Chương 24: Book 1: Chapter 9 - The Crows [Part 1]

"The Way of the warrior is the twofold Way of the brush and sword." - Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings. Morning arrived, surprisingly, without pain. Shimon had expected stiffness, soreness, or some other consequence of the previous day's exertions, but either there was something restorative in the bathwater or the points he had invested in Body were enough to counter ordinary fatigue and the buildup of lactic acid. When he sat up, he discovered that sleep had, for once, actually left him refreshed.

He rolled one shoulder, then the other, and drew his knees up experimentally. The bruises Matsuda Jūbei had left on him remained tender, but the weakness was gone. His thighs did not tremble when he stood, and the raw places across his palms had closed during the night. He accessed his internal monitoring.

[PASSIVE MONITORING ACTIVE] Sleep Quality: Good Muscular Recovery: Accelerated Inflammatory Response: Low Unknown Carrier Signal: Low / Intermittent Condition: Spiritually Marked The corner above the storage alcove looked ordinary in the morning light. Shimon watched it long enough to feel foolish, then dressed and went through his ablutions. Even the privy seemed vaguely normal now. He heard Tarō before he reached the kitchen, the sound of him at least eating into his house's store of food.

The man eats as if food is going out of fashion. Shimon stopped in the doorway. Tarō sat at the low table with a bowl raised almost to his face. His hair had been tied badly, one side of it already coming loose, and his eyes were red from the previous night's sake. Two empty dishes rested beside him.

"Did your house burn down?" Shimon asked, trying not to sound too irritated at such an early hour. Kume lowered the bowl.

"No." Ayanokouji gripped his fists.

"Then why are you eating in mine?"

"Kiyo cooks better. The servants at my house burn the rice. And the soup tastes of river mud," he added. Kiyo placed breakfast before Shimon.

"Perhaps they dislike him." Tarō just shrugged indifferently. Genbei was working in the courtyard beyond the open doors, splitting kindling beside the shed. Shimon sat and reached for his tea. Breakfast was rice, soup, pickled greens, and a little grilled fish. Beyond the garden wall, the castle town was already awake. Wheels ground over the road, vendors called to one another, and something large snorted beneath a harness. A ridged back passed above the short wall.

An armored form plodded along the lane, dragging a cart piled with firewood. Its short legs gave it the stubborn gait of an armored pig, and its driver had to pull its head away from a clump of weeds growing beside the ditch. An aetosaur variant, his chip supplied helpfully. The animal passed, bells knocking softly beneath its throat. Something caught his eye. Higher above the town, several shapes circled in the brightening sky.

Shimon mistook them for large cranes until one folded its wings and plunged toward the river. It rose again with a fish twisting in its long jaws. [VISUAL CLASSIFICATION] Pterosaurian variant organism Estimated wingspan: 3. 9 m Species correspondence: Uncertain Shimon dismissed the panel and returned to his soup. Flying reptiles no longer justified interrupting breakfast. Tarō set down his bowl.

"Yesterday," he started, "I drank more than was wise." Shimon waited, an air of exasperation about him.

"I may have spoken beyond what was proper."

"You called me yōma," the young man accused.

"I said perhaps you were," Kume deflected stubbornly.

"That distinction has repaired everything," came Shimon's sarcastic response. Tarō rubbed his face.

"I miss my brother." The excuse was obvious, but no less true for being one.

"So?" Shimon retorted. For a few moments he stared at the grain of the table. Apology did not sit naturally upon him. It seemed to require muscles he had never trained.

"I should not have said it." Shimon drank his tea before answering.

"No. You should not have." If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Tarō nodded, and that was the full ceremony. He had admitted fault, which was more than Shimon had expected when he woke. The young man found himself not caring either way. Found himself not caring if Kume died in a ditch. After breakfast, Tarō said he needed to collect something before they went to the castle.

They left Shimon's house together and walked toward the lower embankment. The streets had grown busier. Porters carried boxes suspended from shoulder poles. A pair of squat, beaked reptiles came out of the market with baskets of turnips slung across their backs. Their hides bore painted merchant marks, and one snapped irritably at a dog that came too close. Tarō's assigned house stood three streets below Shimon's. It was smaller and needed new plaster along the road-facing wall, though the roof appeared sound.

An elderly servant swept the entrance. He bowed to Tarō, then glanced at Shimon with wary resignation. Tarō entered a side room where incense burned in welcome. He had placed Jirō's short sword upon a low shelf. The strip of red cloth his brother had worn around one arm rested beside it, washed but still darkly stained near one end. A bowl of rice and a cup of water stood before them. There was no mortuary tablet. The priests had not yet completed the rites or bestowed a posthumous name.

Tarō had made do with what remained. So, the other man knelt and lit a fresh stick of incense. His hands, usually careless around bowls and cups, moved with measured attention. Shimon remained by the doorway until Tarō glanced over his shoulder.

