The Grand Games for Shooting

With one hand pressed to the tender bruise blooming across her back, Cera staggered out of the hut. While the physical wound was a shallow sting, the emotional blow resonated far more deeply. She was being hurled onto the front lines of a conflict she could not begin to fathom, envisioning it as a gathering storm of malicious intent, a vortex of hostility converging upon her from every conceivable angle. Perhaps it would manifest as a rain of arrows or a series of blinding explosions. Whatever form the peril took, she was certain it would close in until there was nothing left of her to destroy.

Strangely, she felt no fear, a detached observation that took her by surprise. Loath as she was to concede the point, Carmine had been correct. One life had already been forfeit. What else of any consequence was there to lose?

She was the novice, the foreigner. Among all his followers, she concluded, she had to be the most expendable. A low groan of frustration escaped her lips.

From his own dwelling, Cy emerged, looking more buoyant and cheerful than she had ever witnessed. "Take it easy," he said with a light touch, steering her toward the hut they shared. "So, what’s the official word?"

Despite her festering irritation, Cera found herself studying him, scrutinizing his youthful form for any sign of his true, spiritual maturity. A tell-tale wheeze in his breath, perhaps? The permanent slump of aged shoulders?

But Cy merely squinted at her, an expression she was coming to recognize. "He didn't mention it?"

"Mention what?" she asked, the question so guileless that she immediately wished she could snatch it back from the air.

"That my soul is that of an ancient crone."

"Your words, not mine," Cera quipped dryly.

He raked an impatient hand through his perpetually bouncy hair. Would a shred of discretion be too much to ask? she wondered. It was painfully obvious he had no intention of sharing those particular secrets.

She offered a noncommittal shrug.

"What else did he tell you?" Cy pressed, his curiosity unabated.

"Oh, the usual," Cera replied, her voice lacquered with a thick layer of sarcasm. "He merely designated me to command your war effort." A contemptuous sneer curled her lip.

His hands shot out, gripping her shoulders and bringing her to an abrupt halt. "What?" he shouted, his voice a scalding blast against her face.

A sudden, overwhelming weariness washed through her. "If you have an objection, you can take it up with him," she retorted. "He sent me sprawling with a kick to the back for daring to ask a simple question."

Ignoring her complaint, Cy abandoned their course and began to pace furiously within the clearing. "You're not qualified for this. The old man has finally lost his senses."

"Then convince him otherwise," Cera said, her tone sour. "I have zero desire to command your absurd fires. They’re the very thing that killed me on Terra." The admission left a foul, ashen taste in her mouth. "It’s like ordering a samurai to commit seppuku."

The color drained from Cy’s face. "What did you just say?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. "You were burned alive? But if that's true, it means…"

"I don't give a damn about you, your sage, or your preposterous theories!" Cera snapped, cutting him off.

"I'll train you," Cy declared, his tone absolute and leaving no opening for debate. "We're starting right now. Let's move."

Before she could voice a protest, he had seized her arm and was hauling her toward the area behind his hut. The argument died on her tongue the moment she saw the verdant field that stretched from one side of the clearing to the other. At its heart lay a patch of scorched and trampled earth, which was unmistakably the arena for Cy's own training.

"How long did he say we have?" Cy demanded.

"Eight days. And we’ll lose more than half of that time to travel and gathering allies," she answered glumly. She had already come to terms with the assignment; it wasn't as if this new world held any other purpose for her.

"Well, try to look a bit more enthusiastic," Cy said. With a casual flick of his wrist, he launched a fireball that soared over her head and slammed into a nearby tree, causing it to erupt in flames. A lazy wave of his hand then snuffed the blaze out. "You do realize," he continued, with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, "that most Terrans would see throwing fire as a profound privilege. Bucket list material. High adventure. All that nonsense." His focus drifted, his voice lowering as if he were speaking more to himself than to her. "Then again, they've probably all had a turn in one lifetime or another."

"Even back on Terra?" Cera asked, startled by the implication.

"What do you imagine those old masters are doing, hiding away in their mountains and marshes? They are all quite... vibrant, each in their own fashion." Cy’s gaze grew distant for a moment, and he seemed to pause, consciously clearing his thoughts.

Cera waited, the gnawing emptiness in her stomach a constant churn. She didn't dare bring it up.

"In any case," he said, holding out his hands, where a small flame danced in his cupped palms. "First lesson. I want you to hold this fire. In theory, it won't burn you."

She approached with caution, a tremor of panic rising within her that she attributed to her recent trauma. But as her hands met his, a singular warmth suffused her being, an instantly tranquilizing sensation. The persistent ache in her back dissolved, and even the pangs of hunger receded. The feeling was akin to the return of a cherished friend, or perhaps the embrace of the mother she had lost so long ago.

Cy drew his hands back, leaving the flame nestled in her own. She gasped in astonishment.

