Dawn came to the Jikai Shrine like a held breath.
Sekitanki stood in the courtyard as mist clung to ancient stone, watching the first light paint everything in shades of gold and shadow. His blade rested in its sheath at his side—Kanemoto's masterwork, the impossible sword that had already killed many and changed parts of some peoples history.
Today it would face its greatest test.
Around the courtyard's perimeter, warrior-monks gathered in silence. Forty, maybe fifty of them. All come to witness their champion defend the shrine's honor against the foreign demon who claimed to have created their most sacred artifact.
Enjō stood nearby, speaking in low modern Japanese: "Remember—first blood or surrender. She will aim to wound, not kill. If you can match that restraint while maintaining offense, you demonstrate both skill and character."
"And if I can't match her skill?" "Then you bleed quickly and hope the wound isn't too deep." Takeda checked Sekitanki's blade one final time, running his thumb along the edge with the careful attention of someone who understood what rode on this duel. "The sword is perfect. The question is whether the samurai is ready."
"I fought a centipede the size of a train car." "Centipedes don't study kenjutsu for twenty years. And I don't even know what a train car is. But that doesn't really matter right now, friend." Takeda's expression was serious. "Himura Yuki has dedicated her life to a single purpose: becoming the perfect blade. You are talented, yes. Experienced in survival, absolutely. But this is different. This is art versus instinct."
Sekitanki flexed his left hand—his good hand, the one that had carved weapons from prehistoric corpses and rebuilt impossible machines. "Then today we see if art can defeat someone who refuses to lose."
Kanemoto approached, the old smith's weathered face creased with concern. In classical Japanese he said: "I forged that blade for you. It will not fail. But steel is only as strong as the hand that guides it. Your hand is strong. Make certain your spirit matches."
"My spirit is made of three weeks fighting for survival in an era that wanted me dead. It's stronger than you think." "Good. You will need that strength." Abbot Kenshin emerged from the main hall, his robes pristine white in the morning light. He raised his hands and the gathered monks fell completely silent.
"We are gathered to witness ritual combat," he intoned in classical Japanese that carried across the courtyard like a bell. "The foreign warrior Sekitanki has made extraordinary claims regarding our sacred Toki no Kagami. If his spirit is pure, the gods will guide his blade. If he speaks falsehood, his blood will water this earth. Our champion, Himura Yuki, will serve as the gods' instrument."
No pressure, Sekitanki thought with dark humor. Yuki entered the courtyard from the opposite side. She wore simple training clothes—black training kimono—that emphasized economy of movement over ceremony. Her hair was tied back with brutal efficiency. No jewelry. No ornamentation. Nothing that could catch a blade or distract from purpose.
But it was the sword that captured everyone's attention.
The weapon she drew was different from the one she'd carried yesterday. This blade seemed to drink light rather than reflect it, the steel so perfectly folded that the hamon pattern resembled lightning frozen in metal. The handle was wrapped in well-worn leather, shaped by thousands of hours of practice.
That sword has killed, Sekitanki's survival instincts screamed. I can tell It's killed many. They approached the center of the courtyard, bowed formally to each other. Yuki's eyes never left his—cold assessment without malice, professional evaluation without emotion.
"You fight well for someone who learned by surviving," she said quietly in classical Japanese. "I've heard reports of your battles. Unorthodox techniques. No formal school. Just desperation refined into effectiveness. The rumors spread fast in uneven ways in are lands, that the gods bless us with eternally."
"Desperation is the best teacher. It doesn't let you fail."
"Desperation also makes you predictable. It creates patterns. And patterns can be exploited." She settled into a stance that was simultaneously relaxed and ready. "I have studied eight formal schools of kenjutsu. Mastered each completely before moving to the next. For twenty years, the sword has been my only purpose. Today you face the accumulated weight of that dedication."
Sekitanki drew his blade and felt its familiar weight settle into his grip. "Twenty years of study. Impressive. I spent three weeks learning that every second of hesitation means death. Let's see which education was more thorough."
Kenshin raised his hand. "First blood or surrender. No killing strikes. Begin when the hand falls." The courtyard held its breath. Kenshin's hand dropped. Yuki moved. The first strike came faster than thought.
Sekitanki's blade intercepted it on pure instinct—muscle memory from weeks of constant combat overriding conscious decision. Steel met steel with a ring that echoed off stone walls.
But Yuki was already gone, her first strike flowing seamlessly into a second from a completely different angle. Sekitanki twisted, redirected rather than blocked, felt the wind of her blade passing centimeters from his throat.
She's faster than anything I fought in the Carboniferous. And more precise than any human I've faced through sheer logic alone. He countered—a strike aimed at her shoulder. She deflected it casually, used his own momentum to position him poorly, and her return strike forced him to leap backward or lose his arm.
They separated, circling. "Good instincts," Yuki acknowledged. "But instincts alone won't save you here."
She attacked again—this time a sequence from what Sekitanki vaguely recognized as a formal kata. Three strikes in rapid succession, each one flowing into the next with mathematical precision.
He defended desperately, blade moving faster than conscious thought, reading her body language, predicting trajectories. But she was using his predictions, setting up false patterns that led him exactly where she wanted. The fourth strike—the one not part of the kata—caught him across the ribs. Not deep. Just enough to draw blood through his kimono. First blood.
The monks gasped collectively. Yuki stepped back, lowering her blade. "The duel is concluded. I have drawn first blood as required." Sekitanki looked down at the cut—superficial, barely more than a scratch. His ribs protested, still broken from previous battles. But he was standing. Functional. And the duel's terms had been met.
She's giving me an out. First blood drawn. I can surrender honorably now. He raised his blade again. "No." Yuki's eyebrows rose fractionally. "The terms were first blood or surrender. Blood has been drawn." "I haven't surrendered."
