Chris Bradford

young samurai

Thanks

With a deep bow, I thank those who have become an integral part of the Young Samurai team. I would like to name people who have demonstrated incredible loyalty and sacrificed time, effort and reputation for the sake of the Young Samurai. I am grateful for the diligence and dedication of Charlie Viney, my agent, a brave warrior who always defends my rights and fights for my career; Shanon Park, head daimyo at Puffin, for mastering the sword of editing - taking over from Sarah Hughes, she cut off all unnecessary and offered me great ideas; Wendy Tse - for the falcon's vigilance when correcting; Louise Heskett, Adele Minchin, Tanya Vian-Smith and the entire Puffin team for a successful campaign on the publishing battlefield; Francesca Dau, Pippa Le Quesnu, Tess Girvan - for helping the "Young Samurai" in conquering the world; Sensei Akemi Solloway for his continued support of the series; Trevor, Paul and Jenny of Authors Abroad for excellent organization of my meetings with readers; Sensei David Ansell of the Shin Ichi Do dojo for excellent lessons and advice; Yana, Nikki and Steffi Chapman - for their support; Matt for enthusiasm; my mother - for the fact that she remains my first admirer; father, the most demanding reader; to my wife, Sarah, for giving meaning to my life.

Finally, my deepest regards to the librarians and teachers who have supported the series (whether they are ninjas or samurai!), and to all Young Samurai readers, thank you for your loyalty to Jack, Akiko, and Yamato. Thank you for buying my books, reading them and writing letters to me. This means that I tried not in vain. Arigato gozaimasu.

Warning:"Young Samurai", although based on historical events and mentions real people and places, is artwork and only reflects the spirit of the era, without claiming historical accuracy.

Warning: Do not try to reproduce the techniques described in the book without the guidance of an experienced instructor. These techniques can be extremely dangerous and lead to death. Neither the author nor the publisher is responsible for injuries resulting from attempts to reproduce the techniques described in the book.

Way of the Warrior

Dedicated to my father

Masamoto Tenno

Japan, city of Kyoto, August 1609

The boy abruptly opened his eyes.

And grabbed the sword.

There was someone else in the room. The Tenno held his breath. His eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and he peered warily to see if the night shadows were stirring. No one is visible, only the ghostly light of the moon seeps through the translucent paper walls. Maybe it felt? However, the instincts of the samurai warned of danger ...

Tenno listened with all his might: would the intruder betray himself with the slightest rustle? The cherry trees in the garden rustled lightly in the breeze; as usual, a trickle of water flowed from the fountain in the fish pond, and somewhere nearby a cricket chirped incessantly. There was complete silence in the house.

He was right to be so worried. Probably just evil kami disturbed sleep...

For a whole month, the entire Masamoto clan was buzzing like a disturbed beehive: there were rumors that there would be a war. There was talk of some kind of rebellion, and the Tenno's father was called in to help clean up the mess. The peace that Japan had enjoyed for the past twelve years was about to end, and people were afraid of more bloodshed. Here, willy-nilly, you will be alarmed!

The tenno relaxed, settling himself comfortably on futon,- You can still sleep. And suddenly the cricket chirped a little louder. The boy clutched the hilt of his sword in his palm. One day my father had said, "A samurai must always trust his instincts," and now his instincts were talking about danger.

We should check what's wrong.

The tenno got up.

A silver star flew out of the darkness.

The boy rushed to the side, but still too late: shuriken cut his cheek and dug into the head of the bed - just where his head had just been. A hot trickle of blood ran down his face. The second star thudded into the straw mats on the floor. The tenno jumped to his feet in one motion and held his sword in front of him.

Dressed in black from head to toe, a figure emerged from the shadows like a ghost.

Ninja! Night killer!

Deliberately slow ninja pulled from the scabbard deadly blade- short, straight, ideal for stabbing and not at all like a long and slightly curved Tenno sword.

Like a cobra ready to pounce, the ninja took a silent step forward, swinging tanto.

Anticipating the attack, the Tenno slashed down with his sword, trying to cut the attacker in half. The ninja easily left the blade and, turning around his axis, hit the boy in the chest with his heel.

The impact sent the Tenno flying through the paper-covered door and flopped heavily into the middle of the inner garden, gasping for breath. My head went haywire.

The ninja jumped out through the punched hole and, like a cat, landed nearby.

The tenno tried to get up and fight off the attack, but his knees gave way: he did not feel his legs at all. I wanted to scream, calling for help, but my throat was swollen and burned with fire - the screams turned into convulsive sighs.

The figure of the ninja first blurred, then regained clarity, and finally disappeared in puffs of black smoke.

His eyes darkened. The tenno realized that the shuriken had been poisoned and that the poison was now spreading through the body, paralyzing muscle after muscle. The boy lay helpless, prone before the killer.

Blinded, he listened, waiting for the ninja to approach. Nothing but the chirping of crickets. My father once said that ninjas imitate the chirping of insects in order to quietly get close to the target. Now I understand how the killer slipped past the guards!

His sight returned briefly, and in the pale moonlight the boy saw a masked face. The ninja bent so close that his hot breath came - sour and smelly, like cheap sake. Through the slit in the hood could be seen burning with hatred green eye.

