The mountain shook around them.
Aurélie Nakano Takeko felt the waves of haki—the distant thunder of Mani's axe, the crack of Ember's explosions, the deep rumble of Ryokugyu's roots tearing the dock apart far below. But up here, on the slope of Mount Merlot, there was only the sword fight.
Her sword against his.
Anathema sang in her grip, its dark edge a harbinger of demise, its crimson runes pulsing like a heartbeat. Across from her, Topiaris Tidaltuff held Kalamaru with both hands, the cursed katana's amber serpent-head etchings writhed along the steel.
The Poodle Admiral's silver-white pompadour had held up remarkably well, she noted. Not a hair out of place. His white trousers remained unsoiled, his black shirt still pressed, his diamond-encrusted poodle charm reflecting the fractured sun that pierced through the canopy.
He looked perfect.
He was not fighting perfectly.
Kalamaru twitched in his grip—a violent spasm that nearly wrenched the blade from his hands. The ōdachi shifted, its edge blurring, and for a moment the three serpentine heads etched along the blade opend their eyes. Then it snapped back into focus, and Topiaris barely managed to parry Aurélie's follow-up strike.
Steel screamed against steel.
Aurélie's compound eyes—those iridescent insectoid orbs that covered half her face—tracked every micro-movement. She saw the way Topiaris's knuckles had gone white around the hilt. Saw the sweat beading on his forehead, ruining his flawless complexion. Saw the slight tremor in his sword arm that had nothing to do with fatigue.
"You struggle," she observed.
Her voice carried no mockery. Just fact. Like a biologist noting that a specimen was failing to thrive.
Topiaris's light blue eyes narrowed. He adjusted his grip on Kalamaru, and the blade hissed—a sound like a snake waking from deep sleep.
"My struggle," he said, flipping his silver-white hair out of his face with a practiced flick of his head, "is indistinguishable from my elegance. A common misconception."
The blade lunged.
Not Topiaris. The blade.
Kalamaru extended on its own, the ōdachi's reach stretching beyond what should have been possible. The serpent heads along its edge opened their stone jaws, and a spray of amber venom shot toward Aurélie's face.
She moved.
Her locust wings snapped open—translucent, veined, humming with trapped energy—and she launched backward, the venom splashing against the tree trunk where she had stood. The bark hissed and dissolved, turning to black sludge.
"That sword," Aurélie said, landing on a branch twenty feet away, "does not like you."
Topiaris yanked Kalamaru back into position. The blade shuddered in his hands, and for a second, one of the serpent heads turned and glare at him.
"Nonsense," Topiaris said, though his voice carried a thread of uncertainty. "Kalamaru and I have an understanding. I am its wielder. It is my tool. We share a mutual appreciation for—"
The blade twisted in his grip and nearly sliced his own arm off.
Topiaris dropped into a desperate roll, his white trousers collecting dirt and dead leaves. He came up with a grimace, patting at the smudge on his pants with obvious distress.
"—aesthetics," he finished weakly.
Aurélie tilted her head. Her compound eyes reflected his image a thousand times over.
"The curse is eating you," she said. "I can see it. The blade wants a master, and you are not him."
Topiaris's jaw tightened. For a moment, the mask slipped—the arrogance, the vanity, the theatrical performance—and she saw something raw beneath. Fear, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or the quiet terror of a man who had been given a weapon that would rather kill him than serve him.
"Kalamaru was a gift," he said, his voice quieter now. "From Vice Admiral Casimir himself. A blade of legend. A weapon worthy of—"
The sword lunged again.
This time, Topiaris was ready. He sidestepped, using the blade's own momentum to spin it in a wide arc, and when the serpent heads snapped at empty air, he drove the pommel into the flat of the blade with a sharp crack.
"Behave," he hissed.
Kalamaru vibrated angrily, then settled. For now.
Aurélie watched from her branch, Anathema resting across her knees. Her silver hair floated around her face in the mountain breeze, loose and unbound.
"You are fighting two enemies," she said. "Me. And your own weapon."
Topiaris straightened his collar. Fixed his cufflinks. Checked that his pompadour still held its shape.
"Nonsense," he said, forcing a smile. "I am simply warming up. A true artist must first wrestle with his materials before the masterpiece emerges."
He lunged.
Not the blade this time. Him. Topiaris moved with Soru-speed, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. Kalamaru came around in a horizontal arc, its edge whispering promises of dissolution.
Aurélie met him.
Anathema rose. The black blade caught the amber steel, and the impact sent a shockwave ripping through the branches around them. Leaves exploded into confetti. Birds scattered. The tree beneath them groaned.
They hung there for a moment, locked together, eye to eye.
Topiaris's blue eyes were wide, almost frantic. Aurélie's compound orbs reflected him a hundred times over, each reflection showing a different angle of his desperation.
"You are afraid," she said.
"I am motivated," he corrected. "Fear is for those who cannot afford custom tailoring."
He shoved her back, and they broke apart.
Kalamaru chose that moment to shift.
Not a partial transformation—the blade didn't grow serpent heads or sprout scales. Instead, it unfolded, the steel rippling like water, and three separate blades extended from the hilt. A trident of cursed steel, each prong glistening with venom.
Topiaris stared at his own weapon in horror.
"What—"
The blade struck.
