CHAPTER 5: THE FORGE

Mamoru didn’t instinctively know his way around this part of the mountain the way he did the steps, but he had deliberately brought their boat ashore near the stream that ran from Kumono Lake. He knew that if they followed the water without losing their footing, it would take them to help. Frogs chanted and dewdrops brushed their ankles as they waded into the grass alongside the stream. The fireflies bobbing along the bank didn’t do much to light the way, but between the dewdrops and the running water, Mamoru was able to keep them on course without the use of his eyes.

“How much further?” Kwang asked and Mamoru could hear the fatigue in his voice.

“We’re almost there. Look.” He pointed down the mountain, where a red-orange glow had appeared over a rocky ridge.

“What’s that?”

“Forge fire,” Mamoru said, allowing himself a smile of relief. “We’ve reached the numu village.”

“The what?”

“The numu village. You know, where the swordsmiths live.”

“That’s where you’re taking me?” Kwang said, eyes wide and fearful in the firelight.

“They’re knowledgeable healers,” Mamoru said, “the best we’re going to find at this time of night. They’ll know what to do about your arm.”

On a map of Kaigen, the people of Mount Takayubi were lumped into a single ‘Takayubi Village.’ In reality, there were four distinct villages on the mountain, each populated by a different type of people.

The lowest of these settlements was the fishing village at the foot of the mountain, where Mamoru’s aunt Setsuko had been born. Halfway up the mountain, surrounded by pine forests, sat the western village, where resided the influx of koro families who had moved to Takayubi over the years in the hopes of training with the great Matsudas and Yukinos.

Mamoru’s own village sat high on the mountain, just beneath the cloudline. The old village was the reason the rest existed, home to the Matsudas and Yukinos who had ruled this mountain for over a thousand years. The numu village was not far from the old village, nestled among the rocks, glowing through even the coldest nights.

Kwang was still eyeing the fire like it might leap over the ridge and bite him, but the numu village was like a second home to Mamoru. His father sent him here for a few months each year to apprentice with the Kotetsu swordsmiths. In most of Kaigen, it was considered atypical—unthinkable even—for a koro to train in numu arts, but the Matsudas had a special relationship with their Kotetsu neighbors.

These days, Takayubi’s numu community wasn’t as much a village as it was a large cluster of houses alongside the Kumono stream. As Mamoru led Kwang onto the main path down toward the firelight, they were greeted by the sound of hammers, ringing like temple bells, pounding the impurities from metal. While the rest of the mountain slept, the smiths worked through the cool of the night when the heat from the forges was more bearable.

“I didn’t realize numu villages like this even existed anymore,” Kwang said as the air warmed around them. “Aren’t there, like, machines that can do their work for them now?”

“If there were machines that could improve their work, that’s what they would be using,” Mamoru said. “The Kotetsu family are the best swordsmiths in the world.”

“If their swords are the best in the world, how come they’re still here?” Kwang challenged. “Why don’t they go get jobs arming the Kaigenese military?”

“Some of them have,” Mamoru said. In his grandfather’s day, the Kotetsu village had been twice its current size. “A lot of the Takayubi blacksmiths moved north to the cities to go into manufacturing, but the best ones stayed here.”

“And they make a living on this?” Kwang said incredulously. “How many swords can you even make per month working out of a fire pit?”

“Three,” Mamoru said, “when they’re in a rush.”

“Wait, what?” Kwang said. “Only three? And that’s all they do? Who even sponsors that?”

“We do,” Mamoru said. “They’re still here because the military can’t afford them; we pay them what they’re worth.”

Truthfully, the Matsuda family currently couldn’t pay the Kotetsus what they were worth. Mamoru’s last two-month apprenticeship with the blacksmiths hadn’t been training as much as it had been paying off the Matsuda family’s last sword order in labor.

“Any one of those swords is easily worth a whole house.” The Yukino family had actually sold one of their old castles to cover the cost of the last few swords they had commissioned.

