“Steady breathing, now,” Master Unjo said. “In through your nose…hold…out through your mouth.”

  The old master’s voice was slow and rhythmic, but Yipachai’s mind was anything but. A week had passed since he and Mamoru had failed to follow Mangsut, and he’d hardly been able to stop thinking about it.

  He’d done his best to focus on his training, but his performance felt even worse than before. He didn’t seem to be making much progress physically—he still only caught the very end of morning meditation each day—and training stances and strikes with instructor Shuji had already grown rote and repetitive.

  But worst of all was dueling training with master Rurou and his roommates. Yipachai’s only real strategy was to do his best to delay taking hits that would send him to the healers. He still had yet to land a real blow on any of his opponents.

  So when Mamoru had informed him that the novices had been assigned to a special meditation training with master Unjo, Yipachai had breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, he’d be doing something he was accustomed to. Something that didn’t involve stressing his muscles to the breaking point or getting pummeled by boys twice his size.

  Yipachai and the others had arrived at the sanctuary just before sunset. The space was flat and uncovered, so that the mhonglun could drift in unhindered. Large, elaborately painted shrines stood at each of the four courners, with lavish offerings piled on their platforms and around the bases of their pedestals. Lanterns and incense decorated each shrine, while smaller candles had been placed in rows along the stone floor.

  Thankfully, someone had brought in numerous low stools to protect their clothes from the still-damp ground. A light rain had passed through that afternoon—the first sign of the coming rainy season that Yipachai had seen.

  He sat in a westward facing line with his roommates, with Yoshito in front of him and Mamoru sitting behind. To his left was a female novice whose name he didn’t know. It seemed the girls had also been called in for the special meditation.

  But despite the familiar meditation practice, Yipachai found himself struggling to concentrate. And while that was relatively normal for him—some of the monks at the monastery back in Hongshu had often reprimanded him for being fidgety during meditation—it seemed even worse than usual.

  Try as he might to relax, he kept finding his breathing out of sync with master Unjo’s commands. Every sound had him opening his eyes again, sometimes craning his head around to spot the source of the distraction.

  And still Unjo went on, counting out the breathing rhythms for Yipachai and the rest of the students.

  “In…hold…out…”

  But no matter how much Yipachai wanted to excel—at meditation, at dueling, at all of it—he couldn’t help but feel…frustrated.

  No, he was angry.

  Angry at himself for being weak, for being a coward. Angry at master Rurou for letting the other boys get away with nasty hits that left Yipachai needing Lan Banti healing. Angry at the other boys for mocking him and trying to hurt him during training.

  But most of all, Yipachai was angry at Mangsut. He was angry that that flaming bandit had killed Elder Satsanan and kidnapped him. He was angry that his plan for revenge was falling so far short of his expectations.

  He was supposed to be learning the sword—to be preparing for his quest to track down Mangsut and kill him. But instead Yipachai was spending most of his time either scrubbing the dishes of people who hated him, or sprawled on his back and waiting for someone to heal him.

  “Embrace your emotions,” Unjo said. “Notice them. Feel them. Follow them to their source, and let them move you forward. Closer to the mhonglun all around you. Closer to your dreams and desires.”

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  Yipachai cracked an eye. Had Unjo noticed his restlessness? The master sat on a stool in front of the novices, his eyes closed, his wavy green beard flowing down in front of him like water.

  Movement distracted him, a flame mhonglun flickering into existence next to the candle in front of him. It floated lazily around the candle flame, its song blending with those of the others of its kind that hung around the lanterns and other candles. Though they were certainly different enough, the flame mhongluns’ songs didn’t clash harshly with those of the wind mhonglun that danced and spun in the evening air. It was a phenomenon that had always fascinated Yipachai.

  “Feel your emotions.” Unjo’s voice snapped Yipachai back to attention, and he closed his eyes once more. “You need not banish them from your consciousness. Use them to sharpen your focus, your awareness of yourself, and of the world around you.”

  Yipachai inhaled slowly and tried to hold it, but found his heart was beating too quickly for it to be comfortable. That anger simmered just beneath the surface. He just wished he had something—or someone—to take it out on.

  Use your emotions.

  But how was anger supposed to help him get better at swordplay? The monastery had always taught him that anger was something best avoided, and based on what he’d heard from others like Harato and Takamoto, there wasn’t much room for it in dueling.

  Yipachai clenched his jaw. He had tried to improve. He’d even had a chance at Mangsut, and he’d squandered it by being unprepared and cowardly.

  I must use this anger. Otherwise, it might burn him up from the inside out. Yipachai took as deep a breath as he could.

  And tried.

  He let his anger take him, allowed it to warm him as he imagined himself, stronger, faster, and more skilled. In his mind’s eye, Yipachai saw himself racing through the forest, arriving first at the sanctuary for morning meditation. He saw himself as if in a painting, perfectly holding his stance and executing strikes so flawlessly that instructor Shuji looked foolish trying to find Yipachai’s faults.

  He pictured himself standing over Mikio, his practice sword at the other boy’s throat as he called for the Banqilun to yield.

  He imagined what it would be like to at last be within striking distance of Mangsut, to smell the rankness of the man’s breath and blood as Yipachai slid his blade into his chest.

  And so he decided. He would no longer allow others to dictate his path. Yipachai would no longer sit back and wait for them to make him better. He’d done that at the monastery, and had begun the same pattern here at the School of the West Wind.

  Yipachai would become that boy—that man—that he imagined he could be.

  He would become the greatest swordsman Lun had ever seen, no matter how improbable it seemed.

  He would find Mangsut again, no matter how long it took.

  And when he found that Silence-cursed villain, he would kill him. Along with the entire crew who had attacked Yipachai’s monastery.

  And if he died in the pursuit of those goals, so be it.

  Suddenly, like a wave rippling through his body, Yipachai became aware of clarity where there had been confusion. Of focus, where there had been distraction. And when master Unjo finally called for a stop for the evening, Yipachai’s anger still was still there.

  But now, he could sense a change. Instead of being angry with the way things were, with the way that he was, anger had become something else.

  Fuel.

  It was the wood that stoked the fire of his passion. The food that would sustain him when he grew weary. The prod that would nudge him back in line when he began to stray.

  Yipachai walked back to his dormitory as if in a trance, barely aware of the other boys as they filed in and prepared for sleep. And when he woke the next morning, he wasn’t reluctant to begin the run, the way he normally was.

  Instead, he felt calm. The exercise would hurt. It would make his body uncomfortable. But bodily discomfort was no longer important. It was a candle next to the bonfire that was his anger. The hatred that he kept simmering just beneath the surface.

  Yipachai set off at a jog after the other boys, and reached the first light outside the gate alongside them. He’d never done that before.

  Soon after, as it always happened, the Banqilun pulled away as Yipachai’s lungs and muscles betrayed him.

  But this time, Yipachai was able to accept it. That he was slower. He likely would be for some time. But he would grow.

  And some day, he would show those Banqilun the true strength of the Hetanzou.

  While the other Sentient races dove deep into their strengths, the Hetanzou did something better than all of them.

  They adapted. They learned and grew skilled at whatever they wished.

  And so, despite the pain, Yipachai smiled. Despite the fact he was the last to arrive for meditation again, he chose to focus on the fact that he arrived a quarter hour before having to run back for breakfast.

  Because someday, Yipachai knew, he would beat them all.