XCEL

“Flight 1710 to Tokyo Narita is now boarding. I repeat, Flight 1710 to Tokyo Narita is now boarding. Please present your boarding passes to the border control official and make your way onto the plane.”

The announcement over the loudspeaker repeated itself in English, then in Japanese. Katsuro Harigane had understood the first time in Arabic. A watched clock never ticked. Even so, he hadn’t been able to stop checking his watch every half minute for the past two agonising hours. Leg bouncing a fury on the linoleum, heart thumping in his throat, he sat frozen in false calm, surrounded by passengers who knew nothing. He prayed none of them ever would. His neck ached from constantly glancing every which way like an anxiety-ridden meerkat. Not even the air-conditioned Cairo Terminal 3 could stop the torrential sweat from gluing his shirt to his back, or soaking the bleached linen trapped under his arms. Katsuro clutched the faded satchel to his chest, crammed full with the first armful of belongings he laid eyes on—a framed photo, his research diaries; essentials—before he had practically thrown himself out of the hotel. Thank goodness he always packed light.

Hastily wrapped package under his arm, Katsuro had never run so fast in his life. Fortunately, the Japanese embassy hadn’t been far away. Hurried explanations spilled from dry lips to the poor receptionist before she’d even had time to ask his business. Practically throwing the package at her, he slammed a wad of cash onto the table for the highest possible airmail delivery premium. Bursting out through the embassy doors the next instant, the whirlwind of a man threw himself into the first taxi he could find to the airport.

He needed to get out, he needed to get away; if he stayed, they’d find him. The hasty replica of the blade he’d made out of a botched papier-mâché from torn pieces of his notebook wouldn’t fool them at all. He thanked whatever gods still cared that the guards had been too distracted by the alarm to give the inner chamber anything more than a half-glance. He looked at his boarding pass. Group 1. A weight lifted in Katsuro’s chest, before the firm hand on his shoulder brought it right back down.

“I wouldn’t if I were you, Katsuro Harigane,” drawled a man in Japanese. To his right, a gangster with long ashen hair, a long black trench coat and silver-brimmed fedora glared his way with a malicious gleam out of one singular eye. The hand on his shoulder tightened just as Katsuro opened his mouth to yell.

“This is your only warning. Make a scene, and it’ll get oh, so much worse for you.” The cold metal barrel of a silenced pistol pressed into the flesh of his side, underneath his shirt.

Katsuro’s voice died in his throat. Automatically, he raised his hands. The other passengers had all left their seats, and were lining up all ready to board. Hands fiddled in pockets, retrieving passports and boarding passes, adjusting headphones and tapping away on smartphones. No-one paid the slightest bit of attention. Amid such a sea of people, Katsuro had never felt so alone.

“You know well what you took.” The stranger continued, his tone calm, yet serrated like a chainsaw made of ice. “Hand it over.”

“I don’t have it.”

“No doubt.” The gun lifted from his side, and Katsuro let loose a weighty exhale, making sure not to confuse with any sudden movements. The grasp on his shoulder tightened yet again, and the stranger brandished a large, glimmering glass marble in front of his eyes. “Why don’t we take this chat elsewhere? By the end, I’m sure you’ll be dying to tell us.”

No-one noticed when the two men warped from their seats, vanishing into thin air. They all had a plane to catch, after all.

* * *

How long had he been here?

His mind had been a haze for the past three, four, seven hours.

In truth, he had lost count after fifteenth time his head had been smacked against the stone wall. Lights popped from behind his eyes, his vision flickering in and out the next instant like an old cathode ray. He didn’t know where he was, who the men beating him were; he didn’t even know what day of the week it was any more, but he could likely guess. Despite all the punches, his lips were sealed. Full-length cuts, lashes from serrated knifes lacerated his flesh, spattering the walls and floor like paint on canvas. His right eye had swollen so much he could barely keep it open. He no longer had the strength to stand, simply hanging by his restraints: thick steel manacles bolted into the wall. The cuffs dug grooves into his wrists; the muscles in his sides screamed from the strain. Their outcries were drowned out by the screams from every other part of him.

