Gyakkyou: Chapter Six

Chapter Six: The Path of Stone

Lanterns softly glow,

Cherry blossoms kiss the breeze—

Shimo dreams in bloom.

Beneath the misty sky, the army marched like a river through the mountains—steady, unrelenting, silent. The rain had thinned to a drizzle, and the world around them was painted in shades of grey and green, the peaks of Hinokuni fading into the distance. Dōri rode in the midst of it all, his thoughts as controlled and deliberate as his posture. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the boy, Gyakkyou, walking among the soldiers with unsteady steps, carrying the weight of his new titles and the blood on his hands.

Dōri had seen boys like him before—victims of war, forged in hate, and tempered in battle. Few survived long on the path that lay ahead, but Mitsuharu-sama had seen something in Gyakkyou, and so the boy was now his responsibility. It was not his place to question the Taishō's judgment, nor did he intend to.

The boy stumbled, catching himself before he could fall, his movements sluggish with exhaustion. He was no longer the wild, angry child that had cut down enemies in a blind fury, bolstered by the old magics of Hachiman’s priests. There was a hollow look in his eyes now, a dullness that spoke of a mind unravelling from the things he had seen and done. But it wasn’t Dōri’s concern whether Gyakkyou’s heart ached or not. The boy had stepped onto a path many lusted after, yet if he faltered, it would swallow him whole. That, too, was not Dōri’s concern.

He turned his gaze back to the road ahead. The capital, Shimo, awaited them. The Taishō's detachment had rejoined the rest of the army two days prior, and now their return was imminent. The capital’s silhouette would soon rise from the horizon like the spines of a great, submerged dragon, welcoming them back to the centre of the world. 

"Taishō-sama is pleased with you," a voice interrupted his thoughts. Dōri glanced to his right, where Jirō, one of his trusted subordinates, walked beside him. Jirō’s face, half-hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, bore the faintest hint of a smile. "He rarely takes such an interest in anyone."

"Interest is not what I would call it," Dōri replied, his tone even, emotionless. "The boy is useful. That is all."

"Useful, perhaps," Jirō chuckled. "But he's still a child, and you are to make him a warrior."

Dōri’s expression did not change. As the miles passed beneath their feet, the horizon began to change. The mountains gave way to rolling hills, and soon the towering pagodas of Shimo loomed in the distance, their dark wooden beams stained black from centuries of rain and sun. 

Mirroring the Hachiman islands, Shimo—the God-emperor’s birthplace—was a conduit of power, a symbol of the Ten’nō's divine rule. To many, it was the beating heart of the realm. They passed through the city gates without fanfare, soldiers dispersing to their posts while others trudged toward the barracks. The clatter of hooves and the murmur of the crowds filled the air. With a curt nod, Dōri gestured for Jirō and the other ashigaru to bring the boy.

“Follow me,” he ordered Gyakkyou as he dismounted. The boy obeyed without a word. The walk through the city was a far cry from the peaceful solitude of the mountains. The streets bustled with merchants hawking their wares, noblemen in silk robes, and peasants bowing as samurai passed by. Soon, they arrived at the Dōri’s demesne—stark, imposing, with high walls and gates guarded by watchful men.

"This will be your new home," Dōri said as they entered. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we begin your training in the ways of the samurai. Your past is gone. There is only the future. Do you understand?"

Gyakkyou nodded. 

“Yes.”

“You will refer to me as Sensei or Lord Dōri. Understood?”

A pause. Brief.

“Yes, Dōri-sama,” the boy muttered eventually.

***

The morning was still young, a pale mist clinging to the city as the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, casting Shimo in a muted gold. The stillness of dawn was only broken by the rustle of Dōri's kimono and the soft clink of his katana’s fittings as he made his way through the courtyard, his eyes already set on the boy waiting under the watchful gaze of the cherry blossom tree.

