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

The sun balanced on the horizon, a bleeding orange orb that painted the arena in the color of old blood. The crowd was a living thing, a single, multi-throated beast of anticipation, its roars and whispers washing over us in a hot, sticky wave. They had come for blood, for honor a story to tell around their fires. They would get none of those things.

"Ready to get this over with?" I asked, my voice flat, the sound swallowed by the din.

"After you," Yukiko replied, her voice a cool, steady current in the ocean of noise. She stood across the sand, a study in relaxed tension. Her feet were bare, gripping the ground, her posture perfect but not rigid. In her, I saw a reflection of my own profound disinterest in the world. She was the only person here who seemed were both just passing through, and this whole affair was a tedious detour.

The judge, a nervous little man whose beard was a desperate attempt at authority, raised his hand. "Begin!" he shrieked, and then scrambled back as far as he could, as if afraid we might break the rules of the world by simply existing.

We began to circle, our steps soft on the packed sand, our blades held loosely. The crowd's noise faded into a dull hum. I tested the ground with my foot, noting its density, the way it would give way under a pivot. Yukiko's eyes weren't on my sword; they were on my hips, my shoulders, reading the subtle shifts in my weight that telegraphed my move. She was good.

She struck first. Not a simple thrust, but a complex combination. A feint, a slight dip of her blade tip towards my eyes to make me flinch, followed by a lightning-fast, low sweep at my ankles. It was a classic opening designed to unbalance and create an opening.

I didn't block. I simply wasn't there when she attacked. I shifted my weight, my left leg rising a mere inch as her blade hissed through the space it had occupied a moment before. At the same time, my own sword, moving with the slow, deliberate grace. Swept upwards, to tap her wrist as she recovered.

"A good start," I noted, my voice a calm murmur. "But you rely too much on the feint. Your real attack was a half-second too late."

Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance in their cool depths. "Oh? Is that so?"

She came at me then, a flurry of strikes, each one different from the last. She was not fighting like a samurai, bound by forms and honor. She was a brawler with a sword, using whatever worked. A straight lunge, followed by a vicious backhand slash, then a downward chop that would have split my skull.

I met her blow for blow, my own movements a fluid, contradictory mix of styles. I parried her lunge with a circular redirection from a long-dead Chinese school, the motion turning her own momentum against her. I blocked her backhand slash with a stiff, immovable block from a spear-fighting art I had watched a Ming general use to break a cavalry charge. I flowed under her downward chop, my body bending in an impossible arc, my sword coming up in a rising cut that used the principles of a forgotten Okinawan dagger style.

Our blades clashed in a rhythm that only we could understand, a complex, percussive conversation of steel on steel. The crowd was silent, mesmerized by the deadly dance, their faces a mask of awe and confusion. They couldn't comprehend it. To them, it was a blur of impossible skill. To us, it was just... talking.

"You're not even trying," she said, her voice low, a strained grunt as she disengaged and spun away.

"I'm just observing what you'll do," I replied, my own breathing still even. "So far, it's boring. Thrust. Slash. Chop. You're just repeating yourself."

Her frustration was a clear wave, a heat in the air between us. She came at me again, her movements faster, more aggressive. She was fighting with anger now, and anger is a flaw. It makes you predictable.

I saw it again. The subtle tensing of her shoulder muscle a fraction of a second before a lunge. It was a tell I had seen a thousand times. I decided to play with it.

As she lunged, I didn't sidestep. I stood my ground. But at the same moment, I kicked my foot out at the sand. A cloud of fine, golden dust sprayed up, directly into her face.

It was a cheap, dishonorable, schoolyard trick. And it was utterly effective.

She flinched, her eyes closing instinctively. Her lunge went wide. I didn't press the advantage. I didn't strike. I just waited for her next move.

She wiped the sand from her eyes, her face a mask of fury and embarrassment. "You fight like a coward," she spat.

"I fight in a way that is interesting," I corrected her. "You were becoming boring. I had to liven things up."

She saw an opening, a brief moment of what she perceived as arrogance, and she took it. She drove her sword forward in a desperate, powerful thrust, aiming for my heart.

I saw it coming. I let her come.

At the last possible second, I moved with a simple, arrogant turn of my wrist. I slapped the flat of my blade against the side of hers, deflecting it just enough. A heartbeat away from my chest, slid past, harmlessly striking the air.

Before she could recover, I drove my sword hilt into her ribs. It wasn't a killing blow. It wasn't even a truly injuring. Just an insult. A sharp, painful reminder of the gap between us.

She stumbled back, a gasp of pain and surprise escaping her lips, her hand going to her side.

"Is that all you have?" she asked, her voice tight with pain and frustration.

"I'm just getting started," I replied, a small, humorless smile touching my lips. "But I'm beginning to think this is all you have."

She looked at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning realization. She saw that I was not just toying with her. I was adapting, learning, and evolving in real time, using her own emotions against her.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I've been called worse," I said. "But I prefer 'Red Eye Demon'."

The fight continued, a brutal, beautiful dance of steel and sand. The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. The crowd was silent, their faces a mask of awe and confusion. We were two masters of our craft, but we were not fighting to win. We were just having nothing better to do, and in doing so, we found a strange kind of connection.

Finally, we came to a stop, our blades locked together in the center of the platform. We were both breathing hard, our bodies covered in sweat and grime. The fight had reached its peak, a stalemate that neither of us could break. The vibration of our locked blades traveled up our arms, a shared hum of power and exhaustion.

"This is pointless," she said, her voice barely a whisper, her breath warm on my face.

"I agree," I replied. "It's become boring."

We lowered our swords in an unspoken agreement. The crowd was stunned, their silence a testament to their confusion. The judge was sputtering, his face a mask of disbelief.

"Draw?" he stammered. "There must be a winner!"

"We're both winners," I said, my voice flat, turning to face the little man. "And we're both losers. We've wasted our time, and you've wasted yours. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have better things to do."

We walked off the platform together, leaving the crowd to their whispers and their theories. Taro was waiting for us, his face pale and his eyes wide.

"My lord," he stammered, "what... what just happened?"

"We got bored," I said, not even looking back. "Now, let's go. Away from here. Everything else is just a nuisance."

As we walked away, I could hear the judge trying to explain the unexplainable to the confused crowd. I could feel Yukiko beside me, her presence a quiet, steady counterpoint to my own chaotic energy.

"You know," she said, her voice low and thoughtful, "for a man who doesn't care about anything, you care an awful lot about being boring."

"It's the only thing worth caring about," I replied. "If you're not bored, you're not paying attention."

We walked into the setting sun, three broken things looking for something interesting enough to justify our continued existence. The Entity, the Empty Woman, and the Boy Who Had No Choice.