Chapter 38: The War Footing

My alarm goes off at 5:15 AM. I am out of bed with no hesitation. I am not a zombie today. I am not confused. I am focused. I splash water on my face and look at my reflection. It is the same problematic face, but my eyes are different. The old, unfocused anger is gone, replaced by something else. Something cold. Something I learned from her. I grab my bag and head out the door.

I arrive at the dojo at 5:50 AM. "Early," I note. I slide the heavy door open. The atmosphere is wrong. It is not the quiet torture chamber I am used to. The air is thick, tense.

She is there, but not standing in the center waiting.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound is sharp. She is in her black training gear, her ponytail high, and she is just attacking the makiwara, the striking post in the corner. She is not training; she is fighting. I can see the muscles in her back and shoulders tense and snap with every strike. These are not punches. They are corrections. They are the same palm-heel strikes she used on the Hitsune-kai leader.

"You are here," she says, her voice tight. She does not stop or turn around.

"Yeah," I say, dropping my bag. "I am early."

"Your war begins now," she says, and she turns. Her face chills me to the bone. The goddess is gone. The demon is gone. The amused predator from the rooftop is gone. This is the Successor. Her eyes are black, empty, and full of a cold, controlled fury. This is the woman who handles problems permanently.

"Your training so far has been a test," she says, her voice flat and hard. "To see if your foundation could be corrected. To see if the anomaly was salvageable." She walks to the center of the mat. "The test is over. The preparation begins."

"The Hitsune-kai, the pests from the Oasis, they are not street thugs. They are not bullies. They are professionals," she says, her voice like ice. "They are soldiers. And you... you are a liability."

"Gee, thanks," I mutter, moving to the mat.

"They will not swing at you," she hisses, ignoring me. "They will not push you. They will stab you in the ribs. They will cut your throat. They will shoot you in the head. And they will not hesitate."

This is real.

"So today," she says, "we correct your stupidity."

"My stupidity?"

"You took a knife for me," she says. "That was noble. It was brave. And it was unforgivably inefficient. You failed."

She picks up a tanto, a wooden training knife. My blood runs cold.

"You failed," she repeats, "because you used your body as a shield. A shield breaks. An asset corrects the threat."

She throws the wooden knife at my feet. It clatters. "Pick it up."

I do, my hand shaking.

"Now," she commands, "attack me."

"What? With this?"

"Attack me. Try to stab me. As you say, for real."

I cannot. "I... I cannot, Ayako."

"You hes-"

I move, lunging just to prove... and I am on my back. I do not even know what happened. I blinked, and she was there. Now I am on the mat, my knife hand pinned to the floor by her foot, and the other wooden knife, the one I did not even see her get, is pressed against my throat. I did not even see it.

"You are dead," she whispers, her eyes empty. "You hesitated. You warned me. You failed."

She steps back. "Get up. Again."

For the next three hours, this is my new hell. I am dead in the first ten seconds. I am dead because I telegraphed my attack. I am dead because I looked at the knife and not her center. She disarms me. She corrects me. She pins me. She handles me. She is not teaching me; she is programming me.

"Do not think," she yells, her voice raw. "A thought is too slow. You react. You correct. You survive."

I am a heap on the floor. My entire body is one giant, throbbing failure.

"Again."

"I... I cannot," I gasp.

"You will," she says. "The war does not wait for you to rest."

I get up, shaking. I am so angry. "You want me to stab you?! FINE!"

I charge. I am not thinking. I am just moving. She moves to disarm me. I adapt. I learned. I flow. I spin, using her disarm attempt to pull her off balance.

She stumbles. Just for a fraction of a second. I surprised her.

It is not enough. She corrects. She is faster. She is behind me. The knife is at my throat.

We are both breathing hard.

"You adapted," she whispers, her voice shaky, right in my ear. "Marginally acceptable."

She lets go. I collapse to my knees.

"This is your new life, Shoujo," she says, her voice quiet now. She is in front of me. "There is no going back. You are a target."

She whispers, "Am I in?"

I look up. "I am in," I gasp, my voice hoarse.

"Good," she nods. "Tomorrow. 6 AM. We correct your unacceptable defense."