Takenaka Akira swung his sword again, a weak, wild blow that Chihiro easily parried with the Unmei no Fuguhiki.

“Always the favorite,” he snarled. “The best apprenticeship, the best skills, the apple of our parents’ eye. And what was left for me? You took even my good-for-nothing son.”

“I am sorry,” Chihiro said. “You must know that my thoughts have ever been with you since our separation.”

“Your thoughts?” Akira lashed out with his blade again, drawing a drop of blood as Chihiro moved the blow aside. “I couldn’t eat your thoughts, brother! I couldn’t hear them! Would it have wounded the great and beloved chef-in-training to send his brother money? Or even a letter?”

“I was busy. With my studies.” With each parrying blow, Chihiro’s grip on the Unmei slackened. “I didn’t think-”

“Finally a bit of truth,” Akira snarled. “You didn’t think. I was just some abstract thing to you, not a real flesh and blood brother! I did what I had to do to survive, while you grew fat on the dishes you made!”

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