Yipachai had no idea what to do. He looked first to Bunko, then back to Akio, who merely shrugged and charged forward—at the same time as Atsushi on the other team.

  The two initiates clashed, exchanging a flurry of blows while Yipachai remained rooted to the ground.

  Move! Yipachai’s instincts screamed at him, just as Shohi ran forward, drawing his practice sword back, its point aimed at Yipachai’s chest.

  Without thinking, Yipachai flapped his wings, rising quickly over Shohi’s strike before propelling himself forward and swinging for Shohi’s shoulder as he passed.

  Shohi attempted a clumsy block, but Yipachai’s sword connected with a thud. Yipachai glided forward, landing out of the other boy’s reach, then turned around to surveil the battlefield.

  Akio and Bunko had ganged up on Atsushi, who was holding them both off surprisingly well. Yoshito stood behind Atsushi, making timid swings at Bunko when the initiate came too close.

  Shohi had already whirled around, panting and staring at Yipachai in disbelief. At first, Yipachai didn’t understand that look, but then it suddenly came to him.

  That was the first hit he had scored in any kind of duel since he had started at the school. A miracle.

  “Get back in there, Hetanzou,” Rurou shouted. “Yoshito, stop swiping like a frightened alley cat and fight like a man!”

  Instinct drove Yipachai. He leapt up and spread his wings, flying fast and low enough to the ground that he could still reach Yoshito. He wound up, twisting somewhat awkwardly—moving in the air like this felt noticeably unfamiliar—as he prepared to slash.

  Something slammed into Yipachai from the side, driving him sideways and down until he crashed to the ground so hard he lost his bond with Pingou.

  He’d forgotten to keep an eye on Shohi.

  Yipachai rolled over with a groan. It turned to a grunt as Shohi’s follow-up strike pounded into his exposed abdomen. Yoshito was there a moment later, holding his practice sword to Yipachai’s throat.

  “Yield,” Yoshito said, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure the other initiates on Yipachai’s team weren’t closing in.

  Yipachai tried to speak, but there was still no air in his lungs. All he could manage was a squeaking wheeze.

  Shohi hit him again.

  “I yield.” Yipachai croaked. Shohi raised his blade again.

  “The Hetanzou’s out,” Rurou said, appearing with an outstretched hand.

  Shohi withheld his attack, then he and Yoshito turned to go help Atsushi, who was now truly struggling against the combined efforts of Bunko and Akio.

  Yipachai tried to sit up, but failed. His lungs and muscles burned from a lack of air. His head was spinning. Even his soul didn’t feel right, as if something had torn when the Lan Kuanghi bond had been cut off so abruptly.

  He thumped back to the ground and stared upward, waiting for his diaphragm to loosen up enough for him to take a breath.

  “Get yourself to the healers, Hetanzou,” Rurou said. “Have them check your ribs again to make sure nothing’s broken.” Then the young master left to observe the remainder of the fight without waiting for Yipachai to answer.

  Finally, Yipachai sucked in a breath, then gulped down several greedy gulps of air. He rolled himself onto his hands and knees and let his head hang down.

  “That was the best you’ve done yet,” Mamoru said. Yipachai hadn’t heard him approach.

  “And I feel great about it.”

  Mamoru let out a sharp laugh. “That’s the spirit. Now get to the healers so you can go another round soon.”

  Yipachai thanked the healer as he stood from his chair and exited the healers’ workroom, though he didn’t feel particularly grateful. That woman had had hands like granite and the demeanor to match. And in the cramped confines of the small room—one of the only fully enclosed buildings at the school that had been built on the ground level—Yipachai felt like he’d been far too close to such a woman for his comfort.

  She hadn’t done much to heal him, though. She’d merely inspected him, poking and prodding at his bruises until he winced, then shrugged and told him nothing was broken.

  After that, because Yipachai didn’t need immediate Lan Banti healing, she’d left him to sit while she prepared a poultice from some herbs. Apparently the goop itself helped to heal the skin while the vapors from it worked to numb the pain.

  That spot on his ribs still felt icy as he slid his tunic back on. He’d left it hanging on the hilt of his practice sword, which was still leaning against the outside wall of the workroom.

  Yipachai picked up the sword and started for his dormitory. The sun was maybe a couple of hours from setting, which meant that dueling training was probably over already.

  As he walked, he gave his sword a few casual flicks. His ribs protested, but not as much as he’d expected. Unless that poultice was stronger than it seemed, his bruises would probably be more swollen tomorrow.

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  But he’d scored a hit in a duel.

  Despite everything that had gone wrong after, he’d scored that hit when no one else had thought it possible. And if these group duels were really taking place at the next tournament, he’d have a new path to greatness.

  A Hetanzou-shaped one.

  With the power of Lan Kuanghi, he’d have an advantage that would take most Banqilun years to catch up on. They would all still be learning to fly as he soared past them, his blade gleaming as it drew their blood.

  That one little taste of success filled him. He finally had measurable progress, and the hope that he could succeed even more. That road to fulfilling his ambitions—to find Mangsut and avenge Elder Satsanan—didn’t have to go through the traditional path of dueling. Instead, he could take the path of the warrior, and he’d use every edge he could find to achieve his goal.

  Without conscious thought, Yipachai’s feet changed direction. Instead of walking back to his dormitory like he’d intended, he began heading for the river, where Pingou often spent his time.

  If the school couldn’t teach him to be a warrior—and master Rurou had as good as admitted that—Yipachai had to begin taking his education into his own hands. He needed to train to fight while he was bonded with Pingou, because as his bruises reminded him, even though Yipachai had an advantage, it didn’t mean he knew how to exploit it.

