3

Real Name: Ryōka NIWA

Born: June 6

Height: 153 cm

Weight: 42 kg

Throughout her early childhood, Ryōka was the victim of abuse so abhorrent that words fail to describe it. She has no memories of her youth before the age of fifteen—she doesn’t know what happened, what was done to her, or what she had done. Her first memory is that of standing over a pulpy mess that seemed to have once been her parents, with a warm and bloody egg slicer in her hand. The authorities took her into their care, but the Niwa family took notice of her abilities and, after adopting her, began to force her to fight for them. Given no clear purpose, volition, or convictions of her own, she had only her orders. Because she has no qualms about killing or perpetrating deception or betrayal, her role on the battlefield is often that of the spy. But after years of duplicity, she is beginning to find it hard to tell friend from foe.

Her weapon is not a trident but rather a spading fork, which she has taken to calling Cockscomb. When she feels overstressed, she likes to go to an onsen, and she’s always a little bit happier when her battles take her near a spa resort. Her favorite food is eggs slow-cooked in the hot spring water.

Timid, but not weak; not strong, but determined. Not powerful, but not powerless; not hyperintelligent, but cunning. Niwatori, the Fighter of the Chicken, approached fighting now much as she had the first time she took up arms. She never cared at all about whatever gap in skill or ability might exist between her and her opponents, nor did she factor in their unique qualities or character traits. She could respect and appreciate her more formidable enemies, but ultimately, such things were situational—as mutable as the weather. The very best fighter might have an off day, and the weakest might hit upon a lucky break. The virtuous could be corrupted, and evildoers could reform. Such vagaries never captured her attention.

It’s myself I need to be thinking of.

She wasn’t self-indulgent or needlessly violent, but rather the opposite—she was so meek and restrained as to border on servile. But few were as self-possessed as she. To Chicken, other people were merely background elements. The Zodiac War’s principal rule—victory goes to the last survivor—suited her surprisingly well.

Of all twelve warriors participating in this contest—an event that came only once every twelve years with the promise of fulfilling any single wish—perhaps she alone viewed it not as a spectacle, but as a simple extension of her normal way of life.

When it came to Rabbit’s plan to use Boar’s corpse as live bait—or at least, undead bait—Chicken might not have grasped the necromanticist’s strategy as thoroughly as Dog had, but like Dog, she wasn’t distracted by the repulsive nature of Rabbit’s tactics. She found the man disturbing and creepy, of that there was no doubt, but that too was simply circumstance. And it was one she had turned to her own benefit.

By revealing what she knew about Rabbit, she was able to instill fear in Dog, lure him from his place of hiding, and at last, entice him into injecting his One-Man Army drug into her. Perils weren’t to be managed; they were to be leveraged. Chicken trusted nothing but her own abilities, and for a time, they had been boosted to their limit. Now she wanted to put an end to this contest before the effects wore off.

But this rush of power wasn’t going to tempt her into attacking Boar’s shambling corpse. Chicken wasn’t so reckless as to rush headlong into a field test before getting better acquainted with her new strength—at least, not when she had a better way, a way in which she could take care of Boar from afar.

In dealing with Dog, Chicken had perhaps oversold the threat posed by Rabbit’s undead soldiers. Though the necromanticist was indeed a threat to her, he wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle.

Wielding her spading fork, Cockscomb, like an orchestra conductor’s baton, she flicked her wrist, and for a moment, nothing seemed to change. But several seconds later, the effects were dramatic. A roar of hundreds of flapping wings cracked through the air above Boar’s walking corpse and announced the descent of the birds themselves, a torrential downpour of sparrows, swallows, crows, doves, skylarks, black kites, hawks, hummingbirds, and cuckoos alike and more, all acting as one.

As Chicken watched, she announced, “I kill by pecks,” though her target was too far, and maybe too dead, to hear. Every bird in the vicinity of the abandoned city had gathered to peck at Boar’s corpse. “I give to you my Sky Burial.”