By this time, Mamoru and Kwang had reached the broad, foot-beaten path that ran the length of the village. While the rest of the mountain slept in the cool moonlight, the numu settlement was alive with the yellow-orange glow of torches. There was firelight here that never went out. No matter the hour of night, there was always someone at work.

Kwang hesitated, and Mamoru had to coax him on down the main path. His reaction wasn’t unusual. Most koronu harbored a healthy fear of the numu’s fiery domain, but Mamoru had walked here enough that he no longer feared the heat.

He did, however, feel a wave of prickling guilt overtake him like flames over kindling. For all his months of training here, he hadn’t been able to translate the arts of steel into ice. The sound of hammers sharpened and each ring smarted, reminding Mamoru of his own efforts to create a blade—all his impurities.

They weren’t far down the path when Mamoru caught sight of a figure moving in the firelight—the head swordsmith’s son, carrying a towering bundle of firewood.

“Atsushi!” Mamoru called out to his friend.

The ten-year-old numu paused, looked up, and a grin lit up his face.

“Mamo—Matsuda-dono!” he caught himself, remembering his manners.

When the two were children, they had gotten away with calling each other by their given names, but now that they were both young men, Atsushi had to remember to address the son of his patron house with the appropriate respect. He fumbled with his load for a moment before depositing the firewood on the ground and bowing low.

“Welcome—I’m so sorry. We weren’t expecting you.” He glanced up at Mamoru. “What… what are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry to trouble you and your family,” Mamoru said. “We have a situation—”

“You’re hurt!” Atsushi exclaimed, noticing the blood on Mamoru’s knuckles.

“I’m fine,” Mamoru said hastily, “but my classmate needs medical attention. I’m sorry to ask you—”

“I’ll get my father right away.” Atsushi raced off to the house before Mamoru could thank him, his firewood forgotten in the dirt.

“So, who was that?” Kwang asked.

“Kotetsu Atsushi is the head swordsmith’s son,” Mamoru said, stooping to gather the wood Atsushi had dropped. “I’ve been apprenticing alongside him since we were young.”

“You—wait, you what?”

Before Mamoru could explain, a woman stuck her head out of the house and called, “Mamoru-dono, you silly boy, put that down!”

“It’s no trouble, Kotetsu-san,” Mamoru said. “I can—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” The blacksmith’s wife exclaimed. “My son will get it. You and your friend, come inside.”

“And who was that?” Kwang asked as Mamoru disregarded the woman’s instructions and hauled the bundle of wood the rest of the way to the Kotetsus’ doorstep.

“Atsushi’s mother,” Mamoru said, setting down the firewood, “Kotetsu Tamami.”

“Is she a swordsmith too?”

“No, no,” Mamoru laughed. Women didn’t touch swords, let alone forge them. “She makes hair ornaments.”

When Mamoru and Kwang entered the house, Tamami was at the stove cooking, while her elderly mother-in-law, Chizue, dozed in a chair nearby. Little Hotaru, Naoko, and Kyoko, whose shouts and giggles usually greeted Mamoru, were nowhere to be seen, probably in bed.

As grimy as the streets and structures of the numu village appeared from the outside, the inside of the Kotetsus’ modest house was always immaculate. Mamoru had just finished properly introducing Kwang to Kotetsu Tamami and thanking her once again when swordsmith himself stepped in through the back door, wiping his soot-stained hands on a rag.

Kotetsu Katashi was a mountain of a man. His arms writhed with hard cables of muscle and his shoulders had a way of filling up a doorway. He made an intimidating picture when he swung his hammer, his eyes furious with focus. But away from the forge, he had a warm voice and gentle smile that could put the most anxious of people at ease. It was that smile that greeted Mamoru now, wide and bright beneath the black smudges.

“Kotetsu Kama, good evening,” Mamoru greeted his teacher. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

“Ah, it’s fine, little Matsuda.” Kotetsu waved him off. “Atsushi-kun can mind the fires for a gbaati. Let me wash up and I’ll have a look at your friend. In the meantime, you two can have a seat in the kitchen. My wife will have tea and food ready for you in a moment.”

“Kotetsu Kama, please, that isn’t necessary,” Mamoru protested. “We don’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense, Mamoru-dono. You’re not imposing. This is your house, as it is ours.”

