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Naomasa
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Devikuro sits cross-legged and takes deep, heavy breaths as his human attendants begin applying ointments to his wounds and wrapping his body in a sarashi cast. His offspring, Zhuzhen, an Agexiz wearing a blue, fur-rimmed waistcoat with fingernails painted in nearly every color, glances between me and his father with his staff in hand while keeping his expression emotionless. Devikuro cringes and keels over in pain as a salve is applied to his open chest wound, and, when his attendants try to put him on his back, he resists them and remains sitting upright as he proceeds to address me:
“Prince Naomasa,” he says, “that was a spectacular fight. You moved as if to kill me. May I ask why?”
I feel the shame of my former defeat as my body begins to shake. I shudder for a momen
