Sensei Pwain strode into the wide, chalk-lined dojo with all the fanfare of a drifting leaf. His black kimono rustled faintly as he scratched behind his ear, that wheat stalk still stubborn between his lips.
"Alright, brats," he said, his voice dragging like a man half-asleep. "You've been playing around with wooden blades for a week now. Today, we make it hurt."
Eyes lit up and shifted uneasily. Some of the students grinned; others swallowed nervously. Pwain sauntered past the weapons rack and gave it a gentle kick. Swords, daggers, whips, quarterstaves, even oddities like hooked sickles and tonfas clattered into a loose, organized pile on the mats.
"Pick your poison," Pwain said. "You're not children anymore. You're warriors-in-training. Spar. Fight. Lose. Learn. And try not to cry too loudly."
Itekan and Rose exchanged glances. Togira, perched lazily around Itekan's neck like a sleepy feathered scarf, gave a low grumble that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
Kutote Tuo approached the weapons pile, his pale eyes locked with cool focus. He pulled a single wooden dagger from the mass and tested its weight with a flick of his wrist.
Avery stood beside him, confidently drawing a standard katana from the rack. The blade caught the light, a smooth arc of polished wood. He smiled—not smug, but hungry.
"Still just one dagger?" Avery asked.
Kutote nodded. "Still faster with it than you are with that plank."
"Big talk," Avery said, tilting his chin up.
Their names were called together. Sensei Pwain didn't even look up. "Kutote. Avery. Ring Three."
The ring was drawn in white ash, large and slightly raised with old runes at each cardinal edge. The two boys entered it, eyes locked.
No salute. No hesitation.
Avery moved first, testing Kutote's guard with a feint to the left—a blur of motion followed by a downward arc. Kutote's arm moved like a whip, wooden dagger intercepting at the last instant. A sharp clack echoed through the dojo.
Kutote flowed like mercury, slipping around Avery's reach and driving a short stab toward his side. Avery twisted, bringing the flat of his sword around to deflect, then pivoted into a low sweep.
Kutote leapt back, light on his toes. The fight was graceful and brutal—a language spoken in slashes and evasion.
The class was silent.
They watched as Avery's style began to morph. He'd trained in various schools of bladecraft. His strikes danced between the forms of the high-wind crescent cut and the rising dragon fang, unpredictable yet fluid.
Kutote kept his ground, eyes sharp, never flinching. He began circling, letting Avery's longer reach force over-extensions, dodging the sharp cuts by a finger's width.
Then he struck.
A tight spin. A step in. A strike aimed at Avery's ribs—deft, fast, deliberate.
But Avery met it. Not just blocking, catching it with the guard of his blade. He twisted, locking Kutote's wrist and forcing the dagger upward.
Kutote rolled his body, escaped the lock by a hair, and danced back into range. His feet were silent, and sweat shone on his temple.
"You've improved," Avery admitted, exhaling. "But you blinked."
He surged forward. Kutote adjusted—but his foot caught uneven ground at the edge of the chalk ring.
A stumble.
A breath.
Avery's strike met the opening with precision. The tip of his wooden blade landed squarely against Kutote's heart.
Silence.
Pwain raised a hand. "Avery wins."
Kutote stepped back, breathing hard. He didn't look angry—only thoughtful. He stared down at the faded edge of the chalk where his foot had slipped.
"Well fought," he said.
Avery nodded. "You too."
They clasped arms briefly as they exited the ring, warriors who knew the value of small mistakes.
Rose was next. She twirled her whip with idle grace, facing off against Ichano, who wielded twin tonfas. Their match was quicksilver: slaps of wood and snapping wind, her whip like a serpent, his arms like twin shields. He dodged and deflected, but never once stepped into her range. Rose kept smiling, footwork impeccable.
In the end, Ichano yielded. "That alone is not enough," he muttered, rubbing a red welt on his forearm.
A few more spars followed. A beast-walker named Kenta wielded a quarterstaff with wild, barely-contained energy. He toppled a taller girl using double spears with a stunning upward sweep. A boy named Glan, wielding dual nunchaku, ended up tangled in his own strikes and was promptly knocked out by a girl using a basic bokken.
Then came the last match.
Pwain looked up for the first time since the lesson began.
"Itekan. Zanzo. Ring One."
The room quieted when Itekan stepped into the center of the ring. Twin wooden daggers rested in his hands, his stance relaxed but eyes keen. His opponent, Zanzo, was taller—long-limbed and smirking, a long wooden sword hanging lazily over his shoulder.
Pwain watched them closely.
"You ready?" Zanzo asked.
Itekan didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Zanzo struck first, a wide horizontal slash. Itekan ducked low and dashed inward. His daggers moved like whispering blades—one aiming for Zanzo's knee, the other flicking toward his side. Zanzo blocked one and danced away from the other.
"Fast," he admitted.
"Not fast enough," Itekan said, lunging again.
They clashed—dagger to blade, spin to guard, backstep, feint. Zanzo fought with a powerful, arching style, built on sweeping strokes. Itekan was a ghost, slipping into shadows, carving through space with twin crescents of wood.
Then came the turn.
Clack!
Zanzo twisted his sword, catching one of Itekan's daggers between guard and blade. With a flick, he sent it flying to the side.
Itekan's hand flexed. One weapon gone.
Zanzo smirked. "Now we're talking."
But Itekan stepped forward anyway.
Dagger in one hand. Fire in his eyes.
He surged toward Zanzo—
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