“We don’t need to eat your food—”

“And what will I tell Matsuda Takeru-dono? That I sent his injured son away with an empty stomach? You’ll stay for dinner,” Kotetsu said with a note of finality that shut Mamoru up.

“Thank you, Kotetsu Kama,” he said with another bow.

Kwang bowed too, murmuring his own quiet, “Thank you.”

When the swordsmith had gone, Kwang turned to Mamoru with a look of surprise.

“You call him ‘Kama’?” he said in a low voice. Mamoru could understand his confusion; the honorific was usually used by a servant or apprentice to address his master. It wasn’t a title the average Kaigenese koro would use to address a sooty numu. “I thought you were from a high warrior house.”

“I am,” Mamoru said. “That’s why I owe him my respect.”

“I don’t—what does that mean?” Kwang whispered as he followed Mamoru into the Kotetsus’ kitchen.

“My family has a special relationship with the Kotetsus. You wouldn’t understand—”

“Of course, the boy does not understand,” an impatient voice creaked and Mamoru jumped, realizing that it had come from Kotetsu’s mother. He hadn’t known that the wrinkled old woman was awake. “How could he understand? He is an outsider.” The bent woman leaned forward, her clouded eyes narrowing. “I may not be able to see anymore, but I know every speck of nyama on this mountain. And you, boy, weren’t born here. You blew in from someplace far away, didn’t you?”

Kwang only seemed to be able to stare open-mouthed at the old numu.

“Something wrong with you, boy?” Kotetsu’s mother snapped. “I thought it was your arm that broke, not your tongue.”

“S-sorry, numuba,” Kwang stuttered.

“Numuba?” Grandma Kotetsu cackled at the Yammaninke honorific. “He speaks like he’s from far away too. Matsuda-kun.” The woman’s sightless eyes didn’t move but she tilted her head fondly in Mamoru’s direction. “You can’t expect a city boy like him to understand our ways, no matter how you try to explain. We’re just an oddity to him. A myth. A silly fantasy from far in the past.”

“I never said—”

“Please sit, Kwang-san,” Tamami said kindly. “Mamoru-dono, you too. Have some tea.”

She poured them each a piping hot cup of tea before hurrying to set food on the table. Mamoru pulled some water from the air and tried not to grimace as he used it to clean his hands. His knuckles were still oozing blood, despite the makeshift scabs he had formed over them. The water stung. He could feel Kwang’s eyes on him as he cast the water back into the air around him, and did his best to keep his eyes down.

“Our koro is troubled,” Grandma Kotetsu muttered—it almost seemed, to herself. “His jiya could boil up and drown him.”

Mamoru pretended not to hear and took a drink from his teacup. The bitter caffeine should have reinvigorated him. Instead, the heat seemed to seep into his bones, softening him like ice over a flame.

“Now then,” Kotetsu said, re-emerging from the back room. “I’m sorry I forgot to introduce myself.” He turned to Kwang with a bow. “I’m Numu Kotetsu Katashi.”

“I’m Kwang Chul-hee.” Kwang hurried to stand and bow. “Nice to meet—”

“Sit, sit,” Kotetsu chuckled, putting a hand on Kwang’s shoulder to ease him back down. “You look like a proper mess. No need to strain yourself. Let’s have a look at that arm.”

“He’s also bleeding from his leg,” Mamoru said. “I tried to make a scab, but it’s—”

“Hush, Matsuda-kun,” Grandma Kotetsu said in her creaky voice. “Let the numu do his job.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.”

“Here.” Tamami spooned some rice into a bowl and held it out to Mamoru. “Eat.”

“Thank you.” As Mamoru reached out to accept the bowl, the light fell on his hands. The woman’s eyes flicked to his bloodied knuckles and then to his face, filled with concern.

“Mamoru-dono… What did you and your classmate get into?”

“I…” Mamoru started, but before he could finish, Grandma Kotetsu interrupted with a reproachful click of her tongue.

“Leave koro business to the koronu,” she told her daughter-in-law. “If these boys went and got bloody, it’s their business, not ours.”

