Sekitanki woke to pain that had become his constant companion.
His side burned where Yuki's blade had found flesh. Broken ribs ground together with each breath. The accumulated damage from weeks of impossible survival screamed for attention his body couldn't afford to give.
But he was alive. Still alive. Always still alive, somehow. He opened his eyes to find himself in a simple room—tatami mats, paper screens, the smell of incense and medicinal herbs. Bandages wrapped his torso, professionally applied. Someone had treated his wounds with care that suggested they wanted him to survive. The question was: why?
The shoji screen slid open. Abbot Kenshin entered, followed by Enjō and Takeda. Their expressions were complicated—concern mixed with something else. Something that made Sekitanki's survival instincts prickle.
"You lived," Kenshin observed in classical Japanese. "Against expectations. Your wounds were severe. You should have bled to death in the courtyard." "I have a lot of practice at not dying when I should." Sekitanki tried to sit up, failed, settled for remaining horizontal. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Two days. The physician says you will recover, though not quickly. Your body carries injuries from many battles, layered like sediment. Each new wound must heal atop scars still forming." "Poetic. What about Yuki?"
"Himura-san lives as well. Her wound was deep but precise—your blade missed vital organs by millimeters. Whether by skill or fortune is unclear."
"Fortune. Definitely fortune." Sekitanki's memory of those final moments was fragmented—desperation and pain compressed into split-second decisions. "So what happens now? We both survived. Does that mean the duel was a draw?"
Kenshin's expression shifted—subtle, but Sekitanki had learned to read faces in an era where body language carried more meaning than words. "No. You won." The statement hung in the air like a drawn blade. "What?"
"Himura-san's blade struck first, but yours struck deeper. The judges reviewed the engagement. Your wound, while serious, was survivable with treatment. Hers would have been fatal without immediate intervention. In ritual combat, depth of wound determines victory when both warriors draw blood."
Sekitanki processed this. "So I get access to the time machine?" "Yes. That was the agreement." "Then why do you look like you're about to tell me something terrible?"
Kenshin was silent for a long moment. "Because victory in ritual combat carries consequences. Himura-san was our champion. She swore to defend the shrine's honor with her life. She failed. According to tradition, she must perform seppuku to restore that honor."
The words hit like physical impact. "Ritual suicide? For losing a duel?" "For failing in her sacred duty. She understands this. Has already accepted it. The ceremony is scheduled for sunset tomorrow." "That's insane." Sekitanki forced himself upright despite his body screaming protests. "She fought brilliantly. Pushed me to my absolute limit. She only lost because I fought like a desperate animal willing to accept mutual destruction."
"Which proves she was correct to lose," Kenshin said gently. "Her perfected technique was defeated by something more primal. This suggests the gods favored your cause. Her death will acknowledge that divine judgment."
Enjō stepped forward, speaking in modern Japanese: "This is not cruelty. In this era, honor and life are weighed differently than in your time. Sometimes honor outweighs life itself."
"That's—" Sekitanki bit off the angry response forming. Arguing about philosophical frameworks wouldn't save Yuki. He needed a different approach. "What if I refuse my victory? Declare the duel a draw?"
"You cannot. The judges have ruled. To deny their ruling would dishonor them and create greater offense than the original failure." "There has to be another way." "There is not. Unless..." Kenshin paused, considering. "Unless you could provide the shrine with something of equal value to what we lose. Himura-san is our greatest warrior. To spare her life, you would need to offer service that matches her worth." An idea crystallized—terrible, painful, but possible. "What if I fight in her place? Defend the shrine's honor through combat?"
"You are already wounded. Barely able to stand. What combat could you possibly—" "Whatever you need. I survived three weeks in the Carboniferous Period fighting prehistoric monsters. I can survive whatever you throw at me here."
Kenshin studied him with those unsettling eyes. "Why would you do this? You barely know Himura-san. You owe her nothing. In fact, she nearly killed you." "Because she's the first person in this era who fought me at full strength and made me feel alive. Because watching someone that skilled die over a concept of honor I don't share would be a waste. Because I've seen too much death already and I'm tired of it."
"Sentimental," Kenshin observed. "But honest. Very well. I will present your offer to the council of elders. If they accept, you will fight in the upcoming tournament." "Tournament?" A smile crossed the abbot's face—not quite kind. "The Jikai Shrine hosts a martial tournament each season. Warriors from across the provinces compete for honor and prizes. It begins in three days. Four rounds of combat against progressively skilled opponents. If you win all four rounds—wounded, exhausted, fighting through accumulated damage—then Himura-san's honor is restored through your achievement."
"And if I lose?" "Then you both die. Her through seppuku as originally planned. You through whatever wounds end you in the tournament ring. But you will have tried, which is itself a form of honor. And tournament will last about four rounds." Sekitanki looked at his bandaged torso, at his barely functional right arm, at the body that should have given up weeks ago but stubbornly refused. The odds were catastrophically bad. Fighting four rounds in his condition was suicide.
So. Same as always. "I accept." They brought Yuki to see him that evening.
She walked slowly, bandages visible beneath her now normal kimono that was pristine clean from the blood she wore before, but her spine was straight. Her expression was calm—the acceptance of someone who'd made peace with mortality itself.
Until she saw Sekitanki and stopped. "You should be resting," she said in classical Japanese. "Not planning further stupidity." "Stupidity is my specialty. You noticed during our duel."
"I noticed you fight like someone who doesn't value his own life." "Says the samurai about to commit ritual suicide over a lost duel." Yuki settled carefully onto a cushion across from him. "That is different. That is honor. You wouldn't understand."
