It took five days to find Shimada Genzo.
Not because he was far—he wasn't. His home sat near the edge of the forest hills west of the village, built half into a slope, surrounded by wind-worn trees and scattered stones that might've once been a garden.
But people didn't speak of him. And when they did, they lowered their voices.
They said he was dangerous. Not because of his sword, but because of his eyes.
I went anyway.
***
His house looked like it had been forgotten by time. Weathered wood, crooked beams, moss curling around the stone step.
The sliding door was half-open. A single candle burned inside.
I stepped closer, cleared my throat, and called, "Shimada-sama?"
Silence.
Then, "You're late."
I flinched.
The voice came from behind me.
I turned and found him sitting on the edge of the roof, one knee drawn up, his expression unreadable. He looks exactly like I expected—and nothing like it at all. He was older than I imagined, maybe mid-thirties, with a strong build, worn clothes, and a face lined not by age, but by memory.
His eyes were sharp. Not cruel, but honed.
"I didn't give you a time," I said.
He dropped down from the roof without a sound.
"And yet you're still late," he said. "That doesn't bother you?"
"I wasn't aware I was on a schedule."
"You are now."
He turned and walked past me, back into the house.
***
Inside, the space was sparse. A blade rested on a stand near the far wall. Calligraphy scrolls lined the corners, faded from sun and smoke. He poured tea into a chipped cup and offered none to me.
"Shuji sent you."
"Yes."
He took a slow sip.
"And you think that means something?"
"I don't know," I admitted.
"Good answer."
He sat the cup down and walked past me, sliding open the back door. It led to a small clearing—flat, ringed with worn training posts and stumps.
"You want something," he said without turning.
"Yes."
"Let me guess. Strength? Purpose? Clarity?" A bitter laugh. "Everyone comes wanting one of those. Or all of them. And none of them know what they're asking for."
I followed him into the clearing.
"I don't want power," I said.
"Then you're lying to yourself."
He turned and tossed a short wooden staff toward me. I caught it clumsily.
"Show me what you are," he said.
"I'm not—"
He struck.
I barely blocked it.
The force of it rattled down my arms. He was already moving again, sweeping low, pivoting hard. I parried once, twice, stumbled back.
"I'm not a swordsman," I gasped.
"Not yet," he said.
Another strike. This one grazed my ribs.
"You move like someone who's fought time itself," he muttered. "But your hands don't know it yet. That's what I'm looking at."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're not asking the right question."
He stepped forward and placed the tip of his staff against my chest.
"The right question is: What part of you remembers how to fight?"
We stood there in the dusk, the wind rising through the trees.
And I realized—he wasn't testing my skill.
He was testing what was already buried inside me.