Chapter 15
Yoshi
Exhaustion became my constant companion. It lived in my bones, in my muscles, in the spaces between breaths. I woke with it, trained with it, fell into fitful sleep with it still clinging to me like a second skin.
Every morning, the pre-dawn bells dragged me from dreams of home—of Kaneko, always Kaneko—and thrust me into another day of forms and drills and the master’s reed finding every mistake my body made.
Crack.
There were so many mistakes.
The tall boy—I had learned his name was Daichi—moved through the forms with mechanical precision.
The stocky boy, Kenta, made up for his lack of grace with raw strength.
Even Teshi, the fidgety small boy, found his rhythm after those first brutal weeks.
I could tell that his fear had not left him, but he had learned to channel it into focus.
His movements were quick, precise, and efficient.
And then there was me.
Always half a step behind.
When we ran the obstacle course, I finished last. When we practiced forms, the reed found my shoulders, back, and legs more than any of the others. When we sparred—and gods, I dreaded sparring—I was thrown, struck, and defeated again and again.
I tried. The gods know I tried.
My muscles screamed, lungs burned, and vision swam with exhaustion, but my body refused to obey. It mattered little how hard I worked or how much I ate, my muscles refused to strengthen. My body could not keep pace.
The master said nothing. He simply corrected, his reed striking.
Again. And again. And again.
I lived in fear that one morning he would look at me and decide I was not worth the effort, that I would never be strong enough, fast enough, or skilled enough. I would be sent away, cast out, declared a failure.
And then what would I do? Where would I go? How would I help Kaneko? Or my sister? Or myself? Or anyone, really?
All I had left was this temple and the faint, desperate hope that somehow, someday, I might become skilled enough to survive, skilled enough to find Kaneko, but that hope grew thinner with each passing day.
Uncle Takeo still dined with me occasionally.
Perhaps once every week or two, he would appear in the meal hall and gesture for me to join him at a table away from the others.
We mostly ate in silence, though he would occasionally ask after my training with the same distant politeness one might use with a stranger.
“How are the forms progressing?”
“Slowly, Uncle.”
“And the obstacle course?”
“I am improving. A little.”
He would nod and make some noncommittal sound, then return to his meal.
He didn’t believe me, not about the improving part.
It was scrawled clearly across his face.
I wanted to ask him for help, for advice, for anything that might make this easier, might strengthen me, but something in his bearing discouraged questions.
He held himself apart, as if keeping a deliberate distance between us.
Perhaps the masters asked him to do so, to force me to stand on my own unstable legs, to figure things out in my own time and own way. Perhaps our newfound distance was part of some test or grand design aimed at forcing strength out of me—or into me. I could never be sure.
I didn’t understand, couldn’t fathom why he had brought me here if he meant to abandon me to solitude, but perhaps that was the point. Perhaps the monastery demanded isolation, demanded that we forge ourselves without leaning on others, without drawing from their reserve of strength.
The other boys in my cohort had clearly embraced that lesson.
They kept to themselves with religious fervor.
I tried to engage, tried to interact, but none showed the slightest interest in friendship.
There were no conversations during meals, no acknowledgments of shared suffering during training, no comfort or camaraderie offered when one of us fell or failed.
We existed side by side, yet utterly alone.
The seasons changed. I marked them by the temperature in the courtyard, the angle of the sun, and the occasional glimpse of falling leaves or blooming flowers beyond the temple walls. A year had passed, perhaps more, perhaps less. It was hard to tell.
I still lagged behind the others, but the course was no longer a painful mystery.
The master’s reed found me less and less, gentle words of encouragement or admonishment replacing red welts that now faded to memories written on skin.
Even the kata became second nature, and our endless hours of running or dragging logs or other mindless exercises meant to steel our bodies no longer felt like death incarnate.
No longer death. I took that as progress.
One afternoon, rather than order us into the yard or training ring, the master led us to a different room, one we had never been allowed to enter.
