The Yaegaki shrine grounds had transformed into an arena of crackling tension. Stances and footwork were subtly evolving. Slow shifts. Slow movements.
Kazi was soft and casual and far apart. Yoemon was not. He was quick with it and whipped his blade toward his foe, toward Kazi. It was not a strike but a warning. Markings ran along the blade like flowing currents. They felt almost alive.
The young samurai's breath steadied. He adjusted his grip, focusing on the slow, fluid style he was developing—a style he hoped would honor Miyamoto Musashi's teachings.
