AKAME ASSASINATION (56)
Artifacts were items given a soul—not of flesh, but of purpose and power. They were objects imbued with an innate, often unique, sorcerous technique. Most common artifacts were weapons—swords, shields—force-fed a technique until they learned to hold it.
"You know the old saying," Akame began, his voice echoing softly in the vast, silent hall. "If you love and care for an object long enough, it will one day gain a soul of its own."
"I heard that a lot growing up," Gil replied, his eyes scanning the ornate tapestries lining the walls. "I always thought adults just said that so we wouldn't break our toys or give them away."
"There's truth in both. Artifacts work on a similar principle. There are two types: temporary and permanent."
Temporary artifacts were tools. A sorcerer could channel their Fragment Energy (F.E.) into a held object, reinforcing it, and even temporarily imprinting a technique upon it. The effect lasted as long as the flow of energy was maintained. It was practical, like using a battery.
"That's pretty handy," Gil said, imagining channeling lightning through… well, anything.
"It is. But you should choose your medium wisely," Akame added dryly. "It would be somewhat absurd to try and conduct a lightning discharge through a roll of duct tape."
"True!"
What Akame didn't explain just then was the nature of permanent artifacts—the true marvels. These were not just conduits, but vessels. Like Catherine, a soul that had gathered fragments from the air to reclaim a physical form, a permanent artifact housed a soul—a consciousness born of intense purpose, memory, or emotion. Once that soul was bound, the technique became innate. The artifact could even generate its own fragment energy, becoming self-sustaining. It was no longer a tool, but a partner.
Osore was such an artifact. Not a weapon of war, but one of influence.
"So, is it like Mr. Koji's sword?" Gil asked.
"No. Shizen is a katana—curved, versatile, a tool of the hunter. Osore is a chokutō—a straight, single-edged blade. An older form. It fell out of use because the curve of the katana offers superior cutting mechanics."
"A… choku-toe?"
"You're not a swordsman; the terminology isn't important now. Your priority is mastering your own energy. Starting with not leaking F.E. like a broken pipe."
Gil flinched. He'd been so focused on the conversation he hadn't noticed the faint, static-blue aura crackling sporadically around his fingertips. He clenched his fists, concentrating inward, forcing the spillover energy to dissipate.
"Oops. Sorry."
They continued, their footsteps the only sound in the grand, museum-like halls. The scale was humbling. For Gil, who had known only the slums of Kisumu and the sparse plains, it was his first real glimpse into the weight of another culture's history. Ancient oil portraits of stern-faced daimyos and graceful geisha watched them pass, their eyes seeming to hold millennia of silent judgment.
"This place is… huge."
"The world is huge," Akame replied, his gaze ahead. "A vast sphere of contradictions."
"I heard it's about 6000 kilometers in diameter."
"It was, once. It's grown since then."
"Planets can grow?"
"This one did. Now it supports an impossible diversity of life, in impossible places, with impossible people doing impossible things at all hours of the day."
"That's a lot of… difference," Gil murmured, repeating a phrase he'd once read. "It makes you feel kind of small. Insignificant."
"That difference is an illusion," Akame said, his tone cutting through the grandeur. "A surface illusion. Underneath, everyone is the same. There are fools in Loliwe, and there are fools in the Land of the East Sun. There are kind people in deserts, and cruel people in palaces. The only real differences are culture, custom, and the amount of sunlight your ancestors adapted to."
"If that's true," Gil pressed, a familiar anger simmering beneath his curiosity, "then why are some people left to rot in places like this? Why not help? Why let whole villages suffer?"
"Because human beings are not inherently good, Gil. We are capable of great kindness, yes. But also of profound arrogance, greed, and casual cruelty. Sometimes, that cruelty is systemic. It becomes a machine that grinds down those who have nothing, simply because it can."
The words landed heavily. They echoed the very reason Gil had left his village—to break that machine. "I hate them for it," he said, his voice low and fierce. "For what they did to that village. For what the Church allowed. I hate everyone who stood by and did nothing. I will become strong enough to stop it. I promise."
"You didn't need to convince me," Akame said, glancing at him. "I never doubted your intent."
"But… I keep losing," Gil admitted, the frustration boiling over. "Twice in one week. I don't know how to get strong. Not really. It makes me wonder if I'm just… not enough."
"Strong," Akame mused. "Physically? Did you learn anything from those losses?"
Gil thought of the thunderbolt, of understanding the charge in the air. "...Yes."
"Then that's growth. Metaphorical strength, the strength of conviction… that's not something I can teach you. It's a path you walk alone."
Koji's warning echoed in Akame's mind: 'A dark flame… What if it's something deeper?' Some darknesses could only be faced—and overcome—by the one who carried them.
They ascended a wide, spiraling staircase of dark polished oak, arriving at a long gallery lined with display cases. History was weaponized here: arrowheads, spear tips, daggers of ornate design. Gil paused by one case, pointing at a wicked-looking arrowhead stained with a thick, resinous black substance.
"What kind of arrow is this?"
"Don't touch it," Akame said without looking. "It's tipped with aconite. A touch of the residue on broken skin would be… unpleasant."
"Seriously? Why would they just have it out?"
"A question for which I have no adequate answer."
They moved deeper, their eyes scanning labels: #112-A – Ritual Dagger, #143-A – Ceremonial Tanto. Blades of all shapes, but none the one they sought. Gil, marveling at a spectacular suit of lacquered samurai armor, walked straight into Akame's back.
"Wha—?"
Akame had stopped dead.
"What's wrong?" Gil whispered, peering around him.
"It seems we aren't the only ones appreciating the exhibits."
On the upper-level balcony overlooking the weapon hall, two figures stood in casual, predatory stillness.
The first was a girl with shockingly short, silver-white hair cropped close to her skull. Her eyes were a piercing, icy blue. She wore a silver track jacket over a matching athletic suit, with well-worn sports shoes—a tomboyish, practical look at odds with the massive, brutal-looking maul strapped to her back. She chewed gum slowly, her gaze locked on them with unnerving focus.
Beside her, leaning against the balcony railing with an air of bored superiority, was a boy with neatly styled black hair and matching blue eyes. He wore an identical track suit, and crossed over his back were two swords—one long, one short, the classic daishō pair of a master.
JESSICA BLIGHT
CONTRACT KILLER – HOUSE OF BLIGHT
CURRENT STAR RANK: UNRATED (INITIATE)
AGE: 16
NOTES: SPECIALIZES IN KINETIC/CRUSHING FORCE SORCERY. AGGressive, DIRECT.
NEIL BLIGHT
CURRENT FIRST OF THE FIVE SWORDS
FIVE-STAR SORCERER
AGE: 16
NOTES: PRODIGY SUCCESSOR TO THE TITLE. DUAL-WIELDING SWORDMASTER. CALCULATING, ARROGANT.
The boy—Neil—pushed off the railing. He didn't raise his voice; it carried through the silent hall with cold, clear precision.
"You know," he said, his blue eyes fixed on Akame with a mixture of disdain and sharp interest, "it's in very poor taste to impersonate the dead. Especially when you're impersonating my predecessor."
The air in the grand hall grew several degrees colder. Jessica stopped chewing her gum. Her hand drifted casually toward the handle of the maul on her back.
The hunt was over. The confrontation had begun.
TO BE CONTINUED!