The walk back from the Smithing Hall was a blur of gray stone and throbbing agony.
Yoriichi maintained his posture through sheer will. To any servant passing by, the Young Master looked merely tired, perhaps walking a bit slowly due to his injuries. They could not see that beneath the robe, his muscles were seizing in spasms, or that his ribs felt like they were grinding against raw nerve endings with every breath.
He reached the private courtyard of his infirmary. He pushed the heavy wooden gate closed and slid the bolt into place.
Click.
The sound of the lock was the signal his body had been waiting for.
The invisible strings holding him up snapped.
Yoriichi didn't fall; he crumbled. His knees hit the stone pavement with a sickening thud, followed by his hands. The impact sent a jolt of white-hot lightning up his spine, blinding him momentarily.
He gasped, but no air entered his lungs—his diaphragm had locked up from the strain.
He knelt there on all fours, his head hanging low, staring at the moss growing between the cracks of the stone. His entire body trembled violently, vibrating like a plucked string that was about to snap. Sweat, cold and clammy, poured from his skin, soaking the bandages he had just applied hours ago.
"I underestimated this vessel," Yoriichi thought, his mind detached and analytical even as his body screamed. "The Resonance Strikes... the lifting of the hammer... the Total Concentration Breathing. I pushed all of this in a small frame."
The pain was absolute. It was a physical weight pressing him into the earth.
He tried to stand. He grit his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bulging, and commanded his legs to lift.
They refused. His thighs were jelly. His shins burned as if the bone was splitting. He managed to lift his torso six inches before gravity slammed him back down.
He lay there, panting, the taste of copper in his mouth.
It would be so easy to just lie here. To sleep on the cold stones until someone found him.
"No," Yoriichi rejected the thought instantly. "If Grandfather finds me like this... if Big Sister sees me collapsed in the dirt... they will worry. They will blame themselves. They will restrict me."
He could not be a burden. He had been a burden for too long in the eyes of this clan.
A memory surfaced from his past life. A quote he had heard from a comrade during the endless wars of the Sengoku era, a mantra for those who refused to die.
"If you cannot fly, run."
Yoriichi dug his fingers into the dirt of the garden bed next to the path.
"If you cannot run, walk."
He dragged his body forward. His legs were useless dead weight. He used his elbows, scraping the skin against the rough stone.
"If you cannot walk, crawl."
He pulled himself inch by agonizing inch. The door to his room was only ten meters away. It felt like ten miles. Every movement was a battle against the instinct to surrender.
"But whatever you do, you must keep moving forward."
He looked like a broken doll, dragging itself across the floor. But his eyes... his eyes burned with a terrifying, silent intensity. There was no self-pity in them. Only the destination.
He reached the steps of the veranda. He hooked his arm over the wood and hauled his torso up. He rolled onto the wooden walkway, breathing hoarsely.
He reached the sliding door. He pushed it open.
He crawled to the bed. With a final, herculean effort, he hoisted his upper body onto the mattress and dragged his legs up after him.
He collapsed onto the soft bedding.
"Safe," he breathed out.
But he wasn't done. He couldn't rest yet.
He looked at his hands. They were covered in soot from the smithy and specks of dried blood from when his wounds had reopened. His face felt grimy.
"I cannot look like I have been to hell," he realized. "I must look like I have been resting."
Changing clothes was impossible; he didn't have the strength to lift his arms over his head. Instead, he grabbed the damp towel from the bedside basin.
With shaking hands, he wiped the soot from his face. He scrubbed the blood from his fingers until the skin was raw but clean. He dusted the dirt from his haori as best as he could.
He arranged the blanket over his legs to hide the trembling. He positioned his head on the pillow, smoothing his hair.
Only then, when the mask of the "resting patient" was perfect, did he allow himself to close his eyes.
He sighed heavily, the sound rattling in his chest. The adrenaline faded, leaving him hollowed out.
"Rest," he commanded. "Repair."
Time lost its meaning. It might have been minutes or hours later when a familiar presence approached the room.
It wasn't the sharp, fiery aura of Xiao Yu. It was a warm, steady, albeit weary presence.
Yoriichi's eyes snapped open instantly. The warrior's instinct never slept.
The door creaked open gently.
"Ning'er? Are you awake?"
An old man stepped inside, carrying a lacquered wooden tray. It was the First Elder, Xiao Lu.
He looked tired. The lines on his face seemed deeper today, etched by the stress of managing the clan's dwindling finances and the mounting pressure from the Jia Lie Clan. His white beard was slightly disheveled, a sign that he had been rushing from meeting to meeting.
But the moment his eyes landed on his grandson, the exhaustion melted away, replaced by a warm, crinkling smile.
"Grandfather," Yoriichi said, his voice naturally raspy, which helped sell the act. He tried to sit up.
"No, no, stay down," Xiao Lu hurried over, setting the tray on the bedside table. "Don't strain yourself. I just came to bring you lunch. Yu'er threatened the kitchen staff to make something light and digestible for you."
He uncovered the dishes. It was a simple rice porridge with minced medicinal herbs and steamed greens. Bland, but nourishing.
"Thank you, Grandfather," Yoriichi said, accepting the bowl. "You should not have troubled yourself. A servant could have brought it."
"Nonsense," Xiao Lu waved his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. "A grandfather needs to see his grandson. Besides, escaping those dusty ledgers for a few minutes is a blessing."
He watched Yoriichi eat. His eyes scanned the boy's face, looking for signs of pain or depression. He saw the paleness, the fatigue, and his heart clenched.
"He looks so frail," Xiao Lu thought, guilt gnawing at him. "If only I had protected him better in the arena."
But he pushed the thought away and kept his smile bright.
"How are you feeling?" Xiao Lu asked. "Is the boredom driving you mad yet? I know you hate staying indoors."
"I am managing," Yoriichi replied, eating a spoonful of porridge. "The quiet is... instructive. It gives me time to think."
"Thinking is good," Xiao Lu nodded. "But don't think too much. It causes wrinkles."