Itsuki and Yuuta caught up to the pair on the last stretch of stairs, and the western village boys introduced themselves. “Why not? You do have info-com devices, don’t you?” “What fighting style?” Kwang raised his eyebrows. “And what fighting style is popular in your region?” he asked, curious about what kind of warrior this boy was. “We can fight empty-handed too,” Mamoru assured him, “but traditional swordplay is the preferred fighting style.” “I see that.” Kwang nodded at the wooden practice sword sticking out of Mamoru’s schoolbag. “Speed is valued in this village,” Mamoru said by way of explanation. “You’re that fast?” Kwang didn’t look convinced. I know where the rough places are, so if you miss a step, I’ll catch you.” “I’ve climbed these steps a hundred times. “But don’t worry,” Mamoru reassured the boy.
He had regretted the decision deeply when he hit the surface tension of the lake, but he would never forget the feeling of the wind roaring around him, so ferocious it started to feel like ocean. “It does.” One time, in his first year, Mamoru had jumped from the steps to see what it felt like to fly. “That’s what I heard,” Kwang said, “but I bet it still hurts.” Below the mist, there was a spring-fed lake that never froze waiting to catch clumsy students who lost their footing on the steps. “No one’s ever died falling from the steps,” Mamoru said. “I’m not afraid I’ll get lost.” Kwang looked vaguely exasperated. “ I can walk with you the rest of the wa y.” “ You’re almost there,” Mamoru said with a laugh. “How much farther is it to your damn school?” “Matsuda Mamoru,” Mamoru introduced himself, bowing. His uniform was the kind worn in the big cities on the Jungsan Peninsula, with its Yammanka-style cut and military bogolan patterns. This boy hadn’t just transferred from a neighboring province he had come from a long way away.
“Are you…” Mamoru started and then switched to Kaigengua, the imperial standard. “Morning.” The boy raised a hand in greeting before putting it to his chest, still breathing hard. “Good morning,” Mamoru said, approaching slowly, so as not to startle the newcomer off the edge. Instead of Kumono blue, he wore a modern-looking black uniform Mamoru had never seen before. Mamoru wouldn’t have thought much of it-there were dozens of students who climbed these steps each morning-but this boy’s clothing wasn’t right. There was a figure hunched over in the fog up ahead, a boy clinging hard to the rock wall as he panted for breath. He had just rounded the last curve when his feet slowed. His toes knew each ledge, each jutting rock, and he took the steepest part of the path in swift, confident bounds, skipping six steps at a time. “I’ll wait for you at the school,” he said cheerfully and took off up the mountain. “Are you kidding?” Yuuta gasped, doubling over to catch his breath. The moment Itsuki and Yuuta dragged themselves over the ridge where Mamoru was perched, he grinned and got to his feet. Beneath Mamoru’s dangling legs, there was only mist, rolling in slow waves against the cliff side, growing gradually brighter with the sunrise. It was rarely possible to see the base of the mountain from the Kumono steps. It had still been dark when the three boys began their climb, but by now, morning had seeped through the veil of fog to touch the rock face with its pale brushstrokes. “Fine, fine.” Mamoru lowered himself to the rock ledge and sat, letting his feet hang over the edge. “We’re not going to be late,” Itsuki called in exasperation from the mist below. “You two are too slow!” Mamoru called back. He rose every day before dawn, amid the chanting of crickets, so he could make the loop down the mountain toward the western village and tackle the steep climb with his friends. Mamoru’s family compound was built high enough that he could have taken an easier way if he chose, but Matsudas weren’t known for taking the easy way to anything.
Itsuki and Yuuta had to take the steep path to the school because they lived in the western village, further down the mountain. “Mamoru!” his friends panted from the steps far below him. For most fourteen-year-old fighters, the winding way up to the school was a true test of nerve and agility, but Mamoru, with his springy legs and boundless energy, woke each morning looking forward to the challenge. Mamoru had counted one time on his way up-no easy feat while focusing on not toppling off the side of a mountain. It was a harrowing climb to the high school. The following are sample chapters from my Japanese-inspired military fantasy, The Sword of Kaigen, currently available on Amazon.
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