School life in Prosperity pretty much sucks too. I go to Promise High School. The “promise” refers to the belief that education is the way out of poverty. I’m already a senior. I’ve seen a lot of kids graduate ahead of me. None of them have made it out of poverty per se, but a handful have made it to college. That’s my goal too. I want to go to Cho University, but my only chance to attend is if I manage to get a scholarship. There’s no way my parents could afford to send me there. And that’s the reason for my problem with many of the other students. Eighty percent of them aren’t even trying to make something better out of their lives. The few of us who do dream of something more have to fight tooth and nail to make the most out of our overcrowded classes, twenty-year-hand-me-down text books, and disinterested underpaid teachers. Sometimes I have fits of panic when I think about how disadvantaged I am in the pursuit of my goal. At times, it seems impossible.

However, I’m the daughter of Kenji Hiko. My father believes in me. He’s always believed in me and he’s told me as much. So I don’t give up. Nor would my father give up. That’s not the kind of man he is, and that’s not the kind of woman I want to be.

Holding my head high, I attend my literature class. Contrary to what one might expect, my literature class is the worst one of the day, and it’s not because I don’t like the subject matter. It’s because my class is filled with a bunch of dumbasses.

From the moment I walk through the door, I’m greeted with rude catcalls. One especially articulate boy tells me, “Bring your snow white hair over here and I’ll introduce you to the Prince Charming in my pants.” This, of course, triggers celebratory cackling from the other jackals in his pack of merry dumbasses.

I generally get two kinds of responses based on my appearance. The first is the awkward stare followed by the invariable, “What are you?”

I’ve mastered answering this question with tact. What I am is a Chowan girl with double recessive genes that caused me to be born with white hair instead of black and blue eyes instead of brown. Other than that, I look like a normal Chowan.

The second kind of response I get is the “Ooh baby, sock it to me” or whatever mindless drivel the hormonal boys like to spew. Some of them prefer my exotic look. Others think I’m butt ugly. Either way, few bother trying to get to know me beyond my appearance.

Yet one of the boys who does know me is Spree Flitz. Unfortunately, he’s also a complete dumbass. He shouts to me, “Hey Fuuko!”

Fuuko is my nickname, meaning “Wind Child.” It’s also shorthand for Fuu Hiko.

I turn at my desk to look at him. “What Spree?”

“When are we going on that date you promised me?”

“I made no such promise.”

“Yeah you did. You said ‘when pigs fly.’”

Spree sticks out his leg and trips an overweight girl named Melanie as she goes to the pencil sharpener. The class bursts into a riot of laughter. Melanie gets up. Her face and exposed arms are flushed red. The teacher, Mr. Jones, an immigrant from Âme Kingdom, looks at Melanie briefly and then continues his lecture all the same. At this point, he’s given up on trying to make the students hear him. He just talks and whoever wants to listen, listens.

That’s the general vibe with most of the teachers. They started off wanting to help us underprivileged hoodrats get a good education, but after a few years of daily struggles with disrespectful students and sub-par teaching materials, the internal fire that they started out with has died down to simmering embers. I’ve always had the impression that most of the teachers are operating on autopilot. They only come to life on the rare occasions when they get to work with a student who really cares about his or her education. That’s probably why I get along with all of the teachers. That, and the fact that I’m not a disrespectful brat like most of the others.

After my literature class, the rest of my school day follows along the same trend until I get to my Advanced College Prep class at the end of the day. This class is reserved for hard working seniors who have real prospects of making it to a university next year. There are no idiots in this class; nonetheless, there’s still one boy who’s a major pain in my butt. His name is Shinji Ōkami. He’s the oldest son from the family whose kenjutsu dojo rivals our own. You could say he’s a natural-born enemy of mine.

“Good afternoon Lady Fuu,” Shinji says as I sit at my desk next to him.

I ignore him completely. He’s such a tool. His family name, Ōkami, means “wolf”. That’s exactly what he is. He’s an Ōkami after all, and the Ōkami’s are enemies. He’s just waiting for me to show the least sign of vulnerability and then he’ll capitalize on my weakness.

I manage to avoid meeting his glance for the rest of the class. Then, once the class ends, the school day is over. Yet before I leave to walk home, I have to meet up with some junior classmates whom I call the Hanabira. The Hanabira, meaning Flower Petals, is the official name I gave to the group of young people to whom I teach kenjutsu. To help my family raise money, I volunteered to teach a side class of children and teenagers to complement my father’s adult classes. Not only does it work out well financially, but it’s also created a safety network of trustworthy friends who are all trained in martial arts. Such a group is vital in a city riddled with gang violence.

The two kids whom I’m picking up are Eli Genesis, 15, and his younger sister Eowin, 13. Despite their young ages, they’re two of the most talented swordsmen of the Hiko dojo. I need their protection just as much as they need mine. The only problem with them is that Eli somehow made the tragic choice to take Spree as his male role model to compensate for his absentee father. By Eli’s insistence, Spree is the fourth member of our safety traveling group.

I meet them at the front door of the school. As a sophomore and freshmen, Eli and Eowin’s classes are closer to the front, so they always arrive first. I arrive third, and Spree arrives late. Every day. Without fail. He’s a rude and irresponsible jerk, but I have to grit my teeth and bear him with a smile for Eli’s sake. Otherwise, I’d ditch him on a moment’s notice.

