Kael stood barefoot on floors of polished hinoki cypress that glead in the afternoon light. The wood was worn but smooth. Late morning sunlight stread through traditional rice paper windows—shoji screens that transford the harsh urban light of Neo-Tokyo into sothing soft, golden, almost divine.
Dust motes swirled and danced in the illuminated air like microscopic galaxies, each one catching the light and throwing it back in tiny, perfect rainbows. The sight was hypnotically beautiful, peaceful in a way that made his soul ache with longing.
He didn’t know how he got here... only that this place felt familiar.
Neo-Tokyo had been the world’s jewel in the crown. Maglev trains glided silently through the air in a vast, vertical tropolis with towers penetrating the stratosphere. Sky-bridges and layers of shining steel had long since buried the old city.
The Yamashiro Institute.
Sons and daughters of world leaders, technocrats, and elite innovators trained not only their minds but also their bodies and spirits at this institution, which was more than just a school; it was the epito of global education. An oasis for the extraordinary.
At its heart was a legendary dojo. The walls are adorned with old scrolls and hand-forged bokken. High above the tatami floor was a crimson banner with proudly flowing calligraphy and ink that had hardly changed in centuries. Like the edge of a dream vanishing, the characters were familiar but he can’t recall it.
Sunlight is filtered through shoji panels, transforming the harsh neon glare of Neo-Tokyo into soft, gold. Dust motes floated like stars and the silence was broken only by the distant echo of practice strikes in another hall. The scent of sandalwood incense, and lacquered wood wrapped around him.
Lined with wooden racks that contained rows of bamboo shinai, the walls rose like the pillars of a cathedral. Specially carved slots held heavier bokken. A magnificent katana that appeared to hum with their own inner light was on display in a locked glass case in one corner.
A shinai was resting in Kael’s hands when he looked down. The familiar grip fit his palm, but he couldn’t rember the mont or the crossing to the weapon rack.
The bamboo sword was a work of art, consisting of four split bamboo slats bound in the traditional manner with silk cord. This piece of art was made by artists who recognize the sacred bond between warriors and their weapons.
His body moved into place without conscious thought. His heel lifted just enough to evenly distribute his weight as his left foot slid back against the polished wood. His hips lowered, and as his spine straightened, his center of gravity settled low and steady.
The shinai lifted into the chudan-no-kamae center guard position, aiming its tip precisely at the opponent’s throat.
The posture was perfect. The stance of soone who had been honing the skill for years. His body was focused on this position, just as rivers are aware of their path to the sea.
He took a breath, and the serene calm of perfect concentration filled his lungs. His breathing rhythms were matched by a slower heartbeat. The world shrank to the distance between eternity and himself.
This fighting stance, known as kamae, puts one in a state of calm.
Kael now carried a bokken, a white oak-carved wooden sword that was heavier than the bamboo shinai and felt familiar in his hands.
Without his conscious mind directing the movent, his body began to move through kata, the choreographed forms that ford the foundation of all sword arts. Every step he took on the mirror-polished floor was well-tid and transitioned into the next.
The forms he made through had been honed over six centuries of sword masters, with each technique being tried and tested in innurable battles and improved upon by generations of masters until they approached divine perfection.
His body sang with recognition as he transitioned from technique to technique: a thrust that was surgically accurate and aid at the heart, a sweeping horizontal slash that could kill multiple opponents at once, and a rising cut that could rip through armor like tissue paper. His conscious mind might not rember the nas, but his soul knew them like old friends: kiriotoshi, yokogiri, and tsuki.
Over ti, the kata evolved into a faster and more lethal weapon. After the wooden bokken turned to steel, Kael found himself practicing iaijutsu, the art of the lightning-fast draw that separated true masters from amateurs.
He pulled the blade from its lacquered scabbard in a single motion that seed to defy ti, made a flawless rising cut that would have split an opponent in half from hip to shoulder if they’re using a real sword, and then put the sword back in its sheath with a quiet click that sounded like thunder in the quiet dojo.
The art of drawing and cutting in one fluid motion was known as nukiuchi.
Then ca the sound of approaching steps. One by one, the students entered.
The dojo’s side doors slid open. The footsteps of the disciplined students were muffled by the tatami mats as they stepped through. Each of their neatly pressed black and white uniforms featured the Yamashiro Institute’s crest.
They ca from all over the world — heirs of legacy, prodigies hand-picked by the Institute. Their crisp uniforms bore family crests and elite sponsor emblems from the Pan-European Conglorate, the North Arican Federation, the Oceanic Coalition, and more.
They walked in silently, their eyes piercing and respectful. Not a single word cos out of their mouth.
There was Lucien Moreau of France, a slender, sharp-featured boy with wire-rimd glasses and a cybernetic patch behind one ear — rumored to be the top scorer in digital combat simulations.
Beside him walked Arjun Kapoor, all muscle and grace, an Indian martial artist who had mastered five disciplines before age sixteen. His eyes were kind.
Trailing just behind them, brushing a loose braid from her cheek, was Mina Saito from Osaka — the youngest daughter of an aerospace magnate. Her dark eyes glittered with curiosity as she took in the hallowed space.
Reviews
All reviews (0)