Page 216 of Celestial Combat

I laughed – the sheerthrillof it couldn’t be contained. My fingers found the edge of the dashboard for balance, but I wasn’t scared. Not even close. I was alive in a way only Zane could make me feel.

Then came the final stretch.

The parking garage loomed up ahead. Zane didn’t slow. He took the spiral ramp, drifting up level after level, the rear of the car gliding with impossible grace.

Wind whipped through the cabin. Brake lights from the cars behind us painted the interior blood-red. My pulse thumped in time with the engine’s roar.

Zane exploded into the open air of the rooftop like a shot from a gun, tires squealing as he pulled one final drift across the top level. The city rose all around us – Tokyo’s skyline, lit like circuitry, watching in silence.

As we burst onto the rooftop, tires screaming into one final perfect drift, we weren’t alone.

A crowd was already waiting – lined up along the edge of the parking garage like ghosts of the underworld. Street racers. Drifters. Faces half-lit by headlights, cigarette embers glowing like fireflies in the dusk. The music from someone’s trunk rattled the concrete, bass heavy and wild. Neon underglow painted the floor in bleeding color – violet, green, red. Tokyo pulsed around us, electric and alive.

Zane eased the Lamborghini into place like a signature on a masterpiece. The engine roared once more before dying into a low purr, then silence. All eyes were on us.

The tick of the cooling engine filled the space between cheers.

I leaned back in the seat, chest rising and falling, heart still racing. The wind tugged at my hair, and the lights from the skyline bled into the night like spilled ink.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

K&Z.

Chapter 56

Present

Tokyo, Japan

THE TRAIN DROPPED US OFF at Kanazawa’s Nagamachi Samurai District with the soft clack of tracks giving way to stone-paved lanes lined with earthen walls and wooden lattices. We stepped out into the golden afternoon light, my heart still humming from the quiet thrill of the rails. The air felt older here – history brushing against our skin.

We walked toward the dojo, the wood-paneled building nestled behind a small gate. Lanterns hung, paper framed in dark wood, their curves echoing a gentler world. No voices except our own slow footsteps on gravel and the faint sigh of wind through maples.

Through the genkan, I paused. Striking posts stood like sentinels by the entrance. Their fraying straw coils hinted at countless strikes, countless lessons. I slid off my shoes onto the threshold, feeling the cool wood underfoot. Zane followed, his presence calm, solid.

Inside, the dojo opened quietly around us. The sprung oak floor gleamed soft amber, smooth yet ready to hold every dropof sweat, every fall. I could almost feel the postponed echoes of training tucked into the grain. Above us, crossbeams cut across the ceiling like the blades of silent swords.

At the far wall, canonical and still, was the shomen. Beneath it, the kamiza glowed softly, an altar of devotion. Flowers in a simple vase, brushed-face portraits – masters I didn’t know, but somehow respected at first glance – and hanging scrolls with Kanji strokes that breathed discipline. I felt the hush of sacred focus settle in my chest.

Nearby, the tokonoma stood – a shallow niche framed in polished wood. Inside: a single buddha figurine, a carefully folded obi belt, perhaps the remains of a ceremony or test. Precision and stillness balanced on that tiny shelf.

Above it, nearly out of reach, was the kamidana, a Shinto shelf deified by salt and tiny sake cups. I imagined a priest’s whisper, an offering, the unbroken thread between the dojo and the divine.

At one corner, the Dojo Kun scroll displayed the moral code: respect, perseverance, humility. As I read the principles, sunlight filtered through the latticed windows, spotlighting phrases like living scripture.

Along the outer rim, tatami mats lined select spots – soft straw cushioning for meditative postures, maybe restorative cool-down drills. They smelled of grass and season, like a promise of renewal after toil.

The dojo’s atmosphere felt elemental. Earth in the polished wood and stone, water in the rhythms of breath waiting in the room, fire in the submission of carved wood burning under each stamped foot, wood in the structural strength of pillars, and void in the empty space meant to be filled with intention and spirit.

Zane bowed lightly before the kamiza. I mirrored him, feeling something tighten in my throat. We stood together in that sacred arena – no words, no noise but the soft drone of ourbreathing and our hearts – anchored in mutual calm and fierce respect.

Together, we stepped deeper, toward the center of the yuka, feeling strangely at home in a place meant for discipline and quiet power.

When the blind master entered, I stepped aside quietly, bowing low as he entered the dojo, his fingertips sweeping the air in front of him, sensing our presence. His cane tapped lightly against the yuka floor, a solemn metronome in the silent hall.

Zane offered his own respectful bow.