Empire of Fusan

Imperial Year, 1836




"There exists such a thing as patience, Saito-San," the man huffed, turning the blade over in his hand. The youth beside him whacked at the air with his own curved blade, a katana. The man shook his head and circled the boy. "Again!"

The boy, Saito, swiped at the air again with a cry as sharp as the sword tight between his fingers. The katana. The sword of a true warrior. Even with the forced invasion of Kaniarian goods in the last two hundred years, the sharp sword had remained a weapon of pride and prestige. The loud, smoking cannons of the Centrans had pervaded over practicality, but not culture. While the Shogunate Army had started to use the smoking firesticks called rifles into their designs, a wakizashi was still the most desired of weapons for any Fusanese soldier worth his salt.

"One day, I will stand among the Shogun," Saito shouted, turning and slicing at the air. The man smiled and laughed.

"You may yet, boy."

The boy turned and swiped again, then stopped and lowered his blade. "Have you had enough, Saito-San?"

The boy, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, nodded. With a swat of his hand, the man sent Saito scurrying up the nearby hill to the squat villa settled along the ridge. The man turned back to the hill and examined the sharp katana in his hand. He swung it, his form precise. Satisfied his form wasn't readily decaying, he inverted the blade and returned it to the sheath hanging from the bright red sash that hung around his waist. He eyed the dying sun across the horizon then turned back toward the house when something suddenly caught his eye. A rider.

The rider came closer, his steed in full stride. He brandished the flag of an ashigaru, and the man knew from where the messenger was riding. The Shogun. He waited until the rider approached and dismounted. The rider approached, then bowed low on one knee. "Minister Masashige! The Shogun has called the War Council at once!"

Along the horizon, another half dozen riders appeared, crimson flags hanging from their steeds. "I have assembled an escort to the capital! We must ride at once!"

Masahige looked up at the house for a moment. When he looked back, the half dozen riders had finished their approach. But they were not ashigaru. They were samurai, clad in armour with a myriad of weapons hanging from them. "Well then, let's ride." Masahige was offered a riderless horse tethered to one of the samurai's steeds, and a moment later they were off.