Assassins versus Knights

- “You’ve got to be f*****g kidding me” – the arrogant sponger exhaled through gritted teeth, looking queerly fierce (Strange, cuz normally, he stares nonchalantly at everything and everyone), with the transparent determination to obliterate me. - “What?” – i exclaimed with the histrionic confusion. I was expected to convey at least the tiny bits of revere towards my Senpais in Dullahan, but who the hell has cared about cultural adherence for the past 200 years? Now, that bullshit creates a hell of an obscurity. Japan died 2 centuries ago, simultaneously with America, as ghastly as the whole African continent and a 2/3rd of Europe. My ancestors must have been rolling in their graves (metaphorically, of course), while watching my current family’s predecessors successfully assimilating with white humans, and me, casually breaking the blade of a 5th grade knight-to-become’s sword in half, to skillfully imitate a dagger and save myself from stupidly losing to Gordon. As the audience might have already deduced – I don’t give a flying f**k about who this sword belongs to. Well, screw me, for going to hell for my sins, but at least my mother will be welcomed to heaven with open arms, preferably by the Japanese Gods (the loyal disciple of the former Japan she is). Kali loves me anyway, and Gordon, the lucky bastard, for sure is going to hell with me. What we weren’t expecting is for the knights’ lunch to finish in 30 seconds after the incident happened. The 5th grade knights poured into the training yard No.3 and Enzo Abate started screaming like a great auk. Dragging 1 emotional sound out of him in a month is an undoubtfully remarkable acheivement and a food for my ego to greedily digest. Abate siblings’d been lucky enough to be adopted by the Irish Ambassador to China, as well as the 5thrichest viscount of the Unified Irish Kingdom, - Cillian Berry. The old man’s been making haste in maintaining his fit physique for his 50s recently (Unimpressive though. Power and wealth means strength in its mighty direct perception – the more you display of yourself as a warrior, the more opportunities lay on your path). However, Cillian Berry looks just like any typical White British man, who was assigned to deal with the world destruction bullshit at the begginning of the supposed retirement age – blonde hair with the pronounced grizzle, blue eyes that caustically announce their superiority, wrinkles all over the oblonged face and the traces of despair forever hidden behind the royal smile. Externally it’s been all gold embroidered sleeves and collars of caftans made of Turkish leather on him, fitting his authoritative attitude perfectly, resembling a Phoraoh. But, such people persist pretending, like they know what they’re doing, when everyone around them has been depicting lies scattered all over the floor, where their foot met the ground. Abate siblings were chosen to be raised by and inherit all the properties of the viscount Berry due to the unconditional merit of their parents – the deceased Italian generals of the Bás army, who’d managed to win over the lands of former British Empire from the Banshees. (Gordon and his little brother – Sai – had been less fortunate. Their parents are alive and useless as parents, if not harmful. “Daddy” Shashi is an alcoholic opium deeler, while “Mommy” Yunzhi is a sadistic psychopath felicitously locked in a weirdos’ hospital after attempting to strangle Sai, when he was 7. ) I know Cillian Berry that well, just like my dad, the 2nd richest Duke of Central State – Kuro Kamado. Our family used to be the clan of Japanese Kuge under the Emperor. I guess they were looking for the roots, while evaluating the significance of certain people (Yes, some things never change). Hasn’t anybody figured out that Banshees don’t give a s**t about ranks? Sure have. Have they tried to pick out the ones who can REALLY sort things out on the battlefield? Hell nah. Just as the Viscount, my father has no clue, whether it concerns the coordinating attacks and monsters’ migration, testing strategies for the assassins’ corps in inconspicuous intrusions, or anything else that relates to survivability of humanity. Personally, I don’t hold a will to clash with the viscount’s adopted oldest son. Moreover, I even adore his lovely young children, twins – Fosco and Camilla. But the Gods are my witnesses. Have I been patient, while observing his unshakable indifferent face restlessly (I got tired of the tedium that Enzo represents). Unfortunately, now I am obliged to buy him a new sword, for Irish law’s sake. The price will leave barely a dent in my pocket money, but the realization that this dent will be spent for that sponger’s sake makes me nauseous. - “And you still refuse to accept the fact that you’re a notorious drama queen” – Gordon whispered beside me with that s**t-eating grin of his that I wanted to wipe during the sparring. His amber eyes, more of an eagle than a human, continue poisoning my eyesight with their mischievousness, unlike his mien, conveying a firm tranquility most of the time and regardless of circumstances. “Just get it