This is a message for your daddy,” the ninja hissed.

A cold blade suddenly pricked his chest.

One sharp blow, and the whole body burned with unbearable pain ...

And then emptiness...

Masamoto Tenno has gone to Eternal Nothing.

1. Fireball

Pacific Ocean, August. 1611

The boy abruptly opened his eyes.

All hands on deck! - roared boatswain.- Jack, it concerns you too!

The boatswain's weathered face appeared out of the darkness, and the boy jumped briskly out of the swinging hammock and landed on the wooden floor.

For his twelve years, Jack was tall, thin and muscular: two years at sea had not been in vain. From his mother he inherited a shock of blond hair - thick and long unkempt. Perseverance burned in bright blue eyes.

The sailors of the Alexandria, tired from the long voyage, got down heavily from their berths and squeezed past Jack, in a hurry to get on deck. Jack smiled guiltily.

Well, get moving! the boatswain growled in response.

Suddenly there was a deafening crack, the wood paneling creaking in protest. A tiny oil lamp suspended from the ceiling swayed violently.

Jack fell into a pile of empty grog bottles that flew in all directions. In the twilight cockpit a few more grubby, half-starved sailors stumbled past. Jack could not get up, and then they grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to his feet.

Chris Bradford

young samurai

Thanks

With a deep bow, I thank those who have become an integral part of the Young Samurai team. I would like to name people who have demonstrated incredible loyalty and sacrificed time, effort and reputation for the sake of the Young Samurai. I am grateful for the diligence and dedication of Charlie Viney, my agent, a brave warrior who always defends my rights and fights for my career; Shanon Park, head daimyo at Puffin, for mastering the sword of editing - taking over from Sarah Hughes, she cut off all unnecessary and offered me great ideas; Wendy Tse - for the falcon's vigilance when correcting; Louise Heskett, Adele Minchin, Tanya Vian-Smith and the entire Puffin team for a successful campaign on the publishing battlefield; Francesca Dau, Pippa Le Quesnu, Tess Girvan - for helping the "Young Samurai" in conquering the world; Sensei Akemi Solloway for his continued support of the series; Trevor, Paul and Jenny of Authors Abroad for excellent organization of my meetings with readers; Sensei David Ansell of the Shin Ichi Do dojo for excellent lessons and advice; Yana, Nikki and Steffi Chapman - for their support; Matt for enthusiasm; my mother - for the fact that she remains my first admirer; father, the most demanding reader; to my wife, Sarah, for giving meaning to my life.

Finally, my deepest regards to the librarians and teachers who have supported the series (whether they are ninjas or samurai!), and to all Young Samurai readers, thank you for your loyalty to Jack, Akiko, and Yamato. Thank you for buying my books, reading them and writing letters to me. This means that I tried not in vain. Arigato gozaimasu.

Warning:"Young Samurai", although based on historical events and mentioning real people and places, is a work of fiction and only reflects the spirit of the era, without claiming historical accuracy.

Warning: Do not try to reproduce the techniques described in the book without the guidance of an experienced instructor. These techniques can be extremely dangerous and lead to death. Neither the author nor the publisher is responsible for injuries resulting from attempts to reproduce the techniques described in the book.

Way of the Warrior

Dedicated to my father

Prologue Masamoto Tenno Japan, city of Kyoto, August 1609

The boy abruptly opened his eyes.

And grabbed the sword.

There was someone else in the room. The Tenno held his breath. His eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and he peered warily to see if the night shadows were stirring. No one is visible, only the ghostly light of the moon seeps through the translucent paper walls. Maybe it felt? However, the instincts of the samurai warned of danger ...

Tenno listened with all his might: would the intruder betray himself with the slightest rustle? The cherry trees in the garden rustled lightly in the breeze; as usual, a trickle of water flowed from the fountain in the fish pond, and somewhere nearby a cricket chirped incessantly. There was complete silence in the house.

He was right to be so worried. Probably just an evil kami prevented sleep ...

For a whole month, the entire Masamoto clan was buzzing like a disturbed beehive: there were rumors that there would be a war. There was talk of some kind of rebellion, and the Tenno's father was called in to help clean up the mess. The peace that Japan had enjoyed for the past twelve years was about to end, and people were afraid of more bloodshed. Here, willy-nilly, you will be alarmed!

The tenno relaxed, settling himself comfortably on the futon - you can still sleep. And suddenly the cricket chirped a little louder. The boy clutched the hilt of his sword in his palm. One day my father had said, "A samurai must always trust his instincts," and now his instincts were talking about danger.

We should check what's wrong.

The tenno got up.

A silver star flew out of the darkness.

The boy rushed to the side, but still too late: the shuriken cut his cheek and dug into the head of the bed - just where his head had just been lying. A hot trickle of blood ran down his face. The second star thudded into the straw mats on the floor. The tenno jumped to his feet in one motion and held his sword in front of him.

Dressed in black from head to toe, a figure emerged from the shadows like a ghost.

Ninja! Night killer!

Deliberately slowly, the ninja drew a deadly blade from its scabbard - short, straight, ideally suited for thrusting and not at all like a long and slightly curved Tenno sword.

Like a cobra ready to pounce, the ninja took a silent step forward, swinging the tantō.

