Dawn arrived like a funeral procession—slow, inevitable, touched with colors that suggested endings rather than beginnings.
Sekitanki woke to the physician shaking his shoulder with unusual gentleness. The old gramps's expression had shifted from professional irritation to something closer to resignation. Or perhaps respect for the dying.
"It is time," the physician said quietly in classical Japanese. "The final round begins in one hour. I have done what I can for your wounds, which is to say: almost nothing. You are held together by bandages and stubbornness. The moment you exert yourself, you will begin bleeding internally. Death will follow within minutes."
"Encouraging... as always."
"I am not trying to encourage you. I am preparing you for reality. Your body has exceeded every medical limit. You should not be conscious, let alone walking. What happens in that arena today will be your final act. Make it meaningful."
Sekitanki sat up slowly, cataloguing damage. His torso was one continuous ache where individual pains had merged into a single scream. His right arm hung nearly useless. His left arm trembled with exhaustion that went beyond muscle into the realm of cellular failure.
But his left hand could still grip a sword. That's all I need. Just enough to finish this. Enjō entered carrying tea that smelled more medicinal than beverage. "Your opponent has been announced. The crowd is... agitated. There is history here. Complicated history." "Who is it?" The old priest's expression was troubled. "Do you remember the Ashikaga warriors who attacked the village? The ones you and Takeda fought together? Their leader, Ashikaga Tadayoshi—the one you wounded, the one who retreated and swore vengeance?"
"Vaguely. That feels like years ago."
"It was three weeks ago. But much has changed for him." Enjō poured tea with steady hands. "When word spread that he had retreated from a single wounded foreign warrior, his reputation collapsed. The Ashikaga clan disowned him. His name was stripped away. His lands seized. He was cast out with nothing—no title, no wealth, no honor. Just shame."
"And he blames me."
"Of course. You didn't just defeat him. You destroyed his entire life. He has spent these weeks living in poverty districts, mocked by those he once commanded, forced into banditry to survive. They say he weeps in corners when the bullying becomes too much. That the proud samurai lord has been reduced to something pathetic."
"That's not my fault. I just defended myself." "True. But he doesn't see it that way. To him, you are the demon who stole everything—honor, identity, purpose. And today, he gets his chance at revenge. Or death. I suspect he no longer distinguishes between them."
Sekitanki absorbed this. "So the final match is against someone who has nothing to lose."
"Against someone who wants to die, but wants you to die first. The most dangerous opponent—not skill or strength, but absolute desperation." Enjō's voice softened. "You two are alike, in ways. Both cast out. Both fighting for reasons that transcend survival. Both damaged beyond what bodies should sustain."
"Except he had everything and lost it. I had nothing and found... something. We're not the same."
"Perhaps. But in that arena, your similarities will matter more than your differences." The preparation area felt like a tomb.
Kanemoto worked in silence, checking Sekitanki's blade one final time. The old smith's hands trembled—not from age, but from emotion he couldn't quite name. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick:
"I have forged many blades in my life. Hundreds. But only one that I knew would make history. This blade—your blade—will be remembered long after we are dust. Win or lose today, you have already changed what Japanese smithing can achieve."
"That supposed to comfort me?" "No. But it is true. And truth should be spoken before endings." Takeda entered, his expression grave. "I watched Tadayoshi's warm-up. He fights like a being possessed. No technique. No form. Just rage and desperation. He has abandoned everything he was taught in favor of pure violence."
"So he fights like I do." "No. You fight with survival instinct refined by experience. He fights with death wish disguised as revenge. There is difference. Survival wants to continue. Revenge only wants to end things."
Yuki appeared at the entrance, and for once, her composed expression had cracked. "Tadayoshi-san was once a friend. We trained together as children. He was kind, then. Before pride consumed him." She paused. "What you did to him—stripping away his identity—it broke something fundamental. He is no longer the samurai I knew. Just a ghost wearing a familiar face."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Doesn't matter. Intent is irrelevant when consequences are absolute." Her voice hardened. "But know this: he will try to kill you. Not wound. Not defeat. Kill. He has already decided that if he cannot have his old life back, then he will take yours. Make certain you are prepared to match that commitment."