Beaten within an inch of his life, Katsuro no longer bothered to resist. He knew what he had done; they knew what he had done. He refused to tell, and he would not relent. He had made enough mistakes. Katsuro knew how heavy a hand he had played in unleashing such terror on the world.

Even through the constant ringing in his ears, Katsuro picked up a voice from beyond the door—so deep and so loud, he could feel it resonate through his bones.

“Any progress?”

Katsuro shivered, but the room wasn’t cold. The air was dank enough for him to know he was underground; it was warm enough, he was likely still in Egypt. Recognising a voice when in a tough spot usually brings relief, comfort even. All Katsuro felt in that moment, however, was pure, unadulterated dread.

“No. Not yet, sir!” Stammered one guard, the one responsible for bludgeoning Katsuro’s eye. “He’s been incredibly stubborn, but he’ll crack soon, and—”

“Why don’t I speak to him?” It wasn’t a question, but a dare.

“Sir, there’s really no need—” The guard tried to make out, but was cut short. He had evidently made the wrong choice.

“Be quiet.”

The air all of a sudden filled with static, a distorted crackling. Glass shattered from a gigantic boom that shook the room, as though lightning had struck within the building’s four walls. The prison door didn’t stop the wave of force throwing Katsuro’s limp body back against the wall. He couldn’t see the aftermath, but Katsuro knew there was nothing left of the man now. He held whatever breath remained in his empty lungs as several seconds of silence elapsed, eyes fixated on the door. The creak from the hinges heralded the harsh white light from the outside flooding Katsuro’s functional eye. The man tossed his head from side to side, wincing from fresh pain.

“It’s been too long, Katsuro.” A shadow of a man appeared in the doorway, framed in the light. A crisply pressed suit contorted in places, outlining prominent muscle. “Far, far too long.” The man wore the large, wide grin of an alligator.

Katsuro hung there from his shackled crippled, cut and bound. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but the voice was a dead giveaway.

“Gus.” The response came through gritted teeth. “I should’ve known it was you.” He forced himself to swallow the pool of bloodied spittle that had been gathering in the lower half of his slacked jaw. The taste of iron on his tongue made him retch. “You were the only one to ever truly believe in my research.”

“You lived the rest of your life thinking you’d never get a chance to prove yourself, didn’t you?” Asked Gus Ishimatsu. “I always admired your strength of will. You forsook everything for the sake of your research. Your peers laughed at you, the professionals tried to discredit you, and yet you held your ground. You’re still holding it to this day. It really does pain me to see you in such a state.”

Gus stepped forward and, more light filling his cell, Katsuro could make out unfortunately familiar features. The man had a large, square jaw and a uniform white fuzz over his head. On his throat, a black serpent wound its way around an ankh, flanked by two wings and a scarab; a tattoo, the emblem of Apep. A grotesque, vertical third eye gleamed in the middle of the man’s forehead.

“What on earth…” Katsuro hacked up a lung from where his ribcage had been partially caved in. Gus’ third eye glared at Katsuro. The otherworldly presence made the researcher shiver. “What did you do to yourself? Don’t tell me you—”

“I did. The Excel Ritual,” he responded, unsheathing a thin blade from a clasp in his jacket. “I knew about it well before you did, not to mention the power it held.”

The light of the corridor outside hit the knife’s reflective side, and Gus directed the light into Katsuro’s eye. The bound man thrashed in his bonds, and Gus unearthed a cathartic chuckle.

“The other half of the blade!” Katsuro cried. “How do you have it?”

“I’ve had it since the beginning. This relic is an heirloom. It has been in the Ishimatsu family for longer than our own name. Why did you think I was so interested in your research from the beginning, Katsuro?”

“The tomb specifically warned against using the ritual. It would bring about untold devastation, unleash a power no man should ever wield. You should have known this, Gus!”

“Cautionary tales only deter the weak, the feckless. You should know better than any: I’ve never been one to listen.”

“You’re insane. Why do this to yourself?”

