Page 33

Chapter 33

Kaneko

K azashita stopped so suddenly I nearly ran into him.

His head tilted, his entire body going unnaturally still.

I followed his gaze and felt my stomach lurch.

Through the thick undergrowth, barely a dozen paces ahead, a camp sprawled in a rough clearing. There, before us, stood a handful of huts, a few smoldering fires, and—pirates.

Six of them, at least.

One man staggered drunkenly, mumbling to himself as he tried to walk in a straight line. Four others sat around a fire, gnawing on hunks of meat, their weapons discarded but within reach. The last one I could see—the sentry—paced the perimeter, scanning the jungle with sharp, practiced movements.

Kazashita turned to me, his voice barely above a whisper. “We can’t go around. There are larger camps on either side.”

I swallowed. “So what do we do?”

In one smooth, deliberate motion, he unsheathed his katana . The steel whisper sent a shiver up my spine—it was the whisper of Death.

“There,” he murmured, pointing across the clearing. “That is where the sentry is most exposed. If I take him out there, the others will not see.”

I could barely breathe.

“And then what?”

Kazashita turned his head just enough to meet my gaze. His jaw was set with determination.

“Stay here.” His voice was soft, but it was a command. “No matter what happens, do not make a sound, and do not reveal yourself until I call.”

Something inside me twisted.

I should help. Kazashita couldn’t handle six men by himself. Few men could. This was insanity. But my skill with the blade was based on beating Yoshi with wooden swords. I’d never actually fought another man. I’d never killed anyone. Suddenly, the idea of offering my aid rang hollow in my ears.

Kazashita hesitated for just a breath. “If I fall, make for the center of the island. Find an herb woman named Irie. Tell her I sent you.”

Before I could argue, he was gone. I let fronds fold over me, hide me deep within the foliage, parting it only enough to watch without being discovered.

The sentry made three slow circuits before I saw Kazashita move. It was like watching a shadow break away from the trees. He was silent, inhumanly fast. Every step, every motion, was made with purpose and intent.

The sentry never even saw him.

One moment the man was pacing, glancing from the jungle toward the fire—and then Kazashita was behind him.

A flicker of steel.

The guard never made a sound.

Kazashita’s blade slid so fast, so cleanly, that the pirate simply collapsed mid-step, as if sleep had stolen him mid-thought. Kazashita caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him gently into the tall grass.

My pulse hammered.

I had seen men fight before. I had seen duels and tavern brawls, but I had never seen anything like this. Kazashita wasn’t fighting. He was executing .

As my mind struggled to grasp the scene playing out before me, Kazashita vanished into the shadows again. The four men at the fire were still eating, still talking, still unaware of the ghost moving among them.

Then, in the space between heartbeats—

Kazashita struck.

The first pirate never even looked up. He had been mid-bite when a katana flashed, slicing through his throat, so smoothly that for a single, terrible moment, his body remained upright and continued its motions. Then meat tumbled from his hands, and he fell forward, face-first into the dirt.

As the second man turned, blinking in confusion, Kazashita opened his belly before his brain caught up. The man gasped, looking down at blood gushing from his gut before collapsing onto his own spilled entrails.

The third had enough time to shout. Barely.

He shot to his feet, knocking over the pot of stew.

Kazashita was already moving.

The fourth pirate lunged for a nearby axe. He was too slow.

Kazashita stepped in, twisting, his blade flashing in a tight arc. The axe wielder lost his arm from the elbow before he could even lift it. His scream never left his mouth. Kazashita turned his blade, slicing from shoulder to hip, and the pirate fell in two pieces.

The air reeked of blood and burning stew.

I had seen Samurai dance with the blade before, seen duels of incredible skill, but I’d never see anything like what Kazashita did in that camp.

His movements were too smooth, too fast, too perfect. There was no wasted energy, no hesitation. And yet, he moved with the grace of a dancer.

I had heard legends of swordsmen like this—men whose blades moved faster than the eye, whose steel whispered to the dead before they even knew they had fallen.

I knew I was watching one now.

And for the first time since I had been captured, I felt something other than fear.

I felt awe.

The drunk pirate stumbled forward, fumbling for his weapon. Kazashita didn’t even bother raising his katana . With a flick of his wrist, he shattered the pirate’s clay jug, sending shards of pottery and alcohol spilling over the man’s stunned face. Before he could react, Kazashita drove his blade into the soft space beneath his ribs. The pirate let out a gurgling wheeze. Kazashita yanked the sword free, and the man crumpled, already forgotten.

The last pirate—the one who had screamed—turned and ran.

Kazashita didn’t give chase.

He watched. Waited. Let the man disappear into the jungle. And then, as if the fight had never happened, he simply turned away.

“You can come out now.” His voice cut through the heavy silence, calm as ever. He wasn’t even winded, for the gods’ sake.

I stepped out of my hiding place on unsteady legs.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t know what to say.

He had just killed five others in the space of a few breaths, and I had done nothing.

Could I have helped? Should I have? Would it have mattered?

Kazashita wiped his blade on one of the dead men’s trousers before sheathing it. “There should be food and water here. Take what you can carry.”

I nodded, forcing myself to step over the bodies that were still warm. My hands trembled as I packed supplies I found in one of the huts—dried meat, fruit, a cask of water.

Kazashita tossed me a waterskin when I threw back the animal hide used to cover the hut’s entrance. “Drink.”

I hesitated before obeying, my raw throat glad for the respite.

At his urging, we rifled through the camp, searching for anything useful. A moment later, Kazashita held a dagger out to me, hilt-first. I eyed it warily.

“You will need to defend yourself,” he said simply. “I assume you know which end to hold?”

I snorted, trying to smother the shaking in my hands as I gripped the hilt. “Yes. I believe I can manage to stick the sharp, pointy part into their flabby, fat parts.”

Kazashita smirked. “Words of a martial master.”

Numb, I forced myself to sit. My body still buzzed with leftover fear, awe, and something else I couldn’t name. We had survived the jungle. We had survived the wreck.

And I had survived the company of this man . . . so far.

I wasn’t sure which was the greater miracle.