Something tells me it’s going to be a long three weeks.
After I change into a set of gym clothes—leggings under my shorts with a loose-fitting hoodie—I walk downstairs to Grandfather’s kitchen. I’m greeted by all the best breakfast aromas: miso soup, grilled salmon, and daikon pickles and rice. My stomach rumbles. I pull my hair into a messy bun at the top of my head. One of Shimada’s black-winged butterflies dances around a light fixture.
In the kitchen, Goro is at the stove, tending to pieces of fish and sautéing vegetables. Shimada sits at Grandfather’s dinner table, nursing a mug of tea. Hold on, shinigami drink tea? Neither he nor Shiro looks up as I enter—they’re absorbed in reviewing maps of the Fujikawa Shrine. The maps are made from paper as thin as an old man’s skin and their edges curl up like scrolls.
“Good morning, Kira!” Goro says with a smile, drawing my attention. “Would you like something to eat before you join Roji?”
“You approve of this plan?” I ask. “The one where I, a girl with almost no martial training, kill a demon king with a sword.”
“Of course!” he replies, handing me a bowl of miso soup.
“With. A. Sword,” I repeat, as if he hadn’t heard me the first time.
“And?” he replies. “Do you expect me to put a holy blade into a shinigami’s hands?”
“We don’t have the Kusanagi no Tsurugi,” I say.
“At the moment, no,” Shimada says. I turn, and he gestures to the maps on the table. “The blade of the Kusanagi was shattered from tang to tip, and its fifty-two pieces were scattered across Japan. Fifty-one of those pieces have been located by Shuten-doji’s forces.”
“And the last piece is here?” I ask him.
“Hidden so well, it’s survived centuries of attempts on your family’s shrine,” Shimada says. “It’s almost as if Seimei himself has hidden it, eh?”
Shiro grins and winks at me. I roll my eyes.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I say, fishing my chopsticks out of a kitchen drawer. I brought my favorite pair from home, the wood coated in smooth red lacquer. They were a gift from the teacher who helped me prepare for my Kōgakkon entry exams. While my father taught me to value hard work over luck, I could use a little good fortune in the coming weeks. Especially today. I bump the drawer with my hip, closing it gently.
“This is how we win,” Shimada replies as I join them at the kitchen table. “Goro-san says your grandfather never told him your shrine had a shard of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi—did Fujikawa-san ever make any mention of it to you?”
I shake my head, plucking a cube of tofu out of my soup and popping it into my mouth.
Shimada looks back at the maps. “In that case, we may need to try to summon his spirit—”
I nearly choke on my tofu, covering my mouth with one hand to hide a cough. “You can do that?”
“Yes,” Shimada says, flicking a small crumb of tofu off one of the maps with disdain. My cheeks burn with shame. “I can do that if I must.”
Glad to see I’m making a positive impression on our new guests. I eat my soup quietly, picking out the best bits of tofu before lifting the bowl to my lips. The salty, oniony broth wakes up my taste buds, and the warmth braces my spirit. Good, I need some strength to face the day; I’m anxious about joining Roji for training—I usually like to have more time to prepare for things like this so that I don’t look like a fool. That’s not an option, not now.
Once I’ve finished my meal, I wash my dishes, thank Goro for breakfast, and head outside into the dark, chilly morning. Night still drenches the shrine. The moon wanes in the sky—after Shuten-doji, time is my next greatest enemy. Some of the shrine’s buildings have been destroyed, and their bones reach up into the night, their edges glazed in moonlight. I shiver, realizing I can’t feel the presence of the kami here anymore. These grounds have been desecrated; if I’m ever to restore them, I must learn to fight an enemy as ancient as memory.
Despite the early hour, hammers bang and buzz saws growl. Floodlights focus their beams on the main shrine, where Minami’s team appears to be repairing the roof. Two kitsune stand atop the building, silhouetted by the bright lights, going over a set of building plans. I spot Minami on the ground, talking to a small group of yokai. I wave as I pass. She scowls. I don’t care if she doesn’t like me—she’s rebuilding the shrine, and that’s what matters.
As one of the largest buildings on the Fujikawa Shrine’s grounds, the assembly hall has been used for various community gatherings. It functions as a waiting room for those planning to worship at the main shrine. It’s still mostly intact, barring some damage to the verandas on the western side.
This morning, the hall serves as a makeshift dojo.
I slide off my shoes at the door, leaving them outside. The front doors are open to the morning chill. Roji lies on the gleaming wood floor, hands under her head, an ankle propped on the opposite knee. All the furniture has been pushed against the eggshell walls to make enough space for practice.
“It’s about time,” Roji says. Two wooden bokuto rest by her side. Practice swords. They look just like steel katana, except that they’re made from a smooth, blond wood. Roji performs a kip-up, leaping to her feet. She tosses me one of the weapons, which I manage to catch but barely. The tip of the sword swings down and makes a hollow thok sound against the wood floor.
Roji knocks my bokuto’s blade with her own. “You ever used one of these before?”
I shake my head. Grandfather provided me some with hand-to-hand martial training, but we never had the time to do any sort of kendo or kenjutsu.
“Yeah, I can tell by your grip.” Roji swings her bokuto down so fast it whistles through the air, knocking the wooden sword out of my hands. My bokuto clatters to the floor, the impact leaving my hands stinging.
“Hey!” I cry, shaking my hands. Roji laughs, but there’s no malice in the sound.
“Lesson one,” she says, sliding a foot under the tip of my bokuto, kicking it into the air, and snatching it with no small degree of style. She delivers the wooden sword to me, handle-first. “When your life depends on the sword, your sword depends on your grip.”
I take the bokuto in both hands this time, mimicking Roji. Pivoting, I fall into step beside her.
“Your left hand provides the power, and your right hand the precision,” she says, pointing to my hands in turn. “While it may seem counterintuitive, you’ll want to keep your grip light up top. Hold the sword with your middle, ring, and little fingers.”
I relax the tension on my pointer finger and thumb. The grip feels . . . unstable at best. “Won’t I drop the sword if I try to block a heavy blow?”
“Sure, you can worry about that—if you’re an actress in a samurai movie,” Roji says, setting her bokuto aside to rework the positioning of my left hand. “Actual combat isn’t flashy, and striking your opponent’s blade is a surefire way to break your own. You’re better off relying on quick thinking and superior footwork to exploit the weaknesses in your opponent’s defenses, thus allowing you to disarm or destroy them.”
We spend the next hour developing my footwork, including stances, slide steps, and shuffles, all done while maintaining a proper grip on the bokuto. While Roji makes the movements look effortless, my arm and back muscles begin to ache before long. The one-pound bokuto hadn’t seemed heavy at first . . . but Roji snaps at me if I let the tip fall below my knees. I’ve yet to perform even one practice swing, but my body already complains from the effort.