January 2025 edit: a minor change has been made to the Hiko 12 v Kenshin fight. Hiko 12 now removes her mantle, making it so that she is fighting at her best. Just as Kenshin is.
A memory.
Kenshin had held a spinning top almost all throughout the Ishin Shishi's campaign and Bakumatsu, until he left it behind shortly before entering the front lines. He remembered it keenly, hiding it in his sleeves and making it disappear in his uniform, lest someone in Choshu found out Hitokiri Battousai stilled played with children's toys.
Like a secret kata, he spun the top before missions. It cleared his head. Kept him grounded. A sense of leisure and normalcy in a war of attrition. By the end it was chipped and weathered, its painted colours faded. But it never left his side. That spinning top went with him from Mount Atago in training to war in Kyoto and then Otsu in hiding. When his first wife died he realised he'd nothing in the world to offer her — not money or treasures or any heirloom worth burying. But in Otsu, there were flowers — winter irises — which he laid at her grave. It didn't seem enough, then. Even the flowers seemed so…impersonal. Clinical.
So Kenshin handed over the spinning top. Spun it once, twice, for her at her grave. Then he left it there, for her to keep. It was the only thing he carried that held some personal value to him, that would mean something to sacrifice. The only thing he could truly bequeath to his beloved was that spinning top.
The Harbour, Akako Area
Blood erupted. Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth's stony expression broke, slipping, for a moment, into shock.
He'd been cut.
The battou-jutsu was a failure — sacrificed to curve the trajectory of that stray bullet. Hiko stepped back, involuntarily, to defend against the secondary bullet shadowing the first, but the Shinsengumi-fodder followed, stepping in close and pivoting back with sword returned in left arm—
That thrust attack again.
Gatotsu: this time at point blank range. Hiko could not possibly evade.
But as the Gatotsu came drilling forward, with piercing, piston-strength, Hiko returned to basics. Every Hiten Mitsurugi ryu battou-jutsu had two steps. The Shinsengumi's awareness had impressed him: the cut had been a valiant and rather cunning attempt to neutralise the second step before digging in the heels for the final blow. Regardless, that logic did not pan out.
He did not cut nearly deep enough.
Hiko used his injured left arm to wield the empty shirasaya sheath along the same path of the initial strike, delivering a pounding, blunt blow to the man's side. Sōryūsen: the very tactic the two-pronged bullets had followed. Then it was a matter of angling his body to veer from the altered momentum and trajectory of a ruined Gatotsu.
With that, Hiko rid the man with a kick.
The Shinsengumi rolled mangled into the ground, stopping only when the Kunoichi shot forward to stop his wet, rag-doll skid. The Kunoichi yelled. Hiko tried not to take it personally. She was disoriented, unsure who her true enemy was.
Kenshin's master who lied to save her grief of the truth? Or Kenshin's wartime enemy doing his day job?
The Shinsengumi's prior words had eluded Hiko. Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth had never fought another swordsman long enough to develop some secret knowing. Some silent, irrevocable kinship, like things in stories or kabuki plays. Enemies are enemies, what was he talking about? Hiko fought people. And people died. Immediately. But seeing Misao run towards the Shinsengumi, an ever-swinging pendulum coming to a consummate stop, Hiko thought he saw it in her. Misao dropped to the Shinsengumi's side, floating her hands over the area of impact, before looking up with…a muted, harrowing expression.
In times of confusion, maybe there did come clarity. Hiko let himself entertain the thought. In the confusion, out of the master and the rival, Misao went instantly against the one who presented the more dangerous threat. Hiko.
Hiko looked at his arm. Blood trailed warm over his vambraces. He should get that bandaged. It would not be good to get that on his white mantle.
Now, Hiko mused, eyes searching the skyline with errant inconvenience. Who had fired that shot?
"We're not finished," the defeated complained. Misao spasmed as the man tried to move, took his weight as he peeled off the ground. The Shinsengumi viciously pushed her aside. "I am not incapacitated. I do not concede."
He kept doing that, pushing her and denouncing her, and Hiko knew — the man truly was under the impression Hiko would hurt her. Why wouldn't he be? What was one kunoichi body to the mounting array of teachers and cooks and kids? If Hiko was to take the blame on Kenshin's crimes — if he was to protect his good name from the baka-deshi's kunoichi ally and lovely wife and giggling child and deal with Kenshin himself and himself only—
Why would anyone think otherwise.
…What if Hiko was Battousai?
