"Make yourself known," I finally said aloud.
In a heartbeat, they were behind me.
The hat remained, shadowing the face, but the clothing had shifted—blue yukata this time, the color of old ink washed thin by time. The shinobi didn't step forward. They flowed, as though the shadow itself had decided to move, dragging history along with it.
Every motion carried weight. Not muscle—memory. Centuries of practice layered atop one another, corrections stacked over corrections, myth worn smooth into posture. The bend of a wrist. The angle of the spine. Discipline written where flesh should have been.
They stopped before me.
A tilt of the head. A shallow bow. Respect, yes—but never submission.
The room leaned inward. I realized then: it wasn't waiting for instruction. It hadn't responded to my command.
It had answered by existing.
No words were spoken, yet meaning pressed against my thoughts all the same.
We are. You will call us Shinkage.
The name rang in my head like a struck bell.
Did he read my mind? I wondered, unsettled. I had thought of that name to give but he had spoken it as though it was—shadow lineage, old doctrine—and he had simply claimed it.
I looked at Heiwa who was standing off to the side. Her eyes trained on him like viper waiting to strike.
I brushed the thought aside and exhaled.
"Can you spar with me?"
In one seamless motion, Shinkage took a stance and waited.
"Oh. Right." I scrambled into position, glancing at Heiwa, who had been watching in silence.
That was my mistake.
The distance vanished.
Not crossed—erased.
Before I could react, Shinkage hooked my foot, subtly realigning my stance, correcting me mid-existence, then flowed backward as if nothing had happened.
Hand-to-hand, I thought, throwing a punch—
—which was brushed aside, followed by a sharp impact against my ribs.
Not a fist.
A sword.
"Wait—since when were we using weapons?" I thought, irritation flashing hot.
As if amused, Shinkage pressed a blade into my hands and produced another from nowhere.
Always have an edge, the silence seemed to say. Even in a game you asked to be played.
Annoyed, I raised my sword.
Again, the distance collapsed.
I swung.
My blade was stopped mid-motion by the handle of his sword. Not the edge. The correction was deliberate. Instruction disguised as humiliation.
Heiwa shifted her posture, from my peripheral vision there was something on her left arm.
The exchange continued like that—me striking, missing, being adjusted mid-movement. Every failed attack answered with a lesson carved into muscle and bone.
Wrong. Again. Still wrong.
I stepped in again. This time, I didn't rush. Blade low. Center guarded. I advanced just enough to invite response, then shifted—weight turning, left palm rising, not to strike but to suggest one. A lie. For the briefest instant, I felt certain I had him. Then my palm met air. I blinked. Shinkage stood beside me, posture unchanged, head slightly tilted—as if observing an error in handwriting. My body finished the motion without an audience. The stance collapsed into something graceless, exposed. I understood then. He had not failed to notice the misdirection. He had simply refused to acknowledge it.
Eventually, they paused and looked past me.
I used the moment to breathe, realizing this had never been a sparring match. It was a revision. I wasn't fighting him—I was being edited.
The sun had shifted. No longer warm—cooler now, distant.
Mid-lunge, Shinkage swept my legs out from under me. I nearly hit the ground, caught instead by my collar. Held there for a fraction of a second.
Enough to understand.
Enough to remember.
Despite the sword in my hand, it felt useless—dead weight, an artifact without context. And yet… I felt satisfied. Ground down. Rewritten. Improved.
"Can I try?" Heiwa asked.
She placed a towel over my head, and cool water pressed into my hands.
"Thank you," I said, then added, "I don't see a problem."
I glanced at Shinkage. They inclined their head.
The water was cold. Sharply so. Refreshing in that way that felt intentional—very Heiwa.
I sighed.
Only then did I notice the blade I held properly.
A wakizashi.
A far cry from the tantō I was used to.
A step up.
A promise.
Or maybe a warning.