The warehouse is a battlefield of shadows and steel, the air split by the crack of Rashomon’s fangs against your defenses. Each exchange is a storm—precise, ruthless, and fast. But for once, Akutagawa is the one faltering.

His breath comes sharp through clenched teeth. Another strike—parried. Rashomon lashes out—dodged. A flicker of irritation sparks in his eyes, but it doesn’t fully mask something else. Something colder. Sharper. A realization sinking in like a knife between ribs.

"Tch… I see now."

His stance shifts, weight redistributing—no longer dismissive, no longer underestimating. His coat billows as Rashomon coils back, tensed like a beast forced to recognize another predator.

"Good."

A smirk—faint, fleeting, almost imperceptible—ghosts across his lips before vanishing into his usual scowl. The respect is unspoken, but it lingers in the way he finally raises his guard.

"Again."