Chapter 6
The bells woke me. Pre-dawn, when the world was still more darkness than light, their sound rolled across the monastery like thunder, deep bronze notes that resonated in my chest, in my bones, shaking me from sleep before my mind fully registered consciousness.
I sat up on my thin mat, disoriented.
The cell around me was barely visible—gray shapes in deeper gray—but I could hear movement in the corridor outside. Footsteps. Whispered instructions.
My door slid open, revealing a young monk, his head freshly shaved, his robes the color of rust. He said nothing, only gestured for me to follow.
I scrambled to my feet, still wearing the simple training clothes they had given me the night before. My body ached from sleeping on the hard mat, and my mind felt foggy and uncertain. How long had I slept? Three hours? Four?
The monk led me through dark corridors, down stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet, out into a courtyard.
Four other boys waited there.
The pre-dawn light was just beginning to touch the eastern sky, turning it from black to deep purple with only a hint of gold. In that half light, I could barely make out their faces, but as the light grew, moment by moment, I saw them clearly.
The first boy to my left was tall—taller than me by half a head—and rail-thin, all sharp angles and jutting bones.
His hair was cropped short but not shaved, sticking up in uneven tufts.
His stork-like face held deep-set and shadowed eyes, his mouth a thin line.
He looked older than the rest of us, perhaps twenty-one or -two.
Thin white scars marked his forearms—some fresh, some faded.
He didn’t look at me when I arrived, his gaze remaining fixed straight ahead like a statue frozen in time.
The second boy was his opposite in almost every way, short and stocky, built like a barrel, with thick arms and legs that suggested strength.
His face was round and as remarkable as chipped pottery, his nose flat and eyebrows thick and dark.
He danced on the balls of his feet. Back and forth and back and forth, waves of energy pouring off of him.
The third boy stood perfectly still. He was perhaps my age, maybe younger, with delicate, unmarked skin that made him look almost feminine, but when he shifted his weight, I saw an angry purple bruise smeared across his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
His hair was longest of all of ours, falling just past his ears in glossy black waves.
While he wore the same training clothes as the rest of us, they somehow looked more elegant on him, as if he had been born to wear silk instead of rough cotton.
His posture was impeccable—spine straight, shoulders back, chin level.
The fourth boy looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Smaller than me with a wiry build that suggested quick movements and nervous energy, his face was all sharp features: pointed chin, sharp cheekbones, a nose like a blade.
Each bore marks of training written in welts and bruises and still unhealed wounds.
My skin was unmarked, naming me an outsider as clearly as if I had announced it.
“I’m Yoshi—”
The tall, thin boy’s head snapped toward me. His eyes were hard and filled with warning as he gave the slightest shake of his head.
The stocky boy with the scar glanced toward me, and something like pity flickered across his face before he looked away.
Silence followed.
Deep, unrelenting silence.
I had just revealed myself as ignorant, as someone who had yet to understand the rules. As prey.
I closed my mouth and stood with them, waiting, desperate to fidget or run or do anything to expel the nervous energy welling inside me like a dam ready to burst.
Amaterasu’s light continued to grow. Purple gave way to deep blue, then to gold over the horizon. Birds began to sing in the trees beyond the courtyard walls. The air was cool and damp, and I could see my breath.
Then he arrived.
Our master.
He moved silent and fluid, emerging from a doorway I had not noticed.
He was neither young nor old. His shaved head and face, though darkened by sun and wind, gave away nothing of his years.
His robes were the same rust color as the younger monk’s, but bore no decorations, no marks of rank.
Bare forearms below rolled sleeves revealed scars whose stories I hoped never to learn.
The same marks the boys bore.
He had walked this path before them. Before us.
In the master’s right hand, he carried a long reed, dried and flexible. It looked harmless, delicate, even.
When his dark gaze fell upon us, I felt stripped bare, as if he could see every thought, every fear, every weakness. He studied each of us in turn, his gaze lingering on me, the newest arrival, the unmarked.
The unknown.
I tried to meet his gaze but found I could not.
I stared at the stones beneath my feet.
“Sit,” he commanded, his voice quiet yet firm.