What if he did kill all these people?
What if he was a danger to Misao?
That would save a lot of people — all the people his baka-deshi had touched over ten years — of grief and disbelief and hurt and regret. Of all these — these pesky, inundating, inconvenient truths. This entire wretched experience. It would be laughably easy, Hiko thought of a sudden. All he had to do was claim Battousai's murders. Then the same churning spiral of pain would not plague Kenshin's friends and companions. Things he didn't have, and so didn't have to concern himself with. A lone mountain hermit had no concerns about anything.
The Shinsengumi's words rang in his head. He had nothing to fight for.
Nothing to lose, either.
"I killed those men," Hiko said. He turned to the audience. "Shopkeepers. Teachers. Paper men. Dango sellers and such. I killed them."
"A confession as any," the Shinsengumi spat.
The Shinsengumi crawled back into his stance. He raised his sword into a high Gatotsu, then swayed dangerously from side to side. His ribs were struck, surely Hiko had broken or bruised some? No one had ever gotten back up from his Sōryūsen. This man was completely ridiculous. He limped up, baring his bloodied teeth like a kicked dog, like a rabid, grandstanding wolf, frothing red at the mouth. Hiko examined him, wondering if he could keel over without Hiko having to do anything further. This Wolf didn't know half as much as he smugly thought. Clarity in anarchy? For him? Far from it. Being on opposite sides of the war was what blinded him. Reality was as out of reach as the prospect of him being able to put a scratch on Hiko Seijuro singlehandedly. Was it such a feat to fight and kill Battousai? Was Battousai such a blight on his life? His eternal, mortal enemy? Hiko laughed, not caring to hide his mirth.
Didn't anyone know. Battousai was only ever a child.
Battousai was just a boy's embarrassing little phase.
The Shinsengumi charged. Hiko just stood still, waited for the victim to come to him. The second he raised his sword into guard position another loud — bang! — echoed down the harbour. The screeching sound the bullet was a shining beacon to evade. The Sharpshooter alone could not harm him.
But the Shinsengumi, he began changing his steps, changing his sword arm, weaving towards Hiko with what could only be described as complete and utter abandon. He no longer cared to defend or evade — trusting totally in the Sharpshooter to do it for him. The Wolf had outsourced his defence, and now was rapidly, senselessly attacking; the likes of which Hiko understood as the kind of fight a man put up when he believed death to be near.
Well-versed was he in that play. Hiko knew that look.
Every time Hiko naturally veered to evade Gatotsu, the Sharpshooter shot into the space where his shoulder would be had he not snagged back to take the Shinsengumi's attack. Every time Hiko arched Winter Moon to strike the Shinsengumi, a bullet forced him to abandon attack for defence. Every time Hiko sheathed his sword to perform battou-jutsu, a barrage of bullets forced his hand to pull prematurely, change directions, lose momentum, snag back…
The Wolf whipped out his sword. The Sharpshooter shot at the habaki. The bullet curved, bouncing off his sword in seemingly randomised trajectory — right towards Hiko.
Hiko shielded himself with his arm; the bullet embedded itself into his vambrace. For a few moments, this went on. The Shinsengumi sped at Hiko, positioned his sword. The Sharpshooter unleashed his bullets. Bullets zipped and whizzed in ricochet, but always, at its end, looped reliably back at Hiko. All of Hiko's energy was pushed suddenly from seamless attack to constant defending against two dozen flying bullets, curving, impossibly, like hornets.
"NO!" The Kunoichi yelled now. "Stop! Saito! Stop this!"
Hiko…realised now he was fighting in the defence.
The Kunoichi had turned on the Shinsengumi.
Meaning Hiko was no longer the immediate threat.
Something was wrong. The memory.
The memory was wrong.
In his mind the spinning top he brought to war and bequeathed to his first wife was the one he held as Shinta. That wasn't right. Shinta had laid one top at the resting place of his three guardians. Kenshin laid another at the grave of his beloved.
Where had the second top come from?
Where had the second spinning top, that he'd kept night and day at his side through war, come from?
Kyoto
The samurai charged.
He did not just charge. He flung himself at Hiko Seijuro the Twelfth, headfirst, with so much force and speed disproportionate to his seemingly slight body and frame, it caught Hiko off guard so viciously that she had to draw. Hiko met his strike at the last second, pulling battou-jutsu from pure reflex. Then instinct took over as the next strike struck low, prompting her to leap to evade, and as she came down her body put her into Ryūsuisen to end the fight.
