He shoved a short sword into my hands, adjusting my grip with surprising care. “First thing: Never hold it like you’re scared of it. Grip it tight, angle it out. Blade up, not down. You want to keep distance—make them think twice before closing in.”
He showed me how to step forward, how to pivot. When my form faltered, he rapped my wrist with the flat of his hand. “Not like that. Like this. Again.”
Next, he pressed a hatchet into my palms. “Close quarters. Quick strikes. Aim for soft spots—neck, knees, wrists. You don’t need power, just accuracy.”
He moved me to knives, one in each hand. “Don’t swing wild. Small cuts bleed just as well as big ones. Think fast, move faster.”
The mallet came last. I could barely lift it. He guided me through a clumsy swing, his massive hands over mine. “This isn’t finesse. It’s force. If you’re desperate, one good hit will end it. But don’t waste energy unless you have no choice.”
Finally, he handed me a battered iron shield. The weight nearly toppled me. So he gave me a smaller one that I could manage.
“Angle the shield to catch the blow, don’t hold it flat,” he said as he demonstrated with his own shield. “Taking a blow like that can shatter your arm. And don’t be afraid to use it as a weapon. Ram it into your opponent. And if you must,” he said, raising the edge high and slamming it into the dirt floor with a crack, “bring it down on their neck.”
By the time he was done, my arms ached and sweat ran down my back. He grunted, folding his arms. “Not bad. You just might survive.”
“When will Soemono take place?” I asked, wiping my brow with the back of my hand.
“Every night there will be a Soemono match, followed by a Blade challenge.”
“Who’s fighting tonight?”
He said nothing, just reached for the door. “I need to return you to your cell. Not a word of what took place here, not even to the others. You might think they’re your friends. They’re not. Miki might have pushed for this to happen, but I’m the one taking the risk. Don’t make it for nothing.”
“I promise I won’t,” I said. “Please… tell Miki I know she didn’t turn on me. Tell her that, okay?”
Masaki gave a single heavy nod.
46
It felt like dusk when three Chopmen entered the Nikubeya. The iron door clanged shut behind them, echoing through the chamber.
They didn’t speak. Just pointed. Kai and I were chosen for the first Soemono.
The others watched from their cells, quietly, probably relieved it wasn’t them. Two Chopmen waited by the door while the third moved down the row, handing Kai a bundle—his costume.
When he stopped at my cell, I froze. I knew that face. Masaki.
He gave no sign we’d ever met—just slid the clothes through the bars, eyes fixed ahead. Whatever flicker of recognition passed between us, it vanished before anyone could see.
The bundle held the same uniform I’d worn the night before: a fitted jacket patterned with red blossoms, kimono-style sleeves, and a skirt instead of pants. On top lay a cream-colored apron. Red gloves too.
I changed on the platform, fingers clumsy on the buttons. The jacket smelled of bleach. After tying the apron around my waist, the knot tugged tight across my stomach, I pulled on the striped stockings and heavy lace-up boots—garish red and white, more costume than uniform.
I lifted the mask. The lacquer was cool against my palms, its fox grin curling sharp. Lipstick-red lips stretched wide below a black button nose, whisker lines etched across the cheeks and pointy ears rising tall at the crown. The white surface gleamed in torchlight, marked with bold strokes of red and black. I pulled it on. The world narrowed to two slits.
Masaki checked the buckles with a practiced tug, then pressed a small shield into my hands.
“Remember to hold it angled,” he whispered.
The words sank into me like a stone as I gripped the shield tight.
I stepped out of my cell and faced Kai. He was dressed in a light-blue chef’s uniform with dark-green trim, the fabric starched stiff. His mask matched: pale blue with green accents. A blocky face with heavy brows, round eyes, and a stiff painted grin topped with a black mustache. No horns, just a bald head.
Strapped to his arm was a heavy shield, broad and rounded, painted the same pale blue with a dark-green rim. It dwarfed the one I’d been given, wide enough to cover half his body. He carried it with both hands, testing its weight.
We were led from the Nikubeya into the corridors. The hiss of torches and the shuffle of our shoes over dirt were the only sounds.
They kept Kai and me separated. Guilt gnawed at me for my silence. All day I’d kept my promise to Masaki, even when Haru pestered me, suspicious that I hadn’t been taken to wash dishes. I wanted to tell Kai what I knew, to warn him to angle his shield, to keep the impact from shattering his arm, or that it could be used as a ram to drive back an opponent.