Anticipating the attack, the Tenno slashed down with his sword, trying to cut the attacker in half. The ninja easily left the blade and, turning around his axis, hit the boy in the chest with his heel.

The impact sent the Tenno flying through the paper-covered door and flopped heavily into the middle of the inner garden, gasping for breath. My head went haywire.

The ninja jumped out through the punched hole and, like a cat, landed nearby.

The tenno tried to get up and fight off the attack, but his knees gave way: he did not feel his legs at all. I wanted to scream, calling for help, but my throat was swollen and burned with fire - the screams turned into convulsive sighs.

The figure of the ninja first blurred, then regained clarity, and finally disappeared in puffs of black smoke.

His eyes darkened. The tenno realized that the shuriken had been poisoned and that the poison was now spreading through the body, paralyzing muscle after muscle. The boy lay helpless, prone before the killer.

Blinded, he listened, waiting for the ninja to approach. Nothing but the chirping of crickets. My father once said that ninjas imitate the chirping of insects in order to quietly get close to the target. Now I understand how the killer slipped past the guards!

His sight returned briefly, and in the pale moonlight the boy saw a masked face. The ninja bent so close that his hot breath reached him, sour and smelly, like cheap sake. Through the gap in the hood, a green eye glowed with hatred.

This is a message for your daddy,” the ninja hissed.

Chris Bradford

young samurai

Thanks

With a deep bow, I thank those who have become an integral part of the Young Samurai team. I would like to name people who have demonstrated incredible loyalty and sacrificed time, effort and reputation for the sake of the Young Samurai. I am grateful for the diligence and dedication of Charlie Viney, my agent, a brave warrior who always defends my rights and fights for my career; Shanon Park, head daimyo at Puffin, for mastering the sword of editing - taking over from Sarah Hughes, she cut off all unnecessary and offered me great ideas; Wendy Tse - for the falcon's vigilance when correcting; Louise Heskett, Adele Minchin, Tanya Vian-Smith and the entire Puffin team for a successful campaign on the publishing battlefield; Francesca Dau, Pippa Le Quesnu, Tess Girvan - for helping the "Young Samurai" in conquering the world; Sensei Akemi Solloway for his continued support of the series; Trevor, Paul and Jenny of Authors Abroad for excellent organization of my meetings with readers; Sensei David Ansell of the Shin Ichi Do dojo for excellent lessons and advice; Yana, Nikki and Steffi Chapman - for their support; Matt for enthusiasm; my mother - for the fact that she remains my first admirer; father, the most demanding reader; to my wife, Sarah, for giving meaning to my life.

Finally, my deepest regards to the librarians and teachers who have supported the series (whether they are ninjas or samurai!), and to all Young Samurai readers, thank you for your loyalty to Jack, Akiko, and Yamato. Thank you for buying my books, reading them and writing letters to me. This means that I tried not in vain. Arigato gozaimasu.

Warning:"Young Samurai", although based on historical events and mentioning real people and places, is a work of fiction and only reflects the spirit of the era, without claiming historical accuracy.

Warning: Do not try to reproduce the techniques described in the book without the guidance of an experienced instructor. These techniques can be extremely dangerous and lead to death. Neither the author nor the publisher is responsible for injuries resulting from attempts to reproduce the techniques described in the book.

Way of the Warrior

Dedicated to my father

Prologue Masamoto Tenno Japan, city of Kyoto, August 1609

The boy abruptly opened his eyes.

And grabbed the sword.

There was someone else in the room. The Tenno held his breath. His eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and he peered warily to see if the night shadows were stirring. No one is visible, only the ghostly light of the moon seeps through the translucent paper walls. Maybe it felt? However, the instincts of the samurai warned of danger ...

Tenno listened with all his might: would the intruder betray himself with the slightest rustle? The cherry trees in the garden rustled lightly in the breeze; as usual, a trickle of water flowed from the fountain in the fish pond, and somewhere nearby a cricket chirped incessantly. There was complete silence in the house.

He was right to be so worried. Probably just evil kami disturbed sleep...

For a whole month, the entire Masamoto clan was buzzing like a disturbed beehive: there were rumors that there would be a war. There was talk of some kind of rebellion, and the Tenno's father was called in to help clean up the mess. The peace that Japan had enjoyed for the past twelve years was about to end, and people were afraid of more bloodshed. Here, willy-nilly, you will be alarmed!

The tenno relaxed, settling himself comfortably on futo-not,- You can still sleep. And suddenly the cricket chirped a little louder. The boy clutched the hilt of his sword in his palm. One day my father had said, "A samurai must always trust his instincts," and now his instincts were talking about danger.

We should check what's wrong.

The tenno got up.

A silver star flew out of the darkness.

The boy rushed to the side, but still too late: shuriken cut his cheek and dug into the head of the bed - just where his head had just been. A hot trickle of blood ran down his face. The second star thudded into the straw mats on the floor. The tenno jumped to his feet in one motion and held his sword in front of him.

Dressed in black from head to toe, a figure emerged from the shadows like a ghost.

Ninja! Night killer!

Deliberately slowly, the ninja drew a deadly blade from its scabbard - short, straight, ideally suited for thrusting and not at all like a long and slightly curved Tenno sword.

