The moon hung low in the sky, casting elongated, silver shadows across the tatami mats of Seijirou's room.
He lay on his back, his hands behind his head, replaying the sensations of the afternoon spar.
His Spirit Circuits felt different—wider, more resilient. The way his Ki had autonomously mapped Ichibei's movements felt less like a technique and more like an extension of his own five senses.
Just then, the silence of the night was broken by the soft, rhythmic sliding of the door.
He sat up as Retsu stepped into the room.
She looked restored, the deathly pallor of her twenty-day vigil replaced by her usual porcelain glow.
However, she wasn't alone. She was leading a young woman by the hand—a disciple Seijirou vaguely recognized from the training grounds.
The girl, Hiyori, was the picture of fragile beauty.