“Of course,” Tamami said demurely, though the concern didn’t leave her face. “I’m sorry.”

“So…” Mamoru quickly cast around for a different topic of conversation. “The little ones are all doing well?” He nodded toward the back room, where he assumed the Kotetsus’ three youngest children were sleeping.

“Yes,” Tamami said with a smile. “You’ll have to visit some time they’re all awake. They get so excited whenever you come around.”

On the other side of the room, Kotetsu Kama had set about tying a splint around Kwang’s arm.

“Relax,” the smith rumbled. “I know a city boy like you is probably used to brightly-lit clinics with lots of fancy equipment, but there’s nothing for you to fear. I know what I’m doing.”

Kwang swallowed and nodded.

“How did a boy like you end up in a little village like ours anyway?”

“My father works for—ahh!” Kwang winced. “Sorry. My father works for Geomijul.”

“For what?”

“Geomijul. It’s a company that specializes in info-com technology.”

“So, he’s a traveling electronics salesman?”

“Not exactly. His job is to set up the infrastructure places need to use info-com devices. I guess someone in this area agreed to pay Geomijul to install satellite towers here, so you guys can get better reception with your info-com devices. He’s here to oversee that.”

“Does your father know that barely anyone here has an info-com device?” Kotetsu asked.

“Well, the company is hoping they’ll sell better after the infrastructure is in place for them to actually work. Their goal is to set up enough towers in the next three years that info-com communication is possible from anywhere in Kaigen. I know my dad said something about speaking to the local craftsmen about enlisting their help. He hasn’t gotten a chance to do much yet, but he’ll probably come here soon looking to hire some numuwu. I’m sure building big metal towers isn’t exactly your specialty, so if you guys don’t want to do it, I can let him know—”

“On the contrary, it sounds wonderful. I’ll send my son, Atsushi.”

“What? Really?”

“Oh, yes. A young numu should always learn about new technologies. For an old man like me, that sort of thing is hard, but for a growing mind, it is essential. Young Mamoru-dono is a fair metalworker himself,” Kotetsu said with a smile at Mamoru. “If his father allows it, he might be able to help you too.”

“Right.” Kwang looked from Mamoru to Kotetsu Kama in confusion. “So, Matsuda-san says he… apprentices with you?”

“I know it seems strange,” Kotetsu said, “but it’s a tradition that predates modern Kaigenese society.”

“But… why? I don’t understand.”

“It’s a long story. Please hold still, Kwang-san.”

There was a creak as Grandma Kotetsu leaned forward. “A thousand years ago,” she began, “long before metal was ever spun into conductive wires and space-going satellites, the most coveted metal in Kaigen was made by a small family of blacksmiths living here in Takayubi. Their surpassing skill in forging tools and weapons earned them the name Kotetsu, which means ‘steel’ in Shirojima Dialect. Though the laws of kafonu and kamaya had not yet come to Kaigen, this blacksmith family formed a close relationship of patronage with the noble house of Matsuda—a deep bond of blood and steel, which ensured that the Kotetsu smiths would always be protected and the Matsudas would always have their superior swords.

“At this time, the Matsudas were masters of making blades and spears from ice. While these early ice weapons were rough, the fighting style served them well. Using their ice to fight long range battles, and their Kotetsu-forged steel to fight at close range, they dominated this peninsula and much of western Shirojima.”

Kwang was looking at Grandma Kotetsu in confusion, but he seemed too intrigued to interrupt. For Mamoru’s part, it was strange to hear a story he had heard so many times in Dialect translated to Kaigengua.

“It was at the height of the Matsuda family’s reign that the first Falleya missionaries came to these shores en masse. Some came from the mainland, some came from Disa, some came from as far away as the Empire of Yamma. These missionary singers brought with them new technologies and new ways of looking at the world. Many people of Shirojima embraced the new religion, eagerly integrating it into their lives, including the Matsudas’ nearest neighbor, the Yukino house.

