It was roughly one o'clock in the morning. Deep within my private quarters, I held my wooden sword aloft, attempting to trace the arc of the movements I had witnessed.
Twelve distinct forms—a complete sequence Yoriichi had shown me.
I had lived twenty years as a modern man and seven more as the eldest son of a samurai clan in this Sengoku period, yet I had never seen anything like those movements.
Even for someone like me, who didn't know a damn thing about the true essence of swordsmanship, they were so concise and powerful they were hauntingly beautiful.
Indeed... they were like the sun itself.
Yet, when I tried to imitate them, the sensation was entirely different from when Yoriichi swung his blade.
It was the difference between heaven and earth. It felt as though several vital components were missing, leaving only a hollow shell.
Uzui, who had been watching me in silence, finally spoke.
"It does not feel as though you are failing to imitate him, Young Master. Rather, it feels as though you are performing an entirely different dance. The Youngest Master‘s sword-dance was a festival of flashiness itself... but yours? Yours is dross."
That was a bit harsh.
"Regardless, it is the first time I have ever encountered swordsmanship where no 'Musical Score' surfaced in my mind. Usually, even with a style I see for the first time, the first movement—the Ichi—should be visible. But even after watching all twelve, I could not read them at all."
"Uzui, did you notice anything different when Yoriichi swung his sword? I was so focused on his movements that I might have missed the subtleties. The answer might lie there."
"Come to think of it... when the Youngest Master swung his sword, the sound was different."
"What kind of sound?"
"The sound of his breathing. It sounded so similar to the way you usually breathe that I did not think much of it then, but he was breathing much deeper and louder than normal."
"So, you're saying I should try taking deeper breaths?"
I took a massive breath and attempted the sword-dance again. It was a spectacular failure.
"This isn't it either."
Is it some kind of internal energy? Qi? Something like that?
"...Master. How about this? Why not try imitating the rhythm of the Youngest Master‘s breath exactly?"
"Yoriichi‘s breathing?"
"Yes. The Youngest Master possesses physical capabilities and vision that are flashy beyond compare. It stands to reason the breathing she utilizes would be just as unique, would it not?" (Примечание: если Ёриити здесь тоже женщина, исправлено на she, если нет — оставьте he).
That... actually makes sense!
Following Uzui's suggestion, I mimicked Yoriichi‘s peculiar breathing rhythm.
Haaaaaaaah...
The sensation was immediately, jarringly different.
If before it was like trying to paint with a dry brush, now it felt as if the brush was heavily saturated with ink.
I attempted the first form Yoriichi had demonstrated.
The wooden sword carved a path downward.
"It is nowhere near the Youngest Master's realm, but..."
Along the arc of the sword, a faint, lingering trail of solar heat—a spectral afterimage of the sun—was etched into the air.
"It seems you are at least capable of performing it as a dance."
Huff, huff, huff!
The wooden sword slipped from my hand as my breath turned ragged and shallow. My chest burned. It felt as if I had just run hundreds of laps without stopping!
This is impossible! A single swing drained every last drop of my stamina?!
I hadn't even mastered it—I just imitated the very first movement, and yet I'm completely spent?
"Master, here is some cold water!"
I gulped down the water Uzui offered.
"I nearly died just then. So this isn't it either...?"
"Hmm... No, I believe you were successful... However..."
"However what?"
"This is merely my hypothesis... but first, it seems your pitiful body simply cannot keep up with the flashily perfect techniques of the Youngest Master."
Dammit, Yoriichi. Are you telling me even your breathing is the strongest under the heavens?!
"And second, the Youngest Master‘s breathing may not be a perfect fit for you."
"Not a fit...?"
"For instance, we shinobi have a specific way of breathing when we run. We use a peculiar rhythm to minimize the strain on the body, but it is not identical for everyone. We each modify it to suit ourselves until we all end up using slightly different breaths. In conclusion, imitating his breathing was the correct first step, but the key will be adapting that breathing to fit your own body."
"One mountain after another."
Still, catching even a glimmer of a lead was a massive gain. This was progress.
Even if I couldn't reach Yoriichi‘s level, as long as I could passably mimic it, I wouldn't have to worry about dying in the streets—unless I ran into a literal monster or got swept away in the front lines of a war.
"In any case, Ito will surely report today's events. The roles have been reversed, Eldest Young Master."
"Switching sides already? And don't you dare sneakily change how you address me."
"For someone who says that, you look rather pleased?"
"Naturally. Yoriichi will inherit the clan, and I'll be shipped off to a temple. This is my chance to legally escape this barbaric family."
"Is that... truly considered 'legal'?"
"Brother."
Yoriichi?
Yoriichi had suddenly appeared at my door. He almost never came to my room of his own accord. I felt a sudden, ominous prickle on the back of my neck.
"What is it?"
"Mother has passed away."
The news of her death was a sudden, heavy blow.
"What... did you say?"
No! Not Mother! She was the only sane person in this godforsaken, crazed clan!
"Did you come here simply to deliver the news of Mother's passing?"
"Please hear the details from Ito-dono. I am leaving for the temple immediately."
Wait, what? Just like that?
"Yes. I came only to say my farewells."
Wait a minute.
I beg of you, do not leave.
Please, do not leave me here.
If you leave, the entire logic of my plan crumbles to dust.
If I remain here, Father will surely strip my brother of his title and give it to me.
Then Brother would be banished to that cramped, tiny room. And in three years, he would be the one forced away to a temple.
If that happens, Brother's dream of becoming a samurai will turn to mist and vanish.
A worthless younger brother must not stand in his elder brother‘s path.
"I shall cherish this flute you gave me as if it were you, Brother. No matter how far apart we are, I shall not falter; I shall devote myself to my training every single day."
"Yoriichi."
My brother spoke, his voice unusually detached.
"There is no paradise to be found for one who simply runs away."
"...Eh?"
"Wherever you arrive, you will only find another battlefield. Go back to where you belong. This place is my battlefield. You should go to yours."
Brother... you are telling me that even though you know your fate, you intend to resist it.
That is all the more reason why I cannot return. I have already received far too much from you—things I do not deserve.
"I thank you for everything, Brother."
I bowed my head once more and began to rise, reaching for my few belongings, but—
"To retreat is to fall; to fear is to die. Pack your bags, Uzui."
"Pardon? Brother, what do you mean by—"
"Yoriichi, do you know why Itachi was so strong?"
My brother looked at me with a faint, knowing smirk.
Beside him stood Uzui, the shadow-double, already clutching a packed bundle of supplies.
The sound of shifting bones filled the room as Uzui‘s body distorted. The black dye washed away from her hair, revealing shimmering silver, and the seven-year-old child—who I thought was my age—morphed into a tall, imposing woman.
Even her face was different from when I had first seen her.
Wait, how the hell did she manage that kind of physical transformation?
"What is this? So the form I saw at first wasn't your real self?"
"Well, I am a shinobi. 'Flashy when acting, thorough when hiding' is my motto. For your information, you are only the second person to ever see this form."
"I'm honored, truly."