Like a cobra ready to pounce, the ninja took a silent step forward, swinging tanto.

Anticipating the attack, the Tenno slashed down with his sword, trying to cut the attacker in half. The ninja easily left the blade and, turning around his axis, hit the boy in the chest with his heel.

The impact sent the Tenno flying through the paper-covered door and flopped heavily into the middle of the inner garden, gasping for breath. My head went haywire.

The ninja jumped out through the punched hole and, like a cat, landed nearby.

The tenno tried to get up and fight off the attack, but his knees gave way: he did not feel his legs at all. I wanted to scream, calling for help, but my throat was swollen and burned with fire - the screams turned into convulsive sighs.

The figure of the ninja first blurred, then regained clarity, and finally disappeared in puffs of black smoke.

His eyes darkened. The tenno realized that the shuriken had been poisoned and that the poison was now spreading through the body, paralyzing muscle after muscle. The boy lay helpless, prone before the killer.

Blinded, he listened, waiting for the ninja to approach. Nothing but the chirping of crickets. My father once said that ninjas imitate the chirping of insects in order to quietly get close to the target. Now I understand how the killer slipped past the guards!

His sight returned briefly, and in the pale moonlight the boy saw a masked face. The ninja bent so close that his hot breath came - sour and smelly, like cheap sake. Through the gap in the hood, a green eye glowed with hatred.

This is a message for your daddy,” the ninja hissed.

A cold blade suddenly pricked his chest.

One sharp blow, and the whole body burned with unbearable pain ...

And then emptiness...

Masamoto Tenno has gone to Eternal Nothing.

1. Fireball Pacific Ocean, August. 1611

The boy abruptly opened his eyes.

All hands on deck! - roared boatswain.- Jack, it concerns you too!

The boatswain's weathered face appeared out of the darkness, and the boy jumped briskly out of the swinging hammock and landed on the wooden floor.

For his twelve years, Jack was tall, thin and muscular: two years at sea had not been in vain. From his mother he inherited a shock of blond hair - thick and long unkempt. Perseverance burned in bright blue eyes.

The sailors of the Alexandria, tired from the long voyage, got down heavily from their berths and squeezed past Jack, in a hurry to get on deck. Jack smiled guiltily.

Well, get moving! the boatswain growled in response.

Suddenly there was a deafening crack, the wood paneling creaking in protest. A tiny oil lamp suspended from the ceiling swayed violently.

Jack fell into a pile of empty grog bottles that flew in all directions. In the twilight cockpit a few more grubby, half-starved sailors stumbled past. Jack could not get up, and then they grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to his feet.

The broad-shouldered little man grinned, revealing a jagged row of broken teeth that made him look like a shark. Despite his stern appearance, the Dutchman treated Jack kindly.

Caught in a storm again. All the gates of hell have been thrown wide open! Ginsel remarked. - Blow you on tank, until the boatswain skinned you!

Jack hastily took off ladder followed by Ginzel and the rest of the sailors - and found himself in the very center of the storm.

There was a menacing rumble in the black clouds, the grumbling of the sailors was drowned out by the wind that whistled incessantly in gear. There was a sharp smell of sea salt, and the prickly freezing rain hit my face. Before Jack had time to feel it all, a giant wave covered the ship.

Jack was instantly soaked through. The sea churned underfoot, streams of water flowed from the deck through scuppers. While the guy frantically swallowed air, another roaring shaft hit the ship. This time, Jack could not stand on his feet, and he was almost washed away: at the very last moment, he managed to grab onto the railing.

A blinding lightning cut through the night sky and struck main mast. For a second, the entire ship shone with a ghostly light, and it became clear that the three-masted merchant ship was in complete disarray. The sailors were scattered across the deck like chips. A group of sailors struggled with the wind, desperately trying to remove grotto, until it was torn apart, or worse, until the entire ship was capsized.

Jack Fletcher, the son of a navigator, dreamed of becoming a sailor, but fate decreed otherwise. On the merchant ship attacked by Japanese pirates. The only surviving boy was saved by samurai. Now Jack has to become a Japanese warrior - wear a kimono, learn to eat hashi, not a fork, master the techniques of martial arts. Years of training made Jack a real samurai. However, he had not only friends, but also enemies ...

Dedicated to my father

Thanks

With a deep bow, I thank those who have become an integral part of the Young Samurai team. I would like to name people who have demonstrated incredible loyalty and sacrificed time, effort and reputation for the sake of the Young Samurai. I am grateful for the diligence and dedication of Charlie Viney, my agent, a brave warrior who always defends my rights and fights for my career; Shanon Park, head daimyo at Puffin, for mastering the sword of editing - taking over from Sarah Hughes, she cut off all unnecessary and offered me great ideas; Wendy Tse - for the falcon's vigilance when correcting; Louise Heskett, Adele Minchin, Tanya Vian-Smith and the entire Puffin team for a successful campaign on the publishing battlefield; Francesca Dau, Pippa Le Quesnu, Tess Girvan - for helping the "Young Samurai" in conquering the world; Sensei Akemi Solloway for his continued support of the series; Trevor, Paul and Jenny of Authors Abroad for excellent organization of my meetings with readers; Sensei David Ansell of the Shin Ichi Do dojo for excellent lessons and advice; Yana, Nikki and Steffi Chapman - for their support; Matt for enthusiasm; my mother - for the fact that she remains my first admirer; father, the most demanding reader; to my wife, Sarah, for giving meaning to my life.