Dog’s secret power was the One-Man Army, and this was Chicken’s—although she typically used it to clean up the battlefield after all the fighting was done. Unlike a video game, in the real world your enemies didn’t simply disappear after hitting the ground. It was a dilemma that had plagued soldiers of all stripes across the ages. But not Chicken.

There was an old saying, “A bird does not foul the nest it’s about to leave.” In other words, a person should leave a place the way they found it. After her battles were won, Chicken instructed her birds to consume the bodies. Paired with her Eye of the Cormorant, the two abilities constituted a mutually beneficial relationship between her and the birds. She would provide them with regular meals, and they would provide her with information. She had only kept her so-called Sky Burial a secret because she didn’t ever want to be forced to use it to clean up after other people’s messes.

Chicken was never the best strategist, but the advantage the Sky Burial provided her against Rabbit was so overwhelming that even she had no trouble grasping it. Normally, she would have trouble convincing the birds to attack a living adversary—such an act was beyond the scope of their arrangement—but Rabbit’s allies were corpses. Moreover, the undead were an affront to nature.

In one moment, hundreds of birds stripped Boar’s corpse to the bones, and in the next moment, even the bones had been carried away—probably to serve as nest-building material. But even though it was a corpse, it was an animated corpse—specifically, the animated corpse of a warrior chosen for the Zodiac War. The birds, though many, were merely birds, and the undead fighter hadn’t gone down without resistance. A few dozen dead birds had been left behind, their bodies scattered nearby. Apparently, Boar had managed to shoot them down, though the sound of her gunfire was drowned out by the flapping of the swarm. Now those guns, too, had fallen to the empty street.

What had she called her ability—“Making It Rain”?

Chicken hadn’t needed to be told that by Dog. Her birds had already told her before he had the chance. Boar was capable of spraying those two machine guns without ever needing to stop to reload, and judging by the number of birds she had shot down, her corpse had still been in command of that power.

Chicken had assumed that once dead, the fighters’ skills would be lost to them. Lucky for her, she hadn’t let her own enhanced strength get to her head. Had she instead decided to test herself directly against Boar, she would likely be covered from head to toe with bullet holes. Chicken’s faulty assumption nearly cost her life.

Even this was costly. The birds were too few before, and now they’re even fewer.

Ideally, she would have had enough birds at her call to watch over every opponent and provide her with complete awareness of the battlefield. But that was the world of the ideal. What she had was reality. The ghost city had, by definition, been a city. That meant fewer birds and far fewer species compared to more rural areas. She’d expended a significant number of those, and reinforcements were limited.

Chicken didn’t feel any particular love for her birds; nor was she particularly sad that some had given their lives in sacrifice to protect hers. But she didn’t like losing them. She also didn’t like that the departing survivors hadn’t lifted a finger—or a beak, rather—to the carcasses of their compatriots, which they had simply left behind. She’d never known those ravenous creatures to leave any table scraps.

They must be full, Chicken thought.

Even if she happened across Snake’s walking corpse, she wouldn’t be able to summon another Sky Burial. At least not until she gave the birds a little time to digest.

I’d better back off for the time being. I’ll put the birds back on recon duty.

And so Chicken set out to put some space between her and the other fighters. For now, she was content that she had disposed of one corpse.

Even though Chicken didn’t think deeply on her decision to dispose of Boar’s corpse, she resisted the lure of a bolder move—for example, tracking Boar until the roaming corpse rejoined Rabbit and Snake and attempting to take out all three in one fell swoop—and instead made a small, but real, change to the course of the Zodiac War. The necromanticist’s ability to forge an unbreakable alliance posed as significant a threat as Dog had suspected. If let be, Rabbit would bring the battle to a swift and decisive conclusion. But just as his alliance was getting off the ground, Chicken put the brakes on it—and that was a major accomplishment.

No matter how dangerous a fighter Rabbit was, with only Snake at his command, he was not in a position to make any big moves. The ambush that had worked so effectively against Boar would not be easily replicated—the only reason he was able to take Boar by complete surprise was the location of their stand-off, right where the battle had started, where Snake’s dead body was both nearby and entirely inconspicuous. Now Rabbit would have no choice but to adopt a more reactive stance.