“But the Matsuda patriarch at the time openly rejected Falleya, going as far as to send his men to behead missionaries and converts in the streets. In retaliation, a Falleya army, led by Lord Yukino Izumi, laid siege to the Matsuda castle and razed it to the ground. The Matsudas who did not die in battle were burned to death in the inferno… all except one. This was the lord’s youngest son, Matsuda Takeru, for whom this boy’s father is named.” She nodded toward Mamoru. “As the flames rose around the room where he slept, his mother wrapped him in an embrace of water and ice. The fire consumed wood, flesh, and bone around them, but her love protected him. When the sun rose the next day, the woman was dead, having finally succumbed to the heat and smoke, but in her arms, the child Takeru had survived.”

Mamoru was still, his stinging hands resting in his lap. He had heard the story of Matsuda Takeru a dozen times. When he was a little boy, the razing of the Matsuda castle had moved him to tears. Now he had to look at his bloodied knuckles and wonder if the story was even true. He had never felt so empty.

“Yukino Izumi’s Falleya army did their best to kill every koro they found in the castle and the surrounding houses,” Grandma Kotetsu continued, “but the resident family of Kotetsu blacksmiths was spared, their precious forges left intact. For under Falleya, it is a sin to commit violence against a craftsman.”

Kwang nodded. Having lived in Yamma, he would understand that.

“It was a Kotetsu man named Kenzou who picked his way through the ashes when the smoke had cleared. It was Kenzou who found the young Takeru in the ruins and gently helped him to his feet. By this time, Yukino Izumi had proclaimed himself ruler of the region, and Kenzou knew that if the boy were discovered, he would be killed. So, he took Takeru to his home and raised the koro as one of his own sons. And this act—this solitary act of kindness—altered the destinies of the Matsuda family, the Kotetsu family, and all of Shirojima forever.

“Hiding under a false name, young Takeru was raised to adolescence in Kotetsu Kenzou’s household, under the rule of Yukino Izumi’s Falleya state. As Takeru grew, he proved himself a genius.

“Despite what had happened to his family, he was able to listen to the missionary finawu and learn the value of Falleya. Despite his warrior’s blood, he took to the forge like a natural numu, creating swords of excellent quality and incredible beauty. Despite his skill as a smith, he knew it was his duty to avenge his family and continue the Matsuda line. So, as a young man, he set out in disguise to train with the jiya swordsmen of the Ameno and Ginkawa clans, further north.

“No one knows exactly where he went during that time or who trained him, though many koro houses tried to claim credit after the fact. But it is the story of his return, years later, that propelled him into legend…”

Kotetsu Chizue trailed off, nodding to herself.

“So…” Kwang prompted after a moment. “What happened?”

“Oh, you want me to continue?” Grandma Kotetsu said in amusement. “I thought you might be done with this old lady’s foolish story.”

“No, please,” Kwang said emphatically. “You have to keep going.”

“Very well, city boy,” she chuckled. “On Takeru’s return, he walked through the town gates with no weapon, only a cloth traveling pack on his back. Inside the city, he announced himself for all to hear: “I am Matsuda Takeru, Lord of Takayubi. I am here to take back my family’s home.” Upon hearing this, the town guards seized him and brought him before Lord Yukino Izumi.

In Yukino’s hall, Takeru faced his family’s killer for the first time and repeated his challenge. Yukino Izumi was unimpressed.

“You claim to be Takeru, heir to the Matsuda house,” he said, “but I know that all the Matsudas were killed years ago. This makes you both a liar and a traitor. I have no obligation to accept your challenge. You will be executed.”

“Then I offer you a compromise,” said Takeru. “I will face you unarmed.”

“Unarmed!” Yukino laughed. “You believe you can kill me without a sword?”

“I do,” Takeru said calmly.

“If you are so confident in your skills,” Yukino said, “then why not kill me now?”

Takeru looked around him and replied, “Your guards are sons of this mountain, as I am. I prefer not to hurt them.”

Intrigued, Yukino agreed to the duel, appointed a time, and released Takeru. When his men questioned his decision, the lord said, “He will turn tail and run or he will step into the circle with me and die. Either way, we will be rid of him.”

