Author's Notes:
We return to the manga for this chapter. In fact, the next few chapters are pretty much straight out of the manga, though I've adjusted them for the KuroSyao pairing and tried to add in new details. Anyway, I hope you don't grow too bored reading things you've already seen in the manga, but there's really no plausible way to skip this part without throwing off the whole plot, so you'll have to bear with me.
Chapter Seventy-Six
They rose into the arena, surrounded by flashing lights and thunderous applause. Kurogane folded his arms in front of his chest, watching the boy as the lift stopped. The kid stared into the distance, his eyes a thousand miles away.
The boy hadn't so much as looked at him since their brief exchange in the prep room.
Their opponents hadn't arrived yet, whoever they were. Kurogane watched the corner of the arena opposite of theirs, waiting for some sign of movement, some whisper of sound. But he sensed no one. Building up the suspense, he thought, eyebrows slanting. Whoever we're up against, they're cocky enough to think their audience appeal is more important than the fight itself.
The mage and the princess headed over to the egg-shaped vessel on the edge of the arena. Kurogane watched them go, then turned to the boy. Damn it all, he was going to say what he needed to say, whether the boy wanted to hear it or not. "Kid."
Syaoran tensed, then turned to him, eyes opaque. "Yes?"
He hesitated. Just for a second, but it was enough to shake his resolve. "There's something off about this fight," he said instead.
Eyes widening, the boy nodded. "I feel it, too. You think this might be a trap?"
His eyes flickered to the place where the princess stood with the mage. They spoke quietly, their expressions calm, serious. They must feel it, too. "It's a possibility," he said to the kid. "Remember how I said someone's been watching us? I'm starting to feel like we're about to find out who."
Syaoran nodded, the last vestiges of uncertainty vanishing from his expression.
"One more thing," Kurogane added as their opponents' platform started to rise from the floor. He placed a hand on of Syaoran's shoulder, looking him in the eyes. "Are we okay?"
His eyes opened wide. "I . . ." He glanced back at the others, who had looked up as the announcer chattered about the Final Master. After a moment, the kid looked at him again. "Yes. We're okay."
"Good." He let go, turning to face their opponents.
The chess-master studied them, his features sharp, his eyes sharper. A crown of white-gold hair stuck up from his scalp, illuminated by the flashing lights. Two figures flanked him, one familiar, one a stranger. Kurogane focused on the familiar man, trying to recall where he'd seen him before. He had an X-shaped scar on his chin and a square jaw reminiscent of his own.
"Are you all prepared?" the Final Master asked, lacing his fingers together in front of his chest.
The big guy is the one who invited the princess to lunch a few months ago, Kurogane realized. What the hell was his name? Geo?
The princess locked eyes with the chess-master. "You're the Final Master?"
So she recognizes him, Kurogane thought. Which probably means he was the one behind that meeting. He grit his teeth, distrust gnawing at his gut as the Final Master smiled. "I am more or less responsible for this, after all."
Suspicions confirmed, Kurogane glanced back at the princess. "You know him?"
She nodded. "His name is Eagle. He sent for me a few months ago to discuss some things." Her eyes hardened. "He created the chess matches."
Well, that was a disturbing bit of trivia. This guy knew all the ins and outs of the game, knew all the clever tricks, knew how to bend the rules without breaking them. Which means we can't hold back, he thought, looking at the boy, then the mage.
"Now," Eagle said, still smiling. "For the final chess game, I'd like it to be only one piece per master." He looked at Sakura. "Do you agree to that?"
What kind of game is he playing?
Without warning, without even waiting for the princess to agree, Syaoran stepped forward. "I'll do it."
What a fucking nightmare, Kurogane thought, closing his eyes. But as Eagle agreed, he decided it was pointless to argue. Not only was the kid stubborn enough to go through with it, but he had every right to do so. "Be very careful," Kurogane said as he walked passed the kid. "During, and after, the battle."
The boy nodded once. "Right."
Kurogane opened his mouth to say something more, then thought better of it. Distracting the kid with meaningless platitudes would do none of them any good. All he could do was watch from the sidelines and trust Syaoran's ability to protect himself.
Something was very, very wrong.
All week, Syaoran had been worrying about this match. Though he'd made it through the last fight with little trouble, part of him still worried about injuring his leg again. And the rest of him worried because, even though he seldom spoke to her, he could see the turmoil raging behind Sakura's eyes when he approached.
Yes, something was wrong. And he couldn't figure out what.
She reached forward, her fingertips touching his palm, the contact electronically syncing their collars so her willpower would influence his fighting ability. Her hand curled around his, thumb tracing the side of his hand. "During my travels with the one who shares your form, he was always rescuing me," she said, her voice tender even as her gaze fell to the floor. "I've only put you through pain and hardship."
