Yamada Asaemon Fuchi

“Zzzzzzzzzzz.”

The ridiculousness of him dozing off mid-conversation would have amused her at another time, here was a World Noble, a God’s Knight, slumped over like a drunken man against a tavern wall. His fingers, still encased in immaculate white gloves, twitched at the desk's edge, as if he retained a faint awareness of decorum even in slumber. The attendants lingering by the door exchanged knowing glances but refrained from intervening. Clearly, this was a common occurrence.

“Zzzzzzzzzzz.”

The soft hiss of the respirator filled the quiet room. His once-cloud-like tail now lay slack, draping over the arm of a chair like spilled ink. No one made a move to rouse him. Up close, his sleeping visage appeared almost… serene. The draconic whiskers framing his snout trembled with each breath, and his mane of wild, flame-like hair shifted slightly, as if caressed by an invisible breeze.

“Zzzzzzzzzzz.”

Then, without any warning, his ungulate ears twitched. His elongated neck straightened with a slow, serpentine elegance, and his respirator fogged with a sudden exhalation. “Apologies,” he mumbled, the words muffled yet tinged with amusement. “The narcolepsy is… quite inconvenient.” His tone held none of the annoyance one might anticipate, only the drowsy indifference of a man who had spent countless lifetimes apologizing for the same peculiar trait.

As he yawned, his eyes fluttering open and shut, his ears flickering back, it was clear he had a tendency to doze off at the most inconvenient moments.

"Ugh."

His whiskers quivered. Then, to her surprise, he chuckled, a sound reminiscent of a rusty hinge reluctantly giving way. "I apologize, were you speaking?" he inquired, adjusting the cravat around his neck with a gloved hand. "Forgive me, little ember, it’s not your fault. My body has a way of betraying me at the most..." His voice faded as his eyelids danced, then he forced them open with noticeable effort. "...Inopportune times."

As his long neck swayed in a slow, sleepy nod, his respirator let out a soft wheeze while he yawned behind the resin bubble. Despite being half-asleep while she spoke, he absorbed every word. "Mmm. Yes, yes. A bath," he murmured, lazily gesturing toward the door with the sluggish elegance of a man who felt as if he were submerged in honey. His fluffy tail swished once, dismissive yet strangely approving. "The attendants will handle it. We can’t have you smelling like a dockside tavern, can we?" The comment held no malice, just the detached practicality of a nobleman who viewed cleanliness as essential as breathing.

However, when she brought up cooking, his ungulate ears perked up, the drowsiness momentarily retreating like the tide from the shore. His whiskers twitched, an involuntary flicker of eagerness. Food was one of the few delights he truly relished, and though he would never voice it, the idea of something new on his plate sent a thrill through his languid body. The palace chefs were undoubtedly skilled, but their flavors had long since settled into a predictable perfection.

"And food, yes, yes, yes, food, I trust you know some amazing dishes, perhaps common ones? I find that idea quite appealing!"

Her hands raised instinctively, though it wasn’t as if she would be able to actually catch him if he fell, not when he was nearly three times her size— not that she would have caught him if she could either, it was simply a precaution. Still, it seemed as of he were capable of standing on his own two feet, even as his head bobbed slightly before drooping under the weight of the unannounced nap. She would stand there for a moment, her lips parted ever so slightly as a dumbfounded expression washed over her face.

He felt a sense of satisfaction at her presence. Not in the way a collector delights in a new acquisition, though that was part of it, but rather like a man who finds a blade still sharp after years of neglect. She was unbroken. That alone made her worth ten times the price he had paid.

Behind them, his estate towered, a vast structure of white marble and gilded arches, yet he paid it no heed. His attention was solely on the woman before him, her shoulders squared, chin raised, and bare feet firmly planted on the cobblestones as if she claimed them as her own. The wind tugged at the tattered remnants of her silk robes, revealing patches of skin that bore more scars than softness. Ah, a warrior’s scars. His whiskers twitched in surprise. He had not anticipated that.

"Come," he said, his voice muffled by the respirator yet carrying an unexpected lightness, as if he were inviting her for tea rather than leading a slave to her new confinement. Without waiting for her reply, he turned, his high-heeled boots clicking against the stone. The attendants lingering at the edges flinched as his tail flicked in their direction, scattering them like startled birds.

He noticed her momentary hesitation, just a fleeting breath, before she decided to follow. It appeared that her pause stemmed not from fear of him, but from careful evaluation. He observed her eyes flitting around the courtyard, taking in the towering walls, the guards on patrol, and the wrought-iron gates that were already closing behind them. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of her fingers flexing, as if she were already measuring the distance to his throat. Oh, how delightful she was.

