Her spurs jingle with each step, her face shadowed by the brim of her hat, yet still clearly grinning. Casual. Her posture is full of holes and openings, so many places I could attack from, but at the mental image of myself sinking my claws into her stomach, the vision of her planting an arrow straight to my forehead forcefully appears in my head.

But maybe if I rolled across the stage and leapt at her back, then—arrow to the skull.

What if I pretended to shake her hand and then—arrow to the skull.

If I were to attack, then—arrow to the skull.

Her eyes gleam at me, diamonds underwater. I feel a chill across my back.

She’s going to kill me.

She’s going to play with me, tear me apart with her bare hands, splatter my blood across the arena and pick her teeth with my bones. Death. End-of-the-road. I see it in her eyes. Calm, clear, unafraid. Calculating the best, easiest, most interesting way to kill me. It’s so clear. Her posture, her face, her eyes, everything radiates that one simple fact of life: she’s going to kill me.

My breathing suddenly feels very heavy. Like her spurred boots are already pressing down across my chest, cracking ribs, stomping my lungs into nothingness, grinding my heart to mush. I’m scared.

I’m… scared? Me, afraid? Th—that’s stupid! Why would I ever be afraid of Rice, of all people?

Her level is only a hundred and five. Twenty-five above mine or so. That’s nothing. I’ve defeated enemies with a way higher level gap than that, probably.

…But they were only animals and monsters. Not like this. Not calculated, clever, cool. She is.

I put my hand to my chest, trying to calm down my breathing, only to find my heart beating quickly against my fingers, sweat slipping between my pronounced ribs and the grooves of the brand. I’m not scared. I can’t be scared. It’s not possible. Not me.

I am not a coward, damn it!

But as I look up at her again, my heart, previously so quick and alive, stops beating fully. I stare, eyes wide, as she calmly draws her bow.

Wait. Has the match already begun? I—I didn’t hear Pain say anything, so why is she—

But when I look up, I find Pain silent, already having said everything that needed saying. The audience is likewise silent, anticipating what’s to come. Waiting, watching for my righteous demise. Execution.

My eyes flash back to face Rice. She’s moving. Slowly, deliberately, she pulls an arrow from the quiver on her back. No hurry. No rush. She raises her bow, loads in the arrow, pulls it back, and points it at me. At my skull. Bullseye.

She takes her time. She knows I won’t move. I’m as frozen in place as a cow about to be stuck. Livestock, more aware than ever of the fate that awaits me, while still too docile to change it. Prey before predator. No, she isn’t even that. She’s playing for sport. I’m just a target.

I’m nothing.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Her hand twitches, one eye closed, and as calmly as ever, her fingers loosen their grip on the arrow and bowstring. It’s like watching a master craftsman at play. Absolutely entrancing. Unlike any bowman I’ve seen before. And the arrowed loosened begins its maiden voyage, its body swaying back and forth midair, its flight altered by the wind, but in that perfect way where the wind is not only calculated for, but indeed depended on, as the arrow saunters pridefully through the air, head glinting with a cocky flourish, right at me, right at my skull, right at that little bridge between my brows, right at that one spot where I’ll be killed, quickly and painlessly. Bullseye.

Ah. I’m dead, aren’t I?

“KITTY!” someone shouts, far away, but so familiar, so close, and as the word penetrates my skull, I realize how stupid I am, how much of a damn idiot I’ve been—to think that this place would be my grave!

My feet are uprooted, my heart begins to beat again, and I move, instinct and rationale cooperating to make my head move, neck jerking to the right and jaw jutting out.

The arrow, flying true, is caught by my cheek instead of my skull, passing through my mouth and jaw harmlessly, only chipping a single tooth and slicing my tongue a little before it passes through the other cheek, leaving me and my head only slightly damaged as it flies to the boundary around the arena, harmlessly bouncing off the barrier around us. Behind the barrier, I spot Moleman in the front row seats, sighing in relief. I smile at him before turning back to Rice.

“Thanks,” I say, rubbing the holes her arrow made in my cheeks. “I’d been considering a cheek piercing, or whatever they’re called.”

She smiles at me. All of that pressure is gone, replaced with a playfully innocent face and eyes that glitter with excitement. “Are you ready now, Prince?”

I spit a mouthful of blood and a chipped tooth onto the ground. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

She looks up to face Pain. “Mister Bread, would you please do a restart of the match? We weren’t quite ready.”

Pain smiles down at her, more obviously amused than His moon face should be able to show. “Oh, please, Mr. Bread was my father. But since it’s a request from our dearest angel, I can’t refuse. Are both sides ready?”

She turns to me. I look up at Pain and nod resolutely.

Her smile widens a smidge. “We are.”

“Great, love to hear it! With that done and over with… Ready, set… Go!”

She looks at me, a silent question shining through her crystal-clear eyes.

‘Want to play?’

I smile at her, crouch down, and ready my claws, letting my stance speak for me.

‘I certainly do.’

She grins, and so it begins.

Without waiting for her to start, I flash across the arena, briefly jumping into a ball to get her off guard, but when I arrive at her side, all I find is a smiling face peeking out from just beyond her drawn bow. I grin back at her, jerking my body to the right just in time to catch her arrow with my shoulder instead of my face. When I look back at the path I took to get to her, I find a trail of blood drops left from the holes in my cheeks. I see how it is.

Leaping back, I evade another arrow flying at my face with an acrobat’s grace, doing a summersault for the sheer style and landing a pace or two away. As soon as my feet touch the ground, an arrow stabs into one of them, nailing it to the floor. I quirk an eyebrow at her and she pokes her tongue out teasingly.

Well, not my first time dancing with arrows, so I simply step off of the arrow. Leaning down, I remove it from the ground to put into my inventory, away from her.

In accordance with the Tutournament Rules,

access to the inventory has been restricted

during arena combat.>

…Ah, is that so? Luckily enough, I happen to know another place I can put this arrow where she won’t be able to get it.

I toss the arrow into the moat.

Two down, approximately two dozen more to go. I was a bit worried that she might pull arrows from her inventory, but if she can’t use it, then this becomes a lot simpler. It also means that the weapons on her person are all she has. Her bow, a quiver of two dozen or so arrows, a short sword and a dagger. There might be something hidden under her vest or in her boots or under her hat, but I doubt it. She’s not the type to keep things hidden. We’re very alike in that sense.

An arrow whizzes through the air, seemingly going for my chest but instead impaling my right shoulder—again.

Apart from our fighting style, at least. Heh, I can’t believe she won’t even give me a break to think.

I’d better take this a bit more seriously, then.

Hunching down, I kick off the ground, running on all fours towards her, only for her to sidestep me with routine ease, not even needing a RED flag to distract me with. Blood is starting to drip generously from my various wounds, soon joined by yet another as she plants an arrow to my shin. Her strategy is as deceptively simple as my own.

I just have to get close, and then I’ll win.

She just needs to disable my limbs, and then she’ll win.

That’s the thing here. She isn’t actually trying to kill me. There’s no fun in her outright killing me, and I’ll pay her the same courtesy. This is much more fun.

It’s like a high-stakes game of tag. As ridiculous as it sounds, it soon boils down to the both of us just running around the stage, her shooting arrows at me, me trying to catch her and failing, splattering blood everywhere I go…

Within only a few minutes, the entire stage is covered in blood, my arms and legs and back are riddled with arrows, and her quiver is starting to look awfully empty.

My efforts are finally starting to pay off.