Rice lay strewn everywhere. Thousands of grains scattered like snow across ground stained red. So much waste. There was such great need in the Empire, and here its lifeblood lay ruined, stolen, or destroyed. Only a few undamaged sacks remained near what had once been the convoy’s center. Everything else was gone or fouled beyond use.
Just like in Tooi.
Back home, thewakohad burned our storehouses, stolen our winter supplies, left us with nothing but ash and the promise of hunger. I remembered my father’s face as he’d surveyed the damage, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him as he calculated how many might starve before spring came.
And here—the same calculation would be happening in some village, some town, possibly in the capital itself. People would go hungry because of this. Children would cry themselves to sleep with empty bellies. The elderly would choose to eat less, perhaps die, so the young might survive. All for a rebellion that promised nothing but more death and destruction. All for a fight to put one woman’s fat ass on a throne in place of an old, bearded man.
My heart seized at the blasphemy.
The Emperor was the Son of Heaven. He was divine. I knew I should never speak—or even think—of him so, and yet, standing before such horror—
How many more?I thought, staring at the wasted rice as anger writhed in my veins.How many more convoys? How many more villages? How many more Toois before this ends?
Samurai swarmed the area, some tending to the wounded, others spreading out to search for survivors or threats. But it was obvious from their faces, from the way they moved, that the rebels were long gone.
“They got away,” Kenta whispered beside me. “How did they just . . . vanish?”
I followed his gaze to the nearby mountainside, where the dense forest began. It was the perfect escape route. The rebels had struck fast and hard, killed whomever they chose, took what they wanted, and vanished before any of the Emperor’s men could arrive.
“Yoshi-san,” Master Giichi’s voice pulled me back. “Come.”
I obeyed automatically, my feet carrying me toward where he stood with several other instructors, our master, and a few senior Samurai. No other students were present. We formed a loose circle around one of the few surviving cart drivers, a man whose face was gray with shock and pain. Blood soaked his side, but he’d been lucky—whatever had struck him had missed anything vital.
“Tell them what you told me,” one of the Samurai urged gently.
The driver’s eyes were distant, haunted. “They came from nowhere. One moment the road was empty, the next . . .” He swallowed hard. “They moved like ghosts. Killed the guards before anyone could raise an alarm. They moved so fast, knew exactly where to strike, which carts to take, how to cripple our defense.”
“How many?” Master Giichi asked.
“Twenty? Thirty? I don’t know. They had archers in the trees.” The driver’s hands shook. “They didn’t fight like bandits. They moved together.”
Organized, trained, and efficient.
This wasn’t desperate rebels scraping together whatever violence they could manage.
This was a military operation.
“The forest,” I heard myself say, not really meaning to speak aloud.
Everyone turned to look at me, and I felt my face flush.
“Yoshi-san?” Master Giichi urged me on.
“They’re using the mountains as their base. The terrain advantage is enormous—they can strike anywhere along the supply routes and vanish before proper forces arrive. They’ve probably been up there for years, even before the northern attacks, watching, and waiting . . . and planning. We are responding to attacks, not preventing them. We sit on our heels rather than leading with our blades.”
A few of the Samurai and instructors blanched at the boldness coming from a student, but Master Giichi only nodded and stared, studying me for a long moment. “Yes, that is the problem.”
One of the senior Samurai grunted. I couldn’t tell if it was respect or derision. I couldn’t have cared less. This wastoo important, too disastrous, to allow personal feelings or insecurities of rank to stand in the way.
The implications hung in the air: Rebels had training and leadership. Rebels could strike Imperial convoys with impunity. Rebels had already spread throughout the Empire, prepositioning for a full-scale invasion, an overthrow of all we held dear.
A shout erupted from near the overturned carts.
Everyone turned as a young Samurai emerged from the wreckage, his face pale, holding something in his hands. He ran toward the gathered officers, nearly stumbling over bodies in his haste.
“Sir!” He thrust the object—a leather satchel—toward the senior Samurai. “I found this beside one of the shattered carts. Looks like they dropped it.”
The senior officer took it, his hands quickly working the leather ties. When he opened it and removed the contents, his face went stone-still.
