CHAPTER-43

"Man, it's boiling out here—I'm exhausted," Daigo groaned, dragging his palm across a sweat-soaked forehead like he'd just run a marathon while carrying emotional baggage. The trio stumbled through a rusted gate, where the air hit them like Satan's armpit.

A wall of heat slammed into them. Thick. Violent. Like nature itself decided, "Screw your hydration."

Yeaga let out a dry laugh, part sarcasm, part resignation. "Hot enough to melt the ice in your veins."

Ishigo blinked slowly, unimpressed. "The hell are you babbling about?"

Daigo didn't reply. His eyes were locked on the inferno ahead, where ash floated like demonic confetti and scarlet stone clawed into the sky like hell's own middle finger. Then—classic Daigo—he opened his mouth.

"Oi! You damn Shikibans—get out here! What the hell are you really?!"

His voice echoed like a pissed-off god with no indoor voice.

Above them, on a blistered ledge of melted misery, two figures moved.

Not startled. Not fast. Just…annoyed. Like someone interrupted their Netflix binge.

One of them casually bit into something—something steaming, dark, and shaped suspiciously like a human hand. Pinky ring and all.

"What the hell are they eating?" Yeaga asked, half-fascinated, half-looking for an exit.

"Fire," Daigo deadpanned. "Wouldn't surprise me. This is Flame Shikiban territory."

Below the ledge, the crispy remains of a Kageshiki lay like a burnt offering to Satan's lesser-known cousin. Bones cracked open like roasted almonds. Flesh melted into the ground like overcooked barbecue.

The Shikibans moved—slowly. Smiling.

Crimson lips curled in unholy, oddly attractive grins.

"You smell that?" one of them purred. "Fresh blood."

Yeaga tensed like someone who just remembered they left the stove on at home. "We just poked the hive."

Steel hissed free. The heat, already unbearable, now buzzed like it had opinions.

And deeper within that hellscape, two people weren't just fighting.

They were redefining therapy.

Steel. Fire. Regret. Probably Dehydration.

CLANG!

Sparks flew like anime budget money.

Reika's arms trembled from the impact. Her face was flushed, either from rage or the 1000°C air frying her brain.

"Why, Usui?" she snapped. "Why the hell are you trying to kill me?!"

Usui Tobeshi stepped forward like the final boss who skipped the monologue. His katana still buzzed like it subscribed to Spotify Premium.

"To rise," he replied, calm. Too calm. Like a man who meditates after homicide. "Nothing personal."

Reika's eyes darted to her badge. 08.

Then to his. 09.

Her stomach dropped. Not from fear. From pure betrayal.

"You're trying to take my rank."

Usui gave a smirk so slight it could've been gas. "Exactly. Kill to rise. You know the system."

He pointed at her badge like it owed him money. The number pulsed faintly—probably judging her.

"Defeat a Shikiban, absorb their badge, boost your resonance. Power up. Simple."

He stepped closer, katana humming like an engine of suffering.

"Hit Rank X or I, and the world bends for you."

Reika's grip tightened. "So we're just stepping stones to each other?"

"You either climb, Reika," he said, "or you burn."

She paused. Her voice dropped.

"You're wrong."

Usui raised an eyebrow. First emotion all day.

"Killing your enemies is easy," she said. "Killing your own? That grief? That guilt? That sh*t breaks you."

She took a breath. "And if you survive the breaking... what's left is stronger than anything."

For a heartbeat, the battlefield blinked into silence.

Then—smirk.exe reloaded.

"Then die and prove your theory."

CLANG! BANG! Emotional Trauma!

The next strike was instant.

Their swords clashed like divorce papers and bad communication. Sparks exploded. Steel screamed. The world faded into nothing but pain and plot.

Reika dodged low. Her body slick with sweat. Her silver hair curled from the heat like she was in a shampoo commercial from hell.

Usui moved like a shadow. Clean. Efficient. Sociopath-core.

He wasn't fighting to win.

He was deleting her existence.

She dropped low again—slash—a line across his side.

Blood hissed as it hit the ground. Steam rose like it had drama.

Usui flinched. Slightly.

"You cut me. Good."

He lunged. Blade a blur. Speed illegal in several countries.

She blocked—barely.

"You're slow," he mocked, circling. "Still soft."

She didn't answer.

Instead—pivot. Feint. Slash! Another line across his ribs.

This time he staggered.

Expression? Flickered. Just a bit.

They clashed again. Sparks dancing like fireflies on cocaine.

Heat. Sweat. Blood. Stone.

The world shrank to one brutal truth:

Survive, or get a dramatic funeral.

Reika's breath came in short bursts.

"I'm not here to play games," she thought. "I'm here to survive. No—to destroy."

Then—movement.

A black spear tore through the air toward Usui's back.

Enemy commander. Third-party chaos. Classic.

"Usui!" she shouted.

Too late.

But Usui didn't need warnings. Or help. Or therapy. He spun. Blade swept.

A ribbon of flame sliced through the air.

CRACK!

The spear shattered like glass.

Before the enemy could blink, Usui was there.

One clean stroke.

No monologue. No flex.

Just silence and a corpse folding like wet laundry.

The ground hissed beneath the steaming blood.

Above them, the Flame Shikibans… paused. Some backed away. Others? Landed softly, kneeling. Not in fear. In respect.

Usui turned to Reika.

His face?

Blank. But something shifted.

Not ambition.

Not anger.

Just… clarity.

The kind that comes when you kill someone you didn't hate—or saved someone you meant to kill.

They stood in silence.

Reika's hand loosened around her blade. No more fight. No more plan.

Just two people standing in the wreckage of each other.

"You hesitated," she said.

He didn't argue.

"I saw something," he murmured. "You… weren't part of the ladder anymore."

She tilted her head.

"Then what am I?"

He met her gaze. Calm. Inevitable.

"The fire that burns it down."

From that moment on, ranks meant jack sht.*

Only power. And the fear of those too slow to evolve.