Souta:

  “Again,” Masaru says as the hilt of his tachi hits my nape. I go down to my elbows, sweat dripping from my brows and seeping into the blue-green kamishimo robes I adorn. Their red tassels flap limply along the sleeves as I steady my breathing.

  I build back to my feet—spin to face Uncle. He stands at the other edge of the hillock, wind tossing his hair up wildly.

  It looks like a scene from an old nihon—one of our more archaic, Mandil language terms for classical paintings. I can already imagine how an artist might give Uncle a red demon mask with exaggerated eyes—how they might draw his hair like the rays of the sun spinning in the wind.

  I grit my teeth and curl my fingers around Father’s old katana, now mine. It is sleek, black, and it has divorced many heads from their bodies.

  ‘Divorce’. I chuckle. That’s one of those flowery terms my teachers might’ve used. No, it simply killed many people.

  And it will have to kill many more.

  Stop thinking like that. Uncle always said that wars don’t have to be waged till the last man—winning one or two big fights is enough. Make them sue for peace.

  For that, I’ll still have to kill a fair amount though.

  I’ve done it before. Routine executions at the behest of my uncle. Masaru says it's the duty of every leader to carry out their own justice.

  Harden your heart. For once in your life stop being so scared.

  I charge at Uncle, katana upraised for a typical slash. I keep all fingers loose except for the pinkies, which grants my blow some speed as the blade whistles down.

  Uncle steps away from the downward slash. I halt the arc midway down and twist the blade, recycling my lost momentum to thrust forward.

  The clang of steel on steel echoes throughout the glades as Uncle’s sword meets mine in a slight parry. His movements are so economical. While I have to whirl through every motion, he’s like a mountain in the midst of a storm—calm and immoveable.

  I wheel back for another blow, but the flat of his slipper kicks into my stomach, pushing me back.

  “Remind me, Souta, why can some people can use magicks from birth while others have to learn them?” Uncle asks. He does this often—testing my wits and my mettle all at once.

  Masaru rushes forward and begins his own assault, his tachi dancing through the air, slicing through the taller brushes of grass as it meets my blade.

  “I—” I block a side slash and circle back to the top of the hill, moving away from the sloping edge. He pursues to cut me off. “It depends on whether you have an affinity to a certain type of magicks.”

  He diligently waits until I’m out of breath from my explanation before striking at me once more. The tachi nicks my shoulder. Blood blossoms forth beneath the robes, staining the blue and turning it a dark purple. Masaru doesn’t relent, pressing on.

  “Give me an example,” he says calmly as he bats away another thrust of mine. I swivel back and point my blade out long now, using its superior reach to gain some distance.

  “Really?” It seems like a pointless inquiry. There are so many to think of.

  He answers by flipping his tachi to its underside and using that to drive my blade up. Balance evaporates. Masaru snakes towards me, stepping left and right before ducking low and aiming for my legs. Flailing back, I curse and just make a full flip away from his low slice. I land badly off my feet, legs stumbling over each other. Falling back, I swipe thrice blindly to keep him away. But he doesn’t even chase—just watches me panic. When I come to my feet once more and set my stance, he narrows his eyes.

  I sigh realizing I still haven’t answered the question: “Imagine if I was born with the ability to spew fire. If I could do that without any prior training, that means I was born with an affinity to fire.”

  “Good,” he says, taking a defensive stance now. “Now tell me, why exactly were you, a high scion of a fabled clan, not born with an affinity?”

  I press towards him and begin with probing attacks, trying to find a chink in his defense.

  “Because, affinities, even for the most basic of first-circle magicks, are exceedingly rare.” I try feinting a diagonal slash and spinning it into a horizontal one. Masaru reads me with a yawning parry.

  “And what should a prospective magicks user do if they are not born with the affinity of fire, yet want to use it anyways?” He turns one of my attacks against me, nearly driving my blade into my shoulder. I circle out and try cutting him from the flank.

  Three strikes later and I’m flat on my butt once more. It's frustrating, however, I try maintaining my composure—Masaru always tells me that composure is what wins wars.

  “Answer me, Souta. At this rate, you’ll need fire magicks to beat someone of my caliber. So, what would you do to attain them?” He levels his blade at my chin, raising it up.

  My throat apple bobs against the steel. Growling, I shove his blade aside and withdraw a few steps.

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  “I’d have to study fire. Learn it, watch it, witness its flow and sparks, its contours. I’d study the raw Incanta and Servanta that can summon flame, practice it over and over, until one day I’d be able to do it without thought.”

  “And what is that process dubbed?”

  I raise my sword once more, noticing for once, a shift in his feet. I can get him here.

  “Immersion.”

  He smiles, his sword lowering. His stance softens, his posture slackens, and his core visibly sags.

  I bound forward, keeping my katana tight to my chest and angling my body towards his, my mouth practically kissing the steel of the blade.

  Masaru actually curses and sweeps his tachi horizontally to cleave my body. I duck low and dive forward, spinning to land on my back just before touching down. My shoulders bump against his ankles as my blade’s tip stops just before piercing his neck.

