I'm Alone In This Apocalypse Vault With 14 Girls?

He switched mid-strike to Italian rapier work, his longsword suddenly moving with a speed and precision that was breathtaking. I flowed into the shadow arts of Shinkage-ryū, becoming a phantom, impossible to target.

"Incredible! You move like water!" he gasped.

"Water does not move," I corrected. "We only perceive it as moving. It is an important distinction."

He tried Spanish saber techniques, then Ottoman scimitar work, each one a different move, desperate attempt to find an opening in my defense. I countered with the adaptability of Suiō-ryū, matching him blow for blow. The crowd was silent, watching us cycle through a dozen different fighting styles in as many seconds. But while he was switching frantically, I was simply responding, like a man lazily swatting at flies.

"Come at me!" he finally gasped, his frustration boiling over.

"Why would I? You are doing all the work for me," I said. "You are showing me everything you know, and it is all... enough."

He came at me with everything he had, a hybrid assault mixing ten different styles. It should have been overwhelming chaos. I stepped through it all, my blade moving in a pattern that belonged to no school, because it didn't need to. In the end, my sword was resting against his throat, his sword arm twisted behind his back at an angle that threatened to tear it from its socket.

"I yield," he gasped, his body slumping in defeat.

The crowd was stunned. They had never seen such a display of skill, such a complete and utter domination.

---

### Semi-Finals: The Veteran

My final opponent before the championship match was an old man named Yamada. He was a veteran of a hundred wars, his face is full of scars, his body held together by sheer willpower and aching joints.

"I have fought demons before," he said as we faced each other, his voice a low rasp. "Men who thought they were touched by the gods. They all bled red."

"No, you haven't," I replied. "You have fought foolish men with big egos. That is not the same thing."

"Is it not?" he asked, and then he attacked.

There was no flourish, no battle cry. His attack had no wasted movements, and was precise. Every strike was aimed at ending the fight as quickly and efficiently as possible. For the first time in the tournament, I found myself needing to block instead of simply dodging. His blade work was ugly but effective.

"You do not fight like the others," I said during a brief disengage, parrying a thrust that would have taken my eye.

"That is because you are looking for glory," he said. "I am not. I am just trying to earn enough rice to see another winter. There is no glory in that. There is only survival."

We fought for what felt like a long time, a silent, brutal conversation between two warriors who understood the harsh reality of the blade. In the end, I disarmed him, my blade resting against his throat, drawing no blood.

"I yield," he said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "Not to you. But the time. To this endless cycle of fighting for scraps."

As he left the platform, he turned back. "Glad to know you"

---

The sun was setting, painting the valley in shades of orange and red. The final match was set. The crowd was larger now, a buzzing hive of humanity eager to see the legend of the Crimson-Eyed Demon face off against the enigmatic Empty Woman.

I found Yukiko sitting on a low wall, watching the sun die.

"Ready to disappoint each other?" she asked as I approached.

"I've been doing that for days," I replied.

"I mean in combat."

"Oh, that. Yes, almost certainly."

She sat beside me, a careful distance between us.

The crowd was gathering, their torches casting long, dancing shadows. The platform had been cleaned, new sand spread, everything prepared for the final confrontation.

"Shall we give them a show?" she asked, standing.

"We could," I said. "Or we could disappoint them all completely."

"Both?" she asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Both."

We walked toward the platform together but separated, two broken things about to collide for no reason other than momentum. The crowd parted, whispering following our passage.

We took our positions on opposite ends of the platform. The judge looked between us, his face pale with a mixture of fear and excitement.

"Begin!" he shouted, and then scrambled back as far as he could.

We looked at each other across twenty feet of sand and possibility.

"Any last words?" she asked.

"Words are always last," I replied.

"How philosophical of you."

"It is how I am bored."

The sun touched the horizon. The crowd held its breath.

And we began.

---

The red-eyed man across from me wasn't breathing right again.

What are you? I wondered for the dozen times, watching him hold his sword with technical perfection. What ancient being crawled into that body and decided to play human?

The crowd's whispers washed.

He tilted his head, a movement too smooth, and calculated. Those crimson eyes held amusement but no warmth.

The sun balanced on the horizon, painting everything the color of old blood. In moments, we'd begin our pointless display of swords.

Standing there, waiting.

---

Five Years Ago - The Minamoto Estate

The tea was always too hot.

My mother did it intentionally, I think. Watching me try not to flinch as the ceramic burned my fingers, maintaining perfect posture while my throat screamed from the scalding liquid. Small cruelties disguised as tradition.

"Your form is improving," she said, which meant it was still unacceptable but she was tired of correcting me.

I knelt on the tatami, legs long since numb, practicing the same ceremony I'd performed every day since I turned thirteen. Pour, serve, sip, suffer. The rhythm of a noble daughter's life.

"Lord Hashimoto will visit tomorrow," Mother continued, arranging flowers with precision. Each stem bent to her will, beauty through submission. "You'll wear the blue kimono I picked. It brings out the color of your eyes."

"Yes, Mother."

"And you'll smile."

"Yes, Mother."

"Seventeen is already late for engagement. We've been... generous with your time."

Generous. Like my life was a gift they could reclaim.

Through the paper screens, I could hear the real world—guards training, horses stamping, life happening without me. I existed in this beautiful cage, fed poetry and politics while my body ached to move.

"May I walk in the garden after?" I asked.

"With your escort."

"Of course."

That night, I snuck out to meet Yamada-sensei in the abandoned tea house. He was one of Father's older guards, scarred and practical, who'd taken pity on the girl who watched sword practice with desperate eyes.

"You're late," he said, not looking up from maintaining his blade.

"Mother's lectures ran long."

"They always do." He gestured to the practice swords. "Twenty repetitions of the third kata, then we talk."

I moved through the forms, feeling my body wake up for the first time all day. This was real—the weight of wood, the burn of muscles, the possibility of becoming something more than decorative.

"Better," he said after. "Your transitions are smoother."

"I practice in my room."

"With what?"

"A fan. It has similar weight distribution if you hold it right."

He actually smiled. "Clever. But cleverness won't help tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Lord Hashimoto. He's shopping for a third wife."

My blood went cold. "Third?"

"The first two died in childbirth. He needs sons."

"And I'm... merchandise."

"You're valuable merchandise. Young, healthy, good bloodline." He paused, choosing words carefully. "He's forty-three."

Twenty-six years older than me. I'd seen him once at court—thick fingers, wet lips, eyes that stripped servants naked.

"I won't."

"You will. Or your family loses standing, your sisters lose marriage prospects, your brothers lose inheritance." Yamada's voice was gentle but honest. "This is the world."

"Then the world is wrong."

"Yes. But being right doesn't change it."

I practiced until my hands bled that night, trying to beat the truth into submission. It didn't work. Truth, like Mother's tea, burned regardless of what you wanted.

---

The Next Day

Lord Hashimoto examined me like livestock.

"Turn," he commanded.

I turned.

"Healthy hips," he told Father. "Good for breeding."

Father nodded, discussing my body like I wasn't in it. "The Minamoto line has never failed to produce sons."

"The dowry?"

"Negotiable."

They haggled over my worth while I stood there, blue kimono perfect, smile painted on, dying inside with exquisite posture.

Later, excused while the men concluded business, I pressed against the screen to listen.