It was dark when she awoke. She gasped, and air rushed in to her empty lungs. She moved her hands, and they rubbed against dirt. The small rocks cut at her skin, and the tiny particles clogged her pores. Bound between the minerals were signs of life – tiny bugs, aging fecal matter, dead skin cells. This was the darkness of the night, not the empty darkness.
She scrambled on the ground. Her muscles ached, unused for centuries. She fought the urge to scream and reached about until her fingers closed on a small rock. She picked it up and held it carefully. It was not a rock of any importance or meaning. But it existed, and that meant she did, too.
There were tasks yet undone. It was time for the hunt to begin. The last false hunt. And she was the hunter.
A quick gust of wind raced through the catacombs, and the torch flickered and died. Marie Collard cursed in the darkness. She could find her way back to the bustling streets of Paris above easily enough, but even though she sometimes referred to the tunnels as home, they were always something unnerving about the darkness. It seemed to gnaw at her bones, sucking away at her lifeforce. She was sure it was her imagination, but a lifetime of trusting her instincts to survive wouldn't let her ignore it.
She was fumbling through her pockets for an emergency flashlight when something bit her hand. She yelped and spun about in the darkness, ready to fight. The rats weren't usually this aggressive. Her hand continued to burn, and she realized it was glowing faintly. She could see the red shapes in the darkness, an intricate pattern of ruby swirls woven together in a triangular knot. They were definitely on her hand – they moved when she waved it, leaving a soft trail in the air. The design flared brightly, and then vanished, leaving her in the dark again. It was not a rat bite.
She exhaled slowly and took a succession of deep, slow breaths. The dark liked to mess with her head, but never that badly. "What," she asked, "Was that supposed to be."
"Perhaps if you could manage a light, I could explain," answered the darkness.
She jumped back, straight into the wall. Her head smashed through the edge of a rotting coffin, and she collapsed to the floor.
"Now you've done it," said Handa Madazuri.
Kiriyama's smile could have brought down nations. "I know. Isn't it amazing?"
Handa rubbed his forehead. "They'll expel us for sure this time."
The Occult Studies club met in the geography room. It was a small classroom covered wall to wall by intricate and detailed maps. Kiriyama Mako had covered it was at least two buckets of paint. Handa frowned as his eyes tried to follow the shape. She had clearly been trying to make some sort of summoning circle, but had miscalculated. The outer circle ran out of space of the floor and ran up onto the walls. She hadn't bothered to move the maps out of the way. Strange glyphs were distorted out of proportion, bent in fit around the few desks and cabinets.
"See!" Kiriyama waved a book in his face, and he could indeed see the diagram she had attempted to make.
"The summoning of Servants," he read.
"That doesn't sound too dangerous." The third member of the club had arrived. He leaned casually against the doorframe and eyed the circle warily, "Though that's an awful lot of glyphs for a simple spell."
"It's a full ritual!" said Kiriyama. She started flipping pages faster than Handa could read them. He thought he saw the word 'war' a few times, but he couldn't be sure. "It's not just a homunculus, it'll summon a real hero!"
"And also it's magic," noted Handa, "which isn't real, so it will do nothing but ruin the last room in the school we're allowed to use. How you imagine they'll make us make up for this one?"
Kiriyama sniffed and tossed the book aside. "We've clean it up when we're done. Let's get something to eat until this draws, then you'll see. They won't say anything when we have our own magical Servant."
When she opened her eyes, nothing changed. Marie blinked thrice in confusion, then remembered she was in the tunnels. The pitch black seemed somehow darker than before. She reached for her flashlight, but scraped her hand across the rocky wall.
"Good," said the darkness, "You're awake."
She stopped moving. "Who are you?" she asked, "How long have I been unconscious. What did you do?"
"One and a time, please."The voice spoke calmly, but it was very precise. Something about the tone made it seem important.
Marie swallowed and blinked again, uselessly. "Who are you?"
"My name.." the speaker paused, "I am called Lancer. That should suffice."
"That's a strange name."
