Around the arena, guild members jumped to their feet. Initiates, disciples, and masters alike stared around in confusion and alarm.
I took a step back, my attention torn between Hamon and this new turn of events. Surely, our bout would be halted while an emergency was addressed? But I didn’t trust him not to stab me in the back, tournament or no tournament.
Hamon didn’t advance. Instead, he lowered his weapons and stood grinning at me. “Fire always triumphs,” he said. “The fire of my clan.”
Across the rooftops of the guild and along the battlements of its walls, black-clad figures had appeared. They wore the same black ninja outfits as the men who had attacked me back on earth, and their appearance came as suddenly and silently. But there was an important difference. These ninjas did not merely carry swords and knives. Fire flared from their hands and blades.
We stood surrounded by scores of Augmenters.
“What is this?” Master Xilarion stood and looked around at the newcomers. He stood as calm as ever, hands clasped behind his back, as if he was addressing an unruly initiate, not an invading army.
The ninjas stood silently and stared.
“If you have come to watch our tournament, guests are always welcome in this guild,” Xilarion said as he held a hand out as if in greeting. “But intruders are not.”
A sound of stamping feet drew everyone’s attention to the battlements, only to disappear as the ninjas stilled their feet. When we looked back, a single figure stood atop the outer wall of the arena. He pushed back his hood and revealed a familiar face beneath.
Jiven Wysaro stared out across the gathered members of the Radiant Dragon Guild. With his hands clasped behind him and flecks of gray running through his hair and beard, he seemed the mirror image of Master Xilarion. But while Xilarion’s calm hinted at the wisdom and kindness beneath, Lord Wysaro’s spoke of a deep disdain. In his heart, he was just like his son.
“Lord Wysaro,” Xilarion greeted as he respectfully bowed his head. “Your visits are always welcome. Would you care to sit with me and enjoy the sport?”
“Predictable as always, General Xilarion,” Wysaro said. “Always trying to walk your Path of Peace. But this is no time for peace, and as you can see, I have come far better prepared for war.”
More ninjas emerged from the shadows, stalked across the rooftops, and closed in around the arena. Now that I looked more closely, I saw that they weren’t dressed in black only. Each wore a dark green sash around their waist, its end embroidered with the red Wysaro eagle. Had the ninjas on Earth worn the same symbol, and I hadn’t noticed? Did Jiven Wysaro’s reach extend beyond this world, as Nydarth’s did? Or had those been another band of ninjas, driven by some other commander with some other cause?
One thing was certain: the clan was better prepared for war than the guild was. They had the advantage of position, surrounding the arena and its closely packed seating. Theirs was the freedom to maneuver, to use their magic and their weapons to the best advantage. More than that, they had the numbers. Just among those I could see, there were more of them than of us, and I was sure that more would be approaching through the gates and across the courtyard.
“What do you want, Jiven?” Xilarion asked, dropping the pretence of respect.
“Nothing you can give me.” Wysaro turned his attention to me. “I want his sword.”
So, I had been right. It wasn’t me that Jiven Wysaro was after, it was the Sundered Heart. I didn’t know how he knew that I had it or what it meant to him, but in that moment, one thing became clear: if Jiven Wysaro wanted something, I had to keep it from him.
The odds were good that this was going to turn to violence. But the lives of my friends and fellow initiates were on the line, not to mention the more vulnerable masters, such as the scholarly Kyu. I respected Master Xilarion’s Path of Peace enough to try that first.
“Here,” I said as I threw my sword into the center of the arena. “Have it.”
Lord Wysaro waved a hand. A ninja ran in through the entrance of the arena, picked up the sword, and ran out again. Thirty seconds later, he appeared on the edge of the arena beside Wysaro as he knelt on the slender top of the plank wall while holding out the sword.
Wysaro took the weapon, looked at it, then cast it casually aside.
“Do you take me for an idiot?” He sneered at me. “This blade contains no dragon spirit.”
“I’ve certainly met smarter guys,” I said. “Like the little man who cleans our privies.”
Wysaro narrowed his eyes. “One last chance, Ethan Murphy,” he said. “You don’t have to become my enemy, but you will regret it if you do.”
“Did you know that the beds here are riddled with lice?” I said. “There are rats in the walls and cockroaches in the kitchen. Compared with where I come from, your whole empire is pretty gross, and a guild full of students is probably the worst. But you know what? I would rather work for any of those pests than for you.”
“You putrid little shit!” Wysaro bellowed. “I’m going to trample you into dirt. I’ll give your corpse to my privy cleaners to use for rags. I’ll-”
“Enough.” Xilarion strode into the center of the arena and looked up at Wysaro. “This was a holy day for my guild. A coming of age. The chance for our initiates to prove their worth before their peers. You have despoiled that for them, even for your own son. Have you no shame?”
“Have you no honor?” Wysaro replied. “Hiding your fear behind excuses and the feeble bodies of these youths.”
“The Emperor has given me authority in this place,” Xilarion said. “By that authority, I demand that you leave.”
“The Emperor isn’t here, and by
