Nia woke the next morning to the sound of birds and the golden warmth of sunlight filtering through the woven leaf curtains.
She sat up slowly on the handcrafted mat—a thick weave of dried leaves and soft fibers, carefully layered for comfort. The hut was small, a single room with walls of strong wood and tightly bound leaves. Animal skins hung from the walls—jaguar, deer, wolf—their patterns faded with age but still proud. A large wooden box sat at the far end of the room, hand-carved with spiraling patterns, likely containing their clothes and belongings.
The only other things in the room were the mat she slept on and the curtain over the window, woven from long brown leaves that rustled softly in the morning breeze.
She stretched, her arms reaching toward the ceiling, and let out a loud yawn. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes as she blinked against the morning light. Her skin glowed—a rich golden brown, kissed by the sun that streamed through the window.
She rose and pushed open the wooden door.
Outside, the village stirred to life.
It wasn't large, but it wasn't small either. Huts dotted the clearing, each one slightly elevated on log pillars—protection from the damp earth and whatever crawled through it at night. Smoke rose from several fires. Women moved between the huts, some carrying bundles of wood, others tending to cooking pots, a few laughing together as they passed.
Nia greeted them as she walked—a nod here, a wave there. Her bare feet pressed into the cool earth, still damp with morning dew.
She made her way to the far end of the village.
A short fence formed an oval shape in the clearing—the dueling ring. A number of women surrounded it, their frames muscular and powerful, their tattoos catching the firelight. Sweat glistened on their skin, wetting their hair and the animal-skin clothes that barely covered their bodies.
Nia slipped through the crowd and found a spot near the fence.
Inside the ring, her mother was sparring.
Rhea was over six and a half feet tall, her body a sculpture of dense muscle and raw power. Her dark brown hair—the same shade as Nia's—was pulled back, streaked with grey at the temples. Her brown eyes, sharp and focused, tracked her opponent's every movement with the patience of a predator.
She wielded a massive sword—one foot wide, six feet long, its blade gleaming in the morning light. A single white feather was tied to the handle with a strip of cloth, fluttering with each movement. It looked impossibly heavy, but Rhea held it like it was an extension of her arm.
Her opponent wielded a large hammer, its head as wide as a shield.
Rhea lunged.
Her sword came down in a brutal downward slash. The opponent raised her hammer to block—the impact echoed like thunder, shaking the ground beneath them. Muscles bulged on both women. Rhea kicked her opponent in the gut—a heavy, solid thud that sent the woman flying backward several feet.
Before her opponent could recover, Rhea was already there.
The hammer swung toward her head. Rhea leaned to the right—a hair's breadth of movement—and the hammer crashed into the earth, shattering the ground where she'd been standing.
Rhea stomped on the hammer, pinning it to the broken earth. Then she punched her opponent square in the face—a clean, brutal strike that snapped the woman's head back.
Her opponent stumbled, letting go of the hammer.
By the time she regained herself, Rhea's sword was already at her throat.
The crowd erupted.
Nia cheered with them, a proud smile lighting up her face. Her mother was the strongest warrior in their village. The Chief had appointed her as the Commander Amazon—a great honor, one that came with responsibility and respect.
Rhea vaulted over the fence, landing lightly despite her size. She reached out and patted Nia's head with a large, calloused hand.
"Good morning," she said, her voice deep and warm.
"Good morning, Mother."
Rhea nodded and walked toward the small lake at the far end of the village, likely to wash off the sweat and dirt.
Nia watched her go—then blinked.
An older woman had approached her. Her tattoos were more faded, her hair streaked with white, but her eyes were sharp and kind.
"Nia," the woman said. "Would you like to duel?"
Nia's heart quickened. It was an honor to be challenged by an elder. She nodded quickly, a smile spreading across her face.
"I'd love to. Let me get my weapon first."
She turned and jogged back toward her hut, her bare feet slapping against the earth.
Her hand reached for the door—
And her mind drifted, unbidden, to the boy she had found by the lake.
What is he doing right now?
She shook her head, pushed open the door, and grabbed her weapon.
Nia stepped into the dueling ring, her weapon in hand—a spear with a stone tip, its shaft wrapped in worn leather. It wasn't as grand as her mother's sword, but it was hers. She had carved the shaft herself, shaped the stone tip with her own hands.
Her opponent, the elder woman, entered the ring with a wooden staff. She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Ready, child?"
Nia nodded, settling into a low stance. Her bare feet pressed into the earth. Her grip tightened on the spear.