Finally, my deepest regards to the librarians and teachers who have supported the series (whether they are ninjas or samurai!), and to all Young Samurai readers, thank you for your loyalty to Jack, Akiko, and Yamato. Thank you for buying my books, reading them and writing letters to me. This means that I tried not in vain. Arigato gozaimasu.

Warning:"Young Samurai", although based on historical events and mentioning real people and places, is a work of fiction and only reflects the spirit of the era, without claiming historical accuracy.

Warning: Do not try to reproduce the techniques described in the book without the guidance of an experienced instructor. These techniques can be extremely dangerous and lead to death. Neither the author nor the publisher is responsible for injuries resulting from attempts to reproduce the techniques described in the book.

Chris Bradford

young samurai

Thanks

With a deep bow, I thank those who have become an integral part of the Young Samurai team. I would like to name people who have demonstrated incredible loyalty and sacrificed time, effort and reputation for the sake of the Young Samurai. I am grateful for the diligence and dedication of Charlie Viney, my agent, a brave warrior who always defends my rights and fights for my career; Shanon Park, head daimyo at Puffin, for mastering the sword of editing - taking over from Sarah Hughes, she cut off all unnecessary and offered me great ideas; Wendy Tse - for the falcon's vigilance when correcting; Louise Heskett, Adele Minchin, Tanya Vian-Smith and the entire Puffin team for a successful campaign on the publishing battlefield; Francesca Dau, Pippa Le Quesnu, Tess Girvan - for helping the "Young Samurai" in conquering the world; Sensei Akemi Solloway for his continued support of the series; Trevor, Paul and Jenny of Authors Abroad for excellent organization of my meetings with readers; Sensei David Ansell of the Shin Ichi Do dojo for excellent lessons and advice; Yana, Nikki and Steffi Chapman - for their support; Matt for enthusiasm; my mother - for the fact that she remains my first admirer; father, the most demanding reader; to my wife, Sarah, for giving meaning to my life.

Finally, my deepest regards to the librarians and teachers who have supported the series (whether they are ninjas or samurai!), and to all Young Samurai readers, thank you for your loyalty to Jack, Akiko, and Yamato. Thank you for buying my books, reading them and writing letters to me. This means that I tried not in vain. Arigato gozaimasu.

Warning:"Young Samurai", although based on historical events and mentioning real people and places, is a work of fiction and only reflects the spirit of the era, without claiming historical accuracy.

Warning: Do not try to reproduce the techniques described in the book without the guidance of an experienced instructor. These techniques can be extremely dangerous and lead to death. Neither the author nor the publisher is responsible for injuries resulting from attempts to reproduce the techniques described in the book.

Way of the Warrior

Dedicated to my father

Prologue

Masamoto Tenno

Japan, city of Kyoto, August 1609

The boy abruptly opened his eyes.

And grabbed the sword.

There was someone else in the room. The Tenno held his breath. His eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and he peered warily to see if the night shadows were stirring. No one is visible, only the ghostly light of the moon seeps through the translucent paper walls. Maybe it felt? However, the instincts of the samurai warned of danger ...

Tenno listened with all his might: would the intruder betray himself with the slightest rustle? The cherry trees in the garden rustled lightly in the breeze; as usual, a trickle of water flowed from the fountain in the fish pond, and somewhere nearby a cricket chirped incessantly. There was complete silence in the house.

For a whole month, the entire Masamoto clan was buzzing like a disturbed beehive: there were rumors that there would be a war. There was talk of some kind of rebellion, and the Tenno's father was called in to help clean up the mess. The peace that Japan had enjoyed for the past twelve years was about to end, and people were afraid of more bloodshed. Here, willy-nilly, you will be alarmed!

The tenno relaxed, settling himself comfortably on futo-not,- You can still sleep. And suddenly the cricket chirped a little louder. The boy clutched the hilt of his sword in his palm. One day my father had said, "A samurai must always trust his instincts," and now his instincts were talking about danger.

We should check what's wrong.

The tenno got up.

A silver star flew out of the darkness.

The boy rushed to the side, but still too late: shuriken cut his cheek and dug into the head of the bed - just where his head had just been. A hot trickle of blood ran down his face. The second star thudded into the straw mats on the floor. The tenno jumped to his feet in one motion and held his sword in front of him.

Dressed in black from head to toe, a figure emerged from the shadows like a ghost.

Ninja! Night killer!

Deliberately slowly, the ninja drew a deadly blade from its scabbard - short, straight, ideally suited for thrusting and not at all like a long and slightly curved Tenno sword.

Like a cobra ready to pounce, the ninja took a silent step forward, swinging tanto.

Anticipating the attack, the Tenno slashed down with his sword, trying to cut the attacker in half. The ninja easily left the blade and, turning around his axis, hit the boy in the chest with his heel.

The impact sent the Tenno flying through the paper-covered door and flopped heavily into the middle of the inner garden, gasping for breath. My head went haywire.

The ninja jumped out through the punched hole and, like a cat, landed nearby.