“For the same very reason you scorned me over a decade ago,” Gus stowed away his fragment of the Ascension Blade. “I will eliminate the scourge of weakness from society in its entirety. If others refuse to join me, I will do it myself! Of course, I could narrate the entirety of my plan to you right now. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, old friend? Confirm what you’ve already figured out, give you enough exposition to figure out how to stop me.” He leered, crossing his arms. “Your ploy will only deter me for so long.”

Katsuro bit his tongue.

“Playing the stoic today, are we?” Gus raised an eyebrow. “No matter. You’ll be talking soon enough.”

Behind Gus, Katsuro spotted two more approaching. Despite both being featureless shadows from his perspective, his one functional eye was still able to pick out some details. Both tall and male: the gangster had returned, hair flowing in the slight draft that swept the corridor. The other had messy hair, short and dark, and dressed casual, as though having only just got out of bed. Like Gus, this one had formidable stature. However, his lounging posture suggested he didn’t bother to utilise it all too well.

“Perfect timing.” Gus looked over his shoulder.

“You called?” Said the gangster, a winning grin peeking out from under the tipped brim of his hat.

“I did. I trust you received the briefing, Hakana. Make preparations to leave immediately.”

“What’s the rush all of a sudden, boss?” asked the second, still not removing his hands from the pockets of his sweatpants.

“Weren’t you paying attention?” The first—Hakana—replied in Gus’ stead. “There’s been a breach in containment. The ascension blade was fragment was stolen, along with the translation records.”

“You think I actually listen? Briefings are all dull as hell,” the second shrugged, combing a hand through messy hair. “Couldn’t be bothered.”

Hakana rolled his eyes. “Just do as you’re told.”

“I don’t pay you to ask questions, Yoha,” Gus followed up, his lip curling. He looked back at Katsuro with that same hungry expression. “The men I ordered to get the location out of him have been utterly useless. Once again, weakness and ineptitude never fails to disappoint. No matter; I’ll do it myself.”

Katsuro’s defiant stare was met with scathing and scorn. Gus glared the man down a moment longer, before addressing his henchmen.

“One more order for now. The location isn’t confirmed but I have a suspicion. Tell the scientists back home to ready the latest prototypes for release. The Queen will soon have another task force on her hands. Await further instruction.”

“Roger.”

Yoha gave a casual salute and ambled back down the hallway. Hakana stayed a moment longer. He put a gloved hand on Gus’ shoulder. “Forgotten something, boss?” In his other hand, he held another small glass orb. The contents were a murky silver, constantly shifting. A person’s silhouette loomed within.

“Why, yes.” Gus grinned. “Nothing compared to her, though.” He grasped the orb.

Hakana tipped his hat, and disappeared without another word.

Katsuro still refused to say a word. He knew his defiance was futile, but he’d long since resigned to this fate.

Gus towered over him, arms tightly clasped behind his back. “This was my error.” His annoyance wasn’t entirely external. “I underestimated you. I think I had in mind the man you once were. I didn’t expect you to see beyond the lenses of your own glasses.” The man chuckled in spite of himself. “The alarm you caused triggered quite a disturbance, yes, but a replica blade, Katsuro? For something on such short notice, you’ll have to consider me impressed.”

“I’m honoured.”

“Shut up!” The prison walls echoed the roar, before he cleared his throat. “Where is the other half of the Ascension Blade!”

“Eat shit.”

Gus kicked Katsuro hard across the face. A connection, a splintering crack, and a broken jawbone. The researcher’s agony painted the walls with a sickly, red coat, dusted with the eerie dust of atomised tooth enamel.

“You’re going to tell me its exact location, or I will explicitly make sure you live to regret it.”

“I’m not telling you anything, Gus.”

Gus chuckled, raised a hand to chest-height and curled it into a fist. The strange vertical eye in the middle of his forehead glowed again, and that same crackling energy began to collect in the area around them. Katsuro looked around, as every hair on his body stood on end. His mind screamed warnings of imminent danger to a body that would not, or rather could not, move. The energy coalesced around the man’s raised fist, forming a spectral gauntlet. The energy permeated the entire space, humming with untold power. Gus flexed his fingers, glass orb held in his other hand.

“I don’t think you understand just how wrong you are.”