Genzo didn't speak of the ambush again.
Not directly.
But everything changed after that night.
He stopped holding back.
We trained before the sun rose. My grip was still sloppy. My footing off. But he no longer corrected me with words. He corrected me by striking. Hard. Swift. Relentless.
"You're waiting for time to protect you again," he barked as I hit the ground for the fifth time that morning. "It won't."
"I'm not—"
"You are. I see it in your posture. You move like someone expecting the world to catch you when you fall."
I stood up, breath ragged. "You saw it too. That thing… it looked at me like it knew something I didn't."
"It did."
He handed me the wooden staff again. "So learn."
***
Later that day, he took me deeper into the forest.
We crossed a small stream and followed a narrow path until we reached a circle of stones, overgrown with moss and half-sunken into earth. The light barely reached here. It felt older than anything I'd stepped into.
"What is this place?"
"Where I test things," Genzo said.
He untied a bundle wrapped in faded cloth and laid it on the ground, and pulled out three old wooden masks, worn with time. One was cracked. One was blackened. One was missing the eyes.
He set them round the circle.
"I want to see how far the disturbance goes."
He stepped back.
"Sit. Close your eyes."
I did.
"Now… let your thoughts go backward."
I frowned. "What?"
"Don't focus on what's coming. Focus on what already passed. Trace it."
I tried. I breathed. I listened.
The air thickened. A familiar weight returned—not crushing, but coiling.
And then I heard the whisper.
No voice. Just sound.
Tick.
Tick.
The ticking grew louder, sharper—not from a clock, but from somewhere deeper.
I opened my eyes—
And the masks were gone.
But I hadn't moved.
Genzo stood where he had before, arms folded, watching me carefully.
"You saw something," he said.
"I—yes."
He walked over, to a spot where one of the masks were. Then walked past it, and picked it up.
"The moment you focused," he said, "your breathing stopped. For three seconds."
"That's not long."
He shook his head. "You weren't breathing. But the wind stopped too. The leaves. The birds. Me."
I stared at him.
He set the mask down slowly. "That wasn't a dream."
***
That evening, he passed me the narrow gourd again. I drank in silence.
"Have you trained someone like me before?" I asked.
"No."
"But you believe me now."
"I never said I didn't."
I looked at him.
He met my gaze without flinching. "I didn't believe you yet."
A pause.
"Now I do."