"I've been prepared to die since the Carboniferous. This is just another day."
"No," Yuki said quietly. "This is different. This is human killing human over concepts that matter only because we make them matter. This is what your era evolved beyond, yes? But we still live here. Still bleed for honor and shame. Your modern perspective won't protect you from his medieval rage."
The final drum sounded. One hour had become minutes had become now.
Sekitanki stood, testing his weight one last time. The physician stepped forward with fresh bandages, wrapping them tight enough to hurt, which meant tight enough to maybe hold together for one more fight. "Any final medical advice?" Sekitanki asked.
"Yes. Try not to die. It is bad for my professional reputation." "I'll do my best." "Your best has been improbable thus far. I suppose one more improbability won't surprise me." Sekitanki walked toward the arena entrance, each step a negotiation between will and failing flesh. Behind him, his unlikely companions—ronin, smith, priest, warrior—watched with expressions that mixed hope and resignation. Three weeks ago I was alone in a laboratory, empty and dying slowly. Now I have people who care if I survive. That's something. Maybe that's everything. He entered the arena as sunrise painted everything in shades of red that reminded him too much of blood.
TOURNAMENT - FINAL ROUND
The crowd's roar hit like physical force.
They'd come for spectacle. For conclusion. For the demon's final fight—whether it ended in his victory or his death, either outcome would be legendary.
Tadayoshi stood in the arena's center, and Sekitanki barely recognized him.
The proud samurai lord was gone. What remained was something feral. His hair hung loose and filthy. His clothes were rags. His armor was mismatched pieces scavenged from battlefields. His sword was chipped and poorly maintained.
But his eyes—his eyes burned with something beyond rage. Beyond hatred. Something that had passed through suffering and emerged as pure, distilled need to destroy the source of his pain.
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse from disuse and weeping: "Demon. You took everything. My name. My honor. My life. Do you even remember me? Do you remember what you destroyed?" "I remember defending myself. Remember you attacking innocent people. Remember you choosing pride over wisdom."
"PRIDE?" Tadayoshi's scream shattered across the arena. "You know nothing of pride. Nothing of what it means to build identity over decades, only to watch it collapse in minutes because of one mistake. One moment of weakness."
"Retreating from a fight you couldn't win wasn't weakness. It was intelligence." "It was SHAME! And shame is death for people like me. You foreign demon, you don't understand. In your mind, perhaps failure is acceptable. Here? Now? Failure means erasure. And you erased me."
Sekitanki understood, suddenly and completely. This wasn't about the fight. It had never been about the fight. This was about a figure whose entire identity had been built on a foundation of honor, watching that foundation crumble and taking his sense of self with it.
He's me. He's what I would have become if I'd stayed in my era. Empty. Defined entirely by external validation. Destroyed when that validation disappeared. "I'm sorry," Sekitanki said, and meant it. "I didn't intend to destroy you. I just wanted to survive."
"Your survival required my destruction. That is how the world works. And now, my resurrection requires yours." The referee raised his hand. "Final round. Combat continues until surrender or death. Begin when the hand falls."
Tadayoshi drew his chipped blade. His stance was wrong—years of training abandoned in favor of something primal. But his commitment was absolute. This was a samurai who had decided that death—his or Sekitanki's—was preferable to continuing the current existence.
The hand dropped. Tadayoshi screamed and charged. What followed was less duel than mutual destruction.
Tadayoshi fought with no defense. No technique. Just overwhelming aggression that cared nothing for his own safety. His blade came from every angle, each strike powerful enough to cleave through bone.
Sekitanki defended desperately, his damaged body barely keeping pace. This wasn't the calculated style of the Scholar or the perfect defense of the Iron Wall. This was raw violence that couldn't be predicted because it followed no logic.
Their blades met in a clash that sent shockwaves through Sekitanki's broken ribs. He gasped, felt something tear internally, tasted blood. I'm dying. Actually dying. This is the fight that ends me. Tadayoshi saw the blood on Sekitanki's lips and laughed—a broken, manic sound. "Yes! BLEED! Bleed like I've bled every day since you destroyed me! Feel what I feel!" He pressed the attack, forcing Sekitanki backward. Each strike came faster, harder, fueled by weeks of accumulated rage and shame.