Upon hearing of Takeru’s return and the challenge he had issued, Kotetsu Kenzou hurried to his adoptive son and begged him to withdraw from the fight.

“The challenge has been made,” Takeru said. “As a man and a koro, I cannot withdraw.”

“Yukino Izumi is one of the best swordsmen in the region,” Kenzou warned, in despair. “The sword he wields is one of mine—the best I ever made. How do you expect to protect yourself with no weapon at all?”

Takeru just smiled. “You may have given Yukino-dono a great sword, but the weapon you have given me is greater than metal. You have given me knowledge of the blade itself.” With that, the young Matsuda embraced his mentor and adoptive father and promised to return to him after the fight.

Yukino Izumi appeared the next day with the sword Kotetsu Kenzou had forged for him, the best weapon of its time, folded a thousand times, sharpened to cut through five men at a stroke. Yukino met Matsuda at the center of the main square, in view of all of Takayubi…”

Kwang leaned forward, his eyes wide.

“Yukino unsheathed the great sword—and the fight was over.”

“What?” Kwang said.

“In a single stroke, Matsuda Takeru’s jiya sliced through the Kotetsu-forged blade and Yukino’s body. The usurper was dead before he hit the ground, the first victim of the Whispering Blade.”

“What? But… how?” Kwang looked from Mamoru to the numu family. “Ice can’t cut through metal. It’s scientifically impossible. Even at sub-zero temperatures, under a lot of pressure, ice still can’t get as dense as steel. The military has tested this in labs. Ice can’t cut through metal. It can’t.”

“Yet it does,” Grandma Kotetsu said calmly, “and has, time and time again since Matsuda Takeru pioneered the technique.”

What neither Kwang nor any of the Kotetsus knew was that the Whispering Blade’s power didn’t come from its density alone. Its cutting power was a product of the wielder’s precision. The swordsman had to have such deeply perfect control over his jiya that he could sharpen its edge to a single molecule, allowing it to slide through any substance, no matter its density. The technique was a feat of human skill and focus that could never be replicated in a lab.

“You may believe the story or you may not,” Grandma Kotetsu said, “but you’ve held still for several siiranu.”

“What?” Kwang looked down at himself and seemed to register that Kotetsu Kama had cleaned, bandaged, and splinted every one of his injuries. “Oh.” He let out a laugh, as a toothless grin crinkled Grandma Kotetsu’s face.

“You see, an old lady has her tricks.”

“Now, sit and have some food,” Kotetsu’s wife said, motioning Kwang to the table.

“But what happened after that?” Kwang asked as he joined Mamoru at the numuwu’s scrubbed wooden dinner table. “After Matsuda Takeru cut Yukino Izumi in half? He was just standing in the middle of the village square over the dead body of the ruling lord, right? So, what happened then?”

“They say that the best swordsman can win a fight in a single cut,” said Grandma Kotetsu. “Matsuda Takeru won that fight and all to come in that cut, for after witnessing his power, no one dared challenge him. The only person to step forward was Yukino Izumi’s son, Hayase, a boy of twelve.

The newly-orphaned Yukino said to Takeru, “I don’t intend to fight you for control of Takayubi, but I will not allow you to execute this town’s finawu or destroy our Falleya temples.”

In curiosity, Takeru asked, “What if I were to order Falleya purged from this region?”

“I would challenge you to single combat,” Yukino Hayase said without hesitation.

Takeru was moved by the boy’s bravery, and he was wise enough not to repeat his father’s mistakes. Despite his power, he did not wish to rule through fear.

“I am the blood of gods,” he said to the assembled crowd, “as are all of you. The moon and ocean fear no change.”

In compliance with Hayase’s request, he kept Falleya temples standing and incorporated Falleya law into his rule, eventually becoming a devout Falleka himself. Under the new laws of kamaya, he named the Kotetsus numus to the Matsuda family, binding their two houses in loyalty and mutual support for all time to come.”

“And the Yukino boy,” Kwang said. “He just let him live?”