"Hold on to that sensation," he urged. "You must learn to replicate it on your own, whenever you need it. In the chaos of battle, when you’re on the verge of despair. Nurture it, keep it alive inside you, so you can call upon it at will."

She understood and gave a slow nod.

"You're nothing but a stupid girl," Cy muttered abruptly. "I cannot believe Carmine has gone so soft in the head that he'd put you in command."

"What was that?" Cera shrieked, incredulous. How could he? The flame cradled in her palms flickered violently. She expected it to extinguish, the comforting warmth supplanted by a cold rage, but instead, it detonated. The fire exploded from her hands, spewing across the dry grass. A sudden gust of wind caught the embers, fanning them into a blaze that spread with terrifying speed.

Her immediate instinct was to collapse, to curl into a ball on the ground and simply weep. But as her knees began to buckle, her gaze fell on Cy. He had already smothered the last of the flames, his features a mask of neutrality that revealed nothing of his thoughts.

"There's a great deal of fear inside you, isn't there?" Cy observed quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

She offered no reply.

"That was good, though," he added with a sigh. "As you can see, flame types are easily provoked. You, me, Carmine, Perla… we’re all volatile. It’s not always a pleasant trait."

Cera arched an eyebrow. He had just delivered a stinging insult, only to immediately group her into his own temperamental category. She was at a loss for how to react.

"But rage makes for a powerful fuel," Cy continued, a wry smile playing on his lips. "It's far more potent than the simple comfort a flame can provide. And for people like us, there is always a low simmer of irritation just beneath a very thin veneer of calm—life offers an abundance of kindling. Don't ever be afraid to throw a tantrum during your training. It’s an essential part of the process."

"Oh," he added, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "I should probably teach you how to extinguish them first. That might help with the anxiety."

Cera bit back a scathing retort, settling for a curt, jerky nod.

"You just make the motion with your hand and issue the command with your mind. It doesn't need to be fueled by anger or joy. Just a simple intention—Away, or something to that effect. Once you're proficient, you won't even need the words. It will become instinct."

He guided her hand through a sharp, downward slicing motion. "As a novice, use your entire hand," he instructed, "though in time, you’ll be able to do it with a single finger." She practiced, beginning with a tiny flicker he produced for her and steadily progressing until she could extinguish infernos as large as the one she had accidentally created.

"Let's go get some lunch," Cy finally said. "You must be famished. We can return for more practice after nightfall."

"Won't the light attract enemies?" Cera asked, her suspicion evident.

Cy chuckled. "Cera, the war doesn't start for another few days. Try to relax."

"That is not my name!"

How could he be so nonchalant about the prospect of war? Then it struck her: just like her father, just like Mya, he had already experienced a full life on Terra and retained all its memories. The thought of them sent a bittersweet pang through her chest.

As they followed the same path they had taken the day before, she found herself unable to contain her curiosity. "What was it like?"

"What was what like?" he asked, his eyes darting around as though he were checking for eavesdroppers.

"Your past life."

Cy froze, remaining motionless for a long moment. Then, with a scowl, he shoved a perfectly harmless tree branch out of his way and resumed walking.

"Come on," Cera insisted. "It can't possibly be worse than being a bookish, anxious middle-schooler whose only friends were imaginary. I never got a chance to do anything." Her voice cracked on the final words.

Cy's expression remained unreadable. They walked on, passing more trees and thickets as the trail wound onward. Cera was beginning to think he would never answer when he finally spoke. "It wasn't a pretty picture."

She waited, sensing he had more to say.

"First, who do you imagine I was?"

Cera shrugged, at a complete loss. The question was far too open-ended, and she barely knew him. "I have no idea. A daimyo from feudal Japan, given your arrogance? Or maybe a supermodel—you certainly possess the vanity for it."

Cy simply continued walking. Wrong approach, Cera mentally chided herself. She would need to be more diplomatic if she was going to lead this group in a week's time.

She tried a different strategy, one of gentle persuasion. "Sharing the burden might make it lighter. Please?"

Cy heaved a sigh. "Fine. If it will get you to stop asking."

Cera nearly let out a cheer but managed to stifle it, knowing it would be precisely the wrong response.

"I was one of the first women to win the Grand Games in marksmanship," Cy stated, his tone as casual as if he were remarking on the weather.

"That's incredible!" Cera exclaimed, looking at him with a newfound sense of admiration.

"What, no sarcastic comments? Nothing about my gender back then, or the fact that I'm a twelve-year-old boy now?" Cy asked, his voice laced with caution.

"Not a single one," Cera confirmed, shaking her head. "It's just another facet of this whole reincarnation business, I suppose." She paused for a beat. "So… if you're attracted to girls now, does that make you a lesbian?"

"Stupid!" he snapped. "No. And for the record," he added with haste, "I'm not attracted to anyone, boy or girl." With that final declaration, he abruptly turned and vanished into Perla's restaurant, leaving her standing alone on the path.

Cera chuckled softly to herself and followed him inside.