Takamoto paused at the point where the bridge met the far bank on the western edge of Amigawa. Here, the glistening wet cobblestones met rutted, muddy road, and that edge of the stones was the worst part. Runoff from the bridge’s stones plus a healthy amount of traffic had created a wide depression in the road’s surface, which the near-daily rains had gladly filled.

  He laid a hand on the buffalo’s shoulder, causing the beast and the cart it pulled to lurch to a halt while Takamoto stepped forward and stuck his l’anti staff—which conveniently doubled as a walking stick—into the brownish puddle. It sank in about half a hand’s length, then squelched into the goopy bottom.

  Not so deep that he risked injuring the buffalo, and not so deep that he risked damaging the cart. Thank the mhonglun.

  He pulled his staff out of the mud, it’s bottom coated in grayish-brown slime, and tried to tap it out on the cobblestones. He got most of it, but some of the mud splashed onto his sandles and feet.

  Takamoto patted the buffalo again to start him walking through the mire, while he himself attempted to find a way around the edge of the puddle that might help him keep his feet dry. The cart thudded, splashed, and rattled as the buffalo plodded along.

  On this particular visit to the School of the West Wind, Takamoto didn’t have an order to fulfil for Harato—or at least, not one of the regular sort. It had been nearly two months since he’d left the boys in Amigawa to start their journeys at their respective schools.

  Of course, he’d been to see Karu earlier that morning when he’d delivered another blade to a master at the School of Heavenly Flame. His nephew had seemed much the same, and had been eager to tell Takamoto of all the ways he was excelling in his training and about the new team dueling format that was coming to the championships this year. Apparently the novices and initiates were all vying for places on the school’s teams.

  After spending about as much time with Karu as he could stomach, Takamoto had taken his leave and made his way out here to make good on a special delivery for old Harato, one that the smith had insisted Takamoto fulfil even if it meant getting back to the village after dark.

  Takamoto peeked under the waxed canvas sheet he’d draped over the top of the cart to make sure the rain hadn’t leaked in from the morning’s shower. Thankfully, everything looked to be in order.

  It was late morning by the time he arrived at the School of the West Wind. There were still no guards at the gate, so Takamoto let himself in.

  Finding the lad was a simple task—the only Hetanzou in the training yard stuck out like a torch in the night. Takamoto signalled the buffalo to stop just inside the gate, then crossed his arms to watch.

  Even from a distance, Yipachai was beginning to look different—it was so strange to see him wielding a practice sword confidently. He was certainly still a beginner, but he seemed to have gotten a handle on the basic stances and strikes. And he didn’t seem to be getting reprimanded by the instructor any more than the other boys and girls.

  When at last the initiate leading the training called for the end of the session, Yipachai finally turned around and saw him. The lad’s smile was clearly genuine, to Takamoto’s relief—the smile of a young man pleasantly surprised.

  But as he approached, Takamoto noticed something in Yipachai’s face, in his eyes. As if a type of darkness had settled in there behind the smile, behind that youthful air.

  It was gone in a moment, and then the Yipachai that Takamoto remembered was there, with sweat plastering that pitch black Hetanzou hair to his forehead.

  Takamoto raised his hand in greeting, a smile of his own rising to his lips.

  Perhaps what he’d seen had merely been his imagination.

  “Takamoto!” Yipachai said, approaching and bowing. He still felt completely bewildered to see the man standing there. “What are you doing here?”

  Takamoto returned the bow, a grin painted across his features. “I had a few deliveries to make in the city, so I thought I would stop by to see how you were getting along. Still have all your fingers and toes?”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Yipachai smiled. The last few weeks had been intense, but in a good way. He’d been continuing his nightly practice with Pingou, in addition to his normal training. His skills and fitness had certainly improved, but he still had a long way to go if he was going to make the dueling team.

  That was something he could not fail at. If he didn’t make the team, he wouldn’t have a chance at the prize money, and that would mean he’d be unable to pursue his only lead about Mangsut.

  His roommates passed him by with questioning looks, but then continued on in the direction of the dining hall as Yipachai waved them on.

  “I’m doing alright, though sparring against Banqilun still sends me to the healers more often than not.”

  Takamoto nodded, but Yipachai could see the concern in his eyes.

  “I’m fine, Takamoto,” Yipachai said. “Really.”

