The elbow strike missed. No, it was caught.
Kashimo's fingers clamped around Hisashige Juro's joint, his grip tightening until the bone let out a sickening creak. Juro's expression twisted as he tried to pull away, but he was pinned.
"I admire the courage," Kashimo said. His eyes were flat, devoid of heat. "But that's all you have."
He drove a heavy fist into Juro's face. Blood sprayed across the grass, and Juro began to fall, but Kashimo caught him by the hair and yanked him back up. He followed with a brutal knee to the old man's midsection.
Juro flew back like a discarded rag. He hit a tree several ters away and slid down the rough bark, leaving a dark red sar against the wood.
"You still with ?"
Kashimo shouldered his staff and walked over, crouching in front of the old master. He tilted his head, studying the ruin of the man's face. "I have a question for you."
Juro leaned against the trunk, his chest heaving in shallow, ragged bursts. Blood ran from his forehead and clouded his vision, but he kept his eyes open, staring at the boy.
"What were you chasing?"
"The pinnacle," Juro rasped. He choked on the word, but he said it with a strange, defiant weight. "The ultimate truth of the martial path."
He paused, a grim, bloody smile touching his lips. "I just didn't expect... that a lifeti of discipline would end at the hands of a brat."
Kashimo wasn't offended. There was no point in getting angry at a dying man.
"My path..." Juro's eyes began to glaze over, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It ends here."
He raised a trembling hand, pointing toward the west. "If you care... go to the dojo on the outskirts of Kyoto. Take it over."
The hand fell, hitting the dirt with a soft thud.
"If you don't... tell them the Hisashige school is finished. I have a daughter. If you have any rcy... look after her for a while."
Kashimo didn't move. He sat there until the old man's eyes drifted shut for the last ti. After a minute, he stood up and propped the erald staff back on his shoulder. A cold wind blew through the trees, scattering a few dead leaves over the body.
"The pinnacle, huh?"
Kashimo looked down at the corpse, then turned and walked away.
If this were the original Kashimo, he would likely have fallen into a familiar spiral of thought. He would have ditated on the isolation of the strong, the way love and strength were two sides of the sa lonely coin. It was a feeling he knew well. It was almost a reflex.
He stopped walking and looked at his hands. He knew he was in that state right now.
The solitude of the strongest.
He knew exactly what kind of monsters were waiting in his future. He knew the secrets of the Limitless and the horror of Mahoraga. He knew the na of the man who would eventually butcher the world. He knew the paths he had to take—barrier techniques, domain expansion, the application of charge.
But standing at the peak of this era, looking down at people who couldn't even touch his hem while giving their absolute best, he felt a montary sense of displacent.
He looked at the Lightning Ring on his finger, then at the staff. He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where Kyoto lay hidden by the mountains.
His cursed technique could only be used once. He couldn't afford to waste it on the children of this era.
***
Zenin Sawara felt a cold, jagged ache radiating from the marrow of his bones. His hands trembled with a violence he couldn't entirely suppress, forcing him to dig his nails into his palms for focus. He swayed for a heartbeat, his knees nearly buckling under the weight of the strain, but he anchored his feet and forced himself to stand straight.
In front of him, the massive, broken form of Tiger Funeral was dissolving, its cursed energy bleeding back into the shadows. Beside him, the deer, Madoka, stood bathed in a soft glow. Its technique was working slowly, knitting Sawara's exhausted body back together.
"The taming is complete," Sawara said. He wiped the blood from his chin, his voice raspy but thick with triumph. "Only Mahoraga remains."
He stepped over the threshold of the training area, appearing before the crowd waiting outside. The heavy silence that had gripped the onlookers during the ritual was imdiately broken by the sound of clapping.
"Congratulations, Lord Sawara!"
Yuichi was the first to react, clapping his hands together. The sound was picked up by the rest of the guards, echoing through the training grounds.
"Praise to the Head of the House!"
"A glorious day for the Zenin!"
It wasn't just the clan mbers cheering. In the corners of the courtyard stood several n in formal robes, representatives of the various factions that had recently aligned themselves with the Zenin. They had co to witness the outco of the ritual, and now they offered their congratulations with practiced, polished smiles.
Sawara looked toward the front of the group. The head of the Kusakabe family stood there, bowing with just the right amount of respect. The man was a veteran of the jujutsu world. He had spent years leading his family toward the New Shadow School, and he was said to be a formidable practitioner.
"A remarkable achievent, Lord Sawara," the man said.
Sawara took a cloth from an attendant and wiped the remaining blood from his hand. He managed a thin smile. "Lord Kusakabe, you flatter . It's only a beginning. I am still far from being a true master of the Ten Shadows."
"Nonsense," Kusakabe said. "Tiger Funeral is one of the most difficult tamings. To succeed at your age... you are a rare talent even among the legends of your house."
Sawara's smile widened, but he didn't reply. He simply nodded and let his gaze drift over the other representatives. They all bowed in turn.
He looked away, a flicker of cold calculation in his eyes. He wondered how many of them were here to celebrate, and how many were here simply to see if he was still worth the investnt.
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