over with already, Satoshi. It’s lunchtime now, and I am starving like a beast here”. - “Just go by yourself, then” – my slight irritation began sparkling around me. I’d been craving a nice, REAL fight with the sponger Abate, at last. - “To listen to your whining for abandoning you, when things have gotten moody once in a while? I am out” – a small smile treacherously scattered on my face after his words (Gordon Dhar is my best friend for a reason. Passive enthusiast, as I would’ve described him). - “When have the minors become that insufferable, huh? Hey, you two motherfuckers! What are you whispering about? That sword cost 1600 bucks!” – the sponger kept screaming and threateningly approached us in strides. His black (like his soul), smoothly-styled hair (so sickeningly flawless) was electrified with indignation. His murky, emerald eyes were burning a hole in our heads. It’s controversal as hell that resilient brat Fosco and sweetheart, Camilla have similar eyes that can eat your soul alive. Those Italians generals sure had been acknowledged of how to preserve genetic saturation in their offspring, much to my dismay with the oldest one. Even Kali, my lovely adopted sister, (my gorgeous princess that I’m going to cherish for the rest of my miserable life) has thought that Abate siblings are stunning in the way that ruin other people’s self-esteem around them, which naturally relates to Enzo too and frustrates the f**k out of me. No matter how ardently (I – Satoshi Kamado – admit that sometimes, I exaggerate the feelings of my loved ones towards me, and sometimes, I can take a compliment for a declaration of love. Kali loves me anyway) Kali tells me that I am the most appealing man in the world, I can’t comprehend the fact that other males may seem attractive to her too. I nearly wanted to pierce Enzo’s eyeballs with the dagger in my hand that used to be Enzo’s sword at the mere thought of Kali calling him handsome, which is quite pathetic, considering that usually, nobody questions my allure and perfection in everything that I do and show. No need to get riled up over the falsified images that my chaotic brain keeps producing, especially about Kali admiring Enzo somehow. Again. She persists distracting me by making her way into my mind in the most fiddly and pleasurable moments. This is the only troublesome thing about her that I hate and appreciate simultaneously. The caramel scent of her agate hair is troublesome, as it makes my head spin, when I sit behind her desk on Monstrology, freezing a vampire venom, spar on Tantos with her in Weaponology’s yard, escort her to my father’s mansion in a Kamado’s basilic carriage, and all the time at the mansion, while we eat supper together, where our dorms are opposite to each other. Her citrine eyes are troublesome, as I enter the haze every time I meet her gaze, when we wish each other a fortunate day and a restful night, light-heartedly joke at lunch, additionally train hand-to-hand combat at the Kamado mansion’s fencing hall and promenade around the imposing gardens of the Kamado’s conservatory, skip Medical School to be on time before the end of the Bradt boulangerie’s working hours. Her hands are troublesome, all distorted with scars, but always angelically tender when she brushes the strands of wet hair from my face after the trainings, virtuously plays violin for 2 hours a day, draws her favorite characters from the books enthusiastically and holds my warm hands with her cold ones while we patrol the North wing of Dullahan at the end of the study day each Thursday. I hate her for being a decisive button to push, a final punch to strike by my enemies and the only shelter for me. And I hate her for the exiguous possibility of being extraordinary enough for Enzo to assume it. But I love her for a trillion things more. - “Code 9. This is not a drill, or whatever it takes you to train for the unpredictable attacks, you lazy assholes” – the speakerphones roared with the voice of Director of Dullahan. I was foreseeingly preparing for the monkey show to start, when the sirens bawled with unconceivable frequency. It is, in fact, a drill. However, nobody’d wanted to get a kick in the ass from the senseis (students call them however they like while decent) and I doubt that anybody wants to receive it now, or sometime in the future, because the “kick” is as tormenting as medieval tortures (I am not being a drama queen when saying this). Probably, 9 hours of mountain climbing, if sensei Adams will be feeling gracious though. Concerning the strained roar that came out of the speakerphones, we wouldn’t be replenished by luck at all. Michael Adams is the last person the outsiding beasts would want to hunt, if his terrifying demeanor and more terrifying desire to s*******r all the moving entities, when the adrenaline of the combat consumes him entirely, is anything to judge by. I am pretty much convinced that the beasts would be wrecked when digesting him in their stomachs, such a pain in the ass he’s been. That's probably why I was tasked to perform exclusive theoretical tasks gloatingly on my Codán by him last year. The only