  “Point,” I say, huffing heavily.

  “Point indeed. Well done Souta. Good eye for my carelessness,” he says. The smile he gives me is worth all the worlds and their treasures combined. He gently pushes aside my blade and helps me rise to my feet.

  The healer standing at the bottom of the hill treks up now and starts using their wood magicks to mend Masaru’s wounds.

  “Uncle, why ask me about affinities now? Isn't it a bit of an… elementary subject?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I know you are beyond this material Souta. But, all of my lessons have a purpose. Even the most basic-seeming ones. For instance, after all of that, can you tell me: why do you employ angel dust? For what purpose do we use it?”

  That actually stumps me for a moment. So rare is it that I ever ask the why? Of angel dust. Usually, it's all about the how? How to use clouds, to swing and lasso from them, to smite your enemies from above them—but never have I even thought of where we get angel dust from, or why the angels even see us as worthy carriers of the dust amulets.

  A hand clasps my shoulder. Masaru looks into my eyes, searching for something.

  “Think about what we just discussed,” he prods.

  That’s when it hits me. “Lightning isn’t an element.”

  He nods. “In no circle of magicks can lightning be found. It can’t be summoned via Incanta nor Servanta. No one in recorded history has ever been born with lightning as an affinity. Nay, it is only our clans which have had the honor of using lightning. Do you know why?”

  I shake my head.

  He reaches under my collar and produces the amulet I keep chained around my neck. His grip around it tightens, pulling me closer.

  “It is because lightning is divine. Divinely sanctioned, divinely imported, divinely used by the heavens, by the storms, by the angels! Thus Souta, we are carriers of the divine. Keepers of the divine. The angels bestowed lightning upon us because they want us to learn it. To immerse ourselves in it, until the day that comes when our children’s children are born of it, with it flowing through their veins. Sparking behind their eyes. Do you understand Souta?”

  The chain chokes me now as he pulls on it. I wheeze. “Uncle you’re hurting me–”

  He seems to realize it as well, letting the chain go. I take gasping breaths.

  But rather than apologize, he takes my hand and leads me to the edge of the hillock.

  “Look again, Souta. Look at what we must do,” he says, his hand now sweeping the valley. Our armies are fully regimented, all marching in unison. Even the infected have come to heel, courtesy of the witch. They march—or skitter, really—like a uniform army. And the glades are truly almost fully behind us. The treeline is mere days away.

  “This war is not just against Catolica. No. It is our war against the undivine. Those forsaken by the angels. We must help them Souta. We must guide them.” His grip tightens like a metal clamp now.

  “Uncle I—”

  “Yes, you! You will be the Darling Child of Victory who leads this continent to its divine salvation Souta. You will show them the destinies that the angels have wrought. You will show them the power of Sorayvlad.”

  This rant is different. It's so… unhinged. I try tugging away from him, but he won’t let go.

  “Don’t you see Souta?” He looks back at me now. His eyes are wide and full of impassioned fury, like a preacher. “Don’t you see what future lies in our wake? All of my sacrifices have been for this. For you. And don’t you worry, together, we will make them see. We will show all of them. Especially that bastard slave. He thinks he can stop us? You’ll show him Souta—show the difference between a mere pretender and the real thing.”

  He spits. “Raiten. He will rue the day he ever stepped a mere foot beyond the bounds of Adachi.”

  Adachi? “Raiten is from Adachi?”

  “That doesn’t matter!” Masaru yells. I flinch back and twist away. The crease to his forehead and the hate to his eyes gives Masaru a visage scarier than that of any of Thraevirula’s monsters.

  He seems to realize it himself, for he regains composure, standing straight now and folding his hands behind his back.

  “No Souta. It doesn’t matter which clan he hails from. It doesn’t matter who he is, what he wants, nor what he plans to do.”

  He grabs my shoulders now. “All that matters is that you slaughter him.”

  I’m about to answer back, but then a series of ear-piercing screeches comes from the briars. Dark shapes spring forth from the trees—flocks of birds in flight—as the screaming reaches us. I cover my ears for a moment, closing my eyes. We’ve heard these screeches intermittently as we have neared the briars. But this series is the loudest of them all—pained sounding, almost.

  When the screeching stops, I open my eyes to find Masaru staring at the briars. His gaze is severe and dark and it portends all the war and chaos which he borne witness to.

  “And soon,” he mutters. “You’ll have to kill him very soon.” With that, he descends the hill, leaving my wrist red with pain and my mind a spinning mess.

  As I too look at our armies from the hillock, I spot a shade of redness a fair distance away. Squinting, I see Thraevirula, keeling over. No, rather, she’s holding her belly in laughter.

  She straightens up eventually and waves to me. Then, she points to my Uncle. Twirls her finger around her head and sticks out her tongue. She starts laughing again, harder this time.

  I sigh.

  It's a bad sign that I am almost starting to agree with the witch.