive Arthur and Momiji toward the rear, where the real trap awaited.

Arthur heard Momiji gasp behind him—the shield she’d forged with her last reserves was shattering without a sound. These were no ordinary bullets; inscribed with anti-demonic runes, their magic was deadly to beings who relied on supernatural energy. When the shield, bound to Momiji’s spirit, broke, she suffered grievous harm as well.

The only good news was that the anti-demon bullets turned to ash after shattering the shield. The bad news was, that was the only good news.

Kurosawa and Ishihara, the GOC operatives, weren’t surprised the bullets hadn’t killed. Their purpose was to destroy the shield that had repeatedly blocked GOC attacks. Now that the barrier was gone, the real hunt began.

Kurosawa wielded a long uchigatana in the Ryōban style—a famed blade known as Onimaru, named for the dream in which Hōjō Tokimasa beheaded a demon with it. Now, in his hand, the sword’s true menace was revealed. The water-like blade gleamed in the light as he struck at Arthur. Even the whisper of steel through air seemed to vanish. Arthur barely glimpsed the flash before he was struck down.

Yet there was no sensation of being cut. Kurosawa paused, stepping back warily, Onimaru raised high. He couldn’t believe Arthur had blocked that blow, but the jarring impact told him his surest strike had failed.

Still, Kurosawa was not disappointed. Onimaru, the demon-slaying sword, had been specially borrowed by the GOC from the imperial collection. The blade, which had developed a will of its own, had been eager for battle ever since it caught Momiji’s scent—like a child craving candy. In a sense, it was the sword driving Kurosawa, not the other way around.

Arthur rolled and scrambled upright, gasping for breath, shaken by his brush with death. He hadn’t reacted in time—he’d truly thought he was done for. He pressed his right hand to his chest, feeling the misshapen diamond pendant there. Thank goodness he hadn’t gone for the cheap crystal locket; sometimes, the expensive choice was worth it.

He turned to signal Momiji that he was alright, but saw another agent standing behind her, gun raised. Ishihara waved the muzzle and barked out something quickly. Arthur’s Japanese wasn’t good enough to catch the words, but it hardly mattered.

Arthur raised both hands and sighed. “I surrender.”

Kurosawa, sword in hand, advanced to restrain him, but stopped three meters away.

A sudden, dense mist enveloped everyone. From the distance came the haunting sound of a woman weeping, echoing clearly in every ear.

In that moment of despair, Momiji’s eyes lit up at the sound. She clutched her sleeping daughter, Shiori, tightly.

Standing behind Momiji, Ishihara noticed her movement and tried to urge her forward, but was struck by a wave of dizziness. He heard something being crushed, and the dizziness intensified—before he could react, the world spun violently. Struggling to raise his head, he saw a figure with a red nose, fox-like features, clad in armor and with a katana at its side. In one hand, it held a feather fan; in the other, a still-beating heart.