Jimmu and Sadamichi had left their swords with their armor. They retrieved their weapons, unsheathed them, and squared up to each other.

Jimmu felt the familiar weight of his sword. It was his only inheritance from his father, and had been passed down through the Shimomura family for more than two hundred years. Jimmu had trained with it so often that it had become like an extension of his arm; the sharpness of its cutting edge matched the strength of his will.

Once again, the captain called out, “Stand ready!” then, “Fight!”

Once again, Jimmu concentrated. He had enraged Sadamichi, and angry men were liable to be careless.

He’ll attack quickly, before he’s properly ready, thought Jimmu.

And Sadamichi did.

Jimmu ducked, and Sadamichi’s sword scythed over his head. He darted behind Sadamichi, who wheeled around. The swords rang as they clashed together, and squealed as they were drawn apart.

Jimmu pirouetted and pranced. Sadamichi slashed at Jimmu’s legs. Jimmu hopped above the blade.

“The boy is playing with Sadamichi!” exclaimed Sergeant Hankei.

“The boy is making sure he stays alive,” Captain Muraki replied.

Sadamichi’s strokes were desperate and wild. He was taken in by a feint, and dropped his guard.

Jimmu’s sword flashed in an arc.

All the watching men breathed in sharply. They expected to see a headless corpse collapse in a bloody welter.

But Jimmu stopped the apparent death stroke. Instead of decapitating Sadamichi, the edge of his sword merely grazed his opponent’s neck. Thin beads of red oozed out of his skin.

Sadamichi was defeated, outclassed, stunned, and humiliated. He had never fought a swordsman as controlled as Jimmu, and he hung his head as he said, “You are the better swordsman. I apologize for insulting you.”

“And I accept your apology,” Jimmu said.

Sadamichi hurried off through the slackening rain.

“Sergeant Hankei, disperse the men,” said Captain Muraki. “Jimmu, stay here. Someone wishes to speak with you.”

Jimmu waited obediently, thinking, What does he mean? Who wants to speak with me?

The storm had passed over. The thunder was no more than a faint growl, and the rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

A door opened; a man stepped through and began to trudge across the exercise yard.

“Bow, Jimmu!” the captain whispered. “It’s Lord Ankan himself!”

Jimmu bent his head and stared at his feet, forcing himself to breathe evenly. His pulse throbbed in his ears, but above the throbbing he heard the moist sound Lord Ankan’s sandals made on the wet ground. He glimpsed the hem of a gray cotton kimono.

A hard, clipped voice said, “Is this the new recruit you told me about, Captain?”

“Yes, My Lord, this is Guardsman Jimmu,” responded Captain Muraki.

“Hmm!” grunted Lord Ankan. “Let me see your face, guardsman.”

Jimmu steeled himself, and slowly raised his eyes. What he saw came as a profound shock.

Without his armor on, Choju Ankan did not look like an insect, or a demon. He was a middle-aged man of medium height and build, whose clothes were simple and somber. His black hair was tied back in a pigtail with three pleats. His nose was straight, and his chin was firm beneath a grizzled beard. His gaze was shrewd and solemn. He keeps his evil hidden, thought Jimmu. It doesn’t show in his eyes. He is good at deceiving people.