A Time Traveller's Guide To Feudal Japan

"Small chance of that," Gengyo said with a smile, "they’d have my head if I did not keep my throws the same." With that, Gengyo cast the cups into the air for Sasaki, interested to see how his comrade would perform.

Sasaki did not retain the calmness of Morohira, nor did he try and attempt the same grace as Rin. He attacked the cups with a ferocity that was downright frightened. A strong chop severed a cup straight through. A messy backslash caught a second. His size was a problem though, and with that second cut, he was too slow, and the cups fell out of the reach of his sword.

And so it was a foot that he lashed out with. He slammed into a third cup with the wooden sole of his sandals and completely shattered it to pieces. It was the style of a man that had grown his skill on the battlefield. It wasn’t pretty, but it was brutally effective. Each one of his movements would have immobilized a man.

"Three," Sasaki announced proudly. It was clear that he had aimed to match Morohira.

"Are we really counting that?" Morohira asked incredulously. "He kicked it! He didn’t cut it!"

"I’m counting it," Gengyo said. "He shattered the cup all the same, using what other tools that he had at his disposal."

There was no more arguing to be had with Gengyo. In making him the thrower, they had established him as some sort of referee.

"Thank you very much," Sasaki said with a ceremonial bow. "Good luck, Matsudaira-dono."

Matsudaira nodded his head to receive the well wishes. He drew his sword, and stepped up to the mark.

"Well, Matsudaira. Shall we see how much you have improved?" Gengyo said, toying with the clay cups in his hand. "Whenever your ready."

Matsudaira took a moment to calm himself with a deep breath. He was approaching the game with an icy seriousness, but it was a seriousness shared by the crowd. They went quiet and focused all their attention on him, interested to see how he would perform. "Ready," Matsudaira said quietly.

At his words, Gengyo once more sent the cups skyward.

Matsudaira was of an old school of the sword. He had been trained by old and noble samurai that engrained in him that ancient style of the sword. Of course, he had overlayed the Miura sword training on top of that, but that did not change his foundations nor the essence of his technique.

When he cut, he forced the air apart. A wooshing sound accompanied each slash. He went through his first cup with a speed that surpassed all previous contestants. He was onto his second cup before they were even halfway to the ground. He shattered through that, and then a third one, and he even had time to attempt a fourth.

Of all the contestants, he managed to get the furthest. He made contact with a fourth cup and it was only by sheer bad luck that it did not shatter. And then they all collided with the floor and his turn was over.

"Three..." Matsudaira said, sheathing his sword. Gengyo could not tell whether he was dissatisfied.

"I thought you had managed four for a second there. A slight bit more force and you would have got it," Gengyo said, moving the fragments of pot that had begun to pile by his feet to somewhere out of his way. "Your skill has improved vastly though. You’re like a different man."

Matsudaira dipped his head at the praise, it seemed to mean a lot to him. "I have put much time into it," he said.

"Alright, enough playing around. Let an old man show you how it’s done," Jikouji said, climbing to his feet.

"You too, old man?" Gengyo teased, reaching for another few cups. It seemed Takeshi had come in to drop his cups off before disappearing again without anyone having noticed. "If you’re joining in too, then I suppose I had better go after you and show you what perfection looks like."

"You might have a strength to you, boy, but this requires something more than that. Do not be ashamed when you lose to me," Jikouji said, drawing his sword.

Gengyo smiled. He did not even ask Jikouji if he was ready. He did not need to. He cast all the cups into the air, just as he had for the previous contenders, and he noted the change in Jikouji’s eyes. They went from being the withdrawn mole-like eyes of an old man to being the sharp burning eyes of a tiger.

When he moved, he made the difference between all of them immediately apparent. His speed was legendary. For such an old man he moved with a swiftness that should have been impossible. It was more than that though, the weight of his experience wound together in each strike, there was not a single shred of wasted movement. He had trained until his swordplay had become as natural to him as the beating of his heart.

He cut down two cups before they even knew what had happened. Then a third shattered out of nowhere – they could not even see his blade make contact with the pot. Then a fourth. And for the fifth, he struggled as hard as he could to get it, but the cup spun and instead of meeting the sharpness of his blade, it brushed off the flat face of the weapon and it was the floor that dealt the shattering blow.

"Damn," Jikouji cursed, "if it were not cups but people, then I suppose I could have claimed the victory, but alas, it looks like pottery has got the better of me."

As he spoke, the others glowered at him. They had all done worse than him, yet there he was, condemning his own score as if it was beneath him. "I suppose it’s your turn, Miura, if you still think you can win," Jikouji said.

"Then you throw them for me, old man. If you watch closely, you might learn something."

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