The tenno tried to get up and fight off the attack, but his knees gave way: he did not feel his legs at all. I wanted to scream, calling for help, but my throat was swollen and burned with fire - the screams turned into convulsive sighs.

The figure of the ninja first blurred, then regained clarity, and finally disappeared in puffs of black smoke.

His eyes darkened. The tenno realized that the shuriken had been poisoned and that the poison was now spreading through the body, paralyzing muscle after muscle. The boy lay helpless, prone before the killer.

Blinded, he listened, waiting for the ninja to approach. Nothing but the chirping of crickets. My father once said that ninjas imitate the chirping of insects in order to quietly get close to the target. Now I understand how the killer slipped past the guards!

His sight returned briefly, and in the pale moonlight the boy saw a masked face. The ninja bent so close that his hot breath came - sour and smelly, like cheap sake. Through the gap in the hood, a green eye glowed with hatred.

This is a message for your daddy,” the ninja hissed.

A cold blade suddenly pricked his chest.

One sharp blow, and the whole body burned with unbearable pain ...

And then emptiness...

Masamoto Tenno has gone to Eternal Nothing.

1. Fireball

Pacific Ocean, August. 1611

The boy abruptly opened his eyes.

The boatswain's weathered face appeared out of the darkness, and the boy jumped briskly out of the swinging hammock and landed on the wooden floor.

For his twelve years, Jack was tall, thin and muscular: two years at sea had not been in vain. From his mother he inherited a shock of blond hair - thick and long unkempt. Perseverance burned in bright blue eyes.

The sailors of the Alexandria, tired from the long voyage, got down heavily from their berths and squeezed past Jack, in a hurry to get on deck. Jack smiled guiltily.

Well, get moving! the boatswain growled in response.

Suddenly there was a deafening crack, the wood paneling creaking in protest. A tiny oil lamp suspended from the ceiling swayed violently.

Jack fell into a pile of empty grog bottles that flew in all directions. In the twilight cockpit a few more grubby, half-starved sailors stumbled past. Jack could not get up, and then they grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to his feet.

The broad-shouldered little man grinned, revealing a jagged row of broken teeth that made him look like a shark. Despite his stern appearance, the Dutchman treated Jack kindly.

Caught in a storm again. All the gates of hell have been thrown wide open! Ginsel remarked. - Blow you on tank, until the boatswain skinned you!

Jack hastily took off ladder followed by Ginzel and the rest of the sailors - and found himself in the very center of the storm.

There was a menacing rumble in the black clouds, the grumbling of the sailors was drowned out by the wind that whistled incessantly in gear. There was a sharp smell of sea salt, and the prickly freezing rain hit my face. Before Jack had time to feel it all, a giant wave covered the ship.

Jack was instantly soaked through. The sea churned underfoot, streams of water flowed from the deck through scuppers. While the guy frantically swallowed air, another roaring shaft hit the ship. This time, Jack could not stand on his feet, and he was almost washed away: at the very last moment, he managed to grab onto the railing.

A blinding lightning cut through the night sky and struck main mast. For a second, the entire ship shone with a ghostly light, and it became clear that the three-masted merchant ship was in complete disarray. The sailors were scattered across the deck like chips. A group of sailors struggled with the wind, desperately trying to remove grotto, until it was torn apart, or worse, until the entire ship was capsized.

On the poop the third mate, a seven-foot-tall giant with a fiery red beard, hung on steering wheel. Captain Wallace stood beside him, yelling commands in a stern voice that no one else could hear, the wind blowing the words before they could reach anyone's ears.

In addition to the captain and assistant, there was another person in the poop: a powerful sailor of high stature with brown hair tied at the back of his head with a strap - Jack's father, John Fletcher, navigator"Alexandria". He kept his eyes on the horizon, as if he were trying to pierce the storm with his eyes and look out for a safe berth.

Hey you! - The boatswain pointed to Jack, Ginzel and a couple of other sailors. - Well, up! give away Fort Marseille!

The sailors rushed across the main deck to foremast. Suddenly, a fireball hit them from above - it flew straight at Jack.

Watch out! shouted one of the sailors.

Jack, who had already been through several real troubles during the trip, instinctively crouched down. A blast of hot air scorched him as the fireball whined past and fell to the deck. But he fell not at all like a cannonball falls: without the terrifying crack of a tree broken by iron. There was a dull, lifeless thud, as if a bale of cloth had been dropped.

Feeling a growing nausea, Jack reluctantly lowered his gaze: this is not a core. In front of him lay the flaming corpse of a sailor who had been struck by lightning.

Jack froze, dazed, feeling that he was about to turn inside out. The face of the dead man froze in agony and was burned beyond recognition.

Holy Mother of God! exclaimed Ginsel. - Surely the heavens are against us!

He did not have time to add anything more: a wave surged over the side and washed the corpse into the sea.

Stay close to me! - Ginsel grabbed the shocked boy by the hand and pulled him to the foremast.

Jack didn't move. The smell of burnt meat still lingered in his nostrils, just like burnt pork on a spit.

Of course, this wasn't the first time Jack had seen the dead man, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Father warned that crossing two oceans, the Atlantic and the Pacific, is a dangerous undertaking. Jack has seen people die from frostbite, scurvy, dengue, stab wounds, and cannonballs. Yet familiarity with death did not make it any less terrible.