"What were you expecting, Saber? I'm better anyway." The speaker seemed insulted. Marie wished she could see.
Her hand finally closed around the flashlight in her pocket. She clicked it on and off, but nothing happened. It must have broken when she hit the wall. "I don't suppose you have a light?" she asked.
Almost immediately, a pale red light began to fill the cavern, dancing down the walls and flickering from skull to skull. The speaker – Lancer – was leaving against the wall opposite. The first thing she noticed was how tall he was – almost two meters, and he wasn't even standing upright. The second was his clothes, if they could even be called that. He was wrapped in metal, like some form of ancient armor. A heavy red cloak pooled at his sandalled feet. He carried a spear, the metal point of which seemed to be the source of the red light, though it didn't appear to have any sort of electric power.
"How are you doing that?" asked Marie.
"The light?" Lancer shrugged. His cloak shifted and rippled in the weird glow. "It's a simple charm. Do you not know it?"
Marie shook her head. "No. I mean, I have a flashlight, but that's not a normal light. What do you mean by charm?"
Lancer frowned. "I'm starting to get the impression that you're not a particularly skilled magus." Marie stared at him blankly. "Your collection is quite impressive though. I do wonder how you acquired it with such rudimentary talents. Your presence on the battlefield must be tremendous."
"Beg pardon?"
"It's rather bleak, though. You cold use a decorator, if you don't mind my saying so."
Marie took a moment to parse the stranger's intentions. "I don't live here. Not most of the time anyway."
"These aren't your-"
"Not my skeletons."
Lancer said something in a language she didn't recognize, probably a curse. "I'm beginning to rethink some of my assumptions. This whole process is rather disorienting." He stood up, but we forced to slouch again under the low ceiling as he walked toward Marie. He placed his spear point down and knelt in front of her. "I ask you – are you my master?"
"Sorry?"
"Are you the magus who summoned me to participate in the Holy Grail War?"
"What's a-"
Lancer held up a hand to cut her off and stood up. "I have a bad feeling about this. Please tell me you're not going to ask me what the Holy Grail War is."
"I wasn't going to," said Marie.
"Promise?"
"Promise." Lancer looked at her expectantly. "What's a magus?"
"Donald!" Donald Waterman was trying to sleep. The jet lag was bad enough, but the drinking on top of it had been too much. He decided to ignore his name.
"Donald!" Someone was pounding on the door of his hotel room. He rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head, but the pounding continued.
"Donald!" He hurled his pillow at the noise. Instead of crashing into the wall with a satisfying thump, the lightly fluffed pillow floated softly to the slid and slid away.
Donald rolled out of bed and shuffled over to the door. "Worryawant," he murmured, opening it slightly.
It was Rudolph Thorn, the magician. Also known as Rudolf Thorn the Magnificent, also known as Rudolph Thorn, his boss, or, unfortunately, Rudolph Thorn, the idiot. "Oh good, you're awake."
"No thanks to you."
Rudolph ignored the remarked and lifted the security latch, letting himself into the room. "You're a good man, Donald," he said. Donald groaned. This always signaled the start of some long speech. "Always there when I need you, always ready to help. I really appreciate it, you know."
"Of course," said Donald. He glanced at his desk to make sure he hadn't accidentally left any notes out. It was clear.
"And you are without doubt the brightest man I've ever met. Have I ever told you that?" He had, usually right before he asked for money. Or worse, a favor. The magician began to walk around the room, kicking aside the pillow. "That's actually why I'm here. At the moment, I mean, not philosophically speaking or anything. You see, I need your help. I can trust you, right?"
"What do you want?" Every thing about Donald's expression, posture, and tone suggested that the real meaning of his words was 'No.' Rudolph didn't notice.
"Answers, Donald. I am troubled, my old friend, by a great many things, many, many, things."
"Start with the most important," said Donald, "I'd like to get breakfast before noon."
"Oh, it shouldn't take nearly that long. I need a new trick, Donald. We've been running the same show for three months now. I'm bored!"
"It's a four month tour. That's sort of the point.
