“Who the enemy is depends on your point of view!” he snorted. “There are grander castles than Mitsukage, and greater lords than Lord Ankan. Those men who died were no comrades of mine. Ignorant peasants, the lot of them. They got exactly what they deserved, and now it’s your turn, Farm Boy!”

Sadamichi seized his sword from its scabbard.

Jimmu’s sword sighed as he swung it horizontally, then flicked it upward through the flesh, bones, and sinews of Sadamichi’s right wrist. The severed hand fell to the floorboards, where it lay like a pale crab.

Sadamichi squealed, and clutched the bloody stump where his right hand had been.

“Quickly! Tie a cord around his arm to stop the bleeding,” Jimmu told the other guard. “Sadamichi, I’m taking you straight to Captain Muraki.”

“Why bother?” croaked Sadamichi. “Finish me here, and let me be done with it.”

Jimmu narrowed his eyes.

“Death by the sword is too good for a traitor,” he said. “When you’ve made your confession to the captain, he’ll have you hung as a common criminal.”

Late that night, hours after Sadamichi had been questioned, sentenced, and executed, Jimmu was called to Captain Muraki’s quarters.

Jimmu saluted, sat down, then waited while the captain subjected him to a long, searching look.

“You did well for yourself today, Jimmu,” Captain Muraki said, at last.

“I did my duty, sir,” replied Jimmu.

“You did far better than that, and you know it. Lord Ankan will be grateful to you for rescuing his daughter.” A strange smile spread across Captain Muraki’s mouth. “But that was your intention, wasn’t it?”

“Sir?”

“I know what your plans are, Jimmu.”

Jimmu felt as if the floor had been pulled out from under him, leaving him falling through black nothing. His mind churned. Could he bluff his way out, or would he have to kill the captain? If he did, how far would he get before the castle’s guards captured him? A coppery taste filled his mouth.

“You are a guardsman, but you have higher ambitions,” the captain continued. “You had faith in yourself. You gambled that one day there would come a chance to use your skills in a way that would impress an important lord—such as Lord Ankan. Today you got that chance, and you seized it. What are you hoping for, Jimmu—money, land?”

Relief surged from the nape of Jimmu’s neck to the base of his spine; the captain had not discovered his secret.

“I hope to be promoted, sir, so I’ll have an opportunity to better myself,” he said.

“Ah yes! Your desire to be a samurai,” said the captain. “More than one person has mentioned your talking about it. Did you mean what you said?”

“Of course!”

The captain pursed his lips.

“But are you ready yet?” he wondered aloud. “The old monk who trained you at Sengen monastery—”

“Soun,” Jimmu said promptly.

“He taught you how to fight, but fighting does not make you a warrior,” said the captain. “The way of the samurai is difficult, but it’s also pure and noble. Every day, a samurai must battle with himself to attain perfection, knowing that he will fall short. Every night, he must rest in order to renew the struggle the following morning. Above all else, a samurai must learn to be obedient. His first duty is unquestioning devotion to his lord, to the point where he will willingly give up his life if it is required of him.”