Chapter Two: The Weight of Ashes

The assassin came in the third hour of the night, when even the most vigilant guards grew heavy-lidded and the estate settled into the breathing quiet of sleep. Arata woke to the whisper of displaced air—a sound so subtle it might have been his imagination.

It wasn't.

The blade descended in a silver arc, catching moonlight through the shoji screen. Arata rolled instinctively, muscle memory from childhood beatings saving him where training could not. The katana buried itself in his futon with a muted thud, and before the assassin could wrench it free, the door exploded inward.

Hayato moved like water turned to steel—fluid, precise, merciless. His blade found the assassin's throat before Arata could even process what was happening. Blood sprayed in a dark fan across the tatami, and the would-be killer collapsed, gurgling his last breaths.

"Are you hurt?" Hayato demanded, not even breathing hard.

Arata stared at the corpse, at the blood pooling around his futon, at how close death had come. His hands shook. His chest felt too tight. "I... no. No, I'm—"

"Guards!" Hayato's voice cut through the night like a temple bell. "Secure the compound! No one enters or leaves without my permission!"

The estate erupted into chaos. Torches flared to life. Men shouted. Arata sat frozen on his blood-soaked futon, unable to look away from the dead man's face—young, perhaps twenty-five, with the weathered features of a ronin or farmer.

"Who was he?" Arata whispered.

"A hired blade." Hayato crouched beside the body, searching the corpse with practiced efficiency. "No mon, no identifying marks. Whoever sent him was careful." He pulled a small silk pouch from the assassin's sleeve, weighing it in his palm. "But not careful enough. This is good coin—more than a ronin could earn in a year. Someone wealthy wanted you dead."

The implications settled over Arata like a funeral shroud. Someone in his own house, perhaps someone who'd knelt before him and pledged loyalty, had paid for his death.

"I can't do this," he breathed. "I can't live like this. Every shadow, every servant—how do I know who wants me alive and who's waiting for their moment?"

Hayato's expression softened, just slightly. "You don't. Welcome to lordship, Arata-sama. This is the world your father navigated every day of his life."

"Then how did he bear it?"

"By being stronger than his enemies. By making himself too valuable to kill, too dangerous to cross." Hayato stood, his bloodied sword still in hand. "But your father had decades to build that strength. You have weeks, perhaps months if we're lucky." He paused, weighing his next words. "Which means you need to become someone worth keeping alive. Fast."

The next morning, Hayato woke him before dawn. Every muscle in Arata's body screamed protest as he was hauled from his futon and dragged to the training yard. The other retainers watched from the sidelines as Hayato handed him a bokken—a wooden practice sword that felt impossibly heavy in his untrained hands.

"Your father neglected your martial education," Hayato said, his tone matter-of-fact. "That ends now. If you want to survive in this world, you need to learn to fight."

The lessons were brutal. Hayato showed no mercy, striking hard enough to leave bruises that bloomed purple and yellow across Arata's ribs and shoulders. Each time Arata fell, Hayato ordered him up. Each time he complained, Hayato struck harder.

"Your enemies won't show you kindness!" Hayato barked, sweeping Arata's legs out from under him for the dozenth time. "They'll cut your throat while you sleep and toast your death over sake! Now get up!"

But the physical pain was almost a relief. It gave Arata something to focus on besides the gnawing anxiety that ate at him day and night. The fear that at any moment another assassin might strike. That his own retainers plotted against him. That he was utterly, completely alone in a world that wanted him dead or diminished.

The weight of it crushed down on him during council meetings, where he struggled to understand discussions of border disputes and merchant contracts. It haunted him during evening meals, where he ate alone in his father's—no, his—chambers, surrounded by ghosts. It woke him in the night, gasping and clutching at his throat, certain he felt cold steel against his skin.

Hayato noticed. Of course he noticed.

"You're going to break," the retainer said one evening, his tone almost gentle. "I can see it in your eyes. You're carrying too much, too fast."

"What choice do I have?" Arata's voice was hollow. "You said it yourself—I need to become strong enough to survive."

"Strength isn't just the blade and the council chamber." Hayato studied him for a long moment. "Your father knew that. When the weight became too much, he had ways of... finding relief."

Arata's laugh was sharp, bitter. "Let me guess. Women? Sake? The traditional escapes of powerful men?"

"Sometimes tradition exists for a reason." Hayato stood, motioning toward the door. "Come. We're going to take a ride through the city. Clear your head. Let you remember there's a world beyond these walls."

"I don't want—"

"I'm not asking, my lord." Hayato's tone left no room for argument. "You're going. Even if I have to drag you there."