"But that can't make people happy," the magician protested, "It will seem stale! They've seen it all before."
"That's why it's a world tour. They probably haven't heard of you on this side of the planet, anyway." Rudolph blanched, so Donald quickly decided to change gears. "Maybe let's start with the easy questions instead, shall we?"
The magician smiled. "I knew I liked you for a reason, Donald. You make excellent plans. The easiest question... that would be, I think, why do I have such a horrid headache?"
"Jet lag. Or more likely the thirteen daiquiris you had in the lobby last night. Probably both."
"Is that so? Remind not to do that again." Donald always reminded him. It never worked out, so sometimes he got him drunk fast enough that Rudolph passed out before he got into any trouble. Last night was not one of those times.
"Next question, then. Why am I wearing women's clothing"
"Same answer, plus a bet you made with a rather sketchy looking German. You should probably take those off." He caught his mistake just in time. "In your room, on your own time, when we're done talking. Next question."
"Why do I have a tattoo on my hand?"
"Same answer." Donald paused. He don't remember any tattooing incidents. "Actually, let me see that." He grabbed Rudolph's hand. A strange tattoo stretched from the back of his palm up beyond his wrist. Three red curves ran along the central finger bones, then entangled each other before flattening out into a band over his forearm. Donald sensed the power and quickly let go. It was the sign of a master, a design worked by the Holy Grail itself, not any mortal tattoo parlor.
He hadn't expected it this soon. Still, he had been preparing for this day long enough. "You should really quit drinking," he smiled at Rudolph, "I'm sure we can get it taken care of. It gives him an idea of a trick, though. Give me some time to work out the details, and maybe we can have it ready by the time we hit Tokyo. Wear a glove, for now. We wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."
It was evening in Fuyuki City. The sun had already vanished behind the horizon, but the buzzing street lamps kept the city lit for those who did their business in the night. But not all men flock to the light, and some business is best left in the shadow.
Takanashi Hayao had such business. He was sitting in a dead-end alley, watching the brief flickers of car lights as they passed by. Their drivers did not notice, or did not care, about the unmoving figure.
A police car raced by, sirens ablaze. Takanashi twitched slightly, a short jerk of his left elbow that broke the motionless facade. The car disappeared into the night, off on its way to some catastrophe or another, and Takanashi relaxed again.
Six more cars passed the alley's entrance. The cloud cover that had engulfed the city all week finally gave way to rain, and Takanashi began to think his contact was never going to come.
A motorcycle squealed to a stop in front of the alley, throwing up water from a freshly formed puddle. Three more slid into formation around it. All four riders were wearing the same black jackets, embroidered with a red dragon insignia.
"You're late," he said, rising to his feet.
The lead rider removed his helmet. He had a squat face with a scowl that was probably permanent. "And you're short. Do you have our payment?"
"Do you have my gun?"
The man jerked his head to the side. The second biker dismounted and handed him a metal suitcase. He tossed it onto the ground in front of Takanashi.
Takanashi stepped forward to pick it up, and in doing so stepped into the light. He was young, only a high-schooler, and quite slim.
"Is this some kind of joke?" asked the biker, "Sending some kid?" He drew a pistol. "Maybe I oughta send a message about respect."
Takanashi looked up at him, and the biker saw his eyes. The right one, that one was normal. It was the left one that struck fear into a weapons dealer. A huge jagged scar formed an X over the socket, which had been filled with an emerald. The green gem glinted with more light than was shined on it. Takanashi smiled. It was a hunter's grin.
The biker pulled the trigger. A bullet shot from his gun, hurled by the explosive force. It swam through the air, hurtling along its deadly trajectory. A light flashed, and that trajectory was just. The bullet embedded itself in the asphalt, impaled by a blue-fletched arrow. The biker looked on in shock as the missile vanished in a shower of blue sparks.
A figure coalesced into reality. He remained in the dark alley, but was impossible to overlook. The rain didn't seem to hit him, rather, it cascaded off a barrier about an inch around his imposing form. The vanished arrow reappeared in his hand, and his nocked it on his massive bow.
