Shiro Takeda had come to the house to kill the samurai Waraba Hito who had insulted his honor by calling his family poor dogs who served a traitor.

The duel had been going well, Takeda clearly having an advantage over the other man because of age. At only thirty-four, he had far more stamina than the fifty-six-year-old. But now the other samurai’s skills were showing.

Rain poured down atop the machiya townhouse, tapping the tiles on the roof and splashing on the ground beneath the eves.

Thunder cracked.

Shiro held his katana high in a ready pose to strike in either attack or defense. Waraba-san kept his blade low, angled at forty-five degrees, his grip low to his waist.

There had been a pause. Both warriors stood still, regarding the other.

And then they screamed, rushed forward and blades flashed.

After crossing the other samurai’s path, Shiro spun on his heel, his blade ready for another quick flurry. The pain on his left hip stung like a yōkai curse, but he ignored it completely. He had taken a strike, albeit, a shallow slash that did little terrible damage—only superficially wounding him.

That did not mean that his blood was not flowing. The wound would not slow him.

“This,” the older man said, his tone scratchy and old, “is where you end, boy.”

Shiro narrowed his eyes, feeling both outrage and also something deep down telling him the old samurai wasn’t simply bringing bravado to this duel. He would end Takeda Shiro here, now on this evening.

The young samurai did not fear his imminent death.

The old man made a face, screamed.

Shiro screamed.

They lunged toward one another, the old man raising his blade for a death strike, Shiro angling to parry his blade, but then something happened.

Something strange.

The world suddenly folded in on itself. Shiro spun. At least he thought he spun. The acute sense of vertigo travelled through his body.

He was falling?

And then he hit ground, grunted with the force of the blow as his shoulder impacted first, taking most of his weight.

Shaking his head, he leaned up, looked back and forth quickly.

What is this?

Getting up, he felt the air was warm, dry. The sky was gold-orange, and the machiya was nowhere. Waraba Hito was nowhere.

There were no hills—no trees and no rain. Just this… this desert, the skyline visible in every direction.

“Kuso,” he muttered, cursing this strange turn of events.

What had happened to him just now? One moment he was—he was dueling Waraba Hito for his honor, and then he landed here!

Here!

Shiro looked down at the ground. Rocky. Dusty. A dry desert.

By the kami, he thought. Did the old man send him here? Does he have these powers? No, that hadn’t been it. The old man had been in mid strike with his blade. He had not reached into his kimono for a hidden magical item.

Looking at his hands, and the sword hilt therein, he realized he didn’t even have his sheath. His waraji sandals had bent put aside for better mobility for their fight.

Barefooted and naked blade in hand, Shiro cursed again. “Kuso!”