Not at Aurélie. At him. One of the prongs curved backward and raked across his forearm, slicing through his white sleeve and drawing blood.
Topiaris yelped—an undignified sound that he would deny later—and threw the sword away.
Kalamaru clattered across the rocky ground, its three blades retracting, its serpent heads hissing. It came to rest against a moss-covered stone, and for a moment, it just lay there. Waiting.
Topiaris clutched his bleeding arm, staring at the weapon. His perfect white sleeve was ruined. Blood dripped onto his trousers. His pompadour had finally begun to sag.
Aurélie watched him.
"You cannot control it," she said. "It controls you."
Topiaris laughed. A sharp, brittle sound.
"I am Rear Admiral Topiaris Tidaltuff," he said. "Commander of G-12. The Rear Admiral of Vanity. I do not lose control. I simply... delegate authority."
He walked over to where Kalamaru lay. Bent down. Picked it up.
The blade hummed.
"Listen to me, you miserable excuse for a steel," Topiaris muttered, holding the ōdachi at eye level. "I have spent hours conditioning this pompadour. I have starched more shirts than you have killed men. I will not—I refuse—to let a temperamental reptile-possessed katana ruin my reputation."
Kalamaru vibrated.
"I am your wielder," Topiaris continued, his voice rising. "You are my tool. We are going to defeat this woman, retrieve the flag, and return to base in time for my four o'clock uniform pressing. Is that understood?"
The blade went still.
Then, slowly, the serpent heads along its edge seemed to nod.
Topiaris turned back to Aurélie, a manic grin on his face.
"You see?" he said. "We had a conversation. Like adults."
Aurélie's compound eyes narrowed.
"That thing is going to kill you," she said.
"Perhaps," Topiaris admitted, raising Kalamaru into a guard position. "But not today. Today, I have an appointment with a dry cleaner, and I refuse to be late."
He charged.
Kalamaru cooperated this time—the blade moving exactly where he wanted, the serpent heads staying dormant, the edge finding its mark. Aurélie parried, and Anathema shrieked against the cursed steel.
They traded blows—fast, brutal, economical. No wasted motion. No theatrical flourishes. Just two killers trying to end each other.
Topiaris's fencing background showed in his footwork, his economy of movement, his ability to find angles that shouldn't exist. Aurélie's locust training gave her inhuman flexibility, her wings allowing her to shift her center of gravity in ways that defied physics.
Back and forth across the rocky slope they went, Kalamaru and Anathema singing their deadly song.
A branch took Aurélie's weight as she vaulted backward. Topiaris pursued, his Soru carrying him through the air, his blade extended.
"Poodle Pressure Punch!" he shouted, and a puff of fur on his shoulder compressed and exploded, launching him forward faster than his legs could have managed.
Kalamaru stabbed toward her chest.
Aurélie's wings snapped shut, and she dropped.
The blade passed over her head, close enough to shear off a few strands of silver hair. She hit the ground in a crouch, swept her leg, and Topiaris crashed down beside her, his perfect white trousers now thoroughly ruined.
"Disgusting," he muttered, scrambling to his feet.
Aurélie rose with him, Anathema already swinging.
The black blade caught him across the chest—not deep enough to kill, but enough to draw blood through his shirt. Topiaris gasped, stumbled back, and Kalamaru chose that moment to twist in his grip.
The pommel slammed into his ribs.
His own weapon had just attacked him.
Topiaris coughed, dropped to one knee, and stared at the ōdachi with something like betrayal.
"Why?" he whispered.
Kalamaru's serpent heads turned toward Aurélie. The blade shifted, its edge blurring, and she saw the truth in that motion.
"It's not you it hates," she said quietly. "It's her."
She pointed with Anathema's tip toward the distant dock, where Marya's mist still swirled.
"That sword was held by someone who wanted to kill Marya Zaleska. It was given to you as a tool for that purpose. But you are not its master. You are its transport."
Topiaris looked down at Kalamaru. The blade trembled in his hands.
"I am a Rear Admiral of the Marines," he said, his voice cracking. "I am someone."
Aurélie said nothing.
Topiaris stood up. His pompadour had collapsed entirely now, silver-white strands falling across his face. His uniform was torn, bloody, stained with dirt and grass. His diamond-encrusted poodle charm had come loose and now dangled by a thread.
He looked terrible.
He looked human.
"You think I don't know?" he asked, his voice quiet. "You think I can't feel it? This thing—this cursed, wretched thing—it whispers to me. It shows me my parents. Their faces. The way they looked at me before they died. Like I was nothing. Like I was always nothing."
Kalamaru hissed.
"But I am not nothing," Topiaris said. "I am Topiaris Tidaltuff. Commander of G-12. The Admiral of Vanity. And I will not be discarded like a cheap suit."
He raised the blade.
Kalamaru went still.
For the first time since the fight began, the cursed ōdachi seemed to listen.
"I don't need you to love me," Topiaris told it. "I don't even need you to respect me. But you will obey me. Because I am the one holding you. I am the one who decides where you go. And right now, we are going to win."
He turned to Aurélie.
"Ready?"
Aurélie raised Anathema. Her compound eyes reflected his face—tired, bloody, desperate, but something else too. Something that looked like steel.
"I am always ready," she said.
They charged.
Kalamaru met Anathema in the center of the clearing, and the mountain shook with the impact.
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