27. Yoshi
Yoshi
The bokken slipped from my fingers again—and not because my grip failed or because the weapon was poorly balanced or the wood too smooth. It slipped because my arms shook with exhaustion, trembling like leaves in a storm.
“Again,” Master commanded, his voice flat and unwavering as stone.
I bent to retrieve the wooden blade, my back screaming in protest. Around me, the other students flowed through their forms.
I was the weakest.
Still.
Always.
My fingers closed around the bokken’s worn grip, and I forced myself upright. The morning sun beat down on the training yard, turning the packed earth into a furnace. Sweat stung my eyes, and every muscle in my body felt like it had been beaten with hammers.
Despite Nawa’s words, nothing had awakened. Nothing had changed.
The dragon had spoken to me, called me by name, had told me the gods knew me, had promised that I should prepare for something greater. Those words had echoed in my mind for months now, a constant whisper that kept me awake at night and distracted me during the day.
Why speak to me and then abandon me to this?
I raised my bokken and attempted the strike sequence again.
My form was technically correct—I’d memorized every angle, every shift of weight, every breath.
In my mind, I could see the perfect execution as clearly as our master had demonstrated it.
But my body refused to follow through on the promise of my mind.
My strike was too slow, my follow-through lacking power, while my stance wobbled as fatigue pulled at my legs.
“Yoshi-san,” Master called, approaching with measured steps. His weathered face showed neither disappointment nor encouragement, only patient neutrality he’d maintained since we’d first met a year earlier. “You still think too much.”
“I’m trying to remember the correct form, Master.”
“That is your problem.” He tapped his temple, then his chest. “The mind remembers, but the body must know. You have not yet learned the difference.”
I wanted to scream. I’d heard variations of this lecture a hundred times.
Trust your instincts. Let your body move without thought. Feel the strike rather than plan it.
It was a beautiful philosophy, but it also required a body capable of moving without thought, instincts worth trusting. I had neither.
The master studied me for a long moment, then nodded toward the edge of the training yard. “Rest. You are no use to anyone when you cannot hold your weapon.”
The dismissal stung more than any blow could have. I wasn’t even good enough to continue practicing. I was a waste of the monk’s time.
I bowed—properly, because at least my courtesies were impeccable—and retreated to the shade of the temple’s outer wall.
Several of the others glanced my way as I passed.
None spoke or gestured or offered more than passive indifference.
I collapsed against the wall and let the bokken rest across my lap. My hands still trembled.
Gods, will they ever stop shaking?
In the distance, bokken clapped, hard wood singing their songs in the ring, as the other students continued their drills.
The boys’ synchronized movements created a rhythm, a martial harmony that I could analyze and appreciate but never quite replicate.
My mind catalogued every detail—the angle of a wrist as one deflected an imaginary strike, the subtle shift in another’s weight distribution during a spinning block, the way the master’s shoulders remained level even when demonstrating the most dynamic techniques.
I saw it all, understood it all, could explain it with perfect clarity.
But I couldn’t do it.
Not more than once, at least, and not well enough—or fast enough. Not with the natural grace that marked true warriors.
The bell for midday meal would sound soon, then would come the afternoon lessons—strategy and tactics, history and philosophy, the mental disciplines that balanced the physical training.
I would excel there. My contributions to strategic discussions had earned grudging nods even from the masters, and twice now I’d proposed solutions to tactical scenarios that one senior monk told me privately he planned to take to the abbot and his council.
I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the warm stone.
Why, Nawa? Why speak to me if this is all I am?
Perhaps Nawa had been mistaken. Perhaps the voice I’d heard had been nothing more than sake and fatigue, my desperate mind conjuring meaning from random noise. Dragons didn’t make mistakes, couldn’t be wrong about matters of destiny and divine will, so my mind must’ve invented Nawa’s voice.
Right?
A commotion near the temple’s main gate pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. Students stopped mid-form, weapons lowering as heads turned. The master’s hand rose, commanding instant silence and stillness.
Wrongness charged the air.
I pushed to my feet, bokken gripped tight.