But the scuffle didn't end there — in seconds the samurai was in the air alongside her, sword flashing white. He was smaller, falling slower, but that was no error in judgement, that was by design as he now had the upper hand in height. In one dangerous roll forward he made up for force by flipping in the air and striking downwards—
There was no time to think. No time to brace. Only to shift slightly to mitigate the attack — a hard, jolting crack across her collarbone instead of her head.
"The sword!"
The samurai bore down on her, cracking the tile beneath her knee.
"Where did you get that sword! That cloak!"
She could tell by the very way he gripped his sword he knew how to use it, but the second her collar caught the blow her mind had gone blank.
"From where did you steal it?!"
Everything was smoke, haze.
She couldn't think straight.
In the air, working on instinct, they had both employed Ryūsuisen. Not only that, but his Ryūsuisen overtook her Ryūsuisen, breaking her form and putting her on the defensive. The samurai's eyes slowly grew wide as the same realisation caught up to him. They had both simply moved, with no thought to it, into the fight. But now there was shock in his eyes that were seeing everything and understanding nothing — exactly as disturbed and put-off as she was.
It was then, when she had a moment to pause, that Hiko saw it.
A scar — emblazoned across the samurai's cheek, stretched from the top of his lip to his ear on one end — shaped like a cross.
Hitokiri Battousai. Manslayer. Master of Battou-jutsu. Cross-shaped scar. What is your connection to Battousai?
"You—" Hiko clenched her teeth. "You are Battousai."
Hiko continued to push upwards, preventing his blade from cutting into her deeper. Battousai clamped down, relentless. They were locked in stalemate. The samurai stared daggers at her, a completely flat, focused look on his face. He had no reaction to the accusation. No sense of revulsion. He did not deny it.
Hiko had caught the blow. Her shoulder ached. But there was no blood. The skin had merely broken. His sword — there was something wrong with it. The blade…the blade was on the wrong side.
"A samurai…who fights in the shadows…who uses tactics of lurking and concealing…who's blade does not cut…is no samurai at all!"
With one great heave Hiko pushed Battousai off him, blasting him backwards into a wall. But he did not crack against it. Pushed back at speed, he simply landed on the wall — and used the momentum to launch himself without pause right back into the fray. He pushed forward, with fire in his eyes and anger collecting, like lightning, translating into every move he exerted.
"That sword." Battousai began, like it was all he could muster under subdued wrath. His own rage choking him. "—It is Tamahagane steel. Shirasaya style. Sengoku Era make."
Mind blinking in alarm, Hiko parried the next two strikes — swift, brutal hits — that the samurai pelted down. But eventually, her sword arm failed her. With a front-hand spring Battousai's sword came cracking across her legs. He disappeared, shot off a wall to bring the sword whirling across her torso; he easily evaded a slash by going into a side-swipe, battering her in the hip, the flank. Pain blossomed across the blunt hits.
Hiko came to an internal stop. She released the pain with a clenched howl.
Eventually, the cords in Battousai's throat relaxed, just enough to allow him to speak more than a few broken syllables.
"…There is an engraving upon its habaki. A crescent moon. Left-facing. And the naked hilt. It was once painted. Though the colour fades, the steelwork remains. That blade is the very one that once felled Nagumo Domain."
Hiko heaved against him, unbalancing Battousai with a bodily bash, then dispersed the tension with a punishing blow. How could he know this?! How could he know?! Battousai merely changed his footing, going with the movement in one fluid dip before countering with a quick thrust.
"Its name is Winter Moon. It is not yours to wield."
Teeth gnashing, Hiko twisted sharply into Ryūkansen — using the centrifugal force to meet him as he bolted forward with sword slashes. The samurai shot backwards, leaning back so far his spine was parallel to floor as he evaded the attack, and with one side step recovered his position by twisting himself into Ryūkansen. Hiko could not evade towards the ground like he — so she leapt again, into the sky, coming crashing down into Ryūsuisen once more.
The samurai knew he could not meet her this time. He bounded out of the way.
Hiko struck the ground, spiderwebbing the street in cracks. But the effect presented leverage for the samurai; he too struck down, sending earthen debris with knockout force in Doryūsen. Hiko slashed apart each debris, jolting forward with a slicing attack. The samurai parried with hard strikes every time, pushing forward and flowing back — every attack with its counter-motion — every block and evade with its counterattack. Just like the essence of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, no move was wasted, no motion an overreach. Every exertion played into another, creating an endless barrage of ringing metal, crashing wind, the air displaced again and again in a warping, close-ranged rampage.