  He’d felt the awkwardness of trying to wield a blade while he flew. He’d felt how difficult it was to put any amount of power behind his slashes when his feet weren’t anchored to the ground. And he’d learned—painfully—the price of failing to pay attention to his surroundings.

  Reaching out with his mind, Yipachai opened a bond with Pingou.

  Concern immediately flooded the bond.

  What happened earlier? Pingou asked him. I felt your pain, and then…nothing.

  The heron’s concern was touching. I just took another beating, but I’m alright.

  That is…well. Pingou sounded shaken.

  And you? Yipachai asked. Did that hurt you at all?

  I am fine. I was only…startled, is all.

  Well, I’m glad to hear it. Do you mind if we bond again for a little while now while I train some more? I don’t have anyone trying to kill me right now.

  That would be fine, Pingou said. He didn’t sound amused at Yipachai’s poort attempt at humor.

  Yipachai reached the edge of the school’s grounds and passed through the gate. He needed to find a more secluded location. Not that he needed to train in secret, but he felt more free to experiment when he wasn’t surrounded by the judgmental gazes of Banqilun.

  He stepped off the main road back to Amigawa and made his way north and east, his mind reviewing the fight as he went. He’d need a list of skills and techniques to practice, lest he slip into thoughtless patterns of unhelpful drills.

  After some time, he found a suitable clearing, much like the one they used for dueling practice. Plenty of room for movement, and the old teak trees had only a few low-hanging branches to obstruct him while he flew. On one end, a pile of mossy boulders made for an interesting variation in the terrain—he couldn’t get too used to fighting on optimal ground.

  Yipachai spun in a slow circle, surveying the clearing and taking a long, steady breath. It hurt, but he’d survive.

  This would work.

  This clearing would be the place he learned, where he trained his body to move in all the ways it needed to. And back there, in his lessons with instructor Shuji and master Rurou, he would put his training to the test. It would take real duels to alert him to his weaknesses.

  “Let’s begin, then, shall we?” he said aloud.

  Yipachai widened the flow of Kuanghi between himself and Pingou, feeling his awareness of the heron grow with each moment. He drew in deeply, and summoned his wings again.

  First of all, he needed to figure out how to swing a sword mid-flight without losing power. He’d been able to land that hit on Shohi mostly by luck—and because Shohi had never dueled a flying opponent.

  That was one advantage Yipachai would probably lose quickly. The more he soared around during dueling practice, the more likely the others would find ways to cut him down.

  He flapped his wings, leaning forward as he rose into the air. Pingou wasn’t a hummingbird, which meant hovering in mid-air was all but impossible. To fly meant to move, in one direction or another.

  And so he soared in low, lazy circles around the clearing while he thought. What was the best way to hold the sword while he flew? He normally just left his arms down at his sides, but considering he’d be flying through a battlefield, that felt too exposed.

  He tried holding the blade in front of him, the way he normally did when standing in a guarding stance, but he quickly ran into problems. He couldn’t hold the blade at a right angle to his torso, because then it would be pointing down at the ground, likely snagging on anything beneath him. But if he held it upwards, that put the point of his blade right next to his face—if he had a real sword, it would only take one abrupt turn before he was liable to slice his own throat.

  In the end, holding the sword with blade pointing towards his feet was the best balance between comfort and readiness. He’d probably do most of his defending by dodging—that was the advantage having wings gave him. And, by flying above his opponents, that meant his legs were just as vulnerable to strikes as his torso was.

  That was another problem Yipachai would have to solve. He’d have to be able to guard his upper half, his legs and his wings—despite their semi-translucence, they could be slashed and battered as easily as the rest of his body.

  And so he practiced. Experimented. For so long that he missed dinner that night. He didn’t return to his dormitory until the last vestiges of sunlight had vanished below the horizon. Then he rested, his mind so full of new questions and ideas that he had a difficult time falling asleep.

  Then, when his lessons and responsibilities for the next day were finished, Yipachai returned to the clearing to train again. This time, he focused on striking as he flew. He learned he could tilt his wings slightly to turn into his slashes, the momentum adding more power than he could generate wiht his arms alone.

  He had to be careful, though, because tilting too far destabilized his flight. It turned out that his wings, which were shaped just like Pingou’s, were meant for smooth flight and steady glides, not quick changes in direction.

  Yipachai went back to that clearing night after night, not returning to his dormitory until he was sweaty and exhausted. Occasionally, Pingou would join him. The heron didn’t understand the purpose behind his efforts, but it was nice to have some company—and an object to study.

  Sometimes, Yipachai would forego working on various movements to simply sit and watch Pingou. To observe the way the heron walked, the way he flew, the way his neck coiled almost like a snake before snapping that skewer-like beak forward to catch his prey.

  And, as the days turned into weeks, Yipachai improved. He lasted longer in the team duels, landing more hits on the Banqilun while receiving fewer in return. Some of the others tried to imitate him by finding birds to bond, but their flying always seemed clumsy to Yipachai. The other novices and initiates were less of a threat in the air than they were when they set their feet and tried to attack him as he flew past.

  The progress fueled him, like a fire burning in his bones. It made him never want to stop, never want to rest. It made the beatings he took on the days they practiced individual duels worth it. On those days, master Rurou forbid him from using Lan Kuanghi, but it hardly mattered any longer.

  For the first time in his life, Yipachai was beginning to win.

  And he found that he quite enjoyed it.