The next several days passed in a haze. Yipachai continued his routine of skills training, and dueling practice, and even began working with Naoko during his regular evening sessions. But even though his body continued to go through the motions, his mind remained elsewhere.

  That night that Tianfu had appeared remained fixed in his head, occupying his thoughts while he ran, trained, meditated, and did his chores. He barely spoke to Mamoru or Naoko, besides what was absolutely required for duels and training. Even his dreams were filled with visions of villages burning and bandits grinning as they hauled away food and valuables and young people to work on their ships.

  It pained him that he was unable to do anything about it. He’d tried praying, as Tianfu had advised him, but that seemed like more of a fool’s hope than anything else. The Creator was likely dead or gone, but Yipachai had tried praying to the Father of Silence anyway. He’d prayed to the mhonglun, too, leaving offerings at one of the school’s shrines.

  Just in case.

  And what had that old owl meant when he’d told Yipachai to seek the True Song? It was something he’d heard Tianfu mention before—as had Haimunei, the sea dragon—but he still had no idea what it meant.

  And so he went, from session to session, moving in time with his instructors’ commands and doing his best not to be too much of a burden during team duels while also attempting to puzzle out the meaning of Tianfu’s words.

  In the end, there was nothing Yipachai would be able to do until his current plans progressed. He needed coin to buy a writ of passage, which would allow him to continue his search for Mangsut and put an end to him—to stop him and his bandits from their wanton pillaging of the Het Kingdom and to avenge Elder Satsanan.

  Which meant that the object of his quest remained the same.

  But now, the stakes had risen. Now, Yipachai had not only his own losses to avenge, but those of villages full of northern Het people whose blood and children cried out for justice as well.

  And one day, Yipachai would give it to them. He just needed a little time.

  That was the conclusion he came to one afternoon, as he walked from the dining hall to dueling training alone. It was like a weight had finally lifted from him, like a deep breath that cleared all the stagnant air out of his lungs. He no longer needed to wonder and scheme and plan. From here, all he needed to do was act.

  That was motivation he’d need, as today was an individual dueling training day—which meant no Lan Kuanghi, no wings or help from Pingou. Just Yipachai’s skills and wits against those of the other novices.

  “Before we begin,” Master Rurou said once they had all gathered, “I have an announcement to make. The School will be selecting its competitors for this year’s dueling championships over the coming weeks.”

  Murmurs of excitement rippled through the other boys. Yipachai merely exchanged a silent look with Mamoru, who pursed his lips and gave an encouraging nod.

  “In each of your training sessions, both here and elsewhere, you will be evaluated by your instructors. I suggest you remain sharp, even in exercises you’ve performed hundreds of times over. I needn’t remind you that a single mistake could be the end of your chances—both in a duel, and in this period of evaluations.”

  The murmuring stopped, and the clearing fell into silence. Yipachai felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine. It had rained that morning, and the afternoon was hot and muggy, but it was Master Rurou’s words that had him sweating.

  The young master didn’t wait for questions. “Mikio, Hetanzou, you’re up—and no wings!”

  Yipachai repressed a sigh. He didn’t need to be reminded of the rules. And he certainly didn’t need another fight against Mikio just as he’d been informed that they were being evaluated. The other boy always took things too far, always did his best to inflict both pain and shame.

  Nevertheless, when Master Rurou spoke, Yipachai obeyed. He strode out in front of their group, projecting as confident an air as he could manage.

  Mikio sneered at him as they faced one another and bowed.

  Yipachai closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath as he turned his back on Mikio and counted out the requisite four steps. He let that breath out, turned and bowed once more, then dropped into a warding stance as he awaited Master Rurou’s signal.

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  “Begin.”

  As per usual, Mikio came in swinging. Yipachai anticipated the aggressive sideways slash, and hopped backwards, only extending his own practice sword to parry Mikio’s follow-up attack.

  The blades of their practice swords met with a sharp crack, sending a jolt that rattled through Yipachai’s body. His technique had been near-perfect, but Banqilun were just so strong.

  Their resulting position left Mikio vulnerable, so Yipachai stepped in close and aimed a thrust at the other boy’s heart.

  Unfortunately, Mikio was quick enough to deflect it—and strong enough that his parry nearly wrenched the practice sword out of Yipachai’s grip.

  “Nice try, kid,” Mikio said through his teeth as he issued a wicked follow-up slash at Yipachai’s neck.

  Yipachai got his blade up just in time, but the force of Mikio’s follow-through was too much—it forced Yipachai’s own sword to thump into his shoulder and sent him stumbling a few steps.

  Mikio pounced on him like a tiger chasing its prey and unleashed a flurry of strikes that kept Yipachai on his back foot.

  Overhead. Left side. Right side. Thrust.