"Don't waste the ammo, Archer," said Takanashi, "They aren't worth the trouble. I'll take the leader, you can eat the rest."
The dark silhouette nodded, then vanished again. Rain filled in the outline where he had stood.
The bikers began to whimper. They tried to reach for their weapons, but slumped to their knees instead.
"Well," said Takanashi, "You were trying to have me killed, weren't you?"
The lead biker howled with rage and charged at the boy. Takanashi side-stepped the first punch and swept his legs out from under him. The man fell into a puddle. Choking on water, he tried to scramble to his feet. Takanashi kicked him in the back and slammed his head into the ground. The man gurgled once, and then was silent.
"You can have this one, too, if you want," Takanashi said.
"No good, "said Archer, "He's already gone."
Takanashi looked closer, and saw the man's blood was already turning the street water red. He pocketed the man's gun, then picked up the briefcase. He spared a glance toward still figures collapsed near their bikes and sighed. "I hope our real enemies show up soon," he mused, "This is beginning to get boring."
Life as a professor at the Clock Tower was a life of trifling business and miniscularities. It was not a life that suited Worthington Dragoon Verlangien in the slightest. The mountainous man took up a full third of his office, the remainder of which was festooned with vials and sieves, bubbling with unnaturally colored fluids. A small desk existed in the far corner, untouched save for piles of ignored papers stacked haphazardly on top of more papers.
Verlangien watched a small pipette drip blue potions into a steaming vat. He was so engrossed in his wait that the knocking on the door lasted a solid minute before his frustrated assistant shoved it open anyway.
Burke was small for a normal man, and doubly so next to Verlangien's bulk. His natural cringing posture enhanced the effect even more, allowing the man to become almost invisible. He was a rather poor sort of magus, but he was born to be a toady. "You'll be wanting to see this, sir," he said, proferring a rolled tube.
Verlangien grumbled, but did not turn away from his instruments. "Is it important?"
"Extremely," hissed Burke, "I dare say it's the most important thing I've ever seen."
"Is it more important than the dissolution of the Amethyrn Compact?" A spot of blue plinked into the vat and sizzled into purple smoke. "I'm very busy."
"It concerns the Holy Gr-"
The tube was torn from his hands before Burke finished the word. Verlangien unrolled it, revealing a rather gaudy poster. A young and far-too-perky looking idol was apparently on tour. The only English word on the poster was Nika – the Japanese script meant nothing to him, at least until he could find a potion of comprehension. He doubted very much they would say anything of import – the numerous pink stars asserted that Verlangien was not part of the idol's target demographic.
"Is this a jest?" asked Verlangien. Then he saw it. The fiery tattoo on her left hand, the red triangle mark. "A command spell," he whispered.
Burke nodded enthusiastically.
"It's far too early. Are you sure it's not an unfortunate tattoo?"
"I thought you'd say that." The toady produced a wad a newspaper clippings from his coat pocket and tries to unfold them. "Strings of gas leaks and missing persons in Fuyuki City. Far too many to be coincidence."
"Where did you get these?"
"You had me reading the girl's mail. The thought she ought not to see these."
"Excellent work. We are already behind, though. Bring me the relic and prepare the ritual immediately" Burke turned to leave, but Verlangien clamped down on his shoulder with a massive hand, "And arrange a fake newspaper to deliver to the girl. We can't have her growing suspicious."
Donald Waterman threw a blanket over the girl's corpse just a Rudolph Thorn burst into the back room. The magician was fresh from his act and dripping sweat through his finest tuxedo. "It worked!" he gushed, "Donald, it really worked!"
"Of course it worked," said the magician's assistant, "I wouldn't give you a bad trick."
"That's not what I meant." Rudolph was full of energy, gesticulating wildly. "It's real. You gave me a real magic spell."
"Well, you are a magician," remarked Donald. "Shut the door."
Rudolph knocked the door with an outstretched arm and it swung shut. The distant murmur of the crowd was cut off.