So this was Battousai. A short, compact reaper of a killer who put people to death before they realised they were dying. A silent, stalking predator who took his pickings of enemies like needles in haystack, ending their lives like snapping twigs. A man who put girls in brothels and boys in slavery. The man who's operation disappeared her deshi. Battousai showed feat after feat of finesse and dexterity, with complete awareness of terrain and every advantage to be gained by physics. His stature, which Hiko mockingly assumed a disadvantage, was played to his every benefit. Not only had he forced Hiko to draw, forced her to defend — he could follow every movement she made with those piercing eyes of his, and copy or counter any attack.
He showed no evidence of stopping, until Hiko blocked his attempt at a Ryūshōsen — an upwards strike someone of his build would favour — with nothing but a simple downwards slash. He made the mistake of trying to readjust into a side-slash at her head, which Hiko broke down by placing her hand on the back of her blade and pushing down.
The obvious way to counter was to mirror — put his hand on the back of his blade and meet the pressure. But Hiko knew the samurai could not. His blade was a reverse-sword. What was a samurai of his calibre doing with a plaything like that?
The samurai struggled, eyes darting around, obviously trying in all power to find an out — but Hiko pushed harder, forcing the Sakabatou backwards, backwards, slicing into his shoulder. She wounded him in the exact place he did her earlier. The only difference was that his sword showed her mercy, and hers afforded him none. The samurai did not make a sound as he was cut.
Something in Hiko relented. "Who are you? How do you know my Winter Moon?" she said, as if that was the most pressing issue in this predicament. "—Hiten Mitsurigu ryu. From where did you acquire it?"
"Its not yours," the samurai asserted, quietly furious, and clearly hearing nothing else she said. "Winter Moon does not belong to you."
Hiko arched back, affronted. She kicked the samurai in the chest, sending him hurtling backwards into the ground. He did not immediately pick himself up. Winded, he crouched in a tense heap. Hiko sliced Winter Moon twice through the dark, letting it whistle through the air. When she slowed and it caught the moonlight, the blade glowed its halo of blue. Beautiful, as no other blade was.
"Winter Moon belongs to me," she stated — a cold, hard fact. "If you are a disciple of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu, then you too will know. The only person who can hold this sword is one who has bested their master and earned the right."
Hiko pointed Winter Moon at the downed samurai, who gazed at her with a wide, red-handed expression. He knew the rules. He knew the rites. There was something in his face then, something paling; a kind of dread that curdled, soured every muscle in the body into stark paralysis. A helpless, prey response. Battousai slumped, then, going boneless as if Hiko had disarmed him with words she hadn't yet said. She could see it in his eyes before she told him, the truth he already knew:
"I killed the man who owned this sword. I am Hiko Seijuro."
A still moment reigned, where Battousai did nothing. Only the hollow look in his eyes enlarged, into wide, empty pits. Seeing nothing. Then suddenly, to Hiko's surprise and confusion, the samurai unceremoniously slammed his head to the ground. His hands carded like talons through that red hair, gripped the ground and clawed senselessly at the dirt, in some mock rendition of the most formal kowtow. With a startling heft of a sob, he sucked in air to cry out in what could only be called utter defeat. The sound that came out of Battousai was more horrible than anything she'd heard. There was more mourning in that sound than all the world ever did for Himura Kin or his entire clan. Not even by his own son. Immediately, Hiko was stood back in front of the shrine, in the market place, surrounded by candles and talismans and wailing. Stood back in the fire, in the Himura estate, dragging Miki off his mother.
Then, as if it were the most galling task in the world, Battousai picked himself up, sheathed his reverse-blade, and sunk, mindlessly, into battou-jutsu.
Shinta was too soft a name for a swordsman, so Hiko renamed him. To hide his roots as a son of serfs, Hiko made up a surname. During daylight, Kenshin did his duty to his saviour by appearing the suitable disciple to a master swordsman. At night, he waited for his master to fall asleep to find a satisfactory time to weep.
One day while Hiko tried his hand at crafting he fashioned a spinning top out of clay. One he mashed with his fingers, hardened over a candle, and threw casually to Kenshin.
Kenshin loved that top. Thus, it broke in a month.
But Kenshin now realised something he didn't as a child disciple. Hiko made that top because he understood. He understood how important, how sacrificial it was for seven year old Shinta to give it up to ghosts, because it meant something to him.