Other instructors emerged from the temple’s interior halls, their robes swaying as they moved with urgent purpose.
Two of them broke into a run—something I’d never seen any master do within the temple grounds.
Running implied disorder, something antithetical to the absolute discipline that defined this place.
“Hold your positions!” Our master’s voice carried across the yard, sharp as a blade, but even as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the gate where a lone Samurai on horseback appeared, his armor covered in dirt—and blood.
The warrior dismounted in a single fluid motion and strode directly to Master Giichi, who now stood on the uppermost step of the main temple building. They spoke in urgent tones, too quiet for me to hear, but I watched the master’s face. His expression never wavered, though his posture stiffened.
When the Samurai finished speaking, Master Giichi’s eyes widened—only for a heartbeat—just enough to reveal that whatever news had arrived was far worse than anyone had imagined.
The master hesitated—another unprecedented thing—before turning to face the yard and bellowing in a clear, commanding tone.
“Students of Temple Suwa, leave your bokken in the ring and assemble outside the gates. Carts will carry you where you are needed most.”
Several students exchanged confused glances.
We never left our practice weapons in the ring.
It was virtual blasphemy to allow the wooden blades to touch the ground outside of a trial or sparring contest. They were extensions of ourselves, to be cared for and kept close, another of the monk’s efforts to teach us the value of the katana each of us hoped to one day earn.
“Now!” he added, and this time the command was absolute.
We moved as one, depositing our bokken in the dirt circle before returning to formation. My mind raced. What could send the temple into a frenzy? It looked like an ant hill had just been kicked, a frantic dash of those within pouring out in every direction.
Had there been an attack on another temple?
That seemed impossible—temples and shrines were under Imperial protection. Hells, they were the purview of the gods themselves. No one would dare strike at monks or priests.
Except bandits or wakō. They revered nothing but coin.
“Load into the carts,” our master commanded, shooing us toward the gates like children late for class. “Quickly.”
We scrambled to comply, questions dying on our lips before they could form. The discipline of the temple ran deep—if Master Giichi ordered monks and Samurai to move a mountain, the damn rock moved. Explanations could wait.
I climbed onto the nearest cart with my classmates, who were wedged between students of another cohort.
The vehicle lurched into motion before we’d fully settled, the driver whipping the horses into a speed that sent us bouncing over uneven ground.
More Samurai appeared, racing past on horseback, their faces set and determined, armor gleaming in the brilliant sunlight.
The world became a blur of motion and dust.
“What’s happening?” Teshi asked, his voice tight.
“Can’t be good,” Kenta muttered, gripping the cart’s side as we hit a particularly rough patch. “Did you see the abbot’s face?”
Our master rode in the cart ahead of us, his back rigid and straight despite the violent jostling. I leaned forward, straining to hear him speak with the driver, but caught only fragments.
“. . . rebels . . .”
“. . . convoy . . .”
“. . . dying . . .”
Rebels?
My blood turned cold.
We’d heard of attacks well north of Bara, but thus far, the rebels had yet to venture southward. The natural geography of the island made that virtually impossible.
Idle chatter claimed the Asami would focus their forces on the capital, possibly after securing the seat of Toshi Han, the city of Yubi.
It sat near the border with the Asami and was an important port town.
It was also on the other side of an impassible mountain range, one we’d thought would keep rebels from our doorstep for many winters, possibly forever.
I also couldn’t help being reminded of the attack that had burned Tooi, the wakō raid that had stolen everything from me; but unlike that assault, hundreds of miles on an island to the north, this incident was here, on the mainland, close enough to threaten Imperial supply lines, close enough to demand a reply from the temple, our temple.
How had rebels made it past enemy lines, past the mountains? How did they now threaten the very heart of the Emperor’s lands?
“It’s a raid,” I muttered, the pieces clicking into place with terrible clarity. “Rebels attacked something. A convoy, I would guess.”
“How do you—” Daichi started, but our master turned in his seat and met my eyes, only for a moment, but long enough for me to know I’d guessed correctly—and that I should keep my conjecture to myself.