The actions of the clever, duplicitous Team Chicken and Dog had succeeded in bringing the Zodiac War into a deadlock, and the fighter in the best position to capitalize on this stalemate was none other than Chicken. No matter how limited the number of her flock, given enough time, the birds would reveal her opponents wherever their hiding places might be.

Chicken only faced one problem—she didn’t realize the extent of her advantage. She was used to fighting from a position of weakness and inexperience and making an unfavorable position work to her benefit. Actually having the advantage was decidedly unfamiliar to her. Were she to grasp the nature of the position she now held, she would surely put it to good use. But before she had that chance, a voice called out to her.

“Hey, lady,” the voice said.

Chicken was inside a convenience store far away from the street where Boar had received her burial-of-sorts. Watching the birds feed hadn’t exactly been appetizing, but nevertheless, Chicken sought to fortify herself with a meal as well. Some fighters were of the opinion that taking time to eat during a battle was imprudent at best, but Chicken was not one for fighting on an empty stomach. Fortunately for her, the coolers’ contents had been left behind, and she was just taking her pick from the various drinks and prepared foods when the voice spoke.

She turned and saw the teenaged boy who had been half—or maybe even fully—asleep through much of the opening assembly.

With a startled cry, Chicken scooped up Cockscomb and pointed its three tips at her opponent. He was just a boy, delicate and not so well built. In her powered-up state, could Chicken take him in close combat? Should she summon her birds to at least give her more vantage points?

“Ahh, give it a rest,” he said, as listlessly as before. “I don’t mean to fight you.” He raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. But Chicken knew better than to trust that for more than it was worth.

She asked, “H-how did you know to find me here?”

“I didn’t. I just came here to find some food, same as you.”

If Chicken had understood the advantage she held in the battle, she might have held off on her meal and done more to solidify her position, and she might not have so incautiously gone into this convenience store. If what the boy said was true, and this was mere coincidence, then it was still a coincidence her carelessness had brought upon her.

As Chicken nursed her embarrassment at having put herself in this entirely avoidable situation, the boy said, “Well, I might as well introduce myself.

“I am Nezumi, the Fighter of the Rat. I kill inexorably.”

Chicken hadn’t expected him to have the proper manners to give the customary introduction. Of course, she hadn’t expected him at all—which was why, too caught by surprise, she failed to respond with hers in turn.

So he’s Rat …

She had heard that his was an exceedingly peculiar clan, but her Eye of the Cormorant hadn’t ever been able to find out anything about him.

“And you are?” the boy asked.

“Oh, er, I’m Niwatori, the Fighter of the Chicken,” she said somewhat vacuously, but better late than never. “I kill by pecks.”

“Uh-huh,” Rat said, giving her the once-over with those sleepy eyes and going to no lengths to hide it. “Oh, that’s right, you raised your hand back there, didn’t you?”

“Back where? Oh. Yes, I did.” Chicken had almost forgotten. “With Monkey, yes. What about it?”

She had volunteered to join Monkey, albeit with the full intention of betraying her. Rat raised his hand too—first, in fact, which had made it easier for Chicken to follow.

“W-why do you ask?” Chicken said.

“Come with me,” Rat replied. “I’ll take you to where Monkey is.”

Rat took her back underground. This time, it wasn’t any car park where a bird might enter, should it be struck by the inclination, but a place where entrance required lifting a manhole cover. The sewer was perhaps the most obvious of hiding places, but with the entire city abandoned, far more savory shelters abounded, and few would think to seek out any quarry here. At the very least, it would likely have remained in Chicken’s blind spot had she not been ushered here like this. Even now, Chicken was having trouble believing anyone would put up with the lack of electricity and that god-awful stench to set up base here for a long stretch.

“Ah, Nezumi-kun, you’re back,” Monkey said. Chicken had suspected that Monkey wouldn’t actually be here, but here she was. “Did you find any food?” Then, noticing Chicken, she said, “Oh, who did you bring?”