So Hiko made him another. And when he realised it wasn't up to standard, he went back to the drawing board and made him more. Hiko picked up clay work and carving to fashion tops out of nothing. And when he was skilled enough to perfect one, he learned to paint to make it beautiful.
So Kenshin carried it with him until it was time to put it down. A little piece of home. A little peace of mind.
Until it was time to forget.
Akako Area
Since he had taken the name of the Thirteenth, Hiko had never truly faced real adversary. Not even his own, prized deshi could be trained to surpass him, despite himself being the sword fighting prodigy of an age — as a youth, no less. Hiko Seijuro knew aptly what he was. He was a complete monster. A freak of nature so calamitous he could not take part in society for fear of unleveling it.
That he was being pushed back by the loser of the war his former deshi won was, frankly, jarring in a way he had never felt. The humiliation went straight to anger. It boiled up like a cresting wave, welling up in unstoppable throes when the Shinsengumi shot out his arm — throwing up two hand signs in quick succession. Gunshot after gunshot rang out, bullets whizzed instantly at Hiko. Hiko unsheathed his rage, dashing at the barrage, sword strikes flashing every which way — unavoidable, unblockable — in nine pulverising strokes. The Kuzuryūsen, Hiko's most favoured, signature attack, clattered the duds to the ground. Seconds rolled into moments, where both swordsmen rested.
The corner of Hiko's mouth turned up as he noticed the silence.
The Sharpshooter…was out.
The Shinsengumi relied on his shooter to reload.
Even through the brilliance of their plan, sheer skill matched with utter abandon, the curve of the bullets could not hide the source of the sound. Hiko looked to the skyline. It took little effort to realise the only way to end this. The Shinsengumi dragged himself in front, shaking surely from the effort of standing. He stared Hiko down. It was devastatingly clear to him how he could not stop Hiko from getting to the Sharpshooter.
Time to break the Shinsengumi's upper hand.
Hiko bolted.
The Shinsengumi tripped after him.
"NO! Kamoda! Abandon post! Abandon post—"
It did not take long at all. From the storefront that the Sharpshooter was fleeing from, Hiko reached through the glass, plucked the man from the window, and dragged him at the collar two inches from his face out to the street.
"So this is how man fights this dawn? With a click of a trigger from the safety of hiding?" He lifted him off the ground.
The Sharpshooter's eyes were pinched shut, as if truly afraid to look upon the face of the person he meant to shoot. "I — I — I have nothing — nothing to say to you, Battousai!"
Hiko sneered. "Once man looked upon man in the eye as he did the deed. Let me demonstrate."
But the Sharpshooter went limp, not even putting up a fight. He opened his eyes and looked weakly up; at which his eyes went past wide, going straight to enormous. "…You." Recognition turned in his face. All of a sudden, the man went taut, gripping Hiko energetically by the wrist at his collar. He stared bogglingly, openly, up at him. "You're not Battousai."
It was the incredulity — the confusion in the man's voice — that disarmed Hiko. Hiko dropped the sharpshooter. He fell into a heap on the floor, pulled himself up by the wall. "You're that man who helped…helped me calm down. Gave — gave me sake," the man rambled. Immediately, his face turned from frightened to familiar and cordial. "I'll-I'll tell him! I'll tell the Commissioner. You can't be Battou—"
Hiko ended his words with a controlled hit. He did remember this man. He could prove to the Shinsengumi and the law enforcement that Hiko was no Battousai. That, Hiko decided, could not do. Hiko laid him against the building when the Shinsengumi arrived, sword raised. The Shinsengumi did not even bat an eye at his unconscious subordinate. Instead, he loosened his collar, swiped one bloody hand through his dishevelled hair, preening it back in place, before rising into Gatotsu stance.
Hiko slammed his sword in its sheath. But before he could pull it just once more, a sharp pain bloomed on his shoulder, a shriek in his ear, as if a wild animal had hooked itself into his back. The Kunoichi had tossed herself upon him. She pelted down on Hiko, beating the back of his head, his neck — all the while shrieking.
"Makimachi!" The Shinsengumi voiced, for the first time, letting fear enter it.
Hiko grunted, pulled her off of him. He was unsettled enough to throw her several metres at full strength — to get her as far away as possible. The second he tore the wild Kunoichi off him, the Shinsengumi struck again, yelling out in visceral anguish. He swung one weak slash after the other, missing Hiko as he evaded.
