Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
The sound of Uncle Kenji's wooden sandals echoed off the dark stone walls of the underground corridor.
He stopped ten paces away, the flickering light of the wall torch casting long, twisted shadows across his face. He wore his dark purple Imperial Onmyoji robes, though they looked rumpled and stained with snow. In his left hand, he held a glowing yellow talisman.
In his right hand, he held the bamboo practice sword.
The exact same bamboo sword he had used to beat me black and blue in the Bureau's basement for nine years.
My breath hitched. A sudden, violent wave of pure, unfiltered trauma washed over me. My hands started to shake. I could smell the toxic ash. I could feel the damp, freezing dirt of the basement floor.
