Yipachai sprinted out into the wide courtyard, his mouth still full of rice. After some searching, he found his roommates once again, along with a group of female novices, all standing in straight lines and facing the same direction.

  At the front of the formation stood a young Banqilun who looked like he couldn’t have been more than twenty. He walked back and forth in front of the novices, his shoulders twisting back and forth in a just-perceptible swagger. A green belt and a real sword on his hip marked him as someone higher ranked than the novices he taught. An initiate, perhaps? Yipachai didn’t think he could’ve been a master with that youthful face and short beard, but then again, he had delivered Harato’s swords to several men who were probably close to this instructor’s age.

  The instructor studied Yipachai as he approached, his hand casually resting on his sword hilt. “It seems we have a new student here at the School of the West Wind,” he said, sounding anything but welcoming. “I am instructor Shuji Uyemura. These are the basics of fencing. You will not speak unless I address you directly, and you will not leave this yard until you have done everything I have instructed you to do. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, instructor Uyemura,” the other novices said in unison.

  Yipachai tried to nod along. Perhaps they would all forget about him now that the lesson was starting.

  “Front stance,” Shuji called, and the other students moved as one.

  Yipachai watched as the girl in front of him sank into the same stance he had learned from The Art of Fencing. One foot forward, the other slightly offset and pointing to one side.

  Bless the mhonglun it was one he knew already. He quickly shifted into the stance, bending his knees slightly as he waited for the next command to come.

  And waited. And waited. And waited.

  The call to change didn’t come. Even after his still-aching legs began to burn yet again, Shuji simply walked up and down the rows of students, studying their postures and giving quiet commands to adjust their positions.

  By the time the instructor made it to Yipachai, his legs were quivering with the effort of holding the stance.

  “Hold it steady,” Shuji said. “Relax your shoulders. You’re not holding a blade yet.”

  Yipachai did his best to do as the instructor said, but it was little use. If he had to hold this stance any longer, he’d keel over.

  So, when Shuji had turned away to begin working with one of the other students, Yipachai quickly straightened his legs for a rest. This was torture.

  “Back in your stance!”

  Shuji’s voice snapped Yipachai back down, the muscles in his legs protesting. He caught a few quiet laughs from the other students, but he didn’t have the strength to do much more than glare at their backs.

  Each minute was agony. He tried to shift his weight back and forth, tried to give each of his legs as much of a break as he could, but no matter what he tried, one or both of his legs burned and shook.

  When the fire in his legs had grown to an unbearable level, he stood and straightened again, hoping that Shuji wasn’t paying attention to him.

  “Stance!”

  An impact like being whipped with a reed snapped across his shoulder blade.

  Yipachai yelped, clutching his stinging shoulder as he spun in a circle, looking for the source of the blow. There, not more than ten paces behind him, was instructor Shuji, tapping a thin layer of dust off the tip of a l’anti wand. Where had that come from?

  “I said, get back in your stance, Hetanzou.”

  Yipachai did as he was told, the pain in his legs momentarily forgotten, the hot stripe across his back suddenly far more prominent. Lan Banti. They had just struck him with Lan Banti. But that was…wrong. The art was supposed to be used for holy purposes, by those whose hearts and minds had been purified. That’s what Elder Satsanan had always taught him.

  Even when he had spent time with Harato and Takamoto, the older Banqilun men had always used Lan Banti for constructive, helpful things. Like providing light to see by. Or the heat to shape blades or to boil water for tea. Always things that added to the world. But this…

  Yipachai shuddered in his stance. It was unnerving to be struck by such something so powerful. And so holy. If Shuji hadn’t been able to control the blow, or if he had wanted to really hurt Yipachai, he probably could’ve sliced him clean in half.

  Suddenly, Yipachai found himself feeling very, very small. And fragile.

  For better or for worse, the pain in his legs gave him something else to focus on. There was no escape. Not even Lan Banti would stop his legs from burning, unless a healer had decided to start watching over dueling novices as they practiced crouching for extended periods of time.