"You're right, I don't. In my era, we consider survival the highest priority. Honor is for people who can afford philosophical luxuries." "Then your era has lost something important. Honor gives shape to life. Without it, existence becomes formless. Meaningless."
"My existence has been formless and meaningless for years. Hasn't killed me yet." She studied him with the same intensity she'd shown in combat. "The abbot says you offered to fight in the tournament. To spare my life through your own suffering."
"That's the deal. Four rounds of combat while wounded. If I win, your honor is restored and you live. If I lose, we both die, but at least you'll have company." "This is foolishness." "Probably. But I'm committed now."
"Why?" The question emerged quiet but intense. "We are strangers. Our beliefs oppose each other. I nearly killed you. Why would you risk your life for mine?"
Sekitanki was silent for a moment, searching for words that would bridge the seven-hundred-year gap in their worldviews. "Because fighting you was the first time since arriving in this era that I felt like I was facing an equal. Not prey. Not predator. Just another person at their absolute limit, pushing as hard as they could. That's rare. Worth preserving."
"Even at the cost of your own survival?"
"I've been trying to survive for so long I forgot why survival mattered. Maybe this—saving someone who actually wants to live but thinks they can't—maybe that's a reason. Maybe that's purpose."
Yuki's expression softened fractionally. "You are either the wisest fool or the most foolish wise person I have encountered." "I'll take either as a compliment." "It was meant as one." She stood carefully. "I will watch your tournament fights. And if you die, I will ensure your death is remembered with honor in this shrine."
"Wonderful. Nothing motivates me like posthumous honor I won't be alive to enjoy." "Sarcasm does not suit ritual combat." "Good thing I have three days to work on my material for darn tournament." After she left, Enjō approached with tea and a knowing expression. "You have made this infinitely more difficult for yourself."
"Story of my life." "The tournament fighters are no simple warriors. They come from elite schools. Some have trained since childhood. And you will face them while wounded, exhausted, with injuries that would hospitalize anyone from your era." "What's your point?" "My point is that surviving the Carboniferous Period may have been easier than what comes next. At least prehistoric monsters don't study your weaknesses and adapt mid-combat. At least I cant tell that's what that era might of been like for you. Or what it may be entirely child."
"Then I'll adapt faster." Sekitanki sipped the tea—bitter and hot. "I've died a hundred times and refused every time. Four more fights? That's just Tuesday." "Your confidence is admirable or delusional. I haven't decided which." "Can't it be both?"
The tournament began three days later, and Sekitanki's first glimpse of the arena made his stomach drop. It was larger than expected—a circular ring of packed earth surrounded by tiered seating that could hold hundreds. And it was full. Warriors from across the provinces had gathered, drawn by news of the foreigner who'd defeated the legendary Himura Yuki.
They wanted to see if he could repeat the feat. Or watch him die trying. Sekitanki stood in the preparation area, bandages freshly changed, wounds screaming. His blade felt heavier than it should. His body felt like it belonged to someone else.
Kanemoto checked the sword one final time. "The blade is perfect. The katana is falling apart though. If you survive this, I will forge you something even more impossible."
"If I survive this, I'm taking a very long nap." Takeda adjusted Sekitanki's kimono, ensuring the tears aligned properly. "First round opponent is named Sato Masaru. Studied at the Hokushin school. Specializes in aggressive offense. He will come at you immediately, try to end the fight before you can establish rhythm."
"So same as everything else." "Except he knows your reputation. He knows your unorthodox style. He will have prepared specifically to counter it."
"Wonderful." A drum sounded. The call to the arena. Sekitanki stood, testing his weight. His right arm was still mostly useless. His ribs sent fresh pain with each movement. The wound in his side pulled against stitches.
I should surrender. This is suicide. I can't win four rounds in this condition. But Yuki was in the stands, watching. Waiting to see if her life was worth living. And he'd decided weeks ago that dying was unacceptable.
He walked into the arena.
TOURNAMENT - ROUND ONE
Sato Masaru was everything Takeda had warned: aggressive, skilled, and prepared. He entered the ring with confidence bordering on arrogance, his blade already partially drawn, stance suggesting immediate attack. The moment the drum signaled start, he exploded forward. Sekitanki barely got his blade up in time.
Steel crashed against steel with force that sent shockwaves through his damaged ribs. He redirected rather than blocked, using the technique that had kept him alive through impossible battles.
But Sato was ready for that. His follow-up strike came from the angle Sekitanki used to redirect toward—cutting off the escape route before it fully opened.
He's studied my fights. Knows how I move. They separated, circled. The crowd roared—hundreds of voices blending into white noise.
Sato attacked again—a combination from the Hokushin school's advanced curriculum. Three strikes in rapid succession, each one designed to force specific responses that led into the fourth killing blow.
Sekitanki recognized the pattern halfway through—had seen similar sequences in Yuki's techniques. He broke the sequence by doing what no trained warrior would: dropped his sword.
For one moment, Sato's follow-up strike had no target. His blade passed through empty space where Sekitanki's should have been. And Sekitanki caught his own falling blade with his left hand, reversed grip, and drove it upward into Sato's guts where armor plates didn't protect.
Not deep. Just enough to disable the arm. Sato screamed and stumbled backward. His sword fell from nerveless fingers. The drum sounded. First round: concluded.
Sekitanki stood in the center of the arena, breathing hard, bleeding through his bandages, victorious. One round down. Three to go.
TO BE CONTINUED... [NEXT EPISODE: "The Scholar and the Blade"]