Let's go! Ginsel hurried.

I just prayed for him,” the boy finally answered. Ginzel is right: he should go with him to the sailors, but at that moment the need to be near his father outweighed the sense of duty.

Where?! yelled Ginsel as Jack rushed to Utah. We need you upstairs!

But Jack no longer heard anything, desperately making his way to his father through the storm wind. The violent rolling threw the ship from side to side.

As soon as he got to mizzen masts, how "Alexandria" was covered by a new giant shaft. This time, Jack was not only knocked down, but dragged across the deck, all the way to the port side.

The ship tilted again, and Jack was thrown overboard into the seething blackness of the ocean.

2. Darsoboy

Contrary to expectations, Jack did not fall into the abyss, but hung overboard, right above the raging waters. Looking up, he saw a tattooed hand gripping his wrist in pincers. The anchor, gouged out of the sailor's forearm, seemed to buckle under the strain.

Don't be afraid, little one, I'm holding you! - grumbled the savior, and then a new wave swept over Jack.

The boatswain dragged the boy onto the deck, almost dislocating his shoulder, and he collapsed exhaustedly under the feet of his savior, clearing his throat. salt water.

Nothing, you'll survive. You are a born sailor, all like your father, - the boatswain grinned. - And now tell me, what the hell did you suffer on poop?

I ... ran on an errand to my father.

What other assignment? I told you to stay on deck! yelled the boatswain. - Even though you are the son of a navigator, I will still flog you for disobeying the order! Quickly climb the foremast and dissolve sail, otherwise you will taste my whip!

This minute, boatswain, - muttered Jack, hastily rushing back to the bow. He's still lucky. The Nine-Tailed Whip was by no means an empty threat: other sailors were flogged for much less.

And yet, reaching the bow, Jack stopped in indecision: the fore-mast is taller than the steeple of the church, and he also walks in a storm. Icy fingers did not even feel the ropes, and wet through, heavy clothes prevented movement. And the longer he will stand as a pillar, the more he will freeze and soon he will not be able to move at all.

Come on, Jack encouraged himself. - Are you afraid?

Deep down he knew he was afraid. Honestly, all the hamstrings were shaking. During the long journey from England to the Spice Islands, Jack became an experienced Mars: learned to climb mast, mending sails and unraveling ropes at dizzying heights and did it almost better than anyone, although he was not distinguished by either special fearlessness or skill - in fact, he was driven by panic horror.

Jack looked up at the stormy sky, swirling swirling black clouds now and then obscuring the pale moon. In the darkness, Ginsel and the rest of the sailors were barely visible, clinging to guys. The mast shook so that the sailors looked like apples about to fall down.

The day Jack first had to climb into "crow's nest" father said: "Do not be afraid of life's storms: we all must learn to navigate our ship through the storms."

Jack remembered how the newcomers tried to climb into the barrel attached to the mast: the mast shook, the tackle trembled from the wind - all as one either froze in place with horror, or turned inside out - right on the sailors standing under the mast. When it was Jack's turn, his knees shook with fear.

“Every time we face our fear, we become stronger, bolder and more confident,” said the father, squeezing Jack's shoulders reassuringly. Son, I believe in you. You can".

The words of his father gave Jack strength: he climbed up the ropes and did not look down until he had crossed the edge of the barrel, where there was nothing to be afraid of. Exhausted but happy, Jack yelled with delight and waved at his father, who looked no bigger than an ant from that height. Fear drove Jack to the very top of the mast. But how to climb back - that's another question ...

Finally, grabbing onto the shrouds, Jack climbed up - until he lost the last of his courage. Very soon he was drawn into the usual rhythm, and this calmed him a little. Deftly working with his hands, he quickly gained height and soon looked down at the foamy crests of the waves. Now he was threatened not so much by the waves as by the continuous wind. Ice flurries tried to tear the boy from the ropes and carry him into the night, but Jack stubbornly climbed up - he did not even have time to look back, as he was already standing next to Ginsel on knock-yard.

Jack! shouted Ginsel. He looked haggard, his eyes were bloodshot and sunken. - One of season confused. The sail does not unravel. You'll have to climb up there and untangle the rope.

Jack looked up and saw a thick rope: hanging from it block swayed dangerously.

Yes, you're crazy! Why me? Why not someone else? - Jack nodded at the two sailors, petrified with fear, desperately clinging to the tackle.

Excuse me, Jack, you are our best marshal.

This is suicide! Jack protested.

BUT trip around the world- what do you think? And yet we decided on it! Ginsel tried to smile reassuringly, but his jagged, shark-like teeth gave him a frightening look. - Without a fore-marseille, the captain cannot save the ship. So there is nowhere to go, you have to climb - and it’s for you.

Jack realized that he didn't have to choose.

Okay, just watch, be ready to catch me.

Trust me bro, I'll try my best. Tie a rope around your waist and I'll take the other end. And grab my knife too - it will come in handy to cut the ropes in order to free the season.