Gyakkyou stood in silence, his posture rigid, his gaze downcast. His clothing was simple—a light cotton yukata, tied hastily, as if its wearer had little care for his appearance. The boy's hair, still unkempt, hung loosely, partly obscuring his expression. Dōri noted these things without judgment, understanding that the boy knew no better. He would have to learn.

“You are late,” Dōri said, his voice cutting through the cold morning air. Gyakkyou’s head jerked up at the words, and the faintest flash of defiance crossed his eyes before being extinguished by obedience. He bowed deeply, holding the posture for a moment too long.

“My apologies, Lord Dōri,” Gyakkyou muttered, his tone as careful as it was strained. Dōri scrutinized him in silence, reading more from the tension in his limbs than from his words. Apologies were meaningless—actions mattered. Still, he would not be harsh, not today.

Dōri stepped forward and gestured to a small rack that held two wooden bokken—the practice swords of oak, worn with use, their hilts fraying. He took one in his hand and tossed the other at Gyakkyou, who caught it clumsily, fumbling with the unfamiliar weight.

“Today, we begin with the basics,” Dōri said, his tone even, his eyes watching the boy’s reaction. “The katana is not merely a tool. It is an extension of your soul. Without discipline, without harmony, you will break before you ever master it.” He stepped into the training circle, its perimeter marked by white stones set into the ground, and nodded at Gyakkyou to do the same.

“Feet apart,” Dōri instructed, his voice now that of a teacher—firm, unyielding. “Left foot slightly forward, knees bent. Grip the bokken, not too tight. Feel its weight, its balance. It is not something you force. You guide it, with purpose and respect.”

Gyakkyou mimicked his stance, his movements stiff and awkward. Dōri observed in silence for a long moment, his gaze sharp, noting the uncertainty in the boy’s posture, the slight tremor in his hands. This was to be expected—the boy had fought, yes, but without direction, without training. He had wielded a blade like a club, crude. His grip was also wrong, reversed. Left-handed. Dōri corrected it without a word.

“Strike,” he commanded, gesturing toward the target dummy set at the edge of the circle—a crude construction of straw, bound tightly around a wooden pole. Gyakkyou hesitated, then lunged forward, his strike wild and lacking focus. The bokken thudded into the target but glanced off its side, sending the boy stumbling forward.

“Stop,” Dōri said sharply, his voice cracking like a whip. Gyakkyou froze, his eyes widening, chest heaving. “Your strike is meaningless if you cannot control it. Balance is everything. Without balance, you are no different from a beast lashing out in desperation.” He moved closer, positioning himself behind the boy, his hands reaching out to adjust his stance. He placed the boy’s feet in the correct position, adjusted his grip once more, and guided his shoulders until they squared.

“Again,” Dōri ordered, stepping back. Gyakkyou took a deep breath, steadying himself. He raised the bokken and struck, the blade landing more solidly this time, though still with room for improvement.

“Better,” Dōri acknowledged, a rare note of approval in his voice. “But do not confuse ‘better’ with ‘acceptable.’ You will repeat this strike until your arms can no longer lift the bokken.” He paused, allowing the words to sink in. “Strength comes through repetition, through suffering. If you seek strength, if you seek to become more than what you are now, this is your path.”

For hours they continued, the sun climbing higher, warming the courtyard. The boy’s breath became laboured, his muscles trembling, but he did not complain. Finally, as the sun reached its zenith, Dōri held up a hand, halting Gyakkyou mid-strike. The boy stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow, his eyes still locked on the target. Dōri nodded a final time, the slightest hint of approval in his gaze.

“Enough for today,” he said. “You have much to learn, but you did not falter. Remember this feeling—the ache in your muscles, the weight of exhaustion. It is the first step toward strength. Understood?”

Gyakkyou opened his mouth to respond but no words came out, only pants. Exhaustion.

“Rest now,” Dōri sighed, his tone softening slightly. “Tomorrow, we begin again.”