"Your armor is polished, but you move like you've never worn it in a real fight," I continued, taking a step closer. "You're all for show. A man with so many obvious flaws usually finds a messy, undignified end."

The man's face went from red to white. His hand, which had been resting on his sword hilt, now trembled. "You... you threaten me?"

"I'm informing you," I corrected. "Consider it a public service. Now, you and your dogs can leave. Or you can stay and test the accuracy of my observation."

The leader looked into my eyes He saw the ancient, cold emptiness behind the crimson glow. He saw something that wasn't human as swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Without another word, he and his men backed away, turning and practically fleeing into the crowd.

Taro stared at me, his mouth agape. "My lord... how did you know?"

"Arrogant men always die in predictable ways." I said, sitting back down.

A voice, smooth and familiar, spoke from behind me. "That was a neat trick. Telling a man how he's going to die."

I turned. Yukiko stood there, arms crossed, leaning against a tree as if she'd been there the whole time. For all I knew, she had.

"Is that what you call it?" she pushed off the tree and walked into our camp. She nodded curtly at Taro, who bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his knees. "You're causing quite a stir. They're calling you the 'Red-Eyed Demon of the East.' It has a nice ring to it."

"It's a bothersome name," I grunted.

"But effective," she countered. "It gets you noticed. That can be good. And it can get you killed." She glanced at the spot where the samurai had just stood. "Though you seem to have a knack for handling the local predators."

"What do you want, Yukiko?"

"Just to watch," she said simply, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Lord Matsumae, the man hosting this spectacle, he's looking for someone... unique."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping. "Be careful, Tsurugi. Around here, being the biggest monster just makes you the biggest target."

She straightened up and gave me that thin, sharp smile.

And then she was gone, melting back into the crowd as silently as she'd arrived.

Taro finally straightened up, his face pale.

I looked toward the center of the camp, where a large, elaborate pavilion had been erected. Lord Matsumae's headquarters. A grand stage for lies and violence.

Yukiko was right. This was more than a tournament. And I had a feeling I was exactly the kind of thing they were looking to filter out.

---

The gathering at the old mountain stronghold was a monument to mediocrity. It was a temporary city cobbled together from mud and desperation, sprawling across a valley that had probably belonged to some forgotten lord a generation ago. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, stale sake, and the particular reek of men who confused scars with character.

"Great lord," Taro whispered, his voice a tight thread of anxiety as we navigated the throng. "There are so many warriors here. The stories said there would be champions."

"Warriors?" I surveyed the crowd, a sea of mismatched armor and posturing men. "I see farmers playing dress-up, pretending a sharp piece of steel makes them important."

We found a relatively quiet spot near the main fighting grounds, a small island of order in the surrounding chaos. Taro, ever diligent, began unrolling our sleeping mats, his hands trembling slightly.

A group of ronin near the entrance noticed us. Their leader, a man with more scars than sense and a beard that looked like it housed a family of spiders, stepped forward to block our path.

"This is a gathering for serious fighters," he declared, his voice a gravelly rumble. "There is an entry fee. Prove your worth or be gone."

"This will be a waste of time," I said with a sigh.

"What was that, demon?" he snarled, his hand dropping to his hilt.

"I have no time for this." I said, my voice flat.

He roared, a sound of pure annoyance, and charged. It was clumsy and predictable. I didn't even draw my sword. I simply took a half-step to my left and stuck out my foot. He tripped over it, his own momentum carrying him face-first into a thick wooden post that supported a watchtower. The wet crack of his nose breaking was a clean, sharp sound in the noisy courtyard.

"Next?" I asked the stunned group.

Another man, younger and more foolish, stepped forward. He drew his blade with a bold. I yawned, a genuine, jaw-cracking yawn of boredom. He swung at my head. I leaned back three inches. His sword hissed through the air where my neck had been.

"Anyone else?" I asked the now-silent crowd. "Someone who might provide a fleeting moment of entertainment?"

No one moved. The whispers began, rippling through the onlookers. "The Crimson-Eyed Demon." "He didn't even draw his sword." "He took down Hachiman with a yawn."

"This is disheartening," I told Taro. "I came here hoping to find one man who was not utterly boring."

Taro wrung his hands. "My lord, perhaps... perhaps their skill is just not on your level?"

"Their skill isn't the problem," I said, turning to look at him. "The problem is that they are all so predictable. They fight like they've read the same book, and none of them have thought to turn the page."

A laugh, clear and sharp, cut through the murmurs. I turned to see Yukiko leaning against a pillar, watching the scene with an air of detached amusement.

"Still finding humanity to be a collection of tedious tropes?" she called out.

"Always," I replied. "By the way, your advice about breathing from the stomach is less annoying than I expected."

"I'm usually right about most things," she said, pushing off the pillar and walking toward us. "It's a terrible burden."

"Incredibly so."

The crowd parted for a man who was clearly important. He wore fine brocade over his armor, the kind of outfit that announced him as a steward or overseer. Behind him loomed a giant of a man, a mountain of muscle and flesh who likely thought crushing skulls was a form of greeting.

"I represent Lord Matsumae," the steward announced, his voice projecting across the courtyard. "We seek true champions for a grand tournament. The winner will receive a position, a stipend of gold, and legitimate standing."

"Pass," I said.

The steward blinked. "Pass? You have not heard the terms—"

"I don't care about positions, as they come with responsibilities. Nor the for gold. All of it sounds profoundly dull."

"There will be fighting!" he pressed, his voice rising. "Against the most skilled warriors in the region!"

I paused, a flicker of interest cutting through my ennui. "Skilled?"

"Our current champion, Tetsu the Mountain, has slain thirty men in formal duels," the steward said, gesturing to the giant.

I looked at Tetsu. Tetsu looked at me. He had the placid expression of a man who had never been truly challenged because no one was foolish enough to try.

"Thirty men?" I asked. "Were they fought one at a time, or all at once?"

"Why... consecutively, of course."

"So, thirty separate, simple fights. Anyone could achieve such a number if their opponents were sufficiently unskilled."

Tetsu's face darkened, a storm cloud passing over the sun. "You mock the honor of the duel?"

"I mock the idea that counting corpses equals skill," I said, finally drawing my sword. The blade made a soft hiss as it cleared the scabbard. "But very well. I am bored enough to participate. When does this tedious affair begin?"

"Tomorrow at sunrise," the steward said, a smug smile returned to his face.

---

Dawn painted the sky in pale shades of pink and gold. The tournament grounds were a hive of activity, with makeshift wooden platforms ringed by rope and scattered across the valley. My first opponent, as luck would have it, was the young man with the perfect topknot, named Ishida. He had a reputation in these parts as a three-time champion of a local festival, a fact he seemed to believe made him a formidable warrior.

He stepped onto the platform, his face a mask of fierce determination. He wore a fine, though slightly worn, set of armor, and his sword was polished to a mirror shine. He performed a series of complicated, flowing katas, each movement precise and full of style. The crowd murmured in appreciation.

"Begin!" the judge shouted, banging a wooden block on a rock.

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