“Not only that, he let him return to the ancestral Yukino castle and rule there. He married Yukino Izumi’s oldest daughter, Mitsuki, to ensure an enduring peace between their houses. Your swordmaster, Yukino Dai, is a descendant of Yukino Hayase, as Matsuda Mamoru and his family are descendants of Matsuda Takeru. Their two families have coexisted in this region for a thousand years, never without tensions, but never without respect. For it was our ancestors—Matsuda, Yukino, and Kotetsu—who ushered in the first Ryuhon Falleya state in Shirojima.”

“Wow,” Kwang said. “And the Whispering Blade has just been passed down Matsuda Takeru’s line all this time?”

Grandma Kotetsu nodded her head. “Takeru passed the Whispering Blade down to his sons, who in turn passed it down to their sons. Ever since his time, boys of the Matsuda family are always sent to apprentice with Kotetsu smiths, in the hopes that skill in steel will lead to a Whispering Blade.”

“But… wait a second,” Kwang said. “Under Falleya, isn’t it kind of weird for koronu like the Matsudas to apprentice with numuwu?”

“The Whispering Blade is the sacred force that brought Takayubi together,” Kotetsu Kama said. “For the sake of preserving the Matsuda bloodline technique, we make this one exception. Without the combination of numu and koro arts, the technique can’t be carried on. Matsuda Takeru was the sort of genius who comes around once in a millennium. Those who are able to replicate his technique are often one in a generation.”

Kwang turned to Mamoru. “Wait. So, there are some Matsudas who can use the Whispering Blade and some who can’t?”

“Most never master it,” Kotetsu Kama said, sparing Mamoru from answering, “though it is the fate of all Matsudas to spend their lives trying. There have been weak generations in the past, during which people feared that the technique might disappear from the world. We are fortunate that this generation, we will have at least one Whispering Blade.” He gave his student a smile that Mamoru couldn’t return. “We are certain of it.”

Most days, Mamoru was certain of it too. Not right now. Now, he felt like a brittle shell, capable of nothing, containing nothing.

The moon and the ocean fear no change. “So, Matsuda Takeru ended up adopting the ideals of his parents’ killer?” Mamoru said quietly.

The three adult numuwu looked at him in surprise. “Well… yes,” Kotetsu Kama said. “You know the story.”

“He was so strong,” Mamoru murmured. “He had the blood of gods in his veins, and he just… gave way to foreign ideas?”

“He had the intelligence to see that Falleya was the way forward,” Kotetsu Kama said, his deep voice that was usually so calming somehow grating at Mamoru’ nerves. “While it was Falleya that killed his family, it was Falleya that spared the Kotetsus he depended on, and it is the Ryuhon Falleya he pioneered that has made this region so strong ever since.”

“But how did he know?” Mamoru frowned at his knuckles. “How could he be so sure?” How could anyone be so sure of a decision that determined the fate of thousands? How?

“Are you alright, Mamoru-dono?” the numu asked gently.

Mamoru was not alright. He was churning again, his jiya agitated by the heat. “How could he just abandon everything he knew—his family’s legacy—for a new religion?”

“Takeru grew up learned in the tenets of both religions. He studied both with the same diligence that he studied the blade. And as a leader, he had a decision to make.” Kotetsu paused. “Are you sure you’re alright? Your jiya feels unwell—”

“Kotetsu Kama.” Mamoru looked up sharply. “Tell me about Yammanka obsidian.”

“What?” Kotetsu said, taken aback.

“The really hard types of Yammanka glass,” Mamoru said. “Are there Kaigenese craftsmen who know how to make it?”

“Of course,” Kotetsu said. “Nowadays, there’s so much commerce and cultural exchange between Kaigen and Yamma, there are many Kaigenese who work in jonjo glass.”

“But not Zilazen glass?”

“Of course not.” Kotetsu laughed. “The production of that material is a bloodline technique, like our steel folding and your Whispering Blade. Its secrets do not leave the Zilazen family.”

“Oh.” Mamoru hadn’t realized that. “So, the Kaigenese military has never produced anything made of Zilazen glass?”