It was large but sparse with scrolls and intricate tapestries hanging from the walls—flowing calligraphy and stylized paintings of mountains and cherry blossoms. Low tables were arranged with inkstones, brushes, and paper.
Shelves held rolled scrolls and books—hundreds, maybe more.
“Sit,” our master said.
I exchanged a glance with Teshi, but his expression was as confused as mine.
The master paced before us, hands clasped behind his back.
“You have spent months learning the physical disciplines. You have made progress, though perfection remains the journey of each lifetime,” he said.
“Forms, strikes, and meditation are the foundation, but they are not enough.” He stopped and turned to face us.
“The Way of Bushido demands more than skill with a blade. It demands a cultivated mind and a refined spirit. A warrior must be learned, articulate, and skilled in the arts of the day. He must understand poetry and philosophy as well as he understands the taking of life. He must understand the people he protects and the masters he serves. He must strive to be both servant to and master of all things.”
He gestured to the materials before us.
“From this day forward, your training will expand. Mornings will remain as they have been—physical discipline, forms, and combat, but afternoons . . .” He picked up a brush, examined it.
“In the hours of the waning sun, you will learn to be more than weapons; you will learn to become men of culture, men worthy of the title Samurai.”
He set the brush down.
“Today, we begin with calligraphy. You will learn to write with precision and grace, not the crude scrawl of peasants, but the elegant script of educated warriors.”
Daichi looked skeptical. Kenta looked bored. Teshi looked terrified—as he did with everything. What I felt was strange, a combination I had not experienced since leaving the shores of my home island: curiosity . . . and hope.
The master demonstrated the proper way to hold the brush, to grind the ink, to form each stroke with deliberate control, then he set us to practicing basic characters.
It was harder than it looked. Much of my youth had been spent kneeling before tutors or my mother, holding a brush and perfecting this skill.
Still, it had been many months since I held a brush, and it felt strange between my fingers.
But there was no reed here, no crack of correction, and memories were funny things. They might flit and flee but could also return in unexpected moments. Halfway through our first afternoon, the muscles of my hand remembered what my brain had allowed to lapse.
“Better,” our master said once that afternoon, glancing at my work.
It was only one word. But it was everything.
The master’s pattern established itself over the weeks that followed. Mornings remained brutal, but our afternoons became something altogether different.
We studied calligraphy until our hands cramped and read poetry—classic works by masters whose names I had only vaguely heard.
The master brought in other monks to teach us music.
I learned to play the shakuhachi—a bamboo flute whose haunting tones filled the practice room.
Kenta excelled at this, as well. His playing was so beautiful it made something ache in my chest. And we studied philosophy, the teachings of great thinkers, both from our own land and from beyond the great sea.
We debated concepts of honor, duty, loyalty, and sacrifice, what it meant to live well—and what it meant to die well.
Weeks into these lessons, the master added to our discussions strategies of war, of planning a battle, of leading men.
The others appeared excited by this shift, but struggled with even basic concepts.
Years of standing beside my Daimyo father as he ruled one-eighth of the emperor’s lands paid off.
I didn’t simply see the pieces on the board; I saw the board itself, the spaces between, the possible futures of one move versus another.
For the first time since arriving at Temple Suwa, the master seemed truly pleased with my work.
One afternoon, while walking between training areas, I passed near the gates where visiting monks gathered to exchange news from other temples. I should have kept walking—we were discouraged from lingering near such conversations—but I heard a word that made me pause.
Asami.
I slowed and pretended to adjust my training clothes.
“—three provinces have declared for Asami Eiko,” one monk was saying, his voice low but urgent. “The rebel army swells with each defection. What began as scattered resistance is becoming something . . . organized.”
“How organized?” another asked.
“Enough to hold territory. Enough to raid Imperial supply lines across the north with impunity. Their attacks grow bolder with the passage of time.” The first monk shook his head.
