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“Tajakalu may be able to use their physical strength to throw a projectile,” Yukino Sensei said, turning back to his class. “Fonyakalu may be able to use their nyama to push against one. Our nyama is the projectile. When a weapon is made of ice, we can control it down to the molecule. As jijakalu, we are the only race of theonite who can fight with a solid weapon that is truly an extension of the self.”
“So… you’re not upset?” Misaki asked, surprised at how fragile her voice had become. In that strange moment, she realized that, however improper it was, the idea of Mamoru’s disapproval was far more upsetting to her than Takeru’s. “Knowing I can fight doesn’t bother you?” “Why would it bother me?” Mamoru said. “This is good news. I’m the son of two great fighters, instead of one. This is good. It means that I must be strong. I should be proud.”
A decade later, a fifteen-year-old Hiroshi would become known as the youngest swordsman ever to master the Whispering Blade. What the world would never know, was that he was the second youngest.
