Notes1: If you know me by now, then you should know I only read Saki not for the mahjong elements but for the characters and their backstories. So when you have someone like Teru, who is more or less still a walking spoiler as of Chapter 167, feature now and again that reveals just a little more about the Miyanaga background, it excites me. And boy howdy, did Chapter 167 do that, when I read it on my lunch break at work. Oh sure, the details are still vague and keeps you guessing (although Saki and Teru being part-Nord brings to mind a deluge of flashbacks to my days of playing Skyrim), but that's never stopped me from wanting to explore her character - and subsequently break her even more. Favoritism doesn't give a character a free pass under my watch.
Notes2: Also, I don't know why, but as I was taking down notes in my little work notepad, I wrote on one line "Fanfics to work on - Saki drabble (based on Ch. 177)". I mean, goddamn, my eyesight isn't THAT poor.

You're a monster, you know that?

Of course you do. Monsters are not born; they are made.

Oh yes, they are made. The most common trait they share is how events and transgressions have molded and shaped them into what they are today. It's so very cliché, but art imitates life and vice versa. It doesn't matter what the minority thinks; the majority will just eat it up because it's a slow-motion train crash you just can't look away from even if you wanted to.

Ah, but tell those fine folk that the instigator of doom was neither nature nor God nor man himself but the monster itself…tell them that, and they will show you nothing but scorn.

It's your fault you're like this, they'll say.

You have no one to blame but yourself.

No one told you it had to be this way.

There would be no pity then.

No.

No, no, no, there would be no pity at all if you were to tell them the truth. Told them why you're so cold, so indifferent; told them why you play the court jester for the media to gobble up. The prodigal daughter Japan so loves and admires, who so commands fear and respect in all her foes.

You are the Tiger of Shiraitodai, she whose claws are sharp and rimmed in the blood of all who stand in her way.

You are the Bearer of the Nine Lanterns, she whose eyes are keen and omnipresent to catch any and all variations of movement the sacrifices, they who are few yet brave and foolhardy, make on their opening turn.

You are the Scourge of West Tokyo. A demon.

And isn't it strange how you hate being called that? How people compare you to some hellish creature, or even as a servant of divinity that has fallen from the pure light of grace? Isn't it strange how it bothers you when the young and enamored—the zealous and the simple-minded—construct tall tales of your unearthly luck behind your back, when you least expect to hear them? Of how they believe you have struck a literal deal with the devil and sold your soul or offered him an ounce of blood for his boon?

Don't you realize how stupid you are for taking this long to realize that they are right? That's all you do: you go into the ring, toss them willy-nilly with the power of hurricanes and force the light of the lanterns to sear them blind…and walk away. You put on your mask of idiot sunshine and feed the fans, the commentators, the reporters, the rival teams, and those good ole common folk who watch your matches as though the goddamn Rapture was upon them, blind them with that 'girl next door' smile…and walk away.

You ever noticed how fast you drop that act once you're out of their spotlights?

It's because you don't care. Oh, you can certainly try, but you'll never truly be one of them. Why should you have your share of happiness when you've carved those same emotions from your heart? You're not human.

But I am, I say.

You think you are, but you're not. Don't lie.

I am.

You're anything but. Look at your life and all the ills this world has bequeathed upon you. Look at how it has driven your family apart. Look at how you pushed them all away: your father, Kai; your mother, Ai; even Saki, whom you loved with all your being, was not exempt from this.

How else would you continue to lose yourself into this pathetic farce?

What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to look her in the eye and tell her I'm—

Sorry? Oh, you stupid, stupid little girl. You don't get to be sorry. Not after all you've done to her. To them.

You're too deep into this now to ask for forgiveness.

I continue to stare at the wall, trying not to squirm. I guess I am.

You may as well keep rolling with it. Sooner or later, you're going to hit rock bottom. I wonder what'll happen when you do?

I don't know, I tell myself, and I bend over and put my head between my hands. The breath I'd been holding for so long finally comes out in a winded rush. It does nothing to make me feel better. I just don't know.