It feels uniquely Chainsaw Man-appropriate that three volumes in, Denji could look up and see “Kill Denji” plastered as the volume title of the manga that’s literally about him. The kid just can’t catch a break – not from his enemies, and not from his allies either, for whatever that designation is worth. Aki treats him with nothing but contempt, his other coworkers view him with a mixture of fear and loathing, and the woman he believes he is in love with is simply exploiting his obvious, easily manipulated desires. Pretty much the only person who doesn’t hate or desire to manipulate him is Power, which is an undeniably sad place to be.
Given the way all of his relationships have gone in this series, it’s little surprise that his response to Aki taking a stabbing for him is “mind your own business, jerk-face. I’m sick and tired of owing people debts.” Trapped in a world where all relationships are transactional and all happiness incurs a heavy cost, Denji does not want to be helped by anyone, because being “helped” is really just another way to describe earning a new debt to be paid. Every time someone has reached out a helping hand, their other hand has invariably been clutching the bill.
Denji’s dilemma is not unusual; in fact, it is one of the intentional, fundamental ironies of modern society. Because our relationships with capital are about exploiting others or being exploited, we come to see all of our relationships as inherently transactional, based on debts and receipts. As a result, we end up being betrayed by our own learned instincts, and unable to embrace the kind of charitable support or solidarity that might actually push back against our overseers, thereby ensuring we remain in our chains. In a world overrun by these systems, we lose the ability to interact any other way.
Given this transactional understanding of human relations, it’s little surprise that Denji would see intimacy and sexual relations in the same way. Sadly for Denji, Fujimoto has little sympathy for his fantasies. In keeping with his first touching of a boob, Denji’s first kiss involves a tremendous amount of vomit, his first time sharing a bed with a girl awkward and confusing. Having random sex with a coworker in a moment when neither of you are considering how awkward this will make your subsequent work interactions – that’s precisely the sort of messy, emphatically unromantic reality that most manga ignore, but which Fujimoto revels in. After all, what is more human and genuinely intimate – the fantasy of perfect romance, or the reality of two fumbling people trying to snatch a moment of pleasure and companionship?
It is this contrast between the overt cruelty of the world and the odd moments of intimacy the Safety Bureau finds within it that defines Chainsaw Man’s third volume. Take the moment after Denji’s much-anticipated first kiss, where he sits by the toilet while Arai rubs his back. After one more disappointing, transactional personal achievement, we get this unexpected moment of genuine intimacy, with a character who just last chapter was willing to kill Denji to survive. The Public Safety Bureau and society at large attempt to stamp out our ability to find connections and solidarity, but humans will always recognize themselves in the trials of others, like Arai being reminded of his mother by Denji’s weak stomach. It is often our weaknesses that unite us, that make us see each other as fellows and friends.
Even Himeno’s comical disassembling of Denji’s preconceptions comes from an honest, vulnerable place. Himeno wasn’t trying to ruin anything; she’s just lonely and horny and drunk, angry that Aki is too obsessed with Makima to see her, and happy to steal something Makima owns in retaliation. There are no darker motives informing Himeno’s actions – she’s messy and uncertain and eminently human, just like the rest of them. She’s just a little bit older and more experienced than Denji, and enjoys being fawned over for such simple, trite reasons as “I want to get my first kiss.” It feels nice to be wanted, and Himeno has spent a long time knowing she’s not wanted by the person she cares about most.
Time and again in this volume, we are reminded that the Safety Bureau employees are not heroes, but simply people who want to live and find happiness. Their survival of the hotel fiasco does not strengthen or invigorate Kobeni and Arai; it terrifies them, prompting them to immediately seek resignation from the Bureau. And in Himeno’s brief but vivid conversations with Aki, we see a woman desperate to save the man she loves, bargaining with all her might against the madness that drives him.
In the contrast of her graveside vigil against the bustle of her café talk with Aki, we see the stark oblivion awaiting devil hunters and the warmth of civilian existence compared directly. And because this is Chainsaw Man, where violence is truly terrible and genuine compassion fleeting, in this moment we are entirely aligned with Himeno in her desire to save Aki, and share with him a mundane, potentially even happy civilian life. It is Fujimoto’s unerring perspective, his focus on loss and pain over power and glory, that makes it impossible to agree with Aki’s traditional heroic perspective. He is a child seeking oblivion, and both Himeno and Fujimoto know that, yet both are powerless to stop him.
Fujimoto honors these characters’ wishes through his consistently terrifying, consequence-driven approach to depicting violence. For many action manga, it’s possible to think of “action” as an activity that doesn’t necessarily imply “violence” – though the attacks we see might be visually astonishing, we know the rules of genre storytelling generally mean named characters will only be hurt via dramatically consequential, almost “cutscene-like” narrative turns, as if the action scenes themselves possessed no more threat of genuine consequence than controlling an RPG party in battle. In contrast, there is no such distance here between action as play and action as destruction; violence is always destructive, and always entails a significant risk of harming or destroying someone you genuinely care about, regardless of how “dramatically significant” that death is.
As such, when violence finally touches the Safety Bureau, it is intrusive and senseless and all-consuming. The sort of mass character death that signals this volume’s final act would be unthinkable in your average action manga, severing as it does so many potential dramatic avenues and theoretical character journeys. But that’s how it goes. In reality, violence rarely serves as the culmination of someone’s journey, but rather its premature ending, the cutting short of something that deserved more time on this earth. To seek such ends is madness, and as Himeno’s superior tells her, you have to be a little crazy to be a superior Devil Hunter. Whether it’s the threat of devils or the engines of oppression driving our own world, to fight against such systems is suicide; we may need such crazy dreamers to overcome such tyrants, but most people just want a roof on their head and a little happiness in their daily lives.
That’s all Himeno ever wanted, but the evils of this world are rarely so accommodating. In a sequence that for most manga would play as a “grand final battle,” Himeno’s final sacrifice is not glorious and heroic, it is simply tragic. Violence is what we employ when we’ve expended all other alternatives, a process through which we sacrifice parts of ourselves whether we win or lose. Through Himeno’s monologue, she ensures we do not see this as a grand celebration of her remarkable powers – it is a celebration of Aki’s kindness, and of the sacrifices Himeno is willing to make to ensure that kindness endures. It is not victory she is seeking, but a continuation of those genuine, unconditional connections, embodied in Aki’s sorrow for his lost companions. In a world driven by rigid hierarchies and zero-sum transactions, perhaps the only gift freely given is tears upon a stone slab.
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