"NO! NO!" Misao spun in their direction, "DON'T KILL HIM! Please don't kill him!"
Hiko didn't understand it. What possible loyalty could she have to the Wolf?
Perhaps that wasn't the right question to meditate on. What, exactly, had gone so sideways in his life that he had to make enemies with the likes of this Kunoichi? Makimachi Misao had acted graciously as his inn host this morning. Yet she had not truly treated Hiko as a guest. She'd treated him as a kind of — kin. This kunoichi had put her undue, juvenile trust in Hiko, because she saw Hiko as the master of her friend. She, just like the Former Deshi's Son, had no idea how every principle Hiko lived by compelled him to reveal Kenshin as their enemy. To do his duty. What a hypocrite he had become, he who wielded Hiten Mitsurugi ryu.
With one last cry, the Shinsengumi vaulted forward, a battering-ram that would shatter at the door, and Hiko caught his pathetic punt of a Gatotsu in left hand, right hand grasping the man's head, palm over eyes. In one movement he took the blade from his fingers and pushed him, head first, into the dirt.
The Shinsengumi fell backwards. Misao struggled to get to her feet, unable to recover. Two hands remained plastered to her side. She looked on in disbelief.
No matter now.
Hiko threw the Shinsengumi's sword to the side. He drew Winter Moon.
"…Aku…Soku, Zan." The Shinsengumi, miraculously, was still lucid. As Hiko pointed the blade at him, he clambered to his knees. Blood poured from his mouth, his nose. "You will not prevail," he said, civilly. "This era he made, this era he will stop at nothing to protect. Himura will kill you."
"If only he did," Hiko replied.
Even in this foregone conclusion, with the Wolf at his feet, on his knees, victory brought no satisfaction. What the Wolf said was right. He took one look at Hiko Seijuro the Thirteenth, and said everything about the killer inside Kenshin came from him. He raised Battousai.
Hiko raised Winter Moon.
"…Makimachi…" Saito said. "Look away."
"NO!—NO, PLEASE—"
"Look away."
"—PLEASE NO!"
Hiko slashed. A swift, instant, killing blow.
"—SHISHOU!"
Kyoto
Anger tore into Kenshin with its gaping maw. Kenshin invited it in until rage pounded through his body like a torrent of blood, like a flood of magna, and he was shaking, sick and wounded the way he'd been that day — the day Hiko told him if he's leaving then don't even think about coming back.
He'd hated that man. Just like he hated this woman. Out of the hundreds of people he killed, he'd never once killed out of hate. He wondered, suddenly, what that would feel like. How satisfying it could be.
Kenshin opened his mouth, heard the sound of his own rage come hurtling out, as he flew with the might of Hiten Mitsurugi ryu.
The woman, the charlatan Hiko, bellowed her own war cry, as she plunged forward too, her mantle left behind going thud on the floor.
Battou-jutsu met battou-jutsu. A crashing, metallic chime.
Then again. And again, and again; blow after blow; like a seismic event. Eighteen winding, twisting dragons.
In two blinks of an eye the Kuzuryūsen was over, and Kenshin came rolling to a stop. Face-first in the gutter. Another wave of nausea welled up. How he so hated this, hated that Hiko had the gall to be goddamned right even when dead:
Even with the same Hiten Mitsurugi ryu and the same technique, the fighters differ. The force, too. In wild attack techniques, it's your strength that differs. In charging techniques, it's your weight.
But even with that wisdom Kenshin sprung up, and dove again, fighting savagely. The charlatan Hiko rose, tossing herself back the way she'd seen Kenshin do, slicing into another attack. Without her mantle she was lightning. Kenshin was windstorm. Kenshin bowed into stance; the charlatan Hiko did as well. He charged; she did as well. Hit after hit connected, a loud, reverberating cacophony that deafened the ears, as both Kenshin and the charlatan Hiko met each other's Ryūsōsen, Ryūkansen, Ryūshōsen…
Until eventually, Kenshin slipped up. A misfired Ryūkansen exposing his back. Stupid. Kenshin threw his Sakabatou behind him, shielding the inevitable slash to his back. But the charlatan countered his counter with Sōryūsen. Except she did not use her blunt sheath. She pulled, hidden from under her sleeve, a ringing, live blade.
A wakizashi.
Kenshin felt her gash opening up his back.
