Prodigious Heir

Reika's grip tightened around her katana as she watched the Mongols regrouping. Their forces had begun to swell, more and more soldiers pouring in from the depths of the war camp. Drums pounded in unison, their deep, rhythmic echoes reverberating across the battlefield.

A counterattack was coming.

The Mongols did not falter, did not hesitate. They had studied warfare for generations, had conquered countless nations, and knew exactly when to push forward.

But the samurai were no different.

Reika's sharp eyes flickered to her father's position. Shirakawa Haruto stood at the head of his elite warriors, his katana held firmly at his side. Unlike the Mongols, there was no shouting, no roaring cries of intimidation. There was only steel, only discipline.

The next strike would decide everything.

Reika exhaled sharply, adjusting her grip. Then, her voice rang out.

"Split ranks!"

The command was instant. The Shirakawa samurai obeyed without hesitation, their formation breaking apart to create an open path in the center of the battlefield.

The enemy hesitated.

Then—Haruto and his elite samurai charged.

Their warhorses thundered across the bloodstained earth, cutting through the heart of the Mongol camp like a spear plunging into flesh. Samurai swords gleamed in the afternoon sun, and within seconds, the enemy ranks were in chaos.

Reika did not linger to watch.

"Advance!" she ordered.

She led her own force along the outer perimeter, striking at the Mongol forces that flanked the battlefield. Unlike her father's direct assault, her warriors moved with precision, slicing through enemy lines before retreating into new positions. It was a relentless dance of attack and withdraw, designed to dismantle the Mongol formation piece by piece.

The clash was immediate.

A Mongol spearman lunged at her. Reika twisted, dodging the thrust by mere inches. In one fluid motion, she severed the shaft of the spear with her katana, then pivoted and drove her blade deep into the man's chest.

He collapsed with a gurgled cry.

She barely had time to register the kill before another warrior came at her.

A curved saber swung toward her head. Reika ducked low, feeling the wind of the blade as it passed above her. She countered instantly, striking at the attacker's exposed ribs. Blood sprayed across her armor as the enemy staggered back, choking on his own breath.

More were coming.

A flash of movement from the corner of her vision—an arrow.

Reika twisted her body mid-step, the deadly projectile slicing past her shoulder instead of embedding in her back. She spotted the archer immediately—perched atop a makeshift watchtower, already nocking another arrow.

She couldn't reach him in time.

A samurai beside her reacted first. With a swift, practiced motion, he unslung his bow and fired. The arrow struck true, piercing the archer's throat. He tumbled from the tower, landing in a heap of broken limbs.

Reika pressed forward, cutting through another Mongol soldier. The battle had transformed into a blur of steel, sweat, and blood.

Everywhere she turned, warriors clashed, blades met, bodies fell. The Mongols fought with their signature aggression—fast, relentless, swarming their enemies like wolves. But the samurai held firm, their discipline keeping them from being overwhelmed.

Still, the battle was shifting.

Even as she cut through another enemy, she could feel the weight of the Mongols' numbers pressing down on them.

And then—she heard it.

A deep, guttural horn echoed across the battlefield.

Reinforcements.

Her stomach twisted.

The Mongols had been waiting for this moment.

From the far end of the war camp, a fresh wave of invaders surged forward. Horsemen with long spears. Archers mounted on fast, nimble steeds. Heavily armored warriors wielding massive axes, their thick helmets concealing their faces.

And at the front—

A Mongol general.

She could tell immediately. He was larger than the others, his armor more ornate, a blood-red sash wrapped around his waist. Unlike his men, he did not rush into battle. He stood watching, calculating. Waiting.

Reika gritted her teeth.

She had to act now.

"Hold the line!" she shouted to her samurai, but even as she gave the order, she knew they were being pushed back.

For the first time since the battle began, doubt crept into her mind. Could they win this? She forced the thought away.

Her father was still pushing through the center of the camp. If she faltered, if her forces collapsed here, his attack would fail.

That was not an option.

With renewed determination, she raised her katana, her voice cutting through the chaos.

"With me!"

And then—she charged.

Her warriors followed, their battle cries echoing through the battlefield as they surged toward the fresh wave of invaders.

The Mongols met them head-on. Steel clashed against steel. Blood painted the ground.

And in the chaos, Reika fought.

The first enemy came at her fast—a mounted archer. His horse galloped straight toward her, an arrow already loosed from his bow.

She had only a heartbeat to react.

Reika threw herself to the side, rolling beneath the speeding horse as the arrow barely missed her. The moment she was back on her feet, she turned, slicing upward as the rider passed.

Her blade cut deep into the man's side.

He fell from his saddle with a scream, tumbling to the ground in a broken heap.

She had no time to celebrate the kill.

Another rider was already closing in. She prepared to strike—

But before she could, a spear hurtled past her, skewering the rider clean through the chest. Reika turned, breathing heavily.

