“That’s the last of the senior students,” she said, standing. Her voice didn’t shake. He’d taught her that. “Anotsu’s inner circle is down to seven.”
Rin knelt beside the last body—a boy, really. Sixteen, maybe. His waki-zashi was still clutched in his death grip. She closed his eyes with two fingers, murmuring something Manji pretended not to hear. A prayer, or a curse. With Rin, it was hard to tell. Blade of the Immortal -Dub-
He didn’t have an answer. He hadn’t had an answer for a hundred and fifty years. “That’s the last of the senior students,” she
The first thing Manji noticed was the smell . “Anotsu’s inner circle is down to seven
Not the copper tang of blood—though that was everywhere, splashed across the tatami mats and soaking into the wooden pillars of the Ittō-ryū dojo. Not the sharper stench of fear, either, even though the men he’d just carved through had pissed themselves before they died. No. It was the smell of rain on hot asphalt. Of cheap sake and iron filings. Of a body that had stopped pretending to be alive two centuries ago.
“Seven.” Manji rolled his shoulder, feeling the sacred bloodworms shift under his skin. “Lucky number.”