The mornings had grown colder.
Frost clung to the wooden rails outside Genzo's house. The pine trees had dropped most of their needles. The wind had taken on that hollow sound that meant winter was waiting, just over the next hill.
We trained without speaking.
Every movement now came from instinct—not just mine, but his. Our rhythm was no longer teacher and student, but mirror and reflection.
***
We circled once more, the clearing dead silent, saved for our footfalls and breath.
The Genzo moved.
His blade came fast—faster than before. A clean diagonal aimed at my shoulder. I met it mid-swing,
the impact jarring down my arm. He followed immediately with a low sweep. I sidestepped, reversed grip, and countered with a raising arc toward his ribs.
He parried. No words. No pause.
Each strike met with its match—sharp, controlled, precise.
The tempo rose, and with it, something deeper—a silence that wasn't empty, but full of unspoken respect.
He advanced. I gave ground. Then pivoted, using the motion to guide his blade aside, and press forward with my own. He blocked just in time, his arms tumbling for the first time.
Still, he didn't let up.
We moved through the clearing like wind through branches—cutting, slipping, snapping into place. I was no longer chasing his movements. I was meeting them.
Testing him as much as he was testing me.
At last, we locked blades—close, shoulder to shoulder. The steel groaned between us.
Neither of us spoke.
I felt his weight pressing against mine, steady, unyielding. And I knew he was holding back, just enough to leave the choice to me.
I eased the pressure. Took a step back.I was the first to lower my weapon.
***
He didn't say anything at first. Just stood in the circle over dead leaves, watching me breathe.
He walked to the edge of the clearing and knelt by an old wooden box I hadn't seen before. When we opened it, the faint scent of cedar and old lacquer drifted out.
From it, he pulled a short cord-wrapped talisman—dark wood, burned faintly on one side.
"Take this."
I stepped forward slowly. "What is it?"
"A reminder."
"Of what?"
He looked up at me.
"That even a broken thing can still protect."
I took it.
The cord was rough. The edges worn smooth from years of being handled. It didn't pulse or glow or whisper—but it felt like something that had endured.
He stood again, brushing dirt from his sleeves.
"Go back to Shuji," he said. "Tell him the cracks are getting wider."
My grip tightened. "Are you sure?"
"No," he said. "But I know you won't get any readier standing here."
I nodded once, trying not to let the weight of that land too loudly.
He turned away then, heading back toward the house.
"You'll find your path again," he said over his shoulder. "Just don't expect it to wait for you."
***
I left that evening with the wind at my back.
The thread didn't appear.
But I could feel it.
Like it was waiting for me to tie something back together.