Jack tied himself with a safety rope, clamped a roughly made knife between his teeth and climbed onto topmast. At such a height, there were few tackles left, and there was almost nothing to grab onto. Jack carefully, at a snail's pace, crawled along spars to the tangled season, and the wind clung to it with thousands of invisible hands. Far below, in the poop, Jack barely made out his father - and could have sworn that he waved to him.

Watch out! shouted Ginsel.

Jack turned around: the torn block was carried by the wind right at him. The boy darted to the side - and broke.

Already falling, he managed to grab onto one of files. His hands slipped, the rough hemp cut deep into his palms.

Jack hung, clinging to the halyard and as if flying through the air.

Sea. Ship. Sail. Sky. Everything was spinning...

Don't be afraid, I'm holding you! shouted Ginsel.

Pulling on the safety rope thrown over the topmast, Ginzel pulled Jack higher. The boy pulled himself up, wrapped his legs around the spars and climbed up on him. For a few seconds, Jack came to his senses, whistling inhaling air through his teeth - between which the knife was still clamped.

When the pain in his skinned palms subsided, Jack crawled up the spars again. And now the tangled season is right in front of your nose. Jack took the knife and began sawing through the wet rope. However, the blade was blunt, and the fibers yielded with difficulty. The fingers were frozen to the bone, and the bloody palms became slippery - and you look like you'll break. A gust of wind pushed Jack aside. Trying to keep his balance, he did not hold the knife in his hands.

No-o-o! Jack yelled, trying unsuccessfully to catch the falling blade.

Completely exhausted, he turned his head to Ginsel:

I sawed only half the rope! Now what to do?

Ginsel waved his hand: come back! But then, with another squall, the ship shook as if it had run into the rocks with a swing. The mast trembled, and the fore-marseille twitched, pulling the tangled season. The half-cut rope burst, the sail opened and, with a sharp flap, caught the wind.

The ship surged forward.

Ginsel and the rest of the sailors yelled with joy, and this unexpected good fortune cheered Jack up.

Alas, the joy was short-lived: the opened sail pulled the tangled block to the mast, it broke off and now flew down like a stone - right at Jack.

And it was impossible to dodge.

Jump! shouted Ginsel.

3 Between Sharks And Jesuits

Jack opened his arms and jumped, moving away from the block flying at him. Ginsel clung with all his might to the other end of the safety rope, holding the boy. Describing an arc, Jack flew into the foremast rigging and grabbed the ropes.

The block fell down, right on Ginzel, but hit Sam, who was standing behind him. The blow threw the poor man into the sea.

Sam! .. - Jack yelled, hastily climbing down the shrouds in the hope of helping his comrade.

Leaping onto the deck, Jack ran to the rail, but could only watch helplessly as Sam floundered in the giant waves, disappearing and resurfacing. Finally, he screamed plaintively and disappeared under the water.

Jack turned dejectedly to the approaching boatswain.

Nothing to do, - said the boatswain. - You will remember him tomorrow morning - if we ourselves live until morning.

Seeing the despair on the boy's face, he softened a little.

You are a good fellow, you did a great job on the mast. Go now to your father - he is in his cabin with the captain.

Jack rushed to the ladder - it's good that you don't have to hang around on the deck in such a storm!

In the belly of the ship, the storm was not so frightening: only a muffled howl could be heard here. Jack crept aft, into a small, low-ceilinged room.

Father leaned over the table, carefully studying the map.

Navigator, you have to get us out of here! the captain barked, slamming his fist on the table. You said you know these places! He promised that we would soon get to the shore - and it's been two weeks already! Two whole weeks, damn it! On this vessel I can sail in any storm, but you have to know where to sail! Or maybe there is no Japan? Maybe it's all lies? The damned Portuguese invented them to destroy us!

Captain, Japan really exists, - calmly replied the father. - My map states that the Japanese islands are between thirty and forty degrees north latitude. According to my calculations, the coast was only a few leagues away. Here, look.

John Fletcher pointed to a crudely drawn map in the leather-bound notebook Jack knew so well.

Captain, it's a stone's throw from here to the Japanese port of Toba - right here. True, I was told that all this coast is teeming with pirates. Toba is not a very hospitable port. Most likely, they will take us for pirates too. Worse, one navigator on the island of Java said that the Portuguese Jesuits settled here. They built a Catholic church and confused their heads local residents. Even if we make it to the shore, we'll be slaughtered as heretic Protestants!

From the depths of the ship came a dull thud, protesting grunts frames: board "Alexandria" stroked huge wave.

Navigator, in such a storm we must at all costs get to the shore. If we have to choose whether we go to feed the sharks or fall into the clutches of the Jesuits, then personally I prefer the holy fathers!

Captain, I have a better suggestion. A couple of miles south of Toba you can find convenient bays - safe, closed and quite secluded - although access to them is not easy: access is blocked by dangerous reefs..

Jack looked at the map: his father was pointing to small rows of broken lines.

And are you sure you can get us there?

If it is the will of God, then I will.

The captain was about to leave the cabin when he noticed Jack.

Boy, pray that your father is right: he holds the life of this ship, including the crew, in his hands.

He hurried out the door, leaving Jack alone with his father.

John carefully wrapped the notebook in oil-soaked oilcloth. Went up to the one in the corner locker and, lifting the thin mattress, hid the notebook in a secret drawer.