That evening, huddled around a fire in the depths of the abandoned temple, I tossed him a knife. It was a simple thing, a utility blade taken from one of the dead ronin. He fumbled it, the metal clattering against the stone floor.

"My lord?"

"You're learning to fight," I said.

"But... this one is just a cook's son. I chop vegetables."

"Good," I replied. "Then you understand how to separate things from what they were. Stand up."

He obeyed, his body a bundle of nervous energy, his stance awkward.

"Why?" he blurted out, the question bursting out of him. "Why are you doing this? For me?"

"Don't be sentimental," I scoffed. "I'm testing a theory. I want to see if a human with no training can be taught anything useful, or if you're all born useless."

We worked until the moon was high. His movements were clumsy, his grip too tight, his feet all wrong. But he didn't complain. He just absorbed every correction, his face a mask of intense concentration.

"No, no, no," I barked, smacking his wrist with the flat of my sword. "Your wrist is stiff as a board. A knife isn't a club. It has to move. Let it flow."

He flinched but tried again, his grip loosening slightly.

"Tell me about the way of things in your world," I said later, as we ate the dead men's rice around the crackling fire.

"The way of things, my lord?"

"Everything. Samurai. Farmers. Lords. Explain the logic to me."

"The logic?" He seemed confused by the question. "It's... just the way things are. The heavens decide. Samurai are born to serve and fight. Farmers are born to grow the rice that feeds them."

"So a samurai who starves in a ditch is still better than a farmer with a full belly?"

"Well... yes. He has the potential for greatness. The bloodline. It is a matter of honor."

"Honor," I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "I saw a samurai once, a proud man with a fine horse, cut open his own belly because his lord misplaced a fan. Is that honor? Or is it stupidity?"

Taro paled, his gaze dropping to the fire. "The lord's commands are absolute. To fail is... unthinkable."

"I saw a village of farmers, loyal and hardworking, burned to the ground because their daimyo wanted a clearer view of the sunset from his castle. Where was their honor? Where was their reward?"

He had no answer. He just stared into the flames, his entire worldview trembling.

"It's the most foolish arrangement I've ever seen," I said, tossing a fish bone into the fire. "Built on nonsense."

"Yes, my lord," he agreed instantly. Then, his eyes widened as he realized what he'd said. "I mean... this one... he didn't mean..."

"Stop," I said, a flicker of something like amusement sparking in me. "You agreed with me. Honestly. That's the first useful thing you've said all day."

I fell silent after that, staring into the fire. The day's events—the collapse of my body, the strange, restorative void of sleep, the sharp, violent lesson with the ronin—had left me feeling... unbalanced. The body was a constant stream of demands and limitations. It was exhausting.

"You know, Taro," I said, my voice quiet, the usual sharp edge gone. "I've watched this world for centuries. I've seen empires rise and fall. I've seen men kill each other over dirt, over ideas, over the shape of a hat. I saw a man once build a beautiful boat, a work of art, just to sail it to the middle of a lake and burn it. Why? What is the point of any of it? And now I'm here. In this... flesh. This sack of organs and fluids that needs to sleep and eats rice and feels pain. It's a ridiculous vessel."

Taro froze, a piece of fish halfway to his mouth. He had never heard me speak like this. It wasn't a command or an observation; it was a complaint.

"My lord... you should perhaps... rest."

"I can't," I said, a harsh, barking sound that was almost a laugh. "This body wants what it wants. It's a damn tyrant." I leaned my head back against the cold stone wall. "Teach me, Taro."

"What?"

"How do you endure it? This constant... failing? The hunger, the exhaustion, the pain. What are the tricks?"

"I... I don't know, my lord. I just... do it. We all do."

"Then you're all better actors than I thought," I said, closing my eyes. "Do you still fear me, boy?"

He was quiet for a long time. "Yes, my lord. But... it's a different kind of fear now."

"Good," I mumbled. "Confusion is a good start."

'''

The morning was a special kind of torment. My head was a drum, every beat a fresh agony. The sunlight filtering through the temple's broken windows was a white-hot needle in my eyes. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest.

"Why has this body failed?" I groaned, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

"That's what happens when you push the body too hard, my lord," Taro said, his voice infuriatingly cheerful. He handed me a waterskin. "You need to rest more."

"The price of this existence is too high."

"Most say that. Then they keep going anyway."

"Humans are fools."

"Yes, my lord."

We walked in silence for an hour, my head throbbing in time with my steps. I was trying to decipher the appeal of a tree—a large, pointless piece of vertical wood—when a voice cut through my thoughts.

"You breathe like you're fighting a battle every second of the day."

I spun around. A woman stood there, not five feet away. How had she...? Taro yelped and jumped back.

She was lean and weathered, with two swords at her hip and a face that looked like it had been carved from old oak and left out in the rain. Her eyes were a sharp, intelligent brown, and they were fixed on me, missing nothing.

"What?" I managed.

"Your breathing," she said, unblinking. "It's all in the chest. You're not getting any air. It's exhausting just to watch."

"That's a bizarre observation to make to a stranger."

"You're a bizarre stranger," she countered, her tone flat. "You have red eyes. And you reek of death. By the way, I'm Yukiko."

"I didn't ask for your name."

"No," she agreed. "But I gave it anyway. You're the one who massacred the camp north of here. Right?"

"And?"

"And I'm curious," she said with a shrug. "About you."

"I don't care." I stepped around her. "Goodbye."

She smiled, a thin, sharp expression. "There's a gathering. Two days north. Ronin, ambitious fools with nothing left to lose. There will be a tournament."

"And why are you telling me this?"

"Because someone with your... skills... could be interesting to watch. Either way, it would be a spectacle. And I enjoy spectacles." She took a step closer. "You should learn to breathe from your stomach."

She turned and walked away, heading south without a backward glance.

I stood there for a long moment, Taro hovering nervously behind me.

"That was... unsettling," I finally said.

"Yes, my lord."

"She wasn't afraid of me."

"No, my lord."

"That makes her an idiot."

"Perhaps," Taro said, his voice barely whispering. "Or perhaps it makes her the most dangerous person we've met."

I looked at him, surprised by the insight. He met my gaze for a second before looking down.

"What will you do, my lord?" he asked. "About the tournament?"

A slow grin spread across my face. The deep ache in my body was already fading, replaced by a familiar, gnawing feeling. Boredom.

"We're going," I said.

"May this one ask why?"

"Because.. I'm bored."

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