Cross-legged, backs straight, hands resting on our knees, we sat as one.
“Close your eyes.”
We obeyed.
“Breathe in and hold,” he said, waiting a heartbeat and then ten. “Out through the mouth. Feel the air enter your body. Feel it leave. There is no wind. No temple. No master. Only breath.”
I tried. I truly did. But in the stillness of the master’s words, my mind raced.
Where is Kaneko? Is he safe? Will I ever see him again?
“You are thinking,” the master said, and I realized with a start that he was speaking to me. “Your breath is uneven, and your shoulders are tense. You are somewhere else.”
I forced myself to focus.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
In. Out.
“Meditation is the foundation,” the master continued. “Without stillness of mind, there can be no clarity of action. Without peace within, there can be no strength without. You will learn this or you will fail.”
We sat there as the sun rose. My legs cramped. My back ached.
Thoughts continued to intrude—Kaneko, Father, my sister, the burning village, the wakō. I pushed them away, over and over, returning to my breath.
In. Out. In. Out.
I heard the sound before I felt it.
A sharp crack like breaking wood.
Pain exploded across my shoulders, bright and hot and sudden. I gasped, my eyes flying open, my back arching involuntarily.
The master stood beside me, the reed in his hand. “Eyes closed. Return to your breath.”
The pain faded to a burning ache as I closed my eyes, forcing my breathing to steady even as my heart raced.
Crack.
Another strike, this time across the top of my shoulders. The reed was thin, but when it struck, it popped, the sound sharp and clear. Pain was immediate and intense, like being stung by a hornet.
“Your posture collapsed,” the master said, his voice still calm, still quiet. “Sit properly.”
I straightened my spine, squared my shoulders, and tried to breathe correctly, tried not to think about the pain or the fear or the fact that he would strike again if I failed.
In. Out. In. Out.
The meditation continued.
I heard the reed strike one of the other boys—the nervous small one, from the sound of his sharp intake of breath and the small yelp that slipped free.
Then again.
Then someone else.
The master moved among us, silent as a wraith except for the occasional crack of his reed. Each was precise, measured, correcting a specific error with a very specific strike.
He was not cruel. He did not strike in anger. His role demanded perfection. Imperfection was corrected immediately and without mercy.
By the time he finally said, “Open your eyes,” the sun had cleared the horizon, and the courtyard was bathed in the brilliant light of day.
My shoulders burned. I wanted to reach back and touch them, to feel if I was bleeding, but I dared not move.
“Stand.”
The master moved to the center of the courtyard and squared to us. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight balanced, his hands came up—left hand open, palm facing out, right hand curled into a loose fist behind it.
“This is the first form.” His gaze fixed on me. “Watch.”
He moved, fluid, precise, beautiful.
Each motion flowed into the next—step, turn, block, strike, block again, sweep low, rise high. His body moved with no wasted motion, no hesitation. The form was circular, bringing him back to where he had started, and when he finished, I could barely see him breathing.
“You will learn this form,” he said. “You will practice it until your body knows it without thought, until you can perform it blindfolded, in the dark, half asleep, until it becomes part of you.”
He gestured to us. “Begin.”
We spread out in the courtyard, each of us finding space. The master walked among us, demonstrating the first movements again, slowly this time.
Left foot forward. Weight shifts. Hands rise.
I moved with him, mimicking the stance.
But the form felt wrong.
It reminded me of the kata Uncle Takeo had taught me.
It was similar—but not the same. The hand positions were odd.
The weight distribution was off. Where Takeo had taught me to pivot on the ball of my foot, this form required a heel pivot.
Where Takeo had taught a rising block, this form used a circular deflection.
It was close enough to be familiar but different enough to be nearly impossible.
My body wanted to do what it had learned.
My mind knew I needed to do what the master was showing. The two conflicted, and I stumbled.
Left foot forward—no, too far.
Weight shift—wrong direction. Hands—
Crack.
The reed struck the back of my thigh. Pain shot up my leg, so sharp I nearly cried out.
“Again.”
I took the stance and tried again.
Left foot forward. Weight shift—
Crack. Across my shoulders this time.
“You are still thinking,” the master said. “Calm your mind. There is only this.”