“Fine. I must awaken. I get it,” I muttered bitterly. “Mind telling me how? I’ll take a hint, thank you, Divine One.”
No one spoke. Not a peep. Wonderful.
How did one awaken something they didn’t know existed? How did one find power when their entire existence was pathetically weak?
My mind was strong, sure. Strategy lessons proved that. I saw patterns, anticipated movements, solved problems the others struggled with, but thinking could only get a Samurai so far. Eventually, the blade had to swing, the body had to act, and mine barely wanted to rise from my mat.
What was I supposed to do? Excel at planning battles I was too weak to fight? Become some kind of advisor, watching from the sidelines while stronger men executed the strategies I devised?
That thought made something twist in my chest.
I didn’t want to watch. I wanted todo, wanted to be strong enough to protect, to fight, to matter. To find Kaneko and bring him home.
You must awaken.
The words mocked me now.
I flopped back down, pulling the thin blanket over my head, and tried to quiet my racing thoughts, tried to find sleep. Itwould not come. I stared, seeing nothing, hearing only Nawa’s voice echoing in my memories.
Son of the Goddess.
You must awaken.
Finally, I dreamed.
Suwa Temple’s training yard, bright with morning sun.
But different. Wrong somehow, in the way dreams are wrong—too vivid, too real, while simultaneously impossible.
I stand with the other students. Daichi, Kenta, Teshi, Hiroshi. We holdbokken. The others look at me through narrowed eyes, their gazes wary, unsure. My chin is high, shoulders back, as a smile parts my lips. I feel free in a way I haven’t known since sparring on the docks with Kaneko.
The master calls for us to begin.
The others form a ring about me, encircle me.
They fight as one—against me?
I move. But not the way I usually move. Not slow, not hesitant, not struggling to remember forms while my body protests.
I am fast.
Mybokkenis a blur, whistling through the air. I step into Kenta’s guard and tap his weapon—once, twice—sending it spinning from his grip before he can even react.
I turn.
Daichi is already moving to intercept, but I see his intention before he commits.
I sidestep.
His momentum carries him past, and I strike the back of his knee—gently, precisely—and he stumbles.
Teshi comes at me from the left. I parry without looking. Our wooden swords crack, but mine holds firm. I twist, using his own force against him, and hisbokkenflies from his hands.
The master steps forward now.
Sweet goddess, the master raises abokkenhe hadn’t held a moment earlier.
Then another master, one who watched from the side, enters the ring, then another—all three engaging me simultaneously. Their movements are sharp, economical, honed by decades of practice, enhanced by magic that flowed through every monk’s veins.