theoretical s**t that involved surveillance and that I despise almost as much as Enzo Abate. Although, me despising surveillance doesn’t mean me being bad at it. Quite the opposite, by the way. In consequence, my sensei was seeing red the minute I finished the paper in 20 min instead of 40. So hard he tried to put a god-complexed brat like me into my place of an obedient minor. Too bad I haven’t been god-complexed. I have been godlike at everything. The Codán – a brutal exam passable by the 3rd graders to arguably distribute them over the military bases, irrevocably selecting them to become knights or assassins - assigned me to the assassins’ units to be sent to the Bás army. A military base can be changed if the assigned warrior wishes to, provides reliable proof of his competence at a certain base and receives approval from the Central State’s Council. The Bás army is the rapture and emancipation that I’d been craving, and now, when I am going to officially ascend there, I realize that it’s the only place the strongest assassin in history must be in, so the Cosaint block will be demanded to send backup troops once in a decade, so the Anam army block will never be needed. It’s the only place that I must be used in as the Strongest, and the last place Kali wants to see me in. This is my 4th year in the Dullahan – a military-based, compulsory training institution for future assassins (the hired murderers, spies undercover, scout soldiers) and knights (the Council’s troops, protectors of borders). It’s not solely been a prestigious placement attained with sustainable perseverance, as parents boast about their children in front of their relatives, but a compulsory life trial that names the kids after the glorious saviors or sinful parasites. It’s ironical that I was assigned to be in the second category, when there hasn’t been a single human being born that humanity needed more. I guess I am like an Aughisky, who is majestic in its power, but too wayward in interactions. Extraordinary creature, but still, a monster. It’s not wrong though. I am a f*****g godlike monster. - “Kamado! All military units were called into bases! If you think that you need a special invitation, then consider it given to you by me personally.” – sensei Adams was shooting fireballs for 2 minutes in my direction with the decipherable irritation that pushed my useless thoughts away. Enzo was long forgotten. Then, the classic military preparation for the monsters’ sudden attack began. Training yard No. 3 was converted into a giant shelter, as its triangular corners were traced by the fire that appeared due to igniting of the thin lane of powder around the territory, capturing an area of 150 000 . The powder is a vital element in shelter imitation across all training yards, storages and a whole school building, as well as the presence of at least one person who can flicker the ignition per facility. Terrestrial beasts have never been endurant to the heat. It’s the only common weakness that humanity has been able to discover during the classification of monsters, but there hasn’t been investigated a tiny bit of information about air, water or fire monsters. It’s only fair to predict that the fire monsters can be annihilated by water, but the inhabitants of Ireland have never encountered other types of beasts, except for the terrestrial ones. It’s stupidly amusing, how the state supposes that other types are not going to be faced anytime soon. Gordon started burning down the triangle of the training yard No. 3 after Hotaru gathered the 1st and 2nd years that had been revolving nearby at the radius of 50 meters inside the shelter. 4th and 5th years are the first and preferably the last defense troops of Dullahan that must stand their ground until death will honorably approach them in their glorious state, or whatever. 3rd years are expected to be the reinforcement units guarding the main building and intervening only if the casualties are higher than 200 men. - “Get the arms!” – Gordon shouted through the hurrying crowd of our comrades, reminding me that the improvisational dagger in my hand may not be that helpful in comparison to my favorite silver-steel Tantos in the weapons storage that nestles 50 feet away from the yard. My gut feeling was alarming me that this drill may turn into a full-scale onslaught of Banshees that have been expressively maturing into planning a coordinated offensive for the past 5 years. That was the anomaly that destroyed the Norwegian military academy – Skade - 3 years ago, after all. But this time, too many severe signs flashed before me. Sensei Anderson was frozen in front of the towering iron gates of the main building, looking at them in devastating horror. Inspector Grady looked like he started bearing the weight of the continent on his shoulders, holding onto his Fairbairn-Sykes knife for dear life. They knew something that mustn’t be told to us. Something was wrong this time. Too many fussy senseis commanding back and forth when they are supposed to be observing and assessing. Too many anxious glances thrown by the newbies. They feel it too. Something is wrong.