When Spree finally arrives, we depart. It’s a twenty-minute walk to the Hiko dojo and another five minutes from there to my house. It’s not too far of a walk for athletic high school students, but it’s more than far enough to get into trouble in a city as dangerous as Prosperity. Thankfully, we rarely have problems.

As we walk, Eli can’t help but open a conversation with his favorite father figure. “Hey Spree. Have you heard the rumors about the ghost samurai who walk through the town at night and kill everyone they encounter?”

Spree digs a booger out of his nose and flicks it away casually. This is his version of being polite. In private he’d probably have eaten it. He answers, “You mean the Loathsome Midnights? I don’t think they’re ghost. Ghosts don’t normally wear straw hats and wield katanas. But I don’t know for sure. The only way to find out is to go out at night and try to find one. Want to come with me Eli?”

“Sure!”

“Absolutely not!” I shout. “You’re both going to stay inside where it’s safe.”

My strong words amuse Spree. He laughs his annoying, condescending cackle and grins at me wryly. “You’re such a bossy hardass Fuuko. But that’s what makes you so sexy. I want to take your power and break you. You should be eating out of my lap.”

I squint my eyes and stare at Spree. He locks eyes with me, not relenting his cocky grin. Many of the boys at school talk like him. They’re all creeps, yet Spree alone scares me. There’s an unpredictable darkness lurking just behind his eyes.

Spree and I continue walking while staring at each other. Our eyes only pull away when Eowin suddenly shrills, “Oh no!”

I look ahead. It’s the Shenrong Butchers. I recognize them by their telltale red clothing. They’re the most violent and dominant gang in town. My first instinct is to hurry to a different street to evade them, but before we can escape, they spot us. There are four men between the ages of 18 and 30. Each one of them has an even cockier and more sinister grin than Spree. They sprint towards us to prevent us from escaping. I take a defensive posture and channel a small amount of mana into my hands. If necessary, I’ll summon my oak-wood bokuto.

The Shenrong Butchers catcall and ogle me from head to toe. One man who’s six feet tall, has dyed red hair, and wears an open red vest with no undershirt howls, “Mm, mm, mmm, look at this babe! I’d like to see what’s under that kimono.”

A second man adds, “I’ll pull up her kimono. You pull down her panties.”

Needless to say, I’ve heard enough. I summon my bokuto and take a centered fighting stance. The men find my action hilarious. They burst into wild laughter, slapping their knees as if I were harmless or joking with them or something.

“Look, this pup thinks she can do something with her toy sword.”

“Hanabira ready your weapons,” I command.

Eli, Eowin, and Spree summon their own bokutos. Now their mood finally becomes more serious. The second man who wanted to pull up my kimono says, “Hey man look at these kids. Do they think they can do something against us?”

The Hanabira and I hold our fighting stances with silent intensity. Sometimes it’s possible to avoid an undesirable fight by appearing dangerous to your opponents. Many animals such as rattlesnakes use this tactic to avoid fights. Yet this time it’s not enough. Our opponents commit to their assault.

The man who started it all comes at me with his right hand extended. I smack his wrist with my wooden sword and then strike him in the head for a quick two-hit combo. Rather than cause him to retreat, I only anger him and make him want to press the attack more. His boys step in to help him, so the rest of the Hanabira jumps into the fray.

We each take our own opponent – four against four. Even while fighting my own attacker, I still manage to keep a watch over my friends. The man fighting Eowin has an absolutely horrified look on his face. Eowin’s compact 13-year-old frame hints at weakness, but looks are definitely deceiving in her case. Eowin is fast and ruthlessly aggressive. She uses a one-handed sword style to continuously strike the man’s sensitive spots with startling speed. Even when he tries to hit her back, she dodges by inches and continues wailing on him.

Eli is a counterstriker. He prefers to let his opponent move first so that he can attack any openings they leave. His opponent is an unskilled street brawler, so he, too, catches a one-sided beatdown.

Spree is in a different league from Eli and Eowin. He uses an unorthodox sloppy style, but he’s darn good at it. Everything he does is technically wrong, yet somehow he makes it work. I hate to say it, but if I’m the leader and best fighter of the Hanabira, then Spree is second. He destroys his opponent in no time flat.

Seeing as my students make short work of their foes, I can’t let myself be shown up. I motion as if I were sheathing my sword and then swing out a godly powerful Iai strike that catches my opponent in the chest and blows him back 15 feet.

Finally, the Shenrong Butchers realize that they’re not going to be able to have their way with me. They limp away in retreat.

“Whew,” I huff relieved. “Thanks for helping me guys.”

“Of course,” Eli says.

“That was fun,” Eowin adds.

“Poor saps, but you can’t blame them,” Spree comments.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Well, you flaunt it and guys want it. What’d you expect?”

His words deeply offend me. I’m not immodestly dressed. I wear an indigo kimono with white flower patterns on it, a light blue obi sash to keep it tied, and a simple pair of sandals. It’s traditional garb for a Chowan woman and it should hardly incite men to lust. I tell Spree, “I don’t flaunt anything. Those guys were creeps, and you’re a creep too for sympathizing with them.”

“Well, everyone has an opinion,” he replies.

I groan and stomp on. Spree can be so stupid sometimes. He’s hardly better than a Shenrong Butcher himself.