Inside the estate, the air was cooler, infused with the rich aroma of polished wood and a hint of floral notes. He shrugged off his trench coat, allowing it to drape over the arm of a servant who appeared and disappeared in an instant. He guided her through a succession of corridors, each one more lavish than the last, until they arrived at a pair of double doors intricately carved with scenes of celestial warfare. With a single hand, he pushed them open, revealing a room that was, surprisingly, not a dungeon.

The chamber was spacious, dominated by a large wooden desk cluttered with ledgers and maps. The walls were lined with shelves brimming with leather-bound books and curios from distant lands: a glass vial containing luminescent algae from Fish-Man Island, a miniature model of Thriller Bark, and a dagger with a hilt shaped like a mermaid’s tail. In one corner stood a modest yet tidy bed, draped in dark silk. A barred window provided a view of the courtyard, allowing the evening light to filter in.

"This is your new room. Please make yourself comfortable; you’ll be working here now, cooking, cleaning. You can handle those tasks, right?"

She took a moment to take in the sight of what would be her new home, she was impressed by the extravagance of it all, yet she would not let her emotions play on her face because this really wasn’t her home, was it? No…this was just another prison, a gilded birdcage, no one bought a slave just to have a pretty little thing standing around, there would be more, there always was, she had heard it from some of the other woman who had been bought, sold, and returned in one way or another. Women like her were bound to serve on their knees, be it scrubbing floors or a job much less tasteful.

The blade slipped again.

Shugen stared at his bleeding palm where the hilt had torn through his calluses. Dawn painted the courtyard in hues of rust and gold, the same colours that once danced in Fuchi's hair when she'd sparred beside him, her laughter sharp as steel against steel. Now his hands shook like a novice's, his cuts imprecise, his stances unstable, not from exhaustion, but from the gnawing truth that every technique in the Yamada arsenal might still be insufficient.

Shugen's training became something beyond discipline; it was an exorcism. Each dawn split open with the sound of his blade slicing air so cleanly it seemed to sever time itself. Where others saw a man practising katas, the old weaponsmaster Kaito recognised a soul forging itself into a weapon. Shugen's muscles memorised movements before his mind could protest; his feet learned the courtyard's imperfections like a lover's scars. By the third week, even the household's cats stopped flinching at the relentless rhythm of his strikes; they simply watched from the plum tree's branches, tails flicking in time with his breathing.

The night he chose smelled of impending rain. Not the gentle summer showers that made Fuchi's hair curl at her temples, but the thick, suffocating dampness that clung to the throat like a strangler's grip. Shugen waited until the estate's breathing slowed, until the snores of drunken guards blended with the creak of settling wood. He moved barefoot, his toes flexing against the wooden boards with the precision of a man who'd spent years learning how footsteps could betray intentions. The southwest quarters' tatami bore silent witness as he gathered his few possessions: a tanto hidden in his sleeve, the locket pressed against his ribs, and Fuchi's comb wrapped in a scrap of indigo silk.

The shoji screen slid open with the quiet sigh of well-oiled wood. Shugen paused mid-breath, one foot hovering above the floorboards where he knew, from three weeks of meticulous observation, they creaked least. Moonlight bled through the gaps in the paper, painting silver stripes across Fuchi's sleeping form. She lay curled like an unsheathed knife, her spine a tense curve beneath the peach-colored quilt, one hand clenched around the fabric at her throat.

“Fuchi.” He whispered. “I heard mutterings that something is wrong?” Or happened he was not sure. “Are you okay?”

Maybe she believed that if she stayed hidden beneath the blankets, that it would all go away, that she wouldn’t have to bring herself to face him again, or maybe she had some foolish fantasy that if she stayed buried beneath the heavy quilt that it would swallow her up entirely. She wasn’t quite sure, though it was hard to think too much of it when her head ached, her pulse thrumming behind her eyes like a pounding war drum, she had been closed up in her quarters all day, she hadn’t even left to take meals and the tray that had been left at her door was still weighed down with supper that had long grown cold. A small meal, just a portion of rice and miso soup broth, all her husband allowed when he was upset with her.

“Hm.”

His cloud-like tail flicked once, then froze, as if caught in an unexpected breeze. His elongated neck arched slightly, bringing his respirator nearer to the cage bars, close enough that his breath misted the resin as he chuckled. The sound was muffled and mechanical, yet the amusement was clear.

"A spirited little slave, indeed," he pondered, the words warped by the filters. One gloved finger tapped lazily against the cage door, the metal producing a dull note under his touch. "But I wonder, little ember, are you aware of who you are addressing?" As he would pass the money over for purchase.

