From where we left off…
The dojo’s morning bell hadn’t even finished ringing when the Sword Saint summoned her.
Kyoko knelt on the polished cedar floor, back straight, hands resting on her thighs. The air smelled of pine resin and iron—clean, sharp, controlled. Just like the old man’s voice when he spoke.
“You leave for the Grand Academy in three days.”
Her fingers twitched toward an imaginary sword grip. “Why?”
The Sword Saint exhaled through his nose. A bad sign. “Because you are thirteen. Because you are Chosen. And because you still fight like a butcher with a cleaver.”
Kyoko’s jaw tightened. That was unfair. She’d beaten every disciple in the dojo. Even Hayate, twice her size, still limped from their last spar.
“I win,” she said.
“Winning is not the point.”
“Then what is?”
The old man’s cane tapped the floor—once, twice. Then he stood, unfolding like a drawn blade, and tossed her a scroll sealed with wax the color of dried blood.
“The Academy will teach you restraint. Or it will break you. Either way, you’re their problem now.”
The scroll weighed nothing, but Kyoko carried it like an anchor.
The Grand Academy of Therios.
A place for the gifted. The marked.
She’d heard stories, of course. How the walls were carved from Godstone. How the libraries held spells that could unmake mountains. How the training grounds were soaked with the blood of would-be legends.
(That last part sounded fun.)
Back in her cell-like room, she packed:
-
Two uniforms (black, durable, already patched at the elbows).
-
A whetstone (chipped, stolen from Hayate).
-
The knife she wasn’t supposed to have (hidden in her sash).
And the scroll, still unopened.
She sat on her sleeping mat, elbows on her knees, the scroll between her feet. Three days.
Three days to be just Kyoko, before she became whatever the Academy would make of her.
The truth was, she didn’t want to go. Not really. The dojo was her world—its silence, its rules, the rhythm of combat and breath. The Sword Saint’s cold approval, meted out like drops of water in a desert, was the closest thing she had to love.
She didn’t fear the Academy.
She feared disappearing in it.
A shadow filled her doorway. Hayate, arms crossed, his smirk as irritating as ever. “Heard you’re getting shipped off.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Kyoko ignored him, rolling her spare socks.
“Bet you won’t last a week,” he added. “Academy masters don’t like wild dogs.”
She looked up slowly. “Good thing I bite, then.”
Hayate’s smile faltered. He remembered the alley. The broken fingers. The way she’d smiled while doing it.
He left without another word.
Kyoko returned to packing.
Restraint, huh?
She’d show them restraint.
The Sword Saint didn’t speak when she entered the training hall the next morning. He simply tossed her a wooden stick.
Kyoko caught it. Narrow, scarred, perfectly balanced.
This would be their last match.
She had fought him before.
She had never fought this version of him.
The wooden stick moved like a living thing—no, like something beyond alive. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t flashy. It was inevitable.
She dodged left. The stick was already there, cracking against her ribs.
She feinted right. The stick met her wrist before she even finished shifting her weight.
She tried a reckless charge, the way she’d beaten Hayate—
The stick tapped her forehead. Lightly.
"Dead," the Sword Saint said.
She snarled, reset her stance—
Tap. Throat.
"Dead."
Crack. Knee.
"Dead."
She hit the floor for the fifth time, sweat stinging her eyes. The old man hadn’t taken a single step.
Kyoko spat blood. "Show off."
The Sword Saint lowered the stick. "You rely on strength. On anger. On winning." His voice was calm. "The Academy will break that habit. Or you will break."
She wiped her mouth. "Maybe I like breaking things."
For the first time in years, the Sword Saint almost smiled. "I know."
Then he tossed her a waterskin. "Rest. You leave at dawn."
The carriage was nicer than she expected.
Black lacquered wood, cushioned seats, even a damn curtain to block the dust. Fancy. Probably for the Chosen part, not the Kyoko part.
She eyed it warily, as if it might bite.
Hayate stood beside it, arms crossed, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon.
Kyoko smirked. "You drew the short straw, huh?"
"Shut up." He jerked his chin at the carriage. "Just keep your knives to yourself. The Academy likes its students unstabbed."
She hoisted herself into the seat, stretching her legs. "No promises." Then, after a beat: "You’re my training partner on the road."
Hayate paled. "I—what?"
She leaned out the window, grinning. "Every night. Full sparring rules."
"That’s not—"
"Unless you’re scared?"
Hayate’s jaw clenched. "...Fine."
Kyoko leaned back, satisfied.
The Academy wanted restraint?
She’d give them restraint.
Right after she gave Hayate a few more bruises.
The road twisted through the hills like a serpent, green and gold in the morning light. Trees thickened into forest. Sky turned the color of bruised peach at dusk.
Kyoko sat with her boots up, flipping a coin between her knuckles, watching birds dive for insects in the grass.
She hadn’t opened the scroll.
Part of her didn’t want to. She already knew what it said: rules, expectations, restrictions. Probably some flowery welcome message from a headmaster with too many titles.
She preferred not knowing.
That night, they camped by a stream. Hayate tried to roast something that looked like rabbit. It ended up charred on one side, raw on the other. She ate around the bone anyway.
Then they sparred.
Kyoko fought with a blunt stick. Hayate used a real blade, dulled and wrapped in leather. It didn’t matter.
She outpaced him.
But he was improving. Two years ago, he’d been nothing but strength. Now he blocked more. Thought more. Still not enough.
By the fire, he nursed a bruised jaw. “You’re gonna be alone there.”
Kyoko didn’t look up. “Good.”
“I mean it. They’re not like us.”
She shrugged. “Then they’ll lose.”
“You can’t punch your way through everything.”
She tossed a twig into the flames. “I’ve gotten pretty far doing just that.”
Hayate watched her. Not smug. Not mocking. Just quiet.
“You think the Sword Saint’s really letting you go because you're ready?” he said finally.
She didn’t answer.
He stood, stretching. “Maybe he's done with you.”
That got under her skin. More than she wanted to admit.
But she didn’t react.
That was new.
By the fourth day, the road forked—one path toward the capital, the other winding toward the cliffs of Therios.
Kyoko’s breath caught when she saw them. Pale gray stone, smooth as bone, rising like a wall against the sky. The Academy lay beyond. Just out of sight.
But not yet.
They camped a final night in the shadow of the cliffs.
She dreamt of the dojo. Of blood on polished floors. Of the Sword Saint, older now, watching her walk away without a word.
In the morning, she finally broke the wax seal on the scroll.
Inside was a single line.
"Enter whole, or don’t enter at all."
That was it.
No titles. No warnings.
Just a dare.
She folded the scroll and tucked it away.
Tomorrow, she would cross the threshold.
But tonight?
Tonight she sparred again.
And for the first time, she held back.
Just a little.