  The Banqilun merely shrugged. “If you say so, lad. I’m happy you’re finding your way out here. And, to that end, I brought you something from old Harato.”

  “Really?” Yipachai asked, his eyes widening.

  “Indeed,” Takamoto said, the grin returning to his face as he circled around the back of his cart, lifted a flap of canvas, and began rummaging around. “I believe he said something about the beginning of the rainy season…Ah! Here it is. Close your eyes and hold out your hand, lad.”

  Yipachai did so, feeling himself nearly quivering. He heard Takamoto approach, then something round was gently placed in his palm.

  “Alright, open them.”

  There, in Yipachai’s hand was what looked almost like a section of bamboo a little longer than his forearm with a thin line marking where two pieces came together. Carefully, he pulled them apart, revealing a gleaming blade. Single-edged, it had no curve, but its shape resembled that of a dueling sword. And there, just next to the handle, engraved in the metal, was Harato’s family name. Tsukama.

  It was a fudeshi, the Banqilun-style belt knife. And if Harato had made it, it was likely one of the best-made blades in the world.

  “Happy birthday, Yipachai,” Takamoto said, beaming. “Sixteen means you’re a man now, and a man ought to have his own fudeshi.”

  Yipachai turned the blade, letting it catch the midday light. It was a beautiful piece of work, paling only in comparison to the deadly grace of Harato’s swords. The fudeshi, fine as it was, was more rugged. Swords were meant for dueling, and sparring, and killing bandits—they were weapons, reserved for only specific moments. But this was a tool, meant to be used each day, for any manner of job.

  It was the greatest birthday gift Yipachai had ever received—and it made Harato only the second person to ever have remembered his birthday at all. Only Elder Satsanan had ever seemed to think especially of Yipachai when the rains started up again.

  Yipachai’s hand trembled as he gripped the fudeshi, but it wasn’t from excitement this time. He simply didn’t know what to do in the face of such kindness as this. It was simply impossible to imagine—to accept—that Harato had been out there at his smithy one day, thinking of Yipachai, when he’d decided to take even more of his time and resources to forge him a gift.

  “Thank you,” Yipachai said, nearly stammering. “Tell Harato I said thank you. And that I miss him.”

  “Of course,” Takamoto said, his eyes full of warmth. “Now, I should probably let you get back to your lunch. I know the days can be long, and you’ll need energy for your afternoon training.”

  “No, it’s alright,” Yipachai said quickly. “I have to help with the dishes, but I can miss lunch if you want to stay for awhile.”

  Takamoto looked up at the sky, shielding his eyes with a hand. “Well, I suppose I could stay a little longer. It seems the rain might hold off until this evening, at least.”

  Yipachai let out a relieved sigh. It would’ve been a shame to see Takamoto again and not be able to really speak with him. “Follow me, then!”

  Takamoto followed Yipachai to sit on the stairs outside the lad’s dormitory, where they spent almost an hour.

  As it turned out, Yipachai had a lot to tell about his experience at the School of the West Wind. It sounded like he spent more time in the healer’s building than Takamoto would’ve liked, but that was probably to be expected when Yipachai faced off against boys with every possible physical advantage.

  But despite the blows he took, the lad seemed excited—driven, even—to succeed. He told Takamoto about the team dueling event, how he’d bonded with that heron Pingou to fly in and out of his opponent’s reach. He also told Takamoto about his nightly practice, and the way it had helped him progress in his training.

  Takamoto listened, mostly with a smile on his face, but he couldn’t help but feel concerned. When they’d traveled to the city together, Yipachai had certainly had some amount of ambition that had pushed him along this path, but now…that fire had been stoked until it was nearly raging.

  And coupled with that darkness that Takamoto had seen in the lad’s eyes earlier—the darkness that he’d seen a few more times while they sat and talked—it worried him.

  Takamoto and Harato had both tried to instill a balanced philosophy of dueling in Yipachai, but it seemed he was already straying from that path. Was it simply the environment of the dueling schools? The sense of competition that came from the championships? Or was there something else in Yipachai, something he’d kept from Takamoto?

  When Takamoto finally stood and bid the young Hetanzou farewell, that question plagued his mind. And when he’d fetched the buffalo and the cart and began the long trek back to his village, he still had no good answers.

  It was that darkness in the boy’s eyes that kept Takamoto wondering long into the night, even after the sound of rain pattering on his roof should have lulled him to sleep and dreams of better things.