The auctioneer’s gavel struck with a finality that reverberated through the vast hall. "Sold! To the illustrious Knight of the Gods, Saint Killingham of the Rimoshifu Family!" The proclamation dripped with obsequious reverence, as if announcing the arrival of a celestial phenomenon rather than the sale of human property. Killingham barely acknowledged the announcement, his elongated neck already turning away, his cloud-like tail flicking once in dismissal.

As he left, she was to be transported to his estate, not in chains, but in a lavish palanquin. As this slave would have to ready herself for the familiar: shackles digging into her wrists, the rough jolt of a slaver's cart, the odor of sweat and hopelessness clinging to her skin. Instead, four attendants clad in cobalt silk gently lifted her onto a palanquin adorned with velvet cushions, their hands covered with gloves, their gazes respectfully averted. The aroma of sandalwood incense wafted through the lattice windows as they navigated the winding streets of Mariejois, passing by curious nobles and stoic guards. She pressed a finger against the lattice, observing the world transform into streaks of gold and marble. The sheer absurdity of it all nearly made her chuckle, abducted in opulence, like a precious gem swathed in silk. As they brought her all the way through the holy lands to his estate, as he stood at the gates.

“Come in, come in, welcome to your new home.”

The chattering of guards and patrons alike blurred into nothing more than static noise in the background, though it had been like this for quite a while, until this very moment each day had passed much the same, so fast that it felt as if time itself were slipping into oblivion, yet all the same, each moment was agonizingly slow. When had her life come to this? She wasn’t sure, not when each day was spent staring at iron bars, bars that she would pretend were tangles of bamboo from back home as she hid away in the little alcove she had cleared out for when she wished to be alone to read or simply to think. She missed her little slice of paradise.

Truly he had never encountered such a manner of speech, not from a slave, not from a pirate, not even from his fellow God’s Knights. The audacity of it prickled beneath his skin like static before a storm, but instead of rage, something far more unsettling stirred within him: intrigue. His cloud-like tail flicked lazily behind him, the movement revealing none of the surprise that had briefly taken his breath away. The woman’s defiance was a rarity, like a solitary unbroken stem in a field trampled flat. He crouched, an awkward motion for someone of his stature, his high-heeled boots scraping against the marble, until his respirator was level with her cage. The resin bubble distorted her face, twisting her sharp features into something grotesque, then back again.

As slowly, he examined the woman, she was beautiful, in the way a blade is beautiful just before it draws blood. There was an elegance to the sharpness of her cheekbones, the unyielding set of her jaw, and the way her dark lashes framed eyes that glowed like embers in a dying fire. Even in her filth, even half-starved, she carried herself with the grace of nobility. He could see it in the way her fingers curled against the bars, not gripping for support, but poised, as if she might leap through them at any moment. The frayed silk clinging to her shoulders could have been royal robes.

“Pervet, no hardly, but master, yes. I think I’ll buy you, youra fiesty one.”

Her eyes seemed to track his movements like a house cat chasing a faux mouse tied to a string, the sharpness of her gaze, noting, assessing, wondering as if she were trying to figure out some new puzzle that had been placed before her. Who exactly was he? What did he could he possibly want with her? She had little interest in being some big creeps little plaything, still, she was still curious, curious about his odd appearance, curious about the strange bubble that enveloped his features in such a way that seemed rather inconvenient.

The ice in his glass softly clinked as he swirled the liquor, observing how the dark liquid captured the dim bar lights like liquid amber frozen in time. His cigarette burned steadily between his fingers, with smoke curling lazily upward in spirals that dissipated before reaching the water-stained ceiling. He exhaled through his nose, the sharp sting of nicotine blending with the caramel bite of bourbon, two indulgences that did little to ease the constant ache behind his ribs.

The ice shifted once more as he tilted his glass, watching the light fracture through the uneven cubes. He could already sense the warmth pooling low in his gut, not enough yet, not nearly enough to blur the edges of tonight’s autopsy photos still flickering behind his eyelids. The girl’s missing molars. The way her fingertips had been sanded down to smooth, featureless nubs. He took another swallow, allowing the bourbon to cleanse his throat of memory.

The bourbon left a slow, deliberate burn in its wake, the kind that felt like a momentary absolution. Slowly he tapped his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray, observing the ember tremble before crumbling into gray dust. Across the bar, the flickering neon from Hannya’s sign bled through the grime-streaked windows, casting fractured shadows over his hands. He flexed his fingers, the silver rings catching the light like dull blades.