The elder lunged.
The staff came at her fast—a blur of wood aimed at her ribs. Nia twisted, deflecting it with the shaft of her spear, and countered with a quick thrust toward the woman's shoulder.
The elder sidestepped, laughing.
"Good reflexes!"
They circled each other. The crowd cheered. Nia's heart pounded with excitement—not fear, not pressure, just pure joy.
She feinted left, then swept low with her spear. The elder jumped over it, but Nia was already spinning, the spear coming around in a wide arc that would have caught her in the side—
The elder caught it.
With one hand.
Nia's eyes widened.
The elder grinned, twisted the spear, and yanked. Nia stumbled forward, off balance—
And the staff tapped her gently on the forehead.
"Dead," the elder said softly.
The crowd laughed and clapped. Nia blinked, then laughed too, rubbing her forehead.
"Good fight," she said, bowing slightly.
The elder bowed back. "You have the spirit of a warrior. You'll surpass your mother one day."
Nia's cheeks flushed with pride.
She stepped out of the ring and walked to the edge of the village, where a small stream wound through the trees. She knelt, splashing cool water on her face, and sat back on her heels.
Her mind drifted again.
The boy.
She touched her cheek, still warm from the flush earlier. What was his name again?
Yu-ki.
She smiled softly.
Back at Lord Genji's camp, Yuki was busy wringing out his clothes.
He was shirtless, his torso bare to the morning air. His green camo shorts clung to his legs, still damp from the night's rain. He squeezed the fabric of his long-sleeve shirt, watching water drip onto the grass, muttering complaints under his breath about the cold, the wet, and the general misery of sleeping outside in a storm.
Tetsu sat at a respectful distance, watching him.
His eyes traced the scars on Yuki's body—the jagged lines across his torso, the circular marks on his arms, the deep diagonal slash that ran from shoulder to hip. He had seen many battle-worn warriors in his time. But Yuki was sixteen. This wasn't battle damage.
This was torture.
Tetsu said nothing. But his jaw tightened.
Yuki continued muttering, oblivious to Tetsu's scrutiny. "—and then the rain, and the mud, and the roots digging into my back, and did I mention the rain? Because I feel like I should mention the rain—"
Lord Genji walked out of the stone hut and stood behind Yuki.
"Yuki."
Yuki turned, shirt still dripping in his hands.
"You will be sparring with me today. Right now."
Yuki blinked. Then his face split into a brilliant, eager grin.
"Good. I've been itching to fight a human."
Genji's expression didn't change. But inwardly, he noted the shift. The exhaustion, the bitterness—gone. In their place, something feral. Hungry.
Kinatarou blood. They're always itching for a fight.
They walked a short distance from camp and stopped in an area surrounded by thick trees. The ground was uneven, scattered with roots and stones.
Genji stomped his foot on the ground.
A wave of green energy rippled outward. The trees shuddered—then moved. Trunks groaned as they shifted, roots pulling themselves from the earth, branches retracting. Within seconds, the clearing had transformed into an open space, roughly fifty feet in radius. The ground was smooth, covered only by short grass.
Yuki stared, his jaw slightly slack.
He just... moved the forest. With a stomp.
He looked down at his own hands, then back at Genji.
Right. Plant Kizo. I knew that. I just didn't know he could do that with it.
Yuki was still shirtless, wearing only his green camo shorts. He held the black ice dagger in his right hand, its dark blade gleaming in the morning light.
Genji stood across from him, arms behind his back. His green eyes were calm, unreadable.
He gestured for Yuki to attack.
Yuki lunged.
He closed the distance in an instant—fast, even for him. His dagger came up, aimed at Genji's chest—
Thick logs.
They erupted from the ground between them, moving like flexible vines, twisting and coiling with terrifying speed. Yuki's eyes widened. He backflipped, barely avoiding the first log, and slashed at the second with his dagger.
The blade struck wood.
And bounced off.
What?
Yuki's mind scrambled. It's tough. Hard as metal. I can't cut it.
The third log rammed into his side.
The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him flying backward. He crashed into a large tree—the trunk cracked under the force, splintering on impact.
He hit the ground, rolled, and forced himself upright.
His ribs screamed. His vision swam. Blood dripped from his mouth.
Genji hadn't moved an inch.
The logs swayed gently around him, like serpents waiting for their next command. His hands were still behind his back. His expression was still bored.
Yuki spat blood and grinned.
So this is the power of the head of the Kyorin family.
I guess he isn't all talk.