"You should pay respects," he suggested. The younger man looked at him with a shake of his head.

"I did not do this."

"I did not say that, but he fought alongside you" Tarō shifted aside and made room before the shelf.

"Kneel." Shimon obeyed for the sake of it.

"What am I meant to say?"

"Whatever you think is appropriate," Kume said with a shrug. Ayanokouji looked at the short sword and remembered Jirō on the road, laughing at his brother's jokes before Tarō had finished telling them. He remembered the spear entering the grey creature and the creature dragging itself farther down the shaft. Shimon put his hands together and bowed.

"Thank you." It was plain, but Jirō had been a plain man and would probably have distrusted anything more elaborate. Tarō accepted his gesture with a small nod. A boy called from the street outside.

"Message from Nagai-sama!" The living had schedules. Tarō rose, and they left Jirō his incense and rice.

The next few days settled into a steady rhythm of meals, instruction, bruises, baths, and sleep. The relentless training eventually carried Shimon to level five. He invested his new attribute points in Body and placed his Skill point in Swords. Stamina and Health were pretty self-explanatory, but looking over his status, he had yet to figure out how to apply his Mana resource into anything. Matsuda Jūbei remained principally concerned with Shimon's progress, particularly his footwork.

And, according to Jūbei, his left foot opened too far, his weight rose before the cut, his shoulders tightened when an opponent entered range, and a myriad of other small mistakes. Matsuda corrected each fault with a word, a tap of the practice sword, or a blow hard enough to prevent repetition. The shinai flexed on impact, sparing the students the broken bones that wooden swords might have caused, though they remained perfectly capable of raising painful welts.

In Shimon's case, each blow cost him only a small amount of Health, but inspired a considerably larger measure of resentment toward the instructor. Matsuda looked at him disapprovingly.

"Again." Shimon raised the leather-covered bamboo weapon, stepped, cut, and recovered. Ayanokouji repeated the forms until his palms blistered during the second day. One blister tore open during the third and left blood on the leather grip. Matsuda bound it with cloth, adjusted Shimon's hands by the width of a finger, and sent him back into line. By the end of the week, the skin had begun to harden. His stamina improved more slowly, but just as certainly.

He no longer reached midday with his breath tearing at his throat. When his form began to fail, it did so later, and he recovered sooner between drills. His System acknowledged the change during a long afternoon of footwork. You have gained 1 Attribute point in Body. You have gained 1 Attribute point in Mind. The gains were harder to feel now, but welcome nonetheless.

His biochip, his companion in his brain, had also been watching the dōjō carefully through Shimon's senses, using a portion of his processing power to analyze and catalogue what it saw. It recorded Shinnosuke's recovery after a cut, Tarō's forceful entries, Matsuda's economical turns, and the recurring mistakes of every junior student. Shimon instructed it to give greater weight to movements Matsuda approved and to disregard anything the instructor corrected.

[OBSERVED MOTION DATASET] Kenjutsu patterns recorded: 1, 462 Instructor-confirmed repetitions: 387 Motor comparison active The chip could not put the strength into his legs or settle his weight for him. It could, however, remember the best repetition he had performed and show him where the next one departed from it. On the seventh morning, Shimon completed the first, second, and third katas beneath Matsuda's gaze. The foot landed as the hips turned.

With his chip's help, his hands followed instead of dragging the rest of the body behind them, and the shinai stopped on the line without wrenching at his shoulders. You have learned Swords [9] Matsuda watched him return to his stance.

"Acceptable." Shimon bowed before satisfaction could show on his face. From Matsuda, the word amounted to extravagant praise. The afternoon lessons moved into the yard and changed weapons. Ishikawa Mondo, a broad retainer with one missing ear, placed a spear in Shimon's hands and examined his grip.

"The point kills," he stated in explanation.

"The shaft brings the point to its target." Shimon possessed fragments of spear knowledge from his class and earlier experience, but they remained impressions rather than dependable habits. Ishikawa stripped the motions down and rebuilt them. The rear hand drove. The forward hand guided. The body stayed behind the point rather than falling after it. A missed thrust had to return quickly enough that the enemy could not seize the shaft.

They practiced straight thrusts, withdrawals, sweeps, strikes with the butt, and hooks behind an opponent's knee. The new teacher showed them how to shorten the grip when something forced its way inside the proper distance. The yard lay beside the animal pens. Handlers worked three feathered fukuivenator variants on long leads beyond the fence. The creatures responded to whistles and signs, darting after scraps of meat dragged across the ground.

Whenever one became more interested in the spear practice than its handler, the man snapped a cord against the earth and brought its bright eyes around again. Tarō remained a better spearman. He had years of work behind his hands and enjoyed making the difference known.

"You hold it like a writing brush," he laughed.

"You write like a spider fell into the ink," scoffed Shimon. In response, Tarō struck him across the shin with the padded shaft, but by the end of the lessons, the System rewarded the work. You have learned Spears [5]