Donald glanced at the body and made sure it was hidden. "May I see it" he asked.
Rudolph nodded energetically, and a swarm of blue light coalesced behind the magician. The figure that formed was muscular, yet slim, clad in leather and furs. Ornate chains of silver were draped around his neck. His face looked rather like a hawk, piercing eyes over a large nose.
Donald bowed ostentatiously. "Greetings, Rider. I apologize for the unorthodox methods of your summoning. I hope you will find this world to your liking."
"A world where charlatans command such armies?" intoned the servant, "I think I will find it much to my liking indeed."
"Perhaps," said Donald, "Though armies of commoners are of little consequence in our game."
"Game?" Rudolph interrupted, "What game? Oh, you must tell me, Donald. This sounds like such great fun!
Saber narrowed his eyes. "He does not know?"
"I had intended to summon you myself," said Donald, "When my friend received the command spells instead, well, I did what I could."
"I see," nodded Rider, "You plan treachery. Should I slay you now?"
"He won't let you," Donald looked the servant in the eye/ "I suppose you if you wanted to make him burn command spells, you could try, but it will make things the worse for you. I'm his best friend."
"You're my only friend."
"I know." Donald smiled softly and leaned in closer to Rider. "And I know you already know how terrible it is to be without a master. I'm sure having a powerful, unattached magus nearby could have its advantages."
Rider nodded. "I suppose it might. I wish there was such a man. For now, you and I must impress upon my master the importance of our cause and the role he must take up."
Marie curled up on an airport bench and tried to clear her head. She had traveled the length and breadth of Europe by train, but flying all the way to Japan was something else entirely. She didn't trust herself to stand up, much less fight in this war that Lancer spoke of. "This is hopeless," she sighed.
A heavily tanned foreigner sat down next her. "Don't say that," he said. His accent was strange, vaguely Russian, but not quite. "Why would you say a thing like that?"
Marie tried to sit up and be polite. She had to drape one arm over the back of the bench to hold herself upright. "Long story," she said,
"I've got time."
"I'm in this game, of sorts." She couldn't escape the conversation, but she didn't think telling a complete stranger about a death match for a mystical artifact was a good idea. "The odds are long, and I'm betting more than I want to on it."
The man nodded sagely. "I've been there. It's not fun to be there, but if you win, well, that's why you got in there in the first place isn't it? Focus on that."
That was it, of course. The Holy Grail. That was the grand prize, that was what Lancer had been summoned into existence for. It wasn't so much that she wanted anything from it, but just to be able to see it, to prove it existed, that would justify everything. To actually be able to claim it was unimaginable. "I suppose you're right," she said. "Thanks. I feel better now." She straightened her neck and held out her hand. "I'm Marie. Marie Collard."
The stranger took her hand and she gasped. "Charmed," he said. Marie felt nauseous, like she was back on the plane, only this time dangling upside-down in the cargo hold while the pilot flew loops. "A word of advice," the man continued, "Don't act so down in front of Lancer. He might decide to abandon you for a better master." He dropper her hand and stepped away into the crowd.
Marie stuttered, "Wait, what?" She leaped to her feet and started after him, but the man had completely disappeared.
When she got back to the bench, Lancer was standing by her spot, holding a pair of drinks. He had traded his ancient armor for a brown casual suit, and looked almost fitting among the throngs of international businessmen. His size, however, was undisguisable, and he drew several glances from passers by.
"That," he said, "Was Assassin. The only reason you're not dead is because the war hasn't officially started yet. Even he has to play by the rules." He handed her her drink. "I know you're new at this, but you need to be more careful."
"Started?"
"The war doesn't begin until all the servants are summoned."
"When will that bad."
"Soon, I should think. Magic is not my strong suit. I would guess there's only one more spot left."
Caster stood on the roof of the banking building of Fuyuki City. It was five stories taller than the nearby skyscrapers, and afforded him an excellent view of the moonlit town. "It's a beautiful view, isn't it?" he said, "Thousands and thousands of people walking around, working, playing, breeding. Living out their own, tiny stories. They don't seem to fear death at all. Not at all like in our day, is it, Rider?"