Monkey was sitting on a spread-out blanket as if she were having a picnic. She emanated such a lively and carefree aura that Chicken almost forgot they were in a sewer, let alone in the middle of a contest to the death.

“Yeah, I found food,” Rat said. “She was there, so I brought her.”

His answer explained so little he might as well have not said anything at all. Chicken felt put on the spot.

If you’re going to force someone to come all the way to a place like this, she thought, you could at least not leave her hanging.

Not that Rat had forced her there at all. In fact, Rat had simply started walking and said hardly a word the entire way. If anything, it felt like Chicken had just decided to tag along.

And he just kept his back to me the whole time. He left himself wide open.

Even without Dog’s One-Man Army—even if Chicken were her normal, unenhanced self—she could have run him through with her fork without any trouble. Watching him from behind, he seemed every bit the plain teenager with nothing of the warrior in him at all, just as he’d come across on the observation deck. It was almost harder not to kill him.

But … maybe that’s why I followed him so blindly. If I sensed any fight in him, I might have killed him instead. I didn’t kill him simply because he was so killable. If I could do it anytime I wanted, why do it now?

Compared to Dog, who left so few openings for an attack that when he let his guard down for a single moment, she felt she had no choice but to kill him, maybe Rat did have, in his own way, some aptitude for survival. Meanwhile, as Chicken was attempting to give the boy some sort of charitable benefit of the doubt, Rat simply laid himself down on the blanket, where he folded his arms beneath his head, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes.

“Come now, Nezumi,” Monkey said, scolding him.

But Rat drowsily replied, “I’m tired from going out. So I’m sleeping. You take it from here.” He didn’t say anything else and seemed to already be asleep.

Some people said that one proof of a warrior was the ability to get in some sleep whenever and wherever the moment presented itself. Chicken saw truth in that idea, but she doubted it meant falling asleep in total indifference to the ongoing fight.

I thought maybe we’d met before, but talking to him hasn’t stirred up many memories. Maybe that feeling I had was just a trick of my imagination.

“Sometimes,” Monkey said with an exasperated sigh, “I don’t know what to do with this boy.” She shifted herself to face Chicken. “Sorry about that. Really, he’s not a bad kid. He’s just …”

“Ah, oh,” Chicken stammered. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“You raised your hand for me in the tower, didn’t you? Do you know who I am?”

“I know you’re the Fighter of the Monkey, but that’s all.”

Unlike in her dealings with Dog, Chicken was telling the truth this time. Monkey’s clan, as with Rat’s, was shrouded in mystery that not even her Eye of the Cormorant had been able to penetrate. Brusque Rat and affable Monkey were vastly different personalities, but to Chicken, they both presented unsettling and unfamiliar fighters. As such, they required her caution—but caution alone wouldn’t get her anywhere. She was timid but not weak; she was not strong, but she was determined.

“I see,” Monkey said with the kind of smile you wouldn’t give to an enemy you were about to face in mortal combat. “Then let me introduce myself.

“I am Sharyū, the Fighter of the Monkey. I kill in peace.”

“I am Niwatori, the Fighter of the Chicken. I kill by pecks.”

This time, Chicken responded straightaway. And when Monkey said “in peace,” the words rang true. Maybe that ceasefire the woman proposed at the very beginning wasn’t, as Chicken had suspected, simply a means to forming an alliance. Maybe Monkey actually intended to end the Zodiac War without any death.

No, that can’t be, Chicken thought, pushing away any such distracting thoughts. Dokku seemed to have that same misconception. Nobody would seriously consider cooperating with their opponents to attempt to bypass the Zodiac War.

“Well, Niwatori-san, it’s nice to meet you.” Monkey’s words carried no trace of deception—only friendship. “I appreciate your stepping forward back there, and I’m glad that we’re able to have a real talk now.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“After we all got split up, I managed to find Nezumi,” Monkey said, glancing at the sleeping youth. “He suggested we hide down here.”

That made sense. After all, sewers have long been passages for rodents.

Monkey continued, “After the floor fell out, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to meet up with the people who so kindly volunteered to join me, but this is a good start.”