Sekitanki's left arm—his only functional arm—trembled with exhaustion. His blade felt impossibly heavy. His vision blurred at the edges, consciousness beginning to fragment.
I can't win this. He's too desperate. Too willing to accept mutual death. And I'm too broken to stop him.
But then—a memory. The Carboniferous. The final centipede fight. The moment he'd reached inside the living creature to retrieve the oscillator. The understanding that sometimes survival meant doing the unthinkable.
He wants me to fight like a warrior. To give him honorable death in combat. To validate his rage by treating it with respect. So I won't. Sekitanki dropped his blade.
The crowd gasped. Tadayoshi froze mid-strike, confused. "What are you doing? FIGHT ME!" "No." "Pick up your sword!" "No."
Sekitanki stood, unarmed, bleeding, barely conscious. "I won't give you an honorable death. Won't validate your rage by treating this as legitimate combat. You want to kill me? Do it. Stab an unarmed enemy. Become the thing you claim to hate."
Tadayoshi's blade trembled. His face contorted with confusion and fury. "This isn't—you can't—FIGHT ME PROPERLY!" "There is no proper. There's just us. Two broken people who the universe damaged in different ways. Killing me won't restore what you lost. It'll just add more emptiness to emptiness." "I don't CARE! I just want the pain to STOP!"
"Then surrender. Walk away. Build something new instead of trying to resurrect what died." "I CAN'T! Don't you understand? I'm NOTHING without my honor! Without my name! I'm just—just—"
His voice broke. The proud samurai—the desperate bandit—the person who'd lost everything—stood there with his blade raised and tears streaming down his filthy face. "You're just human," Sekitanki said quietly. "Like me. Like everyone. Broken and trying to find reasons to continue. That's all any of us are."
Tadayoshi's blade lowered fractionally. "I wanted to die honorably. Fighting you. That was supposed to be my ending." "Screw honorable endings. Stay alive. Spite the universe that tried to break you. That's what I do. It's the only thing I know how to do."
They stood there—demon and fallen samurai, future and past, two impossibilities facing each other across an arena that had expected blood and was getting philosophy instead.
Finally, Tadayoshi's blade fell from nerveless fingers. He collapsed to his knees, sobbing openly, all pretense of warrior pride abandoned. "I surrender. To you. To fate. To whatever gods laugh at samurai like me." The referee's drum sounded. Final round: concluded.
The crowd was silent—shocked by an ending that violated every expectation.
Sekitanki stumbled forward, knelt beside Tadayoshi despite his body's screaming protests, and did something completely unprecedented: He embraced the person who'd tried to kill him.
"We're both still alive," he whispered. "That's victory enough." Later, as the physician worked to prevent Sekitanki from bleeding to death, Abbot Kenshin entered with solemn expression.
"You have completed the four rounds. Himura Yuki's honor is restored. She will live." He paused. "You have also earned the right to examine the Toki no Kagami. To attempt your return home."
"And Tadayoshi?" "What of him?" "He needs help. Not judgment. Not more punishment. Just... help." "He is disgraced—" "He's broken. There's a difference. If your shrine offers sanctuary to refugees, offer it to him. Please."
Kenshin studied Sekitanki for a long moment. "You are strange demon. You defeat people then try to save them. Very inefficient." "Efficiency is overrated. Kindness isn't." "Very well. We will offer him sanctuary. Attempt to rebuild what your presence destroyed."
"Thank you." After Kenshin left, Yuki approached. She bowed deeply—the first time she'd shown such respect. "You saved my life. And Tadayoshi's. And taught me something I had forgotten: that survival itself can be a form of victory."
"Don't thank me yet. I might still die from internal bleeding." "Then die knowing you changed things. That matters." As consciousness faded again, Sekitanki thought: Four rounds completed. Yuki lives. Tadayoshi gets a second chance. And tomorrow—tomorrow I'll finally see if going home is possible.
Not bad for someone who was supposed to die three weeks ago.
TO BE CONTINUED... [NEXT EPISODE: "The Time Core"]