"No." Rudolph Thorn's Servant materialized next to him. "'Tis a wondrous thing."
"Hardly," Caster chuckled, which turned into a raspy cough. "They do not fear death because they do not know it. This is a city of fools, not heroes.
"There are heroes in it now."
"Yes, to fight in this... game. That is no act of heroism, only greed. I will tell you straight, I have no desire of the Grail. I have held, still hold, power enough for one man."
"Then I have one less foe to face on the battlefield. Would you care to formally surrender?"
"You misunderstood me." Caster folded his hands inside his robes. "I came here tonight because I wanted to see you. I want to make sure the Grail goes to one who deserves it. I fear for the safety of this world if a man such as you should touch the Holy Grail. I feel obligated to warn you that I was put my greatest effort towards your defeat."
"A kind gesture. I suppose I should warn you that it will not matter. I will take the Grail for my own. You seem to know me, though, and I do not know you."
"I lived somewhat after your time. I grew up on stories of your misdeeds. Where I am from, they speak of you as a demon who stalks the night, a malevolent force of evil."
"And you're frightened of children's stories?"
"Hardly."
Rider grinned from ear to ear. "You should be." He vanished into flecks of light.
Caster nodded. "At least this time things will be more interesting." Then he vanished, too, and the rooftop was empty.
"To once again preserve this world from darkness, I summon you, servant Saber!" The powerful voice of Worthington Dragoon Verlangien cascaded through the dungeon far below the Clock Tower, fading into silence as he completed the ritual. The lights dimmed, and the alchemical diagram began to grow as it hummed with power. The hum grew to a roar. Verlangien leaned forward with anticipation, as did Burke, standing beside him as ever.
A burst of bright white light threw them back. When their vision stabilized, the diagram was shattered. The stone floor had cracked the circle in twain, and smoke drifted up around its edges.
Verlangien peered at the wreckage through squinted eyes, then motioned for Burke to move forward. The small man scurried up, paused, then tentatively poked the circle with his finger. White sparks shot into the air and Burke was thrown against the wall.
"It has already begun, then," said Verlangien. Burke slowly pushed himself back to his feet, wincing in pain. "When it mellows out, bring me the hauberk."
"Where-" Burke grimaced and bit his tongue. "Where will you be? Sir?"
Verlangien harrumphed. "I will go east. It seems the servants have all been summoned. Perhaps if one is defeated, there shall be room for me to summon another."
"But, sir-"
"Are you questioning me, Burke?" Verlangien interrupted. "After all these years? Have you forgotten what happens when you question me?"
"No, sir," Burke stammered, "Only I thought the servants held powers far beyond any mortal."
"They do. But a servant in the hands of an amateur is no match for a talented magus. I shall simply identify the weakest master and destroy him. The rest should be quite simple after that."
Handa Madazuri's phone was ringing. The boy was fast asleep in front of his computer screen. The monitor held only an open text document overloaded with gibberish input by the side of his head. The phone continued to ring, and something in his subconsciousness heard the noise. He left hand spasmed, searching for the phone. Somehow he managed to press the answer button before it went to voicemail.
"Handa?" the excitable female voice on the other end snapped him into wakefulness. "You're too slow answering the phone, honestly. Did you get the book I sent you?"
"Book?" He didn't remember any book, but that could have just been grogginess. "What time is it?"
"Three AM. Wait." The voice shifted to a suspicious tone. "Were you sleeping? How we are supposed to get anything done if you're sleeping on the job?"
"If I sleep tonight, I'll be more efficient tomorrow."
"No, that doesn't make any sense at all." Handa sighed. He should have known from day one that joining the occult studies club was never going to end well. Kiriyama Mako was the club president, and this was not the first time they'd had a discussion like this. He suspected sometimes that she didn't sleep at all. One time he had caught her napping on the roof during lunch, but she had denied it fervently, claiming to be meditating on ley lines.