“Ah, yes,” Chicken replied, omitting the fact that she had only raised her hand because she thought betraying the woman would put her in a good position. “Yeah, I’m, uh … glad I came.”

This wasn’t like when she found Dog in the underground garage. His intention to use and then kill her had been blatantly obvious. Monkey was different. She seemed utterly devoid of that maliciousness everyone else carried somewhere inside them. Chicken found herself believing that Monkey was truly, from the bottom of her heart, happy to see her.

The question is, can I kill her?

If Monkey was really a kind person, and if she really hoped for peace, then to Chicken, she was easy to kill. She wouldn’t have to put on the buffoon act to get Monkey’s guard down as had been required with Dog. She could just kill Monkey without any of that trouble. Sure, with Rat there, it was two against one, but they were nothing Chicken couldn’t handle, now that she was operating at maximum power.

But here, as before, this position—having the freedom to kill them whenever she wanted—kept her in a state of inaction. In every battle, she had fought under the motto “Kill the enemies you can kill, when you can kill them.” She was just unaccustomed to fighting from a position of strength.

But that wasn’t even the real issue. What she was truly unaccustomed to was dealing with someone who, like Monkey, had no hidden side. Neither on nor off the battlefield had she ever encountered such a person.

Monkey said, “I just wish there was a way we could join back up with everyone who raised their hands.”

Chicken didn’t know how to respond. Was this woman seriously still trying to find a surefire way to win the Zodiac War without anyone fighting or getting hurt, even now that the battle was already underway?

Chicken tried to recall who had raised their hand. Aside from Monkey, Rat, and herself, there were three others. Ox, Horse—the giant one—and Rabbit.

Surely she won’t include Rabbit. He was clearly just trying to stir up chaos. This woman isn’t that much of a saint. Hell, even I can see how stupid that would be.

Not to mention that Chicken wasn’t genuinely on board when she raised her hand. Ox and Horse were suspect too. She couldn’t even be sure of the sleeping Rat’s true intentions. Even if Monkey was serious, whatever hopes she had for ending the Zodiac War without violence and death was nothing more than a pipe dream. It would never happen.

Monkey was saying, “Have you seen anyone else? What’s going on aboveground?”

“Some are already dead.” Chicken didn’t need to be so blunt about it, but some malicious part of her hoped to smash that woman’s earnest idealism. “I know for a fact that Boar and Dog have been killed. Including Snake, that makes at least three out. That’s a quarter of us already gone.”

Chicken of course didn’t mention that she was the one who had killed Dog. She had washed her hands and cleaned off any telltale blood splatters from her clothes. The sole reason she wore such skimpy clothing was to make the blood easier to wash off.

Chicken asked, “Even with three dead, can your plan still work?”

“It can. But it’s still too soon to reveal the details, I’m afraid.” Then, with real disappointment in her voice, Monkey said, “So two more have died. That’s too bad.” She made no effort to hide the fact that this news came as a surprise; nor did she try to act like it didn’t disturb her. “That means we may see more victims yet. All right, I can’t afford inaction any longer. It’s time to do something … possibly as soon as after we eat. Niwatori, you’ll dine with us, won’t you?”

It was an innocent invitation, delivered as if there was no imaginable reason Chicken would refuse. Chicken only had one moment to decide. To accept or to kill?

She decided.

Five minutes later, Chicken was back aboveground. She had politely declined Monkey’s invitation and bade both her and Rat farewell—though the teenager had remained asleep through the entire exchange, so in truth, she had only really engaged with Monkey.

What the hell is wrong with me? Chicken asked herself. How stupid am I? I could have at least pretended to go along with her. Instead, she had declined not only the meal, but the alliance. Where’s that determined, crafty person I used to be? How she would have played it was obvious: pretend to be their ally, get close to them, and take Cockscomb in hand and skewer that trusting, chatty Monkey and the sleepy boy then and there. It was as if she had been poisoned by Monkey’s pacifism—like those clear, unsuspecting eyes had pierced right through her.

