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Here was the thing about Shuten-dōji that most people got wrong.
They looked at her—the warm smile, the languid voice, the "oh my~ oh my~" routine—and they read her as someone who was mostly performance. An Assassin who led with aesthetics and backed it up with a skill that turned people's brains off. Devastating in ambush. Less terrifying in a sustained engagement.
This was incorrect.
Because underneath all of it, Shuten-dōji had no particular wishes. No great ambitions. No burning grievances against the world that needed redressing through a Holy Grail. She'd lived the same way in legend as she did now—as she pleased, when she pleased, because she pleased. Fine wine. Beautiful people. Objects that were rare and elegant and deserving of appreciation.
She wasn't fighting to win anything.
She was fighting because she was enjoying herself.
And that made her significantly more dangerous than someone with something to prove.
[Spiraling]: How is she STILL so attractive while dodging like ten guided missiles?
[NeedHelp]: I genuinely need to step away from this stream and re-evaluate some things about myself.
[Realist]: Calling him "My Master" one second and swinging a world-ending slash the next. She's going to give someone whiplash.
[Concerned]: Is it funny though? Because I just watched a Master almost get killed and another Master completely lose his mind. This is fine.
The honest assessment: Derek was useless.
Shuten-dōji had bought him time, space, and multiple opportunities to actually contribute something to this fight—and he'd spent all of it sprinting in a straight line with his head down, occasionally looking back with the expression of a man trying to calculate whether he could outrun physics.
He could not outrun physics.
Maverick, who had a kill-steal grudge and an unobstructed sight line, made sure of that.
The submachine gun came out—conservation of ammo out the window now, this was personal—and a burst of fire stitched across Derek's back and legs before he could find better cover. The man went down screaming, crawling behind a collapsed section of wall, bleeding but functional. Not dead. Aggravating.
Maverick moved to press the advantage.
The cold hit him before he heard her.
It arrived in the base of his skull—a wrongness, an absence of warmth that had no business existing at that angle—and every combat instinct he'd spent years developing screamed move in perfect unison.
He was already spinning when Shuten-dōji's blade completed its arc.
Five Times Acceleration.
It didn't matter.
The distance was too short. The speed was too high. There was no version of this where he got out of the way in time, and he knew it the moment the cold registered, and he was already cataloguing which direction was least bad when—
Clang.
Metal on metal. Sharp and clean, close enough that he felt the shockwave in his chest.
Max had appeared in front of him.
He was holding a steel pipe that looked like it had been improvised from the surrounding debris, and the impact of blocking Shuten-dōji's full swing at close range had driven him down to one knee. The pipe was bent. His arm was shaking. His expression was serene in the specific way of someone who had made a decision and was fully committed to the consequences.
"Hey." He straightened up, keeping the bent pipe raised. "Shuten-dōji. You literally just told me to keep my eyes on you." A pause. "What happened to that? You're already looking for someone else? I'm hurt."
Shuten-dōji blinked.
The killing intent retreated approximately two millimeters, replaced by something that might have been amusement.
"Ara~ ara~" she said. "My Master is jealous."
"Incredibly jealous," Max confirmed. "Devastated, actually. Now stop trying to kill my new friend."
"Hmm~" She tilted her head, the sword still raised, crimson eyes half-lidded. "Then I'll settle for digging out your heart and eating it instead. Would that make you feel better?"
"It would not."
[Running_Commentary]: HERO SAVES THE HORSE. This is a hero saving the horse situation. Someone please confirm.
[Screaming]: Max just blocked a Strength A blow with a STEEL PIPE and then STARTED FLIRTING TO BUY TIME.
[Tactical]: He's not flirting, he's stalling for Medea to reposition—
[Screaming_Louder]: HE'S DOING BOTH.
[MaverickPOV]: Maverick in the back: why don't YOU go solo the Servant if you're so brave?
[AnswerToThat]: I am not brave. I am a coward with opinions.
Medea was already repositioning. Max didn't need to look—he could feel the magical energy cycling up behind him, the circuits aligning, the targeting calculation running. He had approximately four seconds.
He used them.
The pipe slid along Shuten-dōji's blade in a controlled deflection—not a block, a redirect, burning off the momentum rather than absorbing it—and the follow-up was a kick, straight to her midsection, all of Max's weight behind it.
She absorbed it better than she should have. Took two steps back, robe swirling, and looked at him with renewed interest.
Right. The Count's swordsmanship. He'd forgotten he had that—the muscle memory, the technique library, the complete tactical vocabulary of someone who'd fought with a blade for decades. It wasn't power that had landed the kick. It was the angle, the timing, the precise exploitation of the moment her weight had shifted forward.
She'd noticed.
Her smile changed quality.
"Oh~" Very softly. "You actually know what you're doing."
"Little bit," Max said, and threw the pipe at her face.
It was not a graceful move. It was extremely effective. The pipe connected with her nose with a satisfying thunk, and the half-second of disruption it bought was all he needed to get his hand to the S686 at his hip.
He pressed it against her stomach.
Eye contact. Zero distance. The gun barrel cold against the fabric of her robe.
Max had one thought, and it was: Medea made these bullets. They are not ordinary bullets.
"Ma'am," he said, with complete sincerity.
He pulled the trigger.
"Eat dirt."
[BOOMROASTED]: EAT DIRT. HE SAID EAT DIRT.
[Screaming]: THE SHOTGUN TO THE STOMACH AT POINT BLANK RANGE—
[ShutenvFans]: MY WIFE. MY POOR WIFE.
[TacticsNerd]: The German sword saint technique. Pull out the gun mid-sword-duel. Classic.
[MedKitPlease]: She's going to be fine she's going to be fine she's going to be fine—
[Chaos]: IS SHE FINE??
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