Adventure of Miyamoto Mifune 1

Miyamoto Mifune slips beyond the watchmen and into the dojos quarter. Wet cobbles shine under pale afternoon light, and the air reeks of sweat, oil, and split bamboo.

Practice blades clap and bark all around him. Behind open yard gates, young swordsmen trade strikes while masters watch with folded arms.

His wrist mark gives a faint pulse under his sleeve. A few heads turn at once, not to his face, but to the hidden stain that threatens him.

The nearest yard falls quiet. A broad-shouldered master in a black training coat steps forward, his wooden sword resting on one shoulder, his students watching him and Mifune alike.

Every doorway in the street seems to narrow around Miyamoto Mifune. Here, in the city’s harshest proving ground, one clean duel could win him notice, or draw the temple’s net straight over his head.

The yardmaster lowers his wooden sword from his shoulder. The students behind him stop whispering.

He steps into the open gate, planting the practice blade before him like a post. His gaze sharpens, not hostile now, but measuring.

The nearest students lean in. Wet cobbles gleam between them and the yard, and the whole quarter waits for Mifune’s answer.

Mifune shifts his weight, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his katana as he prepares to draw. The steel catches the dim light, revealing the fine edge of a blade that has tasted the blood of temple hunters.

Mifune moves first. His katana clears the scabbard in a single flash, and the dojo master’s wooden sword never finishes its check. Steel cuts through his guard, clean and final.

The master staggers back into the wet yard, his stance breaking as his knees give way. A dark stain spreads across his robe and the students around the yard suck in a sharp, frightened breath.

Mifune’s sleeve catches on the blade’s path, and a shallow nick opens along his forearm. The pain is small, but it bites hot enough to remind him he has been seen.

The words carry across the open gate. Heads turn from the practice lines, and more students gather at the edge of the yard, staring at the stranger who just dropped their master.

The dojo master sags on one elbow, still looking at Mifune with a hard, measuring gaze, even as his breath grows thin. His respect and his warning arrive together, and neither softens the crowd.