Pain exploded again, nearly blanching his vision completely white, and Takasugi did throw up this time, coughing up whatever was in his stomach on the floor. His fingers dug into the ground below him, and he narrowed his eye, now just angry that Sanzo was still trying to drag him along to hell. His mind kept repeating that it wasn't his time to die, that things wouldn't end for him here. He'd lived through the end of the war before he was even in his twenties. He wasn't someone easily subdued by anyone -not this institution, not this man before him, and certainly not the Amanto.

He couldn't die knowing that the men who had killed his teacher still lived.

Pushing himself from the ground, he grabbed the discarded the knife and hobbled over to Sanzo. His entire body was dripping with blood, both his own and Sanzo's. Some of it also belong to the zombies. The scent of it was overwhelming and even invigorating, driving him those last few steps towards the monk.

Then he grinned maniacally and absent of any pity or mercy as his head cocked to the side and more blood sluiced down the side of his face.

"You remind me of him, you know... the Shiroyasha. He wouldn't have died so easily, either. And just like him, you'll die by my hand."

He moved with all the strength left in his body, pushing his legs and throwing his entire weight into plunging the knife in Sanzo's chest. There was nothing left to do. It was either all or nothing, and Takasugi wouldn't go down without a fight.