  It was all Yipachai could do to keep up. He moved backwards, defending, keeping his own blade between himself and Mikio. With each deflection, he felt his strength giving way, little by little, to the raw power of an enraged Banqilun.

  But he was doing it. He was holding off an opponent far larger and stronger than himself. He saw each of Mikio’s attacks as it came, and his months of training had honed his reflexes to initiate the proper response faster than he could think.

  Yet despite how much Yipachai had improved, there was only way for the duel to end—Mikio’s strength and reach were too great an advantage. As Yipachai gave more ground, Mikio’s strikes began to connect. First, one to Yipachai’s right shoulder. Then one on his left thigh. His left side.

  “Enough!” Master Rurou called, once Yipachai had taken no less than six direct hits. “Mikio wins. Both of you take a break.”

  Yipachai sunk to his knees, sweat coating his brow, his bruises throbbing. He didn’t look in Mikio’s direction—didn’t want to see his smug face.

  A great, knobby hand rested on his shoulder, then helped him rise.

  “You were great out there, Yipachai,” Mamoru said. His voice was genuine, but his eyes were full of sympathy. Of pity. “You looked like the better duelist, it’s just…”

  “I’m too small,” Yipachai breathed, allowing his head to sink as he leaned his weight on his practice sword, its point stuck into the ground.

  “It’s not that, it’s…”

  “No, it is. I need to be stronger, to find some way to compete with a Banqilun’s reach…”

  Mamoru gave him a comforting pat, then grabbed Yipachai’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “You’ll figure it out eventually. I’m sure of it.”

  Yipachai looked up at his bearded friend and searched his dark eyes. There was real concern there. But also a flicker of doubt.

  Yipachai didn’t blame him.

  “Thanks, Mamoru,” he said. “Good luck on your duel.”

  He wished he could mean it more than he did.

  When training was finally over, Yipachai began a slow, meandering walk to the clearing where he practiced with Naoko, ignoring even Mamoru as he went.

  He needed to be alone. And to think.

  Perhaps it was unrealistic of him to hope to improve so quickly, but Yipachai couldn’t help feeling like the School of the West Wind was failing him in some way. He’d put in the effort, and more time than anyone else, but he was still only a middling duelist at best.

  Even if his skills had somehow improved beyond those of the other novices, his stature was still a major limitation. And if his classmates continued to improve, if they learned to leverage their strength and reach even more efficiently, Yipachai would be at an even greater disadvantage.

  For now, he was on the same path as the other novices, and moving at more or less the same speed. Perhaps he could go a little bit faster, if he maintained his nightly practices with Naoko, but clearly it wasn’t fast enough to actually pull ahead of the others.

  Yipachai found his mind wandering, just as his feet did, reaching out until his consciousness bumped into Pingou’s. He slid wordlessly into a bond, and let their connection lead him to where the heron was hunting along the river’s edge.

  Yipachai squatted down on his haunches, watching Pingou stalk through the reeds. His every move was graceful, measured, precise. Each stab of his golden beak was like a sword thrust, masterfully executed to trap his prey at the optimal moment. As if Pingou knew the direction the little fish would swim even before they moved.

  Like sword thrusts… he thought. What if that’s the key?

  The way Pingou hunted was perfectly suited to his body—to his strengths and weaknesses. Careful, exacting movements let him stalk in undetected, or stand still and balance long enough that his prey no longer sensed him. That long, narrow beak enabled him to stab through the water and snap up his prey faster than they could react.

  If the heron attempted to hunt like a hawk or an eagle, by swooping down with talons outstretched to latch onto prey, it would never succeed. Heron’s wings, legs, and talons weren’t made for that.

  So what if Yipachai himself was like a heron? A heron that had been forced to learn the ways of the hawk, but could never fully appropriate them.

  Was that the answer, then? It had to be.

  For better or worse, Yipachai’s body wasn’t built the same way as a Banqilun’s—the same type of body that all the forms, drills, and exercised had been designed to fit. And if he continued to duel the others in a way that exemplified their strengths and punished his own weaknesses…it was a game he’d never be able to win.

  That meant he needed to adapt, to find a new style of dueling. Some way of fighting that the others hadn’t seen, hadn’t prepared for, and one that would benefit from not being a Banqilun.

  As he sat there, watching Pingou hunt contentedly, a new sense of resolve gripped Yipachai. He would find a way around his weaknesses, even if it upset his instructors when he didn’t follow their specified techniques. He would find a way to take down larger opponents, even when he didn’t have wings and beasts to help him.

  He would find his edge. And he’d use it to cut out a place for himself on the school’s dueling team.

  And after that, he’d use it to cut his enemies to pieces.

  The Rising Blade is set in the wider world of The Mhong Chronicles, only about a hundred years before the events of the main series.

  The Emperor's Dream, is out now! And you can . More on that below.

  have to read that series in order to continue on The Rising Blade—this story stands on its own.