Maps. Detailed maps of the southern territories. And marked on them, in fresh red ink, were multiple locations. Around the edges, in tight, neat script, were annotations I couldn’t read from a distance.
“By the gods,” one of the officers breathed.
Master Giichi moved closer, and I followed without thinking, drawn by the sudden tension radiating from the gathered men. The senior Samurai spread the maps across the bed of a partially intact cart, and my strategic mind began cataloging what I saw.
Supply routes. All of them marked.
Guard stations. Numbered and noted.
Temple locations—includingTemple Suwa.
Shinto shrines. Every last one.
And in the corner of one map, a detailed rendering of Bara’s southern approach.
“This wasn’t random,” the senior Samurai said, his voice tight. “This attack was reconnaissance. They were testing our response times, measuring our strength.”
Another officer jabbed a finger at one of the circled locations. “That’s the grain depot at Chiba. There’s more than ten thousandkokuof rice stored there.”
“And this,” Master Giichi said quietly, pointing to another mark, “is the temple at Nakatomi. Three hundred monks live there, no Samurai, no guards. They are defenseless.”
“Temple Suwa,” I heard myself say, my finger hovering over our location on the map. It bore three circles and a notation that looked like numbers—perhaps counting students, perhaps something worse. The senior Samurai looked at me, as though seeing me for the first time, and I saw something in his eyes that made my blood freeze.
Fear.
“This changes everything,” he said, rolling up the maps with shaking hands. “These aren’t just raids; they’re preliminary strikes.”
“Preliminary to what?” another officer demanded, though his voice suggested he already knew the answer.
“A coordinated assault.” Master Giichi’s words fell like stones into still water. “Multiple targets with simultaneous attacks. They mean to cripple the entire southern region in a single blow.”
“But we are so far south of Bara,” someone protested. “The Asami rebellion has never struck this deeply into the Emperor’s lands. They’ve kept north of the capital, always. Everyone knows their strongholds are in the northern provinces.”
“Not anymore,” the senior Samurai said grimly. “If they’re scouting and raiding this far south . . .” He trailed off, but didn’t need to finish.
If they could strike here, they could strike anywhere.
“The Emperor,” I whispered, my eyes drawn back to the detailed rendering of Bara’s approaches. “They’re planning something against the capital. They’re going to attack from the south, the soft underbelly, where we would never expect it.”
No one contradicted me. The silence stretched, broken only by the wind and the distant groans of wounded men.
“How long before they strike again?” Master Giichi asked, more to himself than the group.
“Who knows? We failed to kill or capture a single man.” The senior Samurai studied the maps, his jaw clenched. “This ink looks fresh. Days, maybe? A week? They’ll likely hit another convoy or go after a softer target, like a temple or shrine.”
“We need to warn—”
“Everyone,” Master Giichi finished. “Temple Suwa, the monasteries, the shrines, supply depots.” He turned to one of the younger Samurai. “Ride. Now. Take the fastest horse and don’t stop until you reach Bara. The Emperor must know.”
The young man bowed and sprinted toward the horses.
“The rest of you,” the senior Samurai commanded, “search every cart, every body, every inch of this wreckage. If they left one set of maps, they might have left more. I want every fucking grain of rice turned over before the sun sets.”
Men scattered to comply, their movements urgent now, purposeful. Even students joined the search, lifting shattered planks and sifting through scattered rice.
I stood frozen.
I couldn’t stop staring at the map of Temple Suwa with its ominous triple circles, my home for these past months.