Chicken could still hear Monkey’s voice, disappointed but still friendly, and it ached in her chest.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Monkey had said. “If you change your mind, you’re welcome to return anytime. I’ll be here, waiting. Please don’t lose hope.”

It’s probably the fault of that One-Man Army stuff. That potion enhanced my mind along with my body. It made my stupid head smarter. Because I went off and gave myself this boost, I lost who I really am. That’s why I let myself become torn apart by some bogus notion of kindness and sincerity. What a fool I am. What good is this strength if it makes me too uncertain to act?

Whether her analysis was true or not was a mystery that would never find an answer. The theory wasn’t far-fetched. The toxic drug that coursed through her might very well have caused a resurgence in her normally suppressed nervous streak, taking away her usual determined self. But before she had the opportunity to examine her theory in detail, she stumbled across another fighter.

This encounter, as before, would have been avoidable had she been using her birds to keep watch from above.

“Are you alone?” the man asked.

With a little startled jump, Chicken turned to see who it was. Just her luck. Of all twelve fighters, it had to be the most famous. Of all twelve, it had to be the most renowned. Of all twelve, it had to be Ox. When Chicken was with Dog, she had feigned ignorance, but of course, she knew about this man. Any soldier whose feet have touched a battlefield wouldn’t need Eye of the Cormorant to know who he was.

But no one really knows how strong he is—because none have faced the Natural-Born Slayer and lived.

“I don’t suppose you’ll answer me, will you?” Ox was saying. “If there was anyone with you, I’d just like to know is all. Doesn’t really matter to me if there’s more of you or not.”

The saber he casually held, along with his matador garb, were coated red with blood—and enough of it to clearly not be his own. He hadn’t tried to hide it. While Chicken, despite having boosted her abilities to their absolute limits, had wiped herself clean of Dog’s blood and had made every effort to remove any trace she had been in a battle, Ox’s appearance announced without reservation: “I don’t need to hide or change who I am.”

And, Chicken thought, if he has someone else’s blood splattered all over him, that means he’s already been in battle. If the rumors—the legends—were real, whoever that person was, they were surely dead.

Chicken said, “I-I thought you were a pacifist.”

“No, I think that’s just Monkey. Sure, I volunteered to join her, but I was just looking for a team. Once we all got scattered, there was no point. That peace treaty was dead in the water.” Ox seemed to realize something. “Wait, what made you bring her up all of a sudden? Is she nearby?”

He was quick-witted—no enhancement drug needed there. Chicken gasped and raised Cockscomb, pointing its three tips toward him.

“Well, well,” Ox said, “I didn’t figure you for that type. You’re thinking about fighting me to protect Monkey, is that it? ‘If you want to pass, you’ll have to defeat me first,’ eh? I suggest you reconsider. That’s not the kind of motivation that will make you fight well. It’s not right for you. Someone else, maybe. But you’re the kind of person who needs to fight for herself.”

Ox seemed to be stating his thoughts as they came to him, and Chicken found herself in complete agreement. But then she was announcing herself.

“I am Niwatori, the Fighter of the Chicken. I kill by pecks.”

“I am Ushii, the Fighter of the Ox. I just kill.”

It was over in the blink of an eye. Actually, it happened faster than that. In less time than it took an eye to close, Ox’s two saber thrusts pierced through Chicken’s eyes so fast as to be near simultaneous.

Neither Chicken’s enhanced abilities nor her uncharacteristic motivation was of any use in the face of pure strength. She had been the same as dead the moment she had come face to face with Ox.

He’s so incomprehensibly powerful.

She had been defeated by a natural warrior—one who did not need to rely on skill, strategy, deception, bargaining, transformation, enhancement, or most of all, circumstance. A strong will meant nothing in the face of true strength.

So … this is all I could be.

Chicken certainly felt no satisfaction in dying a somewhat noble death. But to die without pain or suffering, by the well-honed edge of an expert swordsman’s blade, might have been the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Thank you for everything, my birds, Chicken thought just before the end. You must be getting hungry again. Come, eat your fill.

Ox vs. Chicken

End of the 3rd Battle