Akihiko had always been considered a little odd by the other boys he associated with. He had stunningly good looks, but wore his hair long in a style that had gone out of fashion nearly a thousand years before in China. He was very well liked by the others in his class, and was a natural leader, having earned for himself the nickname 'majesty'. The name wasn't entirely kind; it alluded to the fact that he was a little on the arrogant side, and was extremely vain of his own looks.

He was also the captain of Jonan's kendo club.

Akihiko felt the sweat dripping down his forehead and tangling in his hair, now caught up under the practice helmet he wore for practice. Some of the hecklers yelled things to attempt to shake him off his focus, until the coach glared a t them to stop. The coach turned back, and nodded once.

Immediately, his opponent swung into action. Akihiko sighed. No one else on the team was nearly his level of skill, and he always had to hold back enough to avoid either harming someone or completely embarrassing them. His older brother had studied a traditional Chinese style and taught him at home, but he hadn't gotten a good workout since his brother had left for college.

Another sparring couple attracted the coach's attention away for a moment, and his opponent ground his teeth audibly behind his helmet. Desperate to redeem himself somehow, looking for any possible advantage, his opponent swung the blade sideways and scored a hit…a very dishonorable one.

Akihiko's mind blanked in a rage. Swordplay was held sacred to him, and he detested any sort of foul at all. A peculiar kanji appeared on his neck, blazing a brilliant crimson. The other boys shouted in shock, but Akihiko was beyond hearing. His bokken moved with such blinding speed that it seemed not to be whirling wood, but a streak of steel metal. He drove his desperate opponent backward, until the younger, less skilled boy tripped and fell at his feet. The bokken came to rest at the boy's throat, appearing again to be the wood it was.

"Yield to your emperor and we shall be merciful," He found himself saying. The words brought him back to himself and where he was, and he looked around in confusion as he heard the others asking,

"What did he say?" "Was that even Japanese?" "It sounded kind of like Chinese to me, but it wasn't a dialect I ever studied." "Man, that sounded really archaic!" "Did you see his neck?"

My… neck? He thought in confusion as they edged away from him. The coach 'suggested' he go home and rest for the day, and he left, carefully packing the bokken away next to a weapon no one knew he carried, a bejeweled sword that his brother told him was a family heirloom. His hand brushed the blade, and he yanked his hand back with a muffled exclamation of surprise.

It was burning hot, as though it had just been used by a master who knew how to extend his chi over it.

What is happening to me?