One of her samurai nodded at her, withdrawing another spear from his back.

There was no time for thanks. More were coming.

The Mongol general had finally begun moving. She could feel his eyes on her.

Watching.

Assessing.

And then—

He pointed his axe at her.

A challenge.

Reika's pulse quickened. She had no choice. If she refused, it would be a sign of weakness. If she accepted, she would be facing an enemy larger, stronger, and more experienced than her.

But she did not hesitate. She lifted her katana, leveling it toward him.

Challenge accepted.

The Mongol general grinned beneath his helmet.

And then—he charged.

The real fight was about to begin.

The Mongol general charged like a war beast unleashed.

His massive axe swung downward with terrifying force, aimed directly for Reika's skull.

She barely dodged.

The blade crashed into the dirt where she had been standing, splitting the ground apart with raw strength alone. Dust and debris exploded into the air, but Reika had no time to recover. The general moved fast—way too fast for his size.

A second strike came immediately, sweeping horizontally toward her ribs.

Reika brought up her katana just in time, bracing both hands against the hilt to absorb the impact. The sheer force rattled through her bones, and the shock sent her skidding backward, her heels digging into the blood-soaked dirt.

She had fought strong opponents before. She had dueled skilled swordsmen, had trained against masters of the Shirakawa style.

But this—

This was different.

The general pressed forward, his steps heavy and deliberate. His thick shield, reinforced with iron plating, was raised defensively, covering nearly half his body. He was cautious. Controlled. He knew how to fight a swordsman like her. As if he had plenty experience with samurai.

Reika exhaled sharply, adjusting her grip on her katana.

She would have to be patient.

She darted to the side, circling him, searching for an opening. The general followed her movements, keeping his shield between them, axe ready to counter.

Then—she struck.

A quick step in—an arcing slash aimed for his side.

The general reacted instantly, shifting his shield to intercept. Her blade scraped against the iron plating, sparks flashing, but it did nothing.

She twisted, pivoting into a second attack—this time lower, targeting his legs.

A mistake.

The general stomped forward, using his sheer weight to slam the shield into her before her blade could reach him.

The impact sent her stumbling back, pain jolting through her chest.

She barely had time to recover before the axe came again.

She ducked—just barely avoiding the edge as it cut through the air above her. She retaliated immediately, aiming for the exposed gap beneath his arm.

But the shield was already moving.

Another deflection.

Another wasted strike.

Reika gritted her teeth.

She was faster. More precise even. But none of it mattered.

The general fought like an impenetrable fortress, methodical and unrelenting. Every attack she made was met with cold, calculated defense. And each time she tried to break through—

An arrow came flying at her.

She saw the glint of metal and twisted her body, the arrow slicing past her shoulder, narrowly missing vital flesh.

The Mongol archers were watching her. Waiting for her to commit to an attack. Every time she got close—every time she found an opening—an arrow forced her to retreat.

They fought dirty.

And she was alone.

Reika clenched her jaw, frustration mounting as the battle around her raged on.

The sounds of dying samurai filled her ears.

A cry of pain to her right—one of her men fell, his throat cut by a curved blade.

Another to her left—an archer had been dismounted, trampled beneath Mongol hooves.

Their line was breaking.

And she was failing.

Her chest rose and fell heavily, sweat dripping down her temple. She could feel fatigue creeping in, the weight of exhaustion pressing against her limbs.

The general saw it too.

He advanced again, this time with a brutal downward swing, his axe carving through the air like a guillotine.

Reika barely managed to sidestep, but she was slower than before. The edge of the weapon nicked her side, cutting through the fabric of her armor, searing a sharp pain into her ribs.

She sucked in a sharp breath, gripping her katana tighter.

This wasn't working.

Her style—the Shirakawa way—relied on fluidity and counterattacks. It was a swordplay of precision, of calculated strikes and elegant movement.

But against an opponent like this?

Against a man who wielded overwhelming force and unshakable defense?

It wasn't enough.

The general came at her again, shield raised, axe ready.

Reika didn't move.

She exhaled slowly, shifting her stance.

Her katana lowered from its ready position.

Then—deliberately—she raised it again, but this time, the blade was angled forward, perfectly aligned with her opponent.

Her free hand reached to her side.

A quiet rasp of steel—

She unsheathed her tanto.

Her grip reversed, holding it like a dagger.

Her breathing steadied.

The battlefield around her faded.

Time stretched—slow, endlessly unraveling before her eyes.

And for the first time since the battle began—

Her gaze was sharp. Unshaken. Indifferent.

The general halted.

The warrior before him was no longer the same.

This was not the Shirakawa style. This was something else. Something unknown. Something dangerous.

Reika stared at him, her expression unreadable.

Then—

She moved.