As he didn’t flinch when he noticed the blonde’s gaze lingering on him. He had spent years mastering the art of interpreting intent through the dilation of pupils and the subtle twitch of fingers near hidden weapons, but this look conveyed none of that. It was simply curiosity, tinged with a hint of recognition. The man’s lips parted slightly, as if he intended to say something but thought better of it. He exhaled smoke through his nose, slow and deliberate. A challenge.

He watched as the blonde’s fingers tightened around his glass. Up close, he noticed the chipped black polish on his nails and the frayed threads of his sleeve where he had picked at them absentmindedly. Not a cop. Not a threat. Just another lost soul in a city teeming with them. Yet, there was something about the way his throat moved when he swallowed, like he was attempting to force down words that wouldn’t come. Slowly he tilted his head, just a fraction. Enough.

Then he made his move, not with the calculated stealth of a predator, but with the smooth, fluid grace of a man who understood how to inhabit space without imposing on it. He settled onto the stool next to the blonde, close enough for the neon lights to catch the silver hoops in his own ears, but not so close as to invade his personal space. The bartender glanced over, her scarred brow arching slightly before she shrugged and returned to polishing a smudged highball glass.

“Do you want a drink, do you want a smoke, do you want something, anything at all, because you keep looking right at me for some reason.”

He had left those images behind for the moment, he had left them in the sleeves of the change of clothes he wore during autopsies, though he knew they would catch up to him in his sleep, they always did. Still, one needed to have that separation of work and domestic life, even if he did find his work to be rewarding, it took a tremendous toll on one’s psyche to constantly be surrounded by death, it was why he brought his own glass to his lips, knocking back the concoction of sticky sweet soda and liquor as if it were nothing more than a drink of juice to quench his thirst, though he supposed, in a way, it was meant to quell the overexertion that made his fingers quiver against crystalline glass.

"Ah." Killingham thoughtfully tapped his horn, the sound muted by his respirator. "Wrong shipment."

His tail flicked dismissively as he strolled past the cages, his boots clicking against the marble in a rhythm that felt just a beat off from reality, as if he were traversing through syrup. One of the auction guards hurried forward with a clipboard, but Killingham waved him away without breaking his pace. The man stumbled over his own feet in an attempt to halt.

“Get out of my way.”

As he continued to scan his surroundings, his ungulate ears twitching at the distant clanking of chains from deeper within the auction house. The resin bubble encasing his head warped the flickering torchlight, casting dancing reflections across the marble columns. His elongated neck bent at an unusual angle as he scrutinized one of the cages, not out of curiosity, but with the deliberate inspection of a man searching his pantry for misplaced spices. A woman flinched as his shadow loomed over her, pressing herself against the rusted bars. Ignoring the worthless slaves on display, his golden eyes finally landed on a cage with a low price, revealing a human inside, prompting him to tilt his head in curiosity.

"And what might your name be, pretty? Quite cheap for a slave; are you useless or something?"

It had been weeks, maybe months since her initial capture, though she was unsure at this point, she had no way of cataloguing time, not when she hadn’t seen the phases of the moon and sun in what felt like years. Those she had been captured with had long been sold off, but not her, not when she would lash out at those who came close, those with eyes too hungry and hands too eager— or those who meant for her to work herself to the bone. She had too much pride for such things, she had come from a family of warriors, she was raised like a princess, draped in silks and taught how to conceal a blade under such delicate layers.

Still, she found her wrists bound by iron, her hands bound tightly with cloth that was much more pristine than the tattered remnants of silk robes that adorned her diminished frame, a consequence of breaking the hand of one of guards who had tried to usher her as if she were cattle by slapping her backside.

The young woman leaned with her side against the bars, her long hair cascading down to the bottom of her cage, curling around her bare feet, the dark strands were matted from days of neglect, the soft white of her bangs plastered to her forehead, the once snowy color of the silken hair now stained with sweat and dirt, yet despite her pitiful appearance, her eyes still burned with defiance as she peered up at the newcomer.

However, she was smart enough not to lash out right away, not without provocation.

”And what are you? Another pervert?” She quipped, turning her nose up at the…man? Creature, thing? Well…she wasn’t sure what he was.

He didn't correct them.

Let them think it was discipline.

Let them mistake his desperation for dedication.

By week's end, he'd carved grooves into the training post where his blade struck the same angle again and again, the exact trajectory needed to sever a man's windpipe without nicking the spine. The shavings littered the dirt like pale confetti. At meals, he took his rations apart with surgical precision: fish deboned, rice grains counted, tea leaves steeped exactly three breaths too long. Every action honed the same single-mindedness he'd once reserved for executions.

