The next shinobi got too close, and wind sliced her thigh, opening a thick line of blood. She roared and threw her weight into him, bringing her knee up hard enough to lift him off the ground. She didn’t wait for him to fall—just stabbed him midair, then let him drop.
Men screamed and writhed around her as crimson seeped through her clothing.
Her vision drained into red and black, blood coating her tongue in copper and salt, thick as syrup. One screamed behind her. Another rushed her.
And she grinned, feeling his arm break as he tried to parry her sword. He stumbled, and she stepped into him, dropping the blade to sink her claws—long now—deep into his chest. His scream gurgled against her palm as she held him there, close, their exhales mingling in short, ragged bursts.
A cry above.
She looked up too late, and pain exploded through her shoulder. A spear sank deep, angling down toward her ribs. Snarling, she yanked sideways, tearing it free in a burst of blood as her knees hit the ground.
The blood. The heat.
The world dimmed to sound and movement and breath.
On your left! Kazuma’s voice whipped through her skull.
She turned, just as a whip of black ichor shot toward her throat.
Her arm came up, blocking the attack, shock running all the way to her shoulder, already slick with blood. Then Aimee drove forward, fangs bared, claws sinking home.
Wind screamed past her as another shinobi lunged—only to be yanked sideways mid-strike, limbs flailing as a sudden vortex tore through the walkway. His body crashed into the canyon wall with a dull crunch and dropped.
Aimee blinked through the blood running into her eyes, mouth falling open as she watched.
Kazuma was cutting through them.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t snarl. Just moved—deliberate, merciless. His katana carved a clean line through the next shinobi’s stomach as a funnel of compressed wind spun another into the air, shredding him mid-scream. Stone cracked beneath his feet with every step. Black hair whipped loose from his high tail, flaring behind him like a banner.
Wind coiled around the blade, dense and biting, and with a flick of his wrists, it tore clean through a trio of attackers on the ledge.
He was close now.
Aimee stayed where she was, one knee in the dirt, blood dripping down her side.
All the stars.She finally exhaled.
He didn’t look human.
She felt the heat between her legs before she could stop it—the throb of it deep and dark and so fucking right. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she bit down, fresh copper blooming in her mouth.
Kazuma’s eyes met hers as he stepped over the dead, katana dragging a thin line of blood through the dirt as he came for her.
The wind settled, and Aimee looked past him.
Bodies. Well over twenty. Some slumped against stone walls, others crumpled in pieces on the walkway. Blood pooled and streaked across the sandstone, thick as ink. One man’s chest had caved inward like his ribs had been folded in half. Another’s arm twitched, severed clean at the shoulder.
She knew Kazuma was skilled. But this…this was slaughter.
He reached her without a word and extended a hand.
His entire arm, from shoulder to fingertips, was soaked in blood, dripping from the edge of his sleeve.
She reached up and gripped his forearm, fingers digging into muscle, sliding a little before locking in place.
“Are these like…discount shinobi or something?” she grunted as he hauled her upright.
Kazuma wiped the blood from his palm onto the sleeve of her tunic without asking.