Though he could ignore the throbbing in his muscles, the surge of pain that hit him, nausea threatening at the surface, Kenshin registered the constant stream of tears shedding down his face was what was really putting him at a disadvantage. The bleating knowledge that—
Hiko was dead.
Hiko up and died one day and Kenshin didn't even know it. He came here to accuse Hiko of horrible crimes, and he didn't even know that Hiko was killed by them. That maybe, he had been scrubbing his own master's blood off the floor of his childhood home, and he'd just merrily done it, vaguely embarrassed, in front of Megumi, with no thought otherwise. That some imposter had taken his teacher's most prized possession in the world, parading it around to commit atrocities with no remorse. That perhaps, his master's body lay on that goddamned cursed mountain. Who would know to bury him? Who would know to commission his grave stone? He deserved one, Thirteenth of his name.
"Turn your blade, Battousai!"
The charlatan slashed to make her point. Kenshin hated the way she did. Winter Moon was not a toy.
"Turn your blade! Do you think you show mercy? Battousai? Clemency? And what about to those children?" She slashed again. "Do not insult me this way! Turn!"
"No need." Kenshin said simply. The tears kept running. He raised his arm, pointed to the woman. "That blade you're holding? It belongs to me. Tonight, I take it back."
Kenshin sighed. "You killed my shishou."
The charlatan Hiko's nose scrunched, taken aback. Then she looked rather sardonic.
"…Your shishou?" she began. "You…have no idea what you have taken from me." Her voice, laboured suddenly, buckled under emotion. "If I rid your master, I will kill you, too, Battousai."
"Do not call me Battousai!" All of a sudden, it was enough. It came gnashing out of him, and it was not a request, not a plea, but a warning — a truth as the gods ever heard it. "Battousai is not my name! I have a name! This one has a name! Bestowed by the one who put the strength in this arm, the will in this heart." Kenshin raised the Sakabatou. "This one has been gifted the name: Himura Kenshin."
The woman blanched.
"Liar."
Then she struck. The scuffle was messy: the charlatan Hiko ran and slashed, but her movements became dishevelled, her breathing more laboured. She began chattering as she fought, unleashing a line of gibberish under her breath. "Give him back to me. You're no Himura. Masakazu is dead in the ground. I saw. You're dead. I'll find him. Once I'm done with you."
When they sprung apart again, Kenshin sunk into the jutsu for which in war he was named.
The charlatan saw, and sunk into her own.
Kenshin shut his eyes. Just as he chose to forsake Battousai, he'd chosen to forget Hiko.
Now Kenshin remembered.
Something he had forgotten. Almost completely, shed like an outer skin, a chitinous shell left behind. Like the spinning tops. Like the counting. The rituals. Cold slap of metal on an unblemished cheek. That once, at the very beginning, Hiko was different. Kenshin had hugged him. Like a child would. Like a fool who did not know better: a laughable gesture, an audacious move, but daring to do it because he was an ignorant runt, who sought care and attention from a trusted guardian. He gifted him treasures of interesting rocks and paper origami; he played hero; he bested Hiko; when there was a time when Hiko played spinning tops with him. Kenshin would spin his top, then Hiko would spin his, and they'd taunt and jeer each other and pretend to blow wind on the other's top to win. That once, Hiko was kind.
That there were two tops, at two graves.
That once, Hiko loved him.
Hiko's killer charged, roaring. Kenshin charged. Mid-draw, Kenshin employed the stutter-step, violently accelerating the forward-charge in sword draw. The vacuum pulled, windspeed stripped.
Kenshin's Sakabatou gouged across the charlatan Hiko's chest.
All breath was torn from her. She stuttered, seizing in agony, before falling to the ground at her side. A tower, crumbling.
Kenshin rested a moment, shutting his eyes. Then, as the woman lay paralysed, Kenshin lumbered to her side and without any qualm, took Winter Moon from her powerless grip. She watched, helpless, as he did.
"…Amakakeru…ryu no Hirameki," she made out, struggling.
Kenshin peered down at her. He had never known the feeling of vengeance, until it was so minutely at hand. He stood there and just…savoured it.
The other Hiko's eyes were trained on him, watching him in almost…cavernous, clamouring confusion; like his anguish she had so easily swept aside before, she now suddenly was gripped to know: who had he been fighting for?
"Your…shishou." She fought to speak. "—His name?"
Kenshin answered. "Hiko Seijuro. Thirteenth of his name."
Then something unexpected happened. Kenshin watched as the woman's eyes filled with tears.
"What year it is, Himura?"
