Chương 22: Book 1: Chapter 8 - Foundations [Part 2]

Shimon drank his miso and tried to disappear behind the bowl in embarrassment. The soup was rich, salty, and warm. Fermented bean paste, green onion, perhaps some small pieces of root vegetable. Familiar food from an unfamiliar kitchen. He wondered what foods did not exist here. No Portuguese meant no castella. No konpeitō. Perhaps no tempura in the form he knew. Without the westerners, the borrowed word "pan" might never have entered the language.

Entire shelves of convenience-store bread removed from history because a ship had failed to arrive. It was strange to mourn sweet bread while wearing two swords. Across from him, Tarō continued consuming breakfast with such noise that Shimon could hear each stage of the process. Shimon glanced at Kiyo. She showed no reaction, which meant either Tarō's eating was normal or she had achieved a servant's professional detachment. If Shimon's survival depended on killing monsters, Tarō could help.

However, if it depended on appearing cultured before a lord, Tarō might be an accomplice to his execution. Shimon would need another guide for that aspect of his advancement. A young boy's voice called from outside.

"Message from Nagai-sama!" Genbei set down the axe and went to admit him. The messenger was perhaps thirteen, narrow-faced and serious, his hair tied neatly and his clothes bearing the Satomi two-line crest. He entered the kitchen courtyard, bowed, and announced that Kume Tarō and Ayanokouji Shimon were expected at the castle training hall immediately after the morning meal.

"Our first lesson," Tarō cursed, and there was no enthusiasm in his voice. Shimon looked at the remains of breakfast.

"Immediately?" The boy bowed again.

"Matsuda Jūbei-sensei said to bring you whether you have eaten or not." Tarō scraped the last rice from his bowl.

"We have eaten." Shimon had not, and he looked at Kiyo. She gave him a sympathetic smile and wrapped two rice balls in leaves. That, he decided, was why civilization needed women.

The training hall stood within the lower castle enclosure, near the barracks and not far from the yard where handlers drilled the smaller feathered dinosaurs. A man shouted something about a finger. The messenger boy led them past without slowing. The dōjō was a long wooden building raised slightly above the ground, its broad doors open.

Practice weapons stood in racks along one wall: wooden swords, spears with blunted ends, staves, and several strange leather-covered lengths that Shimon's borrowed memories identified only uncertainly. Split bamboo wrapped in hide. A safer practice sword, though the "safer" remained very much a hopeful word. It still beat a bokuto, a solid wooden sword. Men trained inside. Some worked through paired forms with wooden swords, moving in measured steps. Others struck posts wrapped in straw.

At the far end, two students grappled, one trying to control the other's arm before being thrown onto the floor. Yawara, the chip suggested. Kumiuchi. Not judo. Judo had not yet been invented and might never exist here in any form Shimon would recognize. This was grappling developed for armored men: a brutal method of breaking joints, crushing bones, and driving a knife into whatever vulnerable gaps the armor left exposed. The messenger stopped at the entrance and bowed.

A man stood waiting in the center of the floor, dominating the place. He was not large. That disappointed Shimon somehow. He had expected the martial instructor to be a mountain with eyebrows. Instead, the instructor was lean, perhaps in his late forties, with a shaved crown, narrow shoulders, and hands scarred across the knuckles. His face was long and almost mournful. A wooden sword rested at his side. He looked at Tarō, then at Shimon. His gaze remained on Shimon's hands for longer than Shimon liked.

Both new retainers bowed, but the older man did not return it immediately.

"I am Matsuda Jūbei. Nagai-sama has ordered me to make you proficient," he declared.

"His words were 'as proficient as possible.' That means he has doubts about you." Shimon remained bowed, but Tarō used that opportunity to grunt in acknowledgment. Matsuda looked at him, eyes narrowing.

"Do not grunt at me."

"Yes, sensei," Tarō replied hastily.

"Better." The instructor paced around them.

"You have both killed?" he asked, but it was not a question.

"Men," Matsuda continued.

"Perhaps yōma. Perhaps you were fortunate. Fortune is a fine companion until it notices another man." No one in the hall had stopped training, but several students were now listening while pretending not to.

"You are to be sent against things that do not fear wounds, do not follow the shape of men, and may not die when a sword enters them. Defense is not an answer for such work. Defense delays a question. You survive by ending what asks it." His eyes settled on Shimon.

"You kill, or you give the enemy time to discover how to kill you." Shimon thought of the three grey creatures. He remembered the mouth opening too wide, and of Jirō's spear entering another one and failing to stop it. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

"Yes, sensei," he responded earnestly. Matsuda's gaze sharpened slightly, as if he had heard something real beneath the answer.

"Good. We begin by learning what lies Nagai-sama has been told." The first test used the leather-covered bamboo swords. The shinai. Tarō went first. He removed his swords, tied back his sleeves with cord, his tasuki, and accepted the practice weapon. His stance was not elegant, but it was settled. His hands knew where to be. Matsuda assigned two younger students to test him. The first was perhaps sixteen, and Tarō beat him quickly. Not beautifully. There was no exchange of perfect cinematic strikes.

The boy attacked. Tarō knocked the weapon aside, stepped into him, struck the shoulder, and followed with a body check that sent the student stumbling out of the marked space. The second junior lasted longer. He was faster and more careful. He tried to circle, changing the angle. Tarō did not chase. He waited until the boy committed, then took the strike on the stronger part of his practice sword and answered with a hard blow to the ribs. The shinai dulled the impact, but not enough to spare him the pain.