He kept his place at the estate for no one but Fuchi. Every dawn, he rose with the precision of a blade being drawn, methodical, inevitable, and pressed his forehead to the tatami where her footsteps might have passed the day before. The southwest quarters still reeked of mildew, but now carried the sharp tang of his obsession: the scent of polishing oil clung to his hands, his sleeves, the very air he exhaled. Not for his own blades. For the dulled kitchen knives he sharpened in the servants' yard, watching as the cook carried them to the kitchen where Fuchi's meals were prepared. A small violence. A petty revenge. The kind that left no marks.

The estate's routines became his scripture. He memorized the rhythm of laundry days when Fuchi's peach silks fluttered on the lines, how the wind caught them like gasps. He noted which maids lingered too long outside her chambers, which guards averted their eyes when the merchant raised his voice behind closed doors. Useless intelligence. He catalogued it anyway. Some nights, when the moon was thin as a knife's edge, he'd press his ear to the storehouse wall shared with her wing and listen, not for her suffering, but for the rustle of pages turning. Proof she still read. Proof she hadn't been wholly erased.

The blade trembled in his grip, not from exhaustion, but from the impossible restraint of holding back a storm. He stared at his own reflection in the polished steel, distorted by the curve of the katana, his eyes twin pools of ink boiling with unshed violence. The courtyard was silent save for the drip of his sweat on stone. He had trained until his muscles screamed, until the calluses on his palms split open and stained the hilt with copper-scented proof of his resolve. None of it mattered. No amount of kata could carve out the rotten core festering in this household.

Fuchi, needed him here, needed him strong, needed him at his best, and he would be that for her.

There were some mornings, when her husband was out tending to business deals, that she would linger just at the edges of the training yards, under a plum tree where she would take her tea, biting into freshly picked plums as she watched him train. No one said anything, they had simply figured that the matriarch enjoyed the fresh air and ripe plums, though those things were nice, she reveled in the presence of the raven-haired man, just being near him eased her frayed nerves, especially after the more strenuous days she spend dealing with the man she had married.

A shift. A ripple through the numbness. Shugen’s eyelids fluttered, fighting against the heaviness of his own blood loss. The voice returned, muffled as if it were coming through layers of damp paper. The sounds registered somewhere beneath the fog, sharp enough to cut through the haze. Cold fingers grazed his jaw, trembling. He attempted to turn his head toward the sensation, but his body wouldn’t comply, muscles slack like a marionette with severed strings.

“Fuchi ..”

The deck tilted beneath him, no, it was Fuchi pulling him back with a grunt, their slight frame trembling under his weight. Blood smeared between them, warm where Fuchi’s skin pressed against his. He caught a fleeting glimpse of wheat-colored hair tangled with dirt, of bandages hastily wrapped around Fuchi’s own injuries, already blooming with crimson. 

As the scent struck him first, not smoke, but the sharp odor of burning wood and melting pitch, the ship groaning like a dying creature beneath them. Shugen's vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges, but Fuchi's weight on his chest served as an anchor. Their fingers clutched at his robes, too feeble to maintain a proper grip, yet unwilling to release.

Then the heat. A wall of it, roaring toward them like a living thing.

His body moved before his mind could catch up. Muscles screamed, and tendons frayed as he forced himself to stand, blood streaming down his side where the tourniquet barely held. Fuchi yelped as he lifted them over his shoulder in one abrupt motion, their ribs digging sharply into his collarbone. The deck buckled under his next step, flames licking at his heels as he dashed toward the rail and kicked off it, not a calculated leap, but a frantic, stumbling throw of his body into the open air.

Shugen landed on another section of the ship and crouched down, his knees slamming into the deck with a force that sent fresh pain shooting through his severed arm. Fuchi's weight pressed against his side, their breaths coming in shallow, panicked gasps against his neck. The ship groaned beneath them, a sound reminiscent of a beast's final sigh before it collapses. Firelight illuminated the rigging above in violent oranges, casting jagged shadows that flickered across Fuchi's pale face as they clung to him.

“Why did you come here! I only wounded you; you would have been fine if you rested and waited for a rescue team to come to the island. Here, there is only death.”

Usually pulling a body was a relatively simple task for the morbid little blond as he had often worked on his own collecting corpses from the execution grounds and heaving them upon his dissection table, especially one of Shugen’s size, though at the moment he was weakened by blood loss, he could barely keep himself on two feet so moving the larger man seemed an impossible task, still, he would try his best, even if it ended with him collapsing upon Shu’s chest, struggling to catch his breath.