  But if Lan Banti couldn’t help him, perhaps another one of the arts could. One that demanded far less…purification.

  Yipachai reached out with his mind, seeking out Pingou. This time, he sensed the heron off to the east, in the shallows of that river that Yipachai still didn’t know the name of.

  Could I—

  No, Pingou interrupted him before he could get the question out. I still haven’t recovered my strength from this morning, and my catch has been poor.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Oh, I see. Erm…good luck then, Yipachai said. It was an effort not to simply fall to the ground and end his suffering. There would be no relief. Only pain. Until Shuji said it would end.

  He had no idea how long the pain went on. Despite his best efforts, he had to straighten and take a break every few minutes—at least that’s how long it felt. Yipachai hoped it was every few minutes, at least. Better that than having to face his own weakness.

  Each time he stood, instructor Shuji was waiting for him with an impossibly fast snap of Lan Banti. It was terrifying, facing down those flashes of green flames. They moved faster than arrows, but when they hit, they did not burn like true flames, and the impact Yipachai felt was certainly less than that of an arrow, but nonetheless, each hit made him flinch.

  Though it pained him to admit it, Yipachai took a small amount of comfort at seeing a few of the other students receive lashes as well. At least if he had to suffer, he was not alone.

  “Relax,” Shuji called at last.

  Yipachai nearly dropped himself to the ground to catch his breath, but hesitated when he saw that the other students had returned to standing at attention.

  “Fetch your practice swords,” Shuji said. “Then return.”

  In a bustle of activity, the other novices swept back to their dormitories on the east side of the courtyard. Confused, Yipachai started to follow them, when Shuji’s voice stopped him.

  “You there, Hetanzou.”

  Yipachai turned to face the Banqilun and bowed. “Yes, instructor Uyemura?”

  “Run to the clerks’ office and fetch your practice sword. They had to make a special one to fit someone so short.”

  “Yes, instructor Uyemura.” Yipachai bowed again and started off at a run towards the clerks’ office.

  Or tried to.

  His legs would barely cooperate with him, and he swayed as he went. After several steps, his cramped muscles remembered how to run and he was able to move almost normally.

  He took the stairs up into the clerks’ office, wishing there was a hand rail for him to hold onto. Inside, only the small windows let any light in. Yipachai didn’t see any sign of any of the clerks, but there, propped up against one of the desks, was a wooden practice sword.

  Similar in length to the blade Harato had made for him, this one had no curve to it. In fact, it was little more than a bundle of river reeds tied together, with a small cross piece that acted as a hand guard.

  Yipachai picked it up and gave it a few swings. Or rather, he swished it back and forth a few times. The practice weapon felt far lighter than a real sword, and even lighter than the practice sword he had used during his breaks at the smithy. The reeds had a little bit of wobble to them when he moved too quickly, and they made an audible whooshing sound as he swiped it through the air.

  Don’t be too disappointed. Remember, you’re lucky to be here. Yipachai wished the thought was more convincing as he hurried back to the courtyard, where Shuji was already coaching the novices through an overhead strike.

  “Remember that the blade acts as a lever,” he said, and flicked the tip of his own blade downwards. “You’re not splitting wood. You’re performing a precise cut without overextending yourself and creating openings for your opponent.”

  Yipachai retook his place in the back of the group and tried to follow as Shuji demonstrated a few more times. It didn’t seem to be too complicated of a movement, at least. After a few attempts it felt comfortable enough, though he still felt like his own strikes lacked power compared to the students around him. Theirs looked like they would actually hurt if he got hit by them.

  “Alright, now group up according to your dormitories. Five hundred strikes in unison. None of you goes to lunch until you’re finished, even if the bell is rung.”

  Yipachai groaned to himself. A team exercise with the boys who had hardly acknowledged him since he’d set foot in the dormitory the previous day? Lovely.