He opened his mouth to disagree, then closed it again. Never had he blamed her for ostracizing him—how could anyone have expected her to act differently to the loss of her most precious person? But he couldn't deny that her conspicuous avoidance of him had hurt. And he knew her well enough to know that she would blame herself regardless of what his assurances. So rather than disagreeing, he said, "If this is an apology . . . I don't need it."
Her eyes flashed wide for just a moment, her grip tightening around his hand. Then a smile spread across her face, like a sunset bleeding through the clouds. His heart thumped, the smile doing strange things to his body even as he remembered that this was not his princess.
"Thank you, Syaoran-kun."
His breath caught. She called me by name.
"I know that your name is also Syaoran. I heard it from Mokona, but . . ."
"No, that's . . ." He fumbled his words, not quite over the shock. "It is true, but . . ." He trailed off, worry twisting through his heart. Something's going to happen. And she knows what it is.
"I'll win," he finally said. And maybe then we can avoid whatever she expects to go wrong tonight.
"Yes."
He stepped forward, facing the other side of the arena as the chess-masters' pods rose into the air, dangling from the ceiling by several heavy chains. Eagle glanced down at him. "Your weapon . . . That's the weapon that you're always using, correct?"
He looked down at the misshapen daggers in his hands.
"Why don't you use the weapon that suits you best?" Eagle asked, eyes narrowing in challenge. "I give you permission to use magic."
Syaoran flinched, eyes flickering to the stands where Kurogane and Fai stood, watching. He stood there for a moment, indecisive. Tournament rules clearly prohibited magic, and while this wasn't anything like the matches he'd participated in before, the offer made him wary. Still, his magic was his strongest weapon. Even under the odd circumstances, only a fool would ignore the opportunity.
He met Kurogane's eyes. When the ninja nodded and held out a hand, Syaoran tossed his tournament-approved daggers in that direction, drawing out his sword with a burst of flame. He looked at Eagle, waiting.
The man smiled. "Now, I'll place my piece on the board."
Something hissed through the rafters above them. Syaoran looked up, bracing himself, as a series of metal cables shot through the air, carrying a dark-haired figure wearing a white jumpsuit and a headband sporting large, triangular headphones.
"I don't imagine you would find one of these on your world," Eagle continued, speaking of dimensional travel as if it had no significance in this country. "An automata."
Syaoran's eyes narrowed as the female robot regarded him with calculating eyes. He held his sword up, waiting for the signal. From the sidelines, the rabbit-shaped robot that refereed all the chess matches bounced onto its platform, raising its paw. "Ready . . . Go!"
In an instant, the automata shot into the air, propelled by legs of steel. Syaoran froze, shocked by the sheer speed with which she moved. She flipped in midair, her movements perfectly coordinated, inhumanly agile.
Syaoran leapt backward, barely avoiding a debilitating blow. The automata landed, her punch leaving a crater in the floor. Her head snapped up, recalculating his position. She launched herself into the air, leg extending. He raised his sword to block, then grit his teeth as the force of the impact jarred the bones in his arms. So strong, he thought, suddenly worried that he'd made a mistake. Yet his strength didn't falter.
Sakura still had faith in him.
He shifted stances before the automata could strike again, swinging his sword toward the shiny surface of her neck. He scored a glancing blow, but failed to do much damage as she darted back. She's fast, he noted, adrenaline pouring into his veins.
Steel sang against steel once more as he blocked her next assault, and magic hummed through his blade, strengthening the metal. For an instant, as the pressure on his sword decreased, he thought he'd managed to toss the automata back. Then the robot shot forward, arm unfolding as her elbow jabbed his sword arm. Pain shot up his shoulder, and his hand trembled. His grip around his sword loosened, streaks of white shooting across his field of vision.
The automata whipped around, her leg swinging upward. Instinct and practice saved him—he flipped backward, barely avoiding a broken jaw. His sword spun in his hand, blocking the flurry of punches and kicks that followed. This fight is too even, he thought, jumping back at the same moment his opponent did. His breathing grew labored, but his enemy showed no signs of fatigue. Of course not. Robots don't get tired.
Which means if I'm going to strike, I have to do it now. He shot forward, raising his sword again as they neared each other. At the last moment, he lurched to the side, bringing up his leg—the one Jet had broken in that hellish basement—and slammed his knee against the automata's abdomen. There, he thought, jaw tightening as he waited for the answering jolt of pain from his abused knee. It never came—his body held, and the only pain he felt was the dull ache of the bruise he'd have from ramming his kneecap into a solid metal plate.
Then the robot snatched his leg and threw him to the floor.