The basket hung between them for only a second.

A fragile, woven thing tumbling through London's overcast sky, crackling faintly with residual static from the man who'd thrown it. The city below was waking - double-deckers rolling through mist, pedestrians flooding pavements, unaware of the storm about to break overhead.

Takeshi caught the basket one-handed.

The weight was wrong. Too light. Too important.

Ryuunosuke drifted opposite him, suspended on crackling platforms of electricity, smiling with that infuriating ease - like this was all part of a play, one he'd rehearsed far too many times.

Sven and Isaac were far below, still arguing about their approach, still full of stupid bravado, still entirely unprepared for what was about to snap the world in half.

But Takeshi didn't think of them. Not at that moment.

He lifted the lid.

And his heart dropped.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically.

It fell like a stone dropped into a bottomless well.

Inside the woven basket was a single object resting on satin cloth.

A head.

A woman's head.

Pale skin, delicate features, dark hair matted from rain and blood, lips parted as if still mid-breath. The neck was cleanly severed - a swordsman's cut. Too perfect. Too cruel. A technique he'd recognise even if the sky went silent.

Sayuri's head.

Unmistakeable.

He didn't scream. He didn't gasp. He didn't stagger.

He froze.

Veins bulged along his arms, creeping up his neck, spider-webbing across his jawline like cracks forming in reinforced glass. The blindfold tied across his eyes fluttered violently from the static disturbance - not from wind, but from the pressure of his aura exploding outward without direction.

The last time he'd felt this hollow was when his master died.

The same day he lost his sight.

The same day the world turned black and red.

But even that grief felt small compared to this.

This was beyond heartbreak.

This was a collapse.

Takeshi had always been the calmest among them. Even when blood sprayed, even when thunder roared, even when buildings toppled - he was the eye of the cyclone. A serene man who swung a fluid blade, peaceful, elegant, almost a prayer in motion.

But this?

This was different.

Ryuunosuke clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment, but his eyes gleamed with predatory satisfaction.

"No need to thank me for preserving her head for you," he said. "I was looking forward to this day."

The words slithered. A snake testing air with its tongue.

Takeshi's stomach lurched.

He'd had a bad feeling ever since leaving Japan. Ever since he clashed with Ryuunosuke in the first place. The only reason he'd gone searching for Sayuri at all was because of the fear that Ryuunosuke would hunt her, driven by old grudges and poisonous memories.

And now his worst fear had come true.

Maybe it was his fault.

Maybe his blade had signed her death warrant long before he realised.

Takeshi could hear his pulse roaring in his ears like war drums. A deafening rhythm pounding through him.

He was overwhelmed with more emotion than he could process. More than even the grief that followed his master's death.

Yet Ryuunosuke continued, casually, monstrously.

"Even in her final moments, she would've made our master proud," he said, wiping a thumb across his katana's guard. "Her swordsmanship was beautiful. She even managed to cut me."

He touched his cheek, grinning wider.

"Well, the mark is long gone now, but it was impressive."

He spoke too nonchalantly. Too smoothly.

Like he wasn't talking about a murder.

Like he wasn't talking about the person Takeshi cared about most.

Like he was discussing art.

And then Takeshi lost it.

He launched first.

Not calm. Not measured.

He burst towards the man with wind screaming around him, blade drawn mid-acceleration, a silver whisper slicing through cloud and pressure alike. The stadium below rumbled from the vacuum of his departure.

He was more aggressive and powerful than in their last exchange.

Truly fighting to kill with overwhelming malice.

The wind around his katana twisted, sharpening into visible currents like blades of air coiling along steel.

Ryuunosuke met him head-on.

Their swords clashed mid-air, sending spirals of sparks and thunderous booms cascading outward. The sky didn't just split — it shattered into sound and motion.

All that was seen was sparks of silver and electric white.

Blurs.

After-images.

The collision point glowed like a star being strangled between wind and lightning.

Their robes fluttered wildly around them like ancient banners in a war between gods.

They weren't mutants.

They were forces.

It was like a fight between swordsmen straight out of a cultivation novel.

Takeshi's slashes were rapid - gust after gust of wind pressure hammering forward like a thousand invisible strikes. Each attack was faster than the last, every cut precise but violent, serene technique twisted into demonic intent.

Ryuunosuke's strikes boomed with every swing - electricity crackling along his blade like a storm spirit chained to steel. Every slash exploded outward with sonic vibration and residual shockwaves.

The arena was empty below, but the sky was full.

"Show me that scar I dealt you," Ryuunosuke snarled, lightning flaring brighter beneath his feet.

Takeshi didn't respond.

He didn't need to.

His blade answered for him.

But, despite Takeshi's monstrous aggression, Ryuunosuke was also powerful.

And he landed the first strike.

A clean slash across Takeshi's face.

The blindfold snapped, cut clean off, spiralling downward like a discarded petal. The wind didn't catch it. It simply fell.

His face was revealed.

The scar was brutal - jagged, deep, merciless. It cut across both his closed eyes, stretching like an old wound carved by fate itself. He didn't need to open them for anyone to know he was blind.

Another scar was now drawn across it, blood dripping down his face.

Ruin upon ruin.

Ryuunosuke's grin widened.

"What a masterpiece," he mocked.

Takeshi didn't care about his appearance.

Not anymore.

He pressed two fingers to his cheek, feeling the fresh blood trail downward. Not to mourn the cut - but to register it. The moment his blood recognised open air, his power surged again, wind pressure tripling, aura twisting darker.

He swung again.

Faster.

More violent.

More demonic.

His katana left visible wind trails, slicing arcs into the sky like silver crescents.

Ryuunosuke blocked, lightning exploding at the point of impact - thunder ringing outward, rattling distant windows across the city.

"You're sloppy when you're angry," Ryuunosuke taunted, pushing Takeshi back with a shockwave burst.

"Sloppy?!" Takeshi thought, losing composure further. 'No. I'm just done playing.'

He dashed again, wind pressure compressing behind him like jets. The stadium below was already kilometres behind them - the battle shifting across London's skyline like roaming thunder.

Clash. Block. Cut. Boom. Parry. Slash. BOOM. Cut. BOOM. BOOM.

The rhythm of their battle was terrifyingly beautiful — a lethal dance between wind serenity and lightning arrogance.

Every time Takeshi pushed forward, Ryuunosuke matched him.

Every time Ryuunosuke boomed outward, Takeshi flowed around it like a river dodging a blade.

Neither backed down.

Neither yielded.

But one was fighting for pride.

And the other was fighting for grief.

As the swordsman continued their clash of blades, Isaac and Sven also ran into the gifts that Nyx had prepared for them...

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