Page 48 of Mercy Written in Blood

The name meant nothing to Haruki. The fear behind it did.

"What do they want?"

"To make certain none of this is remembered."

A blade struck the table. The point punched through the old wood inches from Kameda's hand. She screamed. Haruki fired towards the movement. Stone splintered.

Someone rushed him from the left. Haruki turned too late. A forearm struck his wrist; the pistol flew from his hand and skidded beneath the collapsed shelves. The attacker drove a knee into his abdomen. Pain folded him. Haruki caught the next strike on his shoulder, seized the attacker's sleeve and dragged them off balance.

The figure was lighter than he expected. A woman. He used her momentum, drove her into the edge of the table and heard bone crack beneath the mask. She did not cry out. She brought the knife up towards his throat. Haruki caught her wrist with both hands. The blade stopped less than a finger's width from his skin. Her strength was extraordinary — not inhuman, but near enough to make no difference.

The knife descended. Haruki shifted his weight and slammed her wrist against the table, once, twice. The knife fell. He caught it before it reached the floor and drove it into her thigh.

Only then did she make a sound. A sharp exhale. Nothing more. She struck him across the face hard enough to send him backwards. His vision flashed white. By the time it cleared, she had pulled the blade from her leg. Dark blood ran down her trousers. She turned away from Haruki. Towards the journal. Not the people. The journal.

"Stop her," Minamoto said.

Haruki lunged. He caught the attacker around the waist before she reached the table. They crashed into the floor together, sliding through dust and fragments of broken pottery. She twisted beneath him. A second blade appeared in her hand.

Haruki saw it too late.

It entered below his ribs. There was pressure first. Then heat. The attacker ripped the blade free. Haruki's breath vanished. He rolled aside as she struck again, the blade scraping across stone where his throat had been.

Somewhere in the chamber, Endo screamed.

Haruki looked up. Another masked figure stood behind him. The historian's hands were raised. He held no weapon. The attacker placed a blade against the side of his neck.

"No," Haruki said.

The figure cut. Quickly. Almost gently. Endo's hands flew to his throat. Blood forced itself between his fingers. He collapsed to his knees.

Takeda moved towards him. Minamoto caught her arm.

"Don't."

"He's bleeding."

"He's dead."

"He isn't."

"He will be before you reach him."

Haruki pressed one hand against the wound beneath his ribs. Warm blood filled his palm. His attacker stepped over him — she no longer seemed interested in finishing him. That was worse. It meant he had already been judged harmless.

She reached the journal. Kameda stood in her way. The conservator was shaking so violently that her glasses slipped down her nose. She held a metal measuring tool in both hands like a knife.

"You can't have it," she said.

The attacker tilted her head. Kameda swung. The tool struck the white mask and glanced away. The attacker drove her blade into Kameda's chest. Once. Precise. She caught the conservator beneath the arms before she fell against the table — even in murder, she protected the journal from damage. Kameda's knees buckled. The attacker lowered her to the floor and stepped over her body.

Haruki pushed himself upright. His hand slipped in his own blood.

"Takeda," he said.

She stared at Kameda.

"Emi."