AKAME ASSASINATION (57)
COMET YEAR 4984 — THE BIRTH OF TWINS
Jessica came first. Her hair, a shock of silver-white even at birth, and her piercing blue eyes were immediate proof of the potent Blight lineage. Minutes later, her brother Neil followed—a quieter, more observant child, his dark hair and sharp, analytical gaze a perfect mirror of their father.
COMET YEAR 4992 — THE AFFINITY TEST
From a young age, the Blight household knew Neil was different. The standard Vatican flame test, used to determine a sorcerer's innate affinity, yielded not one, but two distinct colors when his chi was channeled through it. This wasn't just rare; it was a statistical anomaly. It suggested not a "Specialist" blend, but two separate, parallel affinities warring for dominance within a single soul.
COMET YEAR 4996 — THE PRODIGY'S GAMBIT
His arrival in the Land of the East Sun was not a homecoming—it was an invasion. Neil, a half-blood with an English name and Blight ruthlessness in his veins, applied to join the Five Swords. The outrage was instant. The Swords were not just warriors; they were cultural icons, the soul of the nation given steel. An outsider had no right.
But Neil didn't seek permission. He sought a vacuum. He trained with a terrifying, obsessive focus, aiming for the one position he knew was symbolically empty: the First Sword.
The Sword Master, an ancient man who saw decades in a glance, watched the boy's relentless pursuit. When the traditionalists demanded the title go to his own daughter—who had publicly and repeatedly refused it—the Master silenced them with a single, earth-shattering pronouncement:
"He can have my place. Let him be the First Sword."
The decree was a shockwave. It was a betrayal of tradition, a slap to the pureblood elite. The Master defended it simply: "His sword has no equal. If you dispute it, dispute it with me."
The opposition crumbled. The House of Blight's influence skyrocketed overnight. They now had a foot in the most prestigious martial institution outside the Vatican itself.
Neil had climbed the mountain. He had the title, the power, the respect. Yet, one hollow wish remained in his heart:
'I wish I could show you. I wish you could see this sword and acknowledge that the one who took your place… was worthy of it. Akame Saikyo.'
To Neil, Akame wasn't just a predecessor or a criminal. He was the only other person in the world who understood what it meant to be an outsider clawing for recognition at the very peak. He was the ghost Neil needed to lay to rest.
***
PRESENT DAY — EAST SUN CULTURAL CENTER
"How dare you walk around wearing that face?" Neil's voice was cold, sharp as the swords on his back. He stepped onto the balcony railing, balancing with effortless grace, his blue eyes burning with a contempt that felt deeply personal. "How dare you impersonate my predecessor?"
'Predecessor?' Akame's thought was a calm, detached ripple in the tension. 'Is he talking about… me?'
"I'll take the hottie with the purple hair," Jessica whispered, not to her brother, but to the air itself, as if stating a simple fact. Then she was gone—not in a blur, but in a skip of reality.
She reappeared behind Gil, her massive maul already in a downward, crushing arc. "I feel bad," she said, her voice flat, her face an emotionless mask. "I have to ruin your cute face."
The maul descended—and met not flesh, but a waiting palm.
THUD.
Akame stood where Gil had been, his hand clenched around the maul's thick metal head. The impact didn't even shudder through his arm.
Jessica's pixelated composure flickered into genuine surprise.
"Well," Akame said, his tone almost conversational. "This is a weird way to say hello."
She vanished again. This time, she reappeared above and behind him, the maul moving with impossible, weighted speed. The blow connected with a sound like a wrecking ball hitting a pillar.
BOOM.
Akame was launched across the hall, crashing through a display case of ceremonial helmets and slamming into a solid marble column. Dust and debris bloomed around him.
'What is that technique?' he mused, pushing himself up from the rubble, dusting off his jacket. 'It's not just speed. It's… dislocation.'
Gil, meanwhile, was still processing. He had sensed the killing intent, seen the flicker, but his body hadn't been able to react. The speed was inhuman.
Jessica materialized in front of him again, hefting the giant maul as if it were a broomstick. "It weighs one hundred kilograms," she stated, perhaps noting the stunned calculation in his eyes.
"That's… pretty heavy," Gil managed, his mind racing.
"It is."
Her movements were wrong. Not clumsy, but economical in a way that bypassed normal physiology. It was as if gravity and inertia were suggestions she only sometimes chose to follow.
Her next swing was a horizontal sweep meant to bisect him. Gil raised his right arm, reinforcing it with a crackling shell of Fragment Energy.
CRACK!
The impact didn't break his arm, but it lifted him off his feet and sent him skidding backward across the polished floor, his boots screeching.
She gave him no quarter. She was already closing the distance, a silver-haired phantom of relentless force.
Gil's mind clicked into a higher gear. He couldn't match her unnatural motion, but he could read the source. He concentrated, pushing F.E. into his eyes. The world gained a new layer: he could see the flow of her energy. It was a sleek, tight aura, clinging to her body and weapon like a second skin—a perfect enhancement technique.
'She's reinforcing herself and the maul simultaneously. No wasted energy. Pure efficiency.'
In contrast, his own aura was a wild, spiking corona of blue static, leaking power like a broken generator.
'His fragment energy is… violent,' Jessica observed, her own combat intellect whirring. 'Spiked. Electrically charged. That must be his—'
She never finished the thought.
ELECTROSTATIC POTENTIAL DIFFERENCE!
In the space between one nanosecond and the next, the hundred-kilogram maul vanished from her grip. In the same impossible moment, Gil occupied the space where her weapon had been, his body carried by a surging current of his own lightning.
His fist, wrapped in snapping blue energy, drove upward.
SMACK!
The punch connected squarely with her lower jaw. Her head snapped to the side with a sharp, sickening sound. For the first time, her emotionless mask shattered into pure, stunned shock.
She staggered back, her eyes refocusing on him through the ringing in her skull.
Gil stood poised, fists still crackling, his breathing steady. His eyes held no taunt, no boast—only absolute, unwavering resolve.
"I don't plan on losing," he said.
Not to her. Not to anyone. Not today.
TO BE CONTINUED!