“They struck a garrison outside Ishido Shrine two weeks ago. Two hundred soldiers gone, the compound burned to ash. Thank the gods they left the shrine alone.”
“And the capital?”
“Untouched. The rebels remain well north of Bara, but Asami Eiko’s reach grows longer each season.”
“The Emperor—”
“The Emperor does nothing,” the first monk spat, blasphemous derision dripping with each word.
“The Dai Shogun sends battalions north, but what good are soldiers when entire provinces turn against the throne? When farmers and merchants and lesser nobles join the rebellion rather than fight it? They are withholding rice. Rice!”
The Empire was fracturing. The threat I witnessed in my father’s audience hall was growing, becoming something that could not be ignored—or in my homeland’s case, avoided.
“Move along, boy,” a voice said behind me.
I turned to find one of the senior monks scowling. “Yes, Master.” I bowed quickly and hurried away, my mind churning.
War. Real war, not just distant rumors. Provinces declaring for the rebels.
The Asami representing organized resistance rather than scattered bandits.
At least the capital remained untouched .
. . for now. But what happened to temples and shrines when war came?
What happened to novices still in training?
Would we be conscripted? Would the masters send us north to die in battles we were unprepared to face?
Or would the temples themselves become targets?
They were a symbol of the old order, the Emperor’s authority, ripe for destruction by rebel forces. They had remained neutral so far, but would they remain so when the true threat appeared on the Emperor’s doorstep?
So many questions haunted me.
That night at dinner, I glanced at Uncle Takeo across the hall. He sat alone, as always, but his expression was troubled, his gaze distant.
He knew. Of course he knew.
He would have heard the same reports, likely more detailed ones, as the Hatamoto of a major house, even if he’d been sent far from his home shores.
I wanted to ask him what it all meant, what we should do, whether we were safe here, but the chasm between us felt uncrossable—and perhaps there were no good answers anyway.
I returned to my meal, appetite gone, and tried not to think about how many ways the world could fall apart while I was still learning to hold a sword properly.
That night, I lay on my mat and stared at the ceiling, as I did most nights until sleep came.
My body ached, my muscles throbbed, and bruises darkened my ribs where Kenta had landed a strike during sparring, but my mind felt alive. It felt sharp and engaged in a way it had not been since before my capture.
I thought of Kaneko, as I always did, as I always would.
Where are you? Are you suffering? Do you think of me?
I imagined scenarios where I found him, where my training concluded in a rousing success and a newfound strength allowed me to rescue him. It was a fantasy. I knew that. The Empire was vast, and the chances of finding one person among millions were impossibly small.
But fantasies were all I had.
I closed my eyes and saw the strategy board, saw stones representing forces, terrain, obstacles, saw a pattern emerging from chaos. Only then did I hear a voice, a whisper, barely a hint of a rasp.
“Yoshi.”
I shot upright, my head swiveling. I was alone.
“Yoshi.”
Sweet Amaterasu, I was going mad. No one had spoken aloud, yet I heard my name as clearly as if someone sat next to me.
“You must persevere. You must not lose hope. There is great strength in you, though few may yet see it.”
A flicker of a memory flashed in my mind.
“Nawa?” I said to the darkness of my chamber.
A feeling of approval, of assent, washed over me.
“Yoshi, you must rise. You will rise.”
I stood, unsure how else to handle a dragon’s words slipping inside my head—or how to respond. Did I think a reply and hope she heard? Should I speak aloud? How did the dragon even speak from this distance?
I decided to simply speak. “Honorable Nawa, what must I do? I can’t keep up. I’m not strong enough.”
“You are, Yoshi. Your strength rises like the tide.”
I tried to speak, to fight, to scream that she knew nothing, but one did not resist the will of the Emperor’s worm. It was known that she could not lie. Her words must’ve been true, her sight keen, but I . . . I was strong?
Her last words echoed in my mind, and I knew sleep would not come that night.
“Son of the Goddess, hear my voice and awaken.”