Chapter Text
Zanka, unfortunately, did not get a chance to sit on the Golden Throne. He tried. Really, he did. After weapon selection, he vowed to work harder than anyone else. Even with a simple stick. His peers began to openly mock him now. Since Zanka was stripped of his “perfect” shell and laid forth the cracks underneath, they didn’t feel the need to simply ridicule behind his back. The stick was the center of their unruly attention.
It was a normal stick. One that can be cut down again and again. The first time someone managed to break it, he was told to forgo it. He refused. Instead, he fixed it. Of course now it meant that he had to become better at dodging. Learn how to block and parry without meeting the blades of his opponents, and even sacrifice a bit of blood to keep it safe.
When students were allowed to intern at missions, he served flawlessly. Treated exactly like a real Hell-Guard. Even after the blunder of weapon selection. Considering running away and killing himself, he was still among the best. Zanka got back up quickly. Hiding everything about himself away once more. Crafting a new shell for himself again.
But he was only among the best. Not the best.
That title was given to her. Hyo.
Zanka. Was still only second best. He got stronger. So, so much stronger. Almost beat her several times, but he couldn’t succeed. His family was disappointed. Even though she denied the throne, the sheer fact that Hyo was granted the privilege brought the wrath of his father. He praised her, of course, but in private bemoaned the fact that she wasn’t his. That it was a failure that was his. Blamed it on the stick, of course. They all did. Even Zanka acknowledged that it was because of the stick.
But he still wanted to be special.
Guess he got his wish. The only Nijiku to have been a failure—how special is he now, huh? So, he was kicked out of the house. With one duty remaining. Don’t even try anymore.
Perhaps… it’s time to actually try killing himself. He’s out of time to be the best before his training ended. He isn’t the best. Zanka may be an official Hell-Guard now, but he’s not supposed to even try rising.
He walked around town. Watched as the children played. Pretending to be heroes of justice like he is. Passed by cleaners relaxing after finishing up a job. Classmates celebrating their graduation.
Until he reached a silent part of Kamuatari. A deathly silent part. A well. One with no water inside it, probably no potential for water.
Zanka smirked. Perfect. No one can find him here. No one will mock him, shame him, mock his weapon, or shame his weapon. Not anymore.
He can be done. Just done.
Gripping the coarse stone, he was about to hull himself up before something crashed into his side.
“Ugh—what the hell?” he grunted. What crashed into him? His eyes shut as he winced from the sudden impact of the ground. When he opened them again, he found something better than the golden throne.
A golden opportunity.
Tan skin; long, rich locs adorned with golden rings that tickled his cheek. Eyes so pink they reminded Zanka of a deadly flower. Eyes so dead Zanka almost assumed a corpse had crashed into him. He shuddered—a Giver crashed into him.
His eyes flitted down to whoever was straddling him. Patched purple clothing. Slender hands with night-like purple polish. And what was clearly a Jinki wrapped around them. Thirty golden rings. Each one clearly shined to perfection. Shined to where Zanka could see his own reflection.
Crashing into him could’ve been an offense on its own. A Giver attacking a Hell Guard—a Nijiku at that? Jail. Instantly, no question.
But Zanka would’ve brushed that off and continued with ending his own life. No, it was what’s wrapped around the Giver’s waist that sprung opportunity.
A purple lantern.
A Raider crashed into him.
So now, Zanka has two possibilities. If he fights the raider, he’ll either A: defeat him and win back his honor. Or B: die trying. Either will suffice. Either might finally make him happy.
The raider blinked at him with abject horror. Like he didn’t expect to run into anyone during what is presumably a getaway. Especially within this corner of Kamuatari. Zanka didn’t expect to run into anyone either. That’s why he came here, so no one could stop him while he attempts to fulfill his father’s last desire for him.
Zanka looked around, trying to find an opening to fight the guy straddling him. Hypothetically, yes, he can just bridge and flip him over, but Zanka doesn’t know what those rings can do.
Seems as though the raider won’t give him a moment to come up with a plan. Because when the two made eye contact again, his expression turned bored. Unamused. That Giver supremacist realized that Zanka’s a Hell-Guard and activated his Jinki.
Claws.
WHAT THE FUCK HE’S GOING TO STAB ZANKA IN THE FACE—
Nononono! Zanka can’t get stabbed in the face now. He needs a chance to try fighting him.
They were honing in on him. They’re moving too fast—Zanka won’t have time to pick up his hands and catch them. What’s he supposed to do?
He let out his mouth to scream. But he realized it’s useless. No one’s present. So he clenched his teeth.
And caught the damn claws with his motherfucking mouth. Not gonna lie, that shit was kinda cool. Zanka can’t help but grin as his stare flickered between the raider’s eyes and his claws. He’s feeling a bit like a badass.
But the raider didn’t relent in trying to dig his Jinki into his mouth. Even as he grinned as well. Zanka gripped his arm, not allowing him any further. It’ll grant him a few seconds to think.
“Well, well, well, never thought a weakling would make such a power move!” the raider giggled. It was grating. And demeaning. “Too bad you ain’t a Giver. You would be fun to throw down with,” he raised his other hand—his other claw. Shit.
Zanka had to act now.
He felt for his staff—there it is. Right by him, as always.
Zanka shoved the hand out of his mouth. “We’re throwin’ down either way, bitch.”
Wood made contact with the raider’s ribs. It stunned him in time for Zanka to sit up and cause further damage by punching him. That got the raider off him, allowing Zanka to finally stand up. He made a few steps away from the raider to collect himself.