The question was so inane, Kenshin could not help but answer. "Seventeen years of peace into the Meiji Era. In the year of the Emperor, 1885."
With a tired, drawn out exhale, the other Hiko's eyes snapped painfully shut. "Oh. Shinomori was telling the truth." She collapsed back onto the floor. "Tell Miki…I'm sorry." Her voice faded. "Himura Miki."
Akako Area
"—SHISHOU!"
Winter Moon, sapped of power, stopped before it removed Saito's head.
Misao, her throat bellowed raw, watched as Hiko Seijuro's killing blow came to fumbling ruin. She had no idea what she had just happened.
Hiko had turned, completely helpless to the call, as though…answering.
A boy, riled, had come slamming between Hiko and his victim, beating Winter Moon with his own sword like a bat. He burst onto the scene barely coherent, striking Hiko once, twice, which he barely managed to parry, before his assailant gained distance. Then he arched, raising his sword into a pointed Gatotsu. Dressed also in that blue officer's uniform, it was as if a rush of déjà vu had been ushered onto the scene. Misao remembered: wolves hunted in packs. Her mouth made the shape of his name. "Eiji."
"SHISHOU!" Eiji cried, unable to even turn his head. "SHISHOU, SHISHOU! ANSWER ME!"
"…Deshi. What are you doing here?" Saito, his face drenched in blood, finally tipped over.
At that, Eiji attacked. No further words were exchanged. Only cold fury. He thrust Gatotsu, slashing this way and that, aiming at Hiko in a fast-paced assault. But it was as if all the strength in Hiko had just…sapped away…dried up through a single word, leaving him rigid. Empty.
The distraction allowed Misao to drag herself to Saito. His second was probably dead. She checked his pulse. Still alive. But he wouldn't survive the night. Not without medical intervention. Though Misao thought that was an issue for later. Hiko hadn't gotten his mark. Her chest hammered. Her bullet-wound was bleeding. Fear pulled at her sternum. Think. Think! What could she do to stop this? What could she say? If she didn't think of something — if she didn't think of something right this second — Hiko would walk through Eiji, and Saito wouldn't last the next two minutes.
By the time Misao turned back, whatever that had come over Hiko had subsided. Hiko met Eiji's sword once in earnest—
And sent it promptly flying.
Eiji twisted. He produced the Type 26.
"Aku. Soku. Zan." Desperation coloured his voice. "My shishou did not concede. I fight in his place!"
The safety clicked off.
Think!
But Misao just…knelt there. There was absolutely nothing more she had up her sleeve. She realised, weakly, that she had nothing there in the first place — only illusions. Child's play. Her parlour tricks and pretence that had carried her so far had simply caved in the moment a real threat was at the door. Eiji had trusted her. Followed her. She led him and his Commander to death.
In just the space of a night, the entire Kyoto Central Police Force was fangless.
Hiko stood tall. He looked truly like the killer Saito tried so arrantly to convince her. He peered down at them. He was still for a moment, eerily so, as though purveying the gun, the young man that held it. Just pondering. Then, without so much as a word, Hiko turned around and walked away. But this only enraged Eiji. Eiji, blind-sighted by the dismissal, cried out and fired the gun.
Bang. Bang. Bang…
But Eiji and Misao saw the bullets shoot into nothing, as Hiko Seijuro disappeared with incomprehensible, godlike speed.
In seconds he was gone.
Eiji dropped the gun, dropped to the floor, paying no attention to Misao as he yanked on Saito's lapels, lifting him inadvertently an inch off the ground. Misao could only watch as Eiji screeched his despair. Crying, wailing, like that day in Shingetsu Village when they first met.
Notes
I tried so hard to end on Kenshin and Hiko 12's fight. But then...honestly, what outcome was more impactful? A swordsman bringing down a confused woman? Or a swordsman bringing down the Commissioner of Kyoto Central Police? This town is going to hell without Saito.
It's truly so bad for Eiji. He got the tip, immediately ditched Saito, gave it to Misao, told her to send her strongest, prompting Misao to bring Hiko 13...to beat up his master.
I'm sure many stories have done this, but I remember it best from Blade of the Immortal. In that manga, two groups who we follow independently meet. They must fight. They don't know each other. But we do - we know all of them intimately - seeing the fight truly and equally from both sides. There's no possible good end. Any win is a loss.
Our heroes, Kenshin and Hiko, won. But does it feel good?
Thank you, as ever, for waiting for this story.