Handa had laughed it off. The supernatural was a fun distraction from everyday life, but it was a pleasant fiction. Kiriyama seemed to revel in it. Attempting to use a spell from some forgotten spellbook was something only she would actually go ahead and do. He thought about stopping her, but once she had painting the diagrams it was far too late. At least it hadn't involved any blood sacrifices.
What he hadn't expected was that it would actually work. He and the others, Mishima and Haruka and Shoken, had fixed up her lines and distracted the teachers while she said the words, and an ancient spirit had materialized in the circle. He called himself Saber.
And he was knocking on Handa's window. The glass pane shuddered under his monstrous knuckles, so Handa hurled it open before it broke. The otherworldly figure handed them a thick tome labeled "On the Foundations of Fuyuki City."
"My Master bids you read this," he said. "And to meet her on the school roof at dawn. Do not be late." The message delivered, it vanished into the night.
Handa put a hand on his forehead. "Did you really just send a 3,000 year old legendary figure summoned from beyond the grave to give me a book?"
"Yes," said Kiriyama without the slightest trace of self-realization, "Make sure you're finished reading it before our meeting. See you there."
"Explain to me," said Hoshi Kazuo, "Why sixty percent of my men have vanished in the last week." The Yakuza boss was in an uncharacteristically upbeat mood. Koujin could tell because he still had fingers, though he suspected that wouldn't last long.
"No one's seen anything, boss," he reported, "I checked everywhere, I swear. Even called in contacts in Suzuki's office. Nothing. Could be those gas leaks, maybe?"
"Gas leaks." The old man rose from his chair. The gathered subordinates gasped. He hadn't done that since he drove the last of the Fujimura clan out of the city. He stretched his back and the years seemed to fall away from him. He retrieved his ornate katana from the wall mounting behind him. Koujin swallowed. He knew where this was going. "Are you telling me that gas leaks are particularly adept at hunting down and killing your brothers in dark alleys? Why is that exactly?" He drew the blade from its scabbard and checked the edge. "Do gas leaks owe me an exorbitant sum of money? Or perhaps you killed gas leaks' parents in one of your drunken shootouts? Or perhaps the Triads have hired gas leaks in a desperate bid to take over my territory"
Koujin tried to answer, but only gasped wheezed escaped his mouth.
"You know," said Takanashi Hayao, "You're essentially correct." The young man had been standing in the corner for sometime, unnoticed. Kazuo's bodyguard's leaped up, drawing a motley of swords and guns. Takanashi waved his hand and they froze in place. "My parents owed you a good deal of money, and you had them shot for it. I don't know where they came up with that bit about the Triad, though. Can't say I care. What I do know is that regardless of my personal feelings, you exert far too much influence, bad influence, on this town, and I need to out of the way before the war starts."
Hoshi Kazuo walked toward him, slowly at first, then faster until he was running. The Yakuza boss swung his katana overhead, but the blade seemed to slow in midair. The curved metal dropped at a snail's pace, until Takanashi held up a finger against the blade. "I am impressed that you could resists my Solid Air at all," he said, "so I will at least allow you to know your end." Archer materialized next to him. The pale, bearded man was clad in patchwork of plants and hides, pinned together by arrows. A large, recurved bow was slung over his back. "This is Archer, a servant, a being of magic. He feeds on souls."
Archer walked to the nearest bodyguard and casually ripped out his throat. Blood dripped from the wound, and Archer collected it in his hands to drink. The dead man stayed standing, held up by Solid Air as his wide eyes dimmed. "I wanted you to see this," said Takanashi, "Because I wanted you to know what I am sparing you. Yes, sparing. If you die, others will come in your stead. I simply want you to leave. Tell your masters in Tokyo of your humiliation. Tell them that I control this city now, and, most importantly, tell them to stay out of my way." His emerald eye sparkled as his spoke, emphasizing his point.
Hoshi's eye's narrowed. "And if I don't?"
"You will. I can find you anywhere, anytime. And after watching Archer finish eating this entire room, I don't think you'll be inclined to disobey at all.