Okay, he’s in a fight with a raider. Who has ten razor-sharp blades for fingers—probably even has some special power to them, like all genius Givers. Then there’s Zanka. Who has a wooden staff, a gun, a tanto, and some handcuffs. Technically, Zanka should have the upper hand. He’s trained hard in everything he uses, but he can’t help but feel like the raider is still better than him. Scratch that, he is; he got into Kamuatari for Sphere’s sake.
Just take a deep breath, Zanka. He’s okay with dying. He came out here to die. It’s okay if Zanka loses his life. Just ignore the look in that raider’s eye. That look filled with anger that makes him want to run away. Run to safety.
“Didn’t think you’d have that in ya,” he winced as he got up—clutching the well for support. All the anger in his expression was gone, replaced with what was clearly euphoria. “Nasty move, my man. But I have a feeling that mouth of yours will be more of a nightmare. Is a dignified Hell Guard supposed ta swear?”
He needs to shut up his sneering. Zanka’s far from a dignified officer; his father made that clear. Rolling his eyes, he made for his gun. Safety off, he decided to fire two shots. First shot didn’t land, despite perfect aim. Raider only dodged it. Second shot didn’t go off.
There’s a fact about most guns. A weakness about them in close combat. If the barrel is grabbed, it’s not able to fire.
Zanka underestimated how fast the raider was. He didn’t even see him grab the gun before he tried to fire his second shot.
The gun was ripped out of his hands before he knew it. Both he and the raider made eye-contact with each other as it clattered on the floor. A stray shot going off but hitting nothing. Zanka had two weapons left. The tanto and the wooden staff.
He wants to use the staff, but he wants it to stay in one piece before he dies. So, he’ll fight fire with fire. Zanka unsheathed the tanto and drove it into the man’s chest. Of course, the raider caught the blade with ease. Boredom.
“Come on, man! Are ya even trying?” he wined as he threw the blade as well. Zanka took a step back, panting.
His gaze flickered between the raider and his stick. He’s—Zanka’s going to lose his drive. Why does he care about it so damn much? Worthless thing ruined his life, and he still decides to cling onto it.
But he’s always excelled at using the supposed worthless weapon. His opponents have always been caught off-guard when he beats them with it.
So, he’ll fight until his last breath with it. Two useless things, partnered until death.
Once again, the raider jumped towards Zanka, moving to pierce him. He won’t let him. Zanka twirled the staff, re-directing the criminals’ movements as his arms got caught in it. Even made sure to leave his line-of-sight in-case he suddenly re-orients himself faster than he expected.
The raider swung his arms in his attempt to balance himself. Before he could, Zanka swatted the wood against his neck, then swiped it at his ankles.
“Oh damn, suddenly decided to lock in with that piece of wood, huh?” the magenta eyes honed in on the staff. Zanka could see the gears turning as he got up. “You also managed to actually hit me earlier with it too…”
Then he was on the ground instead of the raider—why can’t he move? “What—”
“It’s Mankira,” he answered before Zanka could ask his question; like he were reading his mind. He shifted his attention to the raiders’ hands. The right claw held a small bit of blood on it. Zankas blood. “With my right hand, she’s able to administer a neurotoxin. Even the smallest scratch can knock a person down.”
Zanka couldn’t help but feel a little enraged at that. At him. This raider is insanely good at fighting already. On top of it all, his Jinki gave him the most unfair advantage. He frowned; if this guy was in the Hell-Guard, they would no doubt make an exception for him with such power. Especially since it’s evident that he can take many hits. Probably doesn’t have to rely on his Jinki too much with proper training.
If only Zanka could have even a fraction of that strength. But no. He had to be born an average person, who will die a boring death among Hell-Guards.
At least his staff will be safe. It didn’t get diced up in the fight.
Seems the raider also caught sight of it, judging by the way he sauntered over to it. Zanka felt his breath hitch when he picked it up. Damn it, he thought too soon. Is he going to break it?
“You fought so much better with this. Too bad you’re too passive with it—if you weren’t afraid of it getting hurt so much, this fight might’ve lasted a little longer,” he placed it back into Zanka’s hand. Where is he going with this? Before the raider broke contact with the staff, he felt around it. Then smiled. “You know… if you were a Giver, ya might feel a little more bold when using this thing. It’s clearly well taken care of.”
Zanka. A Giver?
Well, it’s not like he has much dignity anymore. If he somehow lived to see the next day, could he?
“You probably can’t speak right now, so ya can’t give me yer name buuuuut~ my name’s Jabber Wonger. Clearly, I’m a raider who normally kills every Hell-Guard I fight. However, you have some good potential to become strong,” Jabber giggled out his next few words. “Strong enough to seriously destroy me—make it feel so good.”
… wait—
“So, Mr. Hell-Guard, I’ll let ya live. Keep treating that lovely staff all nicely. Hope to see you again soon! Bye-bye!!”
And he ran off.
…
Zanka, got out of this alive? What’s more is that he can be strong. A genius thinks he can be strong. He isn’t looking down on him for not being strong, but looking forward to his potential.
He felt himself smile. Then laugh at the thought of it. All right, Jabber Wonger, not only will Zanka Nijiku become a Giver, but he’ll also arrest you. He’ll hunt you down and beat you like you wanted. Then, he’ll show you off and prove to the world that he can defeat anyone with this damned stick.