"You cannot win. I have established dominance. The gods have spoken through my blade." "The gods didn't speak. You did. And I'm not done speaking back. Gods don't even exist from where I come from. Only mere malice through the likes of a place called science."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered monks. This wasn't how ritual combat worked. First blood meant conclusion. To continue was to violate tradition. But Sekitanki had stopped caring about tradition around the time a prehistoric centipede ate his time machine. Kenshin's voice cut through the muttering: "The foreign warrior refuses to accept defeat. Himura-san, you may continue until he surrenders or can no longer fight. But remember—no killing strikes."
Yuki's expression shifted. Interest replaced professional courtesy. "You are either very brave or very foolish. But sorry you stupid monk, blood is all I starve for in this striking battle."
"I survived the Carboniferous Period. I don't have room in my personality for either bravery or foolishness. Just stubbornness." "Then let me teach you the difference between surviving and winning. Plus I don't even know what a Carboniferous is. But honestly I don't find the needs to care anyways."
She came at him like a storm given human form. What followed wasn't a duel. It was a lesson in the vast gulf between natural talent and perfected mastery through the sheer will of science in combat through a katana vs aged katana.
Yuki's blade moved in patterns Sekitanki could barely track. Every strike was precise. Every movement economical. She wasted nothing—no energy, no motion, no opportunity.
And she was reading him. Not just his techniques but his entire approach to combat. The way he favored his left side. How he compensated for his damaged right arm. The slight hesitation before committing to attacks. Every survival instinct the Carboniferous had taught him, she catalogued and exploited. A cut across his shoulder. Shallow but painful.
Another across his hip. Deeper.
His blade met hers in desperate parries, but she controlled the engagement completely. Decided when they engaged, when they separated, what angles attacks came from. I'm going to lose. Completely. Utterly. She's too good. But even as the thought formed, something else rose up—something forged in prehistory and tempered by impossible survival.
So what?
He'd lost every fight in the Carboniferous initially. The dragonfly had beaten him before he killed it. The scorpions had wounded him repeatedly. The centipede had nearly crushed him. He'd lost every engagement before finding the angle that worked.
Losing is just information gathering. Sekitanki changed tactics. Stopped trying to match her technique with technique. Instead, he fought like what he was: something that had learned combat from creatures that didn't care about forms or schools or tradition.
He dropped low—below her expected strike zone. Swept his blade at her ankles. Yuki jumped, exactly as predicted, and he rolled forward, coming up inside her guard.
For one moment, he was too close for her perfect technique.
His blade came up in an awkward, ugly strike that belonged to no school. A strike born from fighting things that attacked from every angle simultaneously. Steel scraped across her cheek. A thin line of blood welled up. They separated, both breathing hard.
Yuki touched her cheek, looked at the blood on her fingers with something like wonder. "First blood," Sekitanki said quietly. "Second blood," she corrected. "I drew first. This is your answer to that draw."
"Then we're even." "No." Her expression had changed completely—professional assessment replaced by genuine engagement. "Now we're actually fighting." She came at him again, but different this time. Not the careful demonstration of superior technique. This was actual combat. She adapted, incorporated his unorthodox style into her calculations, began mixing formal technique with improvisation.
The courtyard became a blur of steel and motion.
Sekitanki's body moved on instinct, every lesson from the Carboniferous applied to human combat. Reading angles. Predicting trajectories. Using environment—he fought near the stone columns where her longer reach was disadvantaged. Forced engagements in tight spaces where her perfect form couldn't fully deploy.
Another cut—this one across his arm. He returned it with a strike across her shoulder. Both bleeding now. Both pushing past pain into the space where only movement mattered.
This is what I'm good at. Not technique. Not tradition. Just refusing to stop until physics or mortality intervenes. Their blades locked, faces close enough to see each other's pupils dilate. "You fight like a demon," Yuki gasped. "I fight like someone who learned that surrender means death. Through the sheer will of my science skills entirely to."
"Then we are well matched. Because I learned that losing means dishonor worse than death." They broke apart, both staggering. Sekitanki's injuries from weeks of survival were screaming. His broken ribs ground together. His damaged arm barely functioned. But his left hand—his killing hand—still gripped the impossible blade.
Yuki was breathing hard, multiple cuts bleeding through her training kimono. But her stance was still perfect. Her blade still steady. She's going to outlast me. My body can't sustain this. Eventually I'll slow down and she'll end it.
Unless I do something completely insane. Sekitanki thought of the wasp in the Carboniferous. How he'd killed it not through superior technique but through accepting mutual destruction. Thought of every desperate gambit that had kept him alive.
He attacked with everything remaining—a furious combination that sacrificed defense completely. Blade moving in patterns that prioritized hitting over not being hit.
Yuki's eyes widened. This was suicide tactics. No trained warrior would—her blade found his side. Sank deep. Real damage this time. But his blade had found her stomach. Equally deep. Equally dangerous.
They stood locked together, both impaled on each other's weapons. The courtyard was utterly silent. "Mutual destruction," Sekitanki gasped. Blood ran down his side. "We both bleed. Neither wins."
"No," Yuki coughed. Blood flecked her lips. "We both win. Because we both refused to surrender." They collapsed together, blades falling from nerveless fingers. But Sekitanki refused to believe he had gotten a tie against his enemy.
The last thing Sekitanki saw before darkness claimed him was Yuki's face—smiling despite the pain. Actually smiling. She enjoyed that. The mad samurai bent on samurai will actually enjoyed almost dying. I think I just made a friend. Then nothing.
TO BE CONTINUED... [NEXT EPISODE: "The Way of Empty Hands"]