“No,” Kotetsu said, “although, my cousin tells me that the Empire has been importing a lot of Yammanka bullets, so maybe—”

“What about bigger things?” Mamoru asked. “Has Kaigen ever had Zilazen glass machines? Like tanks or planes?”

“Not that I know of,” Kotetsu said. “The Zilazen make machines to be operated by tajakalu, not jijakalu. Importing that kind of equipment would be nonsense. And Kaigen certainly doesn’t have any craftsmen capable of creating Zilazen glass. I believe a Kaigenese smith would have to marry a Zilazen senkuli to be privy to those secrets. Even then, it might be too carefully guarded. It may be that only those with Zilazen blood are allowed to learn—so, the child of a mixed marriage, maybe?”

Tamami gave a disapproving ‘tsk.’ “What good theonite would want to sully their bloodline like that?”

“I don’t know,” Kotetsu said with a shrug. “If we ever get to see a Zilazen glass katana, the impurity might be worth it.”

“Do you think that would be possible?” Kwang asked, and Mamoru couldn’t tell if he was genuinely excited or just eager to steer the conversation away from planes.

“I know that Zilazen glass swords have been made in the past,” Kotetsu said.

“Really?”

“They are extremely rare,” Kotetsu said. “There are no more than a hundred in the world.”

After Kwang had asked a few dozen more questions about sword forging and Kotetsu’s wife was satisfied that both boys had eaten as much as they could, the blacksmith walked Mamoru and Kwang to the edge of the numu village and sent them on their way. Mechanically, Mamoru bowed to his teacher and wished him a good night.

As he and Kwang set off up the mountain, he expected the northern boy to give him some form of ‘I told you so.’ He was prepared for it, but Kwang didn’t gloat. He just followed wordlessly at Mamoru’s elbow up the path to the western village.

When he did speak, all he said was, “Are you going to be okay?”

Mamoru’s voice was neither hard nor stormy. It was empty. “Yes.”

They walked on in silence for a while. Kwang no longer needed Mamoru to lead him. The first light had crept into the sky, illuminating the way before them.

“How is your arm, Kwang-san?”

“Chul-hee.”

“What?”

“Call me Chul-hee,” Kwang said. “We fell down the side of a mountain together. We can be on a first name basis, can’t we?”

Mamoru didn’t turn to look at the other boy. “If you like.”

“Thanks for introducing me to your numu friends, by the way. They were nice.”

“I’m glad you liked them,” Mamoru said, “although I’m sorry you had to sit through a whole history lesson.”

“It’s alright,” Kwang said. “I like listening. And your history’s pretty interesting.”

If it’s really history at all, Mamoru thought. If Hibiki Sensei could be mistaken about Takayubi’s past, so could Grandma Kotetsu. So could anyone.

“So, um…” Kwang must have sensed the heaviness of Mamoru’s nyama because he changed the subject. “It’s pretty cool what Numu Kotetsu said about Zilazen glass weapons, right? I had no idea the Zilazen made swords!”

“Neither did I,” Mamoru said. “I guess the world’s craftsmen share things with each other that don’t always concern us koronu.”

“Do you think a Zilazen glass katana would be even stronger than your magical Whispering Blade?”

“I can’t make a Whispering Blade,” Mamoru said, “and anyway, there would probably never be a chance to test it. Kotetsu Kama said there are fewer than a hundred Zilazen swords in the whole world.”

Not far up the path, the two boys parted ways.

“Good night, Chul-hee-kun,” Mamoru said to see how the familiar address would feel on his tongue. It felt strange until Kwang turned and smiled at him—an exhausted smile full of gratitude and fondness that he hadn’t earned.

“Good night, Mamoru-kun.”

Mamoru had no way of knowing that he had lived his whole life within an arm’s reach of a Zilazen glass sword. The black blade had been bundled away under the floorboards of the Matsudas’ kitchen shortly before he was born and had stayed there, untouched, ever since. It was a slight weapon, barely bigger than a traditional wakizashi, but it had seen more combat than any katana in the Matsuda dojo.

Of course, Mamoru had no way of knowing any of that.

His mother, after all, did not talk about her past.