My hands tightened on the reins.
Beyond the formations, I caught sight of training rings—circles marked out in the dirt where pairs of fighters engaged in controlled combat. The sound of wood striking wood cracked through the air like thunder. Bodies moved so fast I could barely track them—a blur of strikes and blocks and counters that seemed impossible for human beings to execute. One pair fought hand to hand, their movements a dance of violence and control.
Block, strike, sweep, recover.
Over and over, faster than thought.
Another pair wieldednaginata, the long polearms spinning and thrusting with deadly beauty. The weapons seemed alive in their hands, extensions of their bodies rather than separate tools.
In a ring near the back, two men sparred withkatana.
Real steel, notbokken.
The blades caught the sunlight as they flashed through the air, close enough to draw blood but never quite touching. The precision required for that—theabsolute control—made my head spin.
“Gods,” I breathed.
“That’s what you’re here to become,” Takeo said quietly. “And if you possessmahou, the monks will bring it out. This is a grand adventure, nephew. You will love it.”
I’ll never—
Mahou? Magic? Me? What was Uncle talking about?Only priests and monks shared in the link to the gods. Normal people, evenDaimyo, were never gifted in such ways. To offer such false hope was beyond cruel—and nothing like the uncle I knew.
Monks in simple brown robes walked among the formations and rings, their heads shaved, their expressions stern. One stopped beside a young fighter whose stance had faltered. The monk raised a thin reed and—crack—struck the boy’s calf.
The boy didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out, only bowed respectfully and corrected his form.
Another monk moved through the formations, his reed whistling through the air as he calmly spoke corrections, his voice like grinding stone yet never rising or turning harsh. “Wider stance. Your weight is too far forward. Again.”
The trainees obeyed, resetting and repeating the movement.
They showed no hesitation, offered no complaints.
Only immediate, perfect obedience.
My throat went dry.
This wasn’t training. This was forging, breaking down whatever you’d been before and remaking you into something new, something harder, something capable of impossible things.
Can I survive this? Can I . . . become this?
We rode deeper into the complex, past more rings, more formations, more monks with their reeds and their calm voices. Every eye that drifted toward me seemed to weigh and measure—and find me wanting.
Hells.Ifound me wanting.
I could practically hear their thoughts:Look at that boy. He’s far too thin. He’s too weak. He’s too soft.
I sat straighter in my saddle, trying to project confidence I didn’t feel. I was aDaimyo’s son, for the gods’ sake.
The main temple loomed before us now, its steps leading to massive wooden doors carved with scenes of battle and meditation intertwined. At the top of those steps, hands folded in his sleeves, stood a monk unlike any of the others. He was old—no, ancient—though his body didn’t show it. His face was lined, but his posture was perfect, his eyes sharp as he watched our approach. He wore the same simple brown robes as the others, but there was something about him that commanded attention. Authority radiated from him like heat from a forge.
“That’s GiichiJuji,” Takeo murmured. “He has been abbot and head of this temple for more years than even I have lived. I doubt the man recalls his own age at this point.”
Takeo chuckled at his own words as my heart hammered against my ribs.
We dismounted, and a young novice who’d been hiding behind a pillar bustled forward to take our horses, bowing deeply.
Takeo strode forward with easy confidence. I followed, each step feeling like it carried me toward my doom.
