Taro, who had been holding his breath, finally let it out in a shaky puff. He didn't question the decision. He simply bowed, his forehead nearly touching the dirt, and began packing with a renewed, frantic energy. Fear was a powerful motivator, and Taro was a man fueled by little else.

The next two days for Taro was a nerve-wracking journey toward what he clearly saw as certain doom. For me, it was a fascinating, if tedious, exercise in managing this new form. We fell into a routine dictated by the body's insistent demands.

At dawn, Taro would prepare a meal. It was always the same: bland, filling rice and whatever bitter greens he deemed safe to eat. I would eat quickly, barely tasting the food, and then we would walk.

During the long hours on the road, I continued his education.

"Tell me about the first man I killed in the temple," I said on the morning of the first day, tossing him a fallen branch to use as a practice blade. "The one with the bad leg."

Taro caught the branch awkwardly, his knuckles white. "H-his courage failed him, my lord."

"That's what he felt," I corrected. "I want to know what you saw. What was his first mistake?"

He thought for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. The boy was slow, but he wasn't stupid. He was simply unused to thinking in terms of survival. "He... he leaned on his bad leg when he stepped forward. He put all his weight on it."

"And what does that tell you?"

"It tells me his leg was weak," he said, then added, "It means he wasn't balanced. He was vulnerable from that side."

"Good," I said. "A man who isn't balanced is already half-defeated. You don't need to be strong to beat him, just smart enough to push where he's already weak."

I had him practice simple, brutal motions. Not the elegant forms of a dojo, but the efficient, ugly movements of a brawl. How to use a branch to break a wrist. How to kick a knee backward to cripple a larger opponent. How to use his smaller size to get under an opponent's guard, making their strength a liability against them. He was clumsy, his movements jerky and unsure, but he was persistent. He practiced until his hands and muscles screamed, all without a single complaint.

On the second day, we encountered a small merchant caravan resting by the side of the road. It was a perfect opportunity to test something other than combat.

"We need more food," I stated. "And information."

"Should this one... acquire it?" Taro asked, his hand hovering near the small knife I'd given him. He meant "steal."

"No," I said, watching the merchants. "That's loud and messy. We're going to trade. Like humans do."

I approached the lead merchant, a portly man with a sweaty face and nervous eyes who was fanning himself with a large straw hat. "I require rice and dried meat," I said, holding out a few of the silver coins I'd taken from the ronins.

The merchant's eyes flickered from the coins to my face, taking in the blood-red eyes, the worn armor, and the terrified boy hovering behind me like a ghost. His friendly smile tightened. "Ah, a warrior! Just returned from the wars, I see. A fine quality rice, very special, will cost you three of those coins for a small bag."

I felt a flash of irritation. This tedious dance of falsehoods, this haggling over scraps, was more exhausting than any battle. I was about to simply take what I wanted when Taro stepped forward, placing himself between me and the merchant.

"Honored merchant," he said, his voice a perfect blend of humility and respect. He bowed deeply. "Forgive my lord, he is weary from a long campaign. We mean no disrespect, but we have traveled far from the east, and our supplies are running low."

He spun a tale. A plausible, pathetic story about a loyal retainer and his battle-scarred master who had been grievously wounded but refused to leave his lord's side. He offered coins and also a small pouch of medicinal herbs he'd gathered, claiming they were from our "family's garden" and helped his master's strength return. He was so good, so utterly convincing, that the merchant's posture softened. His prices, which had been tripled, suddenly became "fair."

"Ah, for a brave samurai such as your master, a special price!" the merchant declared, clapping his hands together. He sold us the supplies at a reasonable cost and even threw in a small jug of weak sake, "for the road."

As we walked away, I glanced at Taro, who was practically glowing with a quiet pride. "That was a disgusting display of deception," I said.

"This one is sorry, my lord. I should have let you handle it."

"Don't be stupid," I said. "Your way was less messy. You lied, flattered, and manipulated him in under a minute. You accomplished more with your soft words than I would have with a sharp sword. It's a repulsive skill, but undeniably useful."

Taro blinked, unsure if he'd just been insulted or praised. For the first time, I saw a flicker of pride in his eyes that wasn't born of terror.

That evening, as we made camp, the road began to change. More travelers were heading north, all with the same purposeful stride. We overheard snatches of conversation around distant campfires, the words carried on the wind.

"...heard the prize is a thousand koku..."

"...Lord Matsumae is looking for real men, not these soft city samurai..."

"...some kind of demon from the south wiped out an entire Hosokawa garrison. They say his eyes are red..."

Taro paled at that last one, instinctively moving a little closer to the fire, as if the light could ward off the rumors. I merely smiled. My reputation was preceding. Good.

The air grew thick with ambition and desperation. It was a flavor I knew well, surrounded by the sweating, breathing bodies of the contenders, was different. It was richer, more complex. It was the smell of men who had nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

Ah Finally, something that might not be boring.

---

The tournament grounds were not a gathering; they were a city made of mud.

It sprawled across a wide valley, a mess of tents and cook fires with no real plan or order. The air hummed with a constant noise—the clash of steel on steel from practice circles, boasts shouted over sake cups, and the nervous chatter of hundreds of men with nothing left to lose. It was all so predictable.

"Stay close," I told Taro, my voice low. The press of the bodies was irritating. Humans and their need for personal space was a constant, low-grade battle I had no interest in fighting.

"Yes, my lord," he whispered, clutching the strap of his pack like a lifeline.

We navigated the sprawling camp, doing our best to remain anonymous. I observed everything. The way a grizzled ronin with a scarred face held his sake cup—loosely, ready to drop it and grab his sword at a moment's notice. The way a young, dandyish samurai polished his fine armor, his eyes constantly scanning for someone to impress. The way the merchants watched the fighters, their gazes calculating, already placing bets.

They were all so easy to read. Their intentions, their fears, their histories—it was all written in the set of their shoulders and the way they held their weapons. Boring..

We found a relatively quiet spot on the edge of the camp to set up our small tent. Taro, ever the diligent servant, had our area organized in moments, a place of order in the surrounding chaos. As he was preparing a simple meal of rice and dried fish, a shadow fell over our camp.

Three men stood there. Their armor was of good quality, bearing the mon of a minor clan. The leader, a man with a beard that was too neatly trimmed and an air of practiced superiority, looked down his nose at our meager setup.

"This area is reserved for samurai of standing," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Move along, stray dogs."

Taro immediately froze, his face draining of all colors.

I didn't look up from the fire I was tending. "We are samurai."

The leader laughed, a short, ugly sound. "You? Your armor is stained and mismatched. Your servant," he gestured at Taro with his chin, "reeks of fear. You are masterless dogs. Now, before I have you whipped for insolence."

I sighed. The same tedious situation, over and over.

Slowly, I rose to my feet. I didn't draw my sword. I didn't even adopt a fighting stance. I simply looked at him, letting my gaze settle on his face.

"Your stance is weak," I said, my voice flat. "You put too much weight on your back foot. You hold your sword like you're afraid it might bite you."

His bravado faltered. "What... what are you talking about, ronin?"

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