Pain, after all, was a teacher in its own right. The boy folded around the blow and dropped to one knee. Matsuda nodded.

"Enough." Tarō's breathing had quickened, but his face remained calm. He had an edge that did not come from skill points. He had killed, fought, lost, and survived it. He knew that a mistake meant a possible ending. Even if his technical ability had been exactly equal to the boys', his mind understood consequence in a way theirs did not. Matsuda called a senior student forward. The young man was perhaps twenty-three, broad-shouldered and composed.

His practice robe was clean, and the way the others made room for him revealed his standing before anyone said his name.

"Sano Shinnosuke," Matsuda said. Shinnosuke bowed to Tarō, and the other man returned it. Then, they began. Tarō was good, but unfortunately, Shinnosuke was better. The difference appeared slowly. Tarō pressed hard, trying to impose the ugly practical rhythm that had beaten the younger students. Shinnosuke did not accept it. He shifted half a step, forced Tarō to turn, touched his wrist, then withdrew before Tarō could answer. The second exchange ended with Shinnosuke's practice blade resting against Tarō's throat.

Tarō's expression darkened. They reset. This time, Tarō attacked more carefully. Shinnosuke yielded ground, drew him forward, then struck his leading hand and swept his weapon aside. The third exchange lasted longest. In this exchange, Tarō nearly caught him. He entered hard, shoulder lowered, and for a moment, Shinnosuke was forced backward. Then the senior student turned at the waist, let Tarō's force slide past, and struck the back of his shoulder. Tarō went down on one hand.

"Enough," Matsuda demanded. Shinnosuke stepped back and bowed. Tarō stood where he was, breathing hard.

"You are useful," Matsuda told him.

"You know distance. You know what a weapon does to flesh. You rely too much on strength when angry, but that is a flaw with many companions in its company. Intermediate." Tarō bowed, and he looked faintly pleased. Shimon found that he disliked his expression.

"Ayanokouji," Matsuda said, and the young man stepped forward. The first junior attacked with an overhead cut, and the world simply slowed. Not literally. Rather, his perception widened around the movement, stretching the moment. He saw the turn of his opponent's shoulder, the rise of his hands, the front foot driving into the floor. The descending line of the strike became obvious before the weapon had traveled halfway. Shimon stepped aside and struck the boy across the ribs, scoring a point.

The boy grunted and stumbled. The second came quickly, perhaps hoping to catch him before he reset. But the new samurai's body moved before conscious thought. His borrowed sword knowledge supplied a parry, and the biochip refined the angle. His enhanced reflexes closed the remaining distance. The student's weapon slid away, and Shimon's practice sword touched his chest. Matsuda's face did not change, his facial muscles frozen in school neutrality. A third junior was sent in, and Shimon beat him handily, too.

That one tried a low strike. Shimon saw the hips drop, read the line, and moved his leg before conscious thought had fully interpreted the attack. The leather-covered blade passed through empty air. Shimon struck the student's shoulder with a downward strike that would have cleaved him in two with a live blade. A quiet, appreciative murmur moved among the watching students. Despite everything, Matsuda looked displeased.

"Sano," the instructor said. Shinnosuke stepped forward again and bowed. Ayanokouji returned the gesture stiffly as they took their positions. Shinnosuke did not immediately attack. That was the first problem. The junior students had moved with clear intention. Their bodies announced choices before the weapons completed them. Shinnosuke remained balanced enough that several choices stayed possible. The chip watched through the new samurai's eyes.

[COMBAT ANALYSIS ACTIVE] Opponent stance: Stable Probable attack lines: Multiple Shinnosuke advanced, and Shimon found himself retreating half a step. The senior's practice sword moved toward his wrist. Shimon parried, but the strike changed in the final instant, sliding toward his shoulder. He let it come, twisting away at the last moment and felt the leather brush his robe. They separated, stepping out of the circle of their weapons' range. Now, Shinnosuke's expression had changed.

Not fear, but a very healthy interest. The next exchange came faster. Shimon blocked high, then low. His arms were strong enough to absorb, if not deflect, the impacts. Shinnosuke's technique was cleaner than Tarō's, each movement connected to the next without waste. Shimon's own knowledge came in fragments: a remembered stance that had never been his, a foot angle, a cut, a parry. His Swords skill filled gaps, but not evenly. His Iai skill was, the art of the drawing cut, useless in this situation.

He knew enough now to recognize that he was rough around the edges. But the chip, his secret companion and weapon, helped him to adjust. [OPPONENT PATTERN UPDATE] Lead shoulder tension precedes committed strike: 0. 18–0. 24 sec. Preferred recovery: Rightward. Shimon tested it, showing an opening near his left shoulder. Shinnosuke, tempted, moved. Ayanokouji parried and countered, chasing him even as the senior tried to withdraw from the trap.

But the samurai was faster, his feet moving quickly, carrying him faster than should have been possible. Shinnosuke's practice sword tried to deflect Shimon's attack, but his opponent turned his wrists and struck. The tip touched Shinnosuke's chest, a killing blow by any measure, and silence followed. Shimon looked at the practice sword in his hand, an indictment on his opponent's lack of skill and judgment. He felt his own superiority. Against the odds, he had done it. Not by accident, not by fluke, but by design.

The thought rose warm and bright inside him. I can do this. Good game.

"It is no good," Matsuda said. The warmth died, Shimon could only look at him askance.

"Go," the instructor growled Shinnosuke bowed and withdrew, face unreadable. Matsuda then took a practice sword from the rack and stopped opposite his newest, and most precocious student.

"Strike me," the master ordered.