  He found his group by the sour looks on their faces, then squeezed into a place in their inward-facing circle and raised his practice sword above his head. Without a word, the others did likewise.

  Slash.

  “One.” The boy who spoke had to have been older than the rest of them. His voice was as deep as any Banqilun man Yipachai had ever heard, and his beard was full, despite not being very long.

  “Two…three…four…”

  At first, the exercise was easy. It was just a simple overhead cut, and the boy who had taken charge wasn’t setting too rigorous of a pace.

  They reached their thirtieth strike, and Yipachai suddenly began to wonder if his arms would last until five hundred. By fifty, they were burning. By eighty, he couldn’t keep up with the rest of the group. His arms just weren’t able to go so long without a rest. It wasn’t like chopping wood at Harato’s.

  The other boys noticed.

  “Come on, runt, keep up,” one of them said, sweat brimming on his own forehead.

  “Shut up, Mikio,” the lead boy said in between counting. “One hundred nineteen…one hundred twenty…”

  Yipachai couldn’t take it anymore. He let the tip of his sword fall and relaxed his arms and shoulders. A couple of the boys, including Mikio, grumbled, but the leader shut them up with a growl of his own.

  “Keep going. One hundred twenty-six…One hundred twenty-seven…”

  Yipachai jumped back in at one hundred forty, once his arms had recovered slightly. At first, he tried to keep track of his own strikes separately, but he couldn’t keep the numbers straight with the other boy counting out loud. Especially once he had to take his second break.

  The lunch bell tolled sometime after strike three hundred, but they kept going. Yipachai’s arms felt leaden, like they’d fall off at any moment. And he had taken enough breaks that he was probably nearly a hundred slashes behind the rest of the group.

  An eternity later, when the lead boy finally called out the number five hundred, Yipachai slumped down to the ground, panting. Thankfully, he wasn’t the only one.

  The sky above him spun, while his heart felt like it was about to thud out of his chest. His pulse roared in his ears. The training had trounced him as soundly as the morning run had.

  Who was he kidding? This school was no place for some lowly acolyte Hetanzou. Even one with a grudge as big as Yipachai’s. He was weak, out of shape. Small.

  And they said this school was the worst of the three in Amigawa. How had he ever thought he’d be accepted at the School of Heavenly Flame, or the School of Breaking Waves?

  He found himself wondering about Karu, Takamoto’s nephew. If he was experiencing the same amount of suffering in his first days at the School of Heavenly Flame that Yipachai was at the West Wind. Despite himself, he hoped that smug face was at least having a hard time.

  Large, dark hands suddenly reached down and grabbed Yipachai by the front of his tunic, then hauled him upright and set him on his feet.

  It was that lead boy, the one with the face like a grown man. He stooped down and stared into Yipachai’s eyes with an unreadable look.

  Yipachai pulled back. That one could probably break him with his bare hands if he wanted to.

  “Let’s go,” the boy—or man—said. “We have dish duty after lunch.”

  “Oh,” Yipachai said, his throat dry. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  “My name is Mamoru Kuno.”

  “Erm…I’m Yipachai. I didn’t see you at breakfast, Mamoru.”

  “I usually eat with my older brother,” Mamoru said. “He’s an initiate already. But enough talk, let’s go eat so we’re not late.”

  Mamoru started off for the dining hall, and Yipachai followed. The others from their dormitory had already gone on ahead of them.

  “And where do you think you’re going, Mamoru, Hetanzou?”

  Instructor Shuji.

  Yipachai turned around to see the young instructor standing with a conniving grin on his face. “I said five hundred slashes in unison, even if it takes you past the bell. The Hetanzou only did three hundred ninety-one. I suggest you round up the rest of your friends and finish out the class before I find some other punishment for the lot of you.”

  It was like Shuji took pleasure in seeing them suffer. Yipachai barely stifled a groan. Mamoru sighed beside him.

  “They’re really going to hate you for this, Yipachai.”