Chapter 2: Silver Blade

The dawn light filtered through the tall windows of the Lycan Hunter Corps’ Tokyo headquarters, casting long shadows over the training courtyard. Shiro stood at attention before Master Takeda, who inspected his gear with a practiced eye.

“Your katana,” Takeda began, tapping the silver blade with a gloved fingertip, “must be more than a weapon—it’s an extension of your will. Show me your form.”

Shiro drew the katana in one seamless motion. The blade sang as it slid free from its scabbard. He adopted a low stance, knees bent, back straight, eyes fixed on an imaginary foe.

Takeda nodded. “Again.”

Shiro advanced, each step measured. He swung the blade in a horizontal arc, then a vertical slice. The air shimmered where the edge passed. He ended in a poised guard, breath steady, blade pointed at the sky.

“Good,” Takeda said. “Now speed.”

At the word, Shiro exploded forward. He executed five rapid strikes—thrust, slash, parry, riposte, final cut—finishing in perfect balance. Takeda’s eyes gleamed.

“Faster,” he ordered.

Shiro obeyed, each movement blurring. After twenty strikes, he halted, chest heaving. The courtyard was silent except for his ragged breathing.

Takeda sheathed his own katana and approached. “You improve, but technique alone won’t win a fight. You must read your opponent—anticipate their moves.”

Shiro nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. “How do I train that?”

Takeda pointed to the far end of the courtyard, where holographic targets flickered into life—wolf forms in mid-pounce.

“Combine blade and instinct,” he said. “Strike as they move, not where they were.”

Shiro gripped his katana and advanced on the holograms. The first wolf lunged; Shiro sidestepped, slicing the projection’s neck. The next feinted left; he spun and drove his blade through its chest. Each kill dissolved into a red mist.

After ten wolves, the final form morphed mid-strike into a human silhouette, dagger raised. Shiro hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then struck true, severing the hologram’s arm.

Takeda lowered his arms. “You’re learning. Now, the real test.”

He signaled, and a heavy wooden door at the courtyard’s edge swung open. Inside was a dimly lit chamber, the floor strewn with debris and blood-red stains. At its center crouched a chained werewolf—fur black as night, eyes glowing with feral intelligence.

Shiro’s heart quickened. This was no simulation.

Takeda’s voice was calm. “Kill it.”

Shiro stepped forward. The werewolf snarled, lunging at the chain. Shiro raised his katana, recalling Takeda’s lesson: read the beast, strike through its momentum. As the creature sprang, Shiro sidestepped, slashing across its ribs. It roared, spinning. He met the rotation with a thrust to its shoulder, then a downward cut to its thigh, severing muscle and bone.

The werewolf collapsed, blood pooling. Its human form flickered through the wounds—then stabilized as a man, eyes wide with shock.

Shiro stood over him, blade poised for the killing blow. The man looked up, trembling: “Please… I’m not—”

Shiro hesitated. Memories of yesterday’s captive—Kazuo—flooded back. He lowered the katana. “You’ll live,” he said quietly.

Takeda’s eyes narrowed. “You spared it?”

Shiro sheathed his blade. “He’s no different than yesterday’s. He survived.”

Takeda exhaled sharply. “Compassion is a luxury. Remember that.”

Shiro met his gaze. “And killing every survivor is a crime against what we fight for.”

Takeda said nothing. He turned and walked away, leaving Shiro alone with the wounded man. Shiro knelt, pressed a hand to the man’s chest to stem bleeding, and spoke softly: “Tell me your name.”

The man managed a whisper: “Ryo… I’m Ryo.”

Shiro nodded. “Ryo, you’ll be treated. But if you turn again, I won’t hesitate.”

Ryo closed his eyes. “Thank you… Hunter.”

Shiro stood, looking toward the courtyard exit where sunlight spilled in. A hunter’s life was blood and steel—but perhaps, he thought, there was room for mercy, even in darkness.