“We’ve had a slight difference of opinion, sir,” Sadamichi said smoothly.

“Sadamichi, to avoid this fight, would you be prepared to apologize to Jimmu?” inquired Captain Muraki.

“I don’t believe that I’m the one at fault, sir.”

Captain Muraki turned to Jimmu and said, “Will you apologize to Sadamichi?”

“No, sir,” said Jimmu.

“Then I will act as referee,” Captain Muraki said. “Select your weapons!”

The practice swords were kept in a rack on one side of the yard. They were the same size and weight as real swords, but their blades were made from strips of wood bound together with cord.

After Jimmu and Sadamichi had chosen their swords, Captain Muraki briefly examined them to ensure that they were in good order.

“The contest will commence when I give the word,” he said. “It will end when one of you lands a blow that would be fatal with a real sword. Stand ready!”

Jimmu and Sadamichi faced each other.

Jimmu held his sword in both hands. The base of the hilt rested against his right hip.

Sadamichi also employed the double-handed grip, but raised his sword above his head.

The captain called out, “Fight!”

To Jimmu, time slowed down. Drawing on everything that Nichiren had taught him, he focused his attention on Sadamichi until the man he faced was the only person in the world. Jimmu became a mirror that reflected every thought in Sadamichi’s mind.

Sadamichi was smugly confident. He was certain that the boy must be quaking with fear. Jimmu’s stance left his right side unguarded and vulnerable to attack. Sadamichi adjusted his position a fraction of a centimeter, to balance himself correctly, in a movement so slight as to be almost invisible.

But Jimmu saw it. He dropped onto one knee, rolled his wrists, and swung his sword.

The wooden blade hit Sadamichi just below the ribcage, in the stroke known as “first body cut.” Sadamichi stared blankly, unable to believe what had happened.

Men shouted and clapped their hands.

“Did you see that, sir?” Sergeant Hankei muttered to Captain Muraki. “The speed of the boy! Shall I order the men inside, sir?”

“No,” said the captain. “The duel isn’t over yet.”

The captain was right. Sadamichi’s vacant eyes filled with fury. His lips trembled; a flicker of lightning illuminated his ashen face.

“Witchcraft!” he cried. “You cast some sort of spell over me, Farm Boy! I demand you fight me again—with real swords!”

“As you wish,” said Jimmu.

Thunder roared.

“Captain Muraki, this cannot be permitted!” protested Sergeant Hankei.

The captain did not look at Sergeant Hankei but glanced toward the upper story of the castle, where two shadowy figures watched from a half-opened shutter. One of the figures raised a hand, and the captain looked away.

“It will happen with or without my permission, Sergeant,” he said. “If they don’t fight here today, they’ll sneak off to fight another time.”

“But one may kill the other, sir!”

“They are soldiers, Sergeant,” Captain Muraki said. “Facing death is part of their job.”