The men rushed from the room. She followed their stampede down the corridor.

Dizzy from pain, Sano flung wild, desperate punches at Kobori. Kobori smote his ribcage. A fit of shaking seized him. He fell, his body twitching uncontrollably as Kobori stood over him.

“I’ve heard that you’re a great fighter. I’m disappointed in you,” Kobori said.

Terror compressed Sano’s vision and shrank the world. All Sano could see was Kobori, his face radiant, eyes afire with dark light. Sano’s physical strength was all but gone. Struggling to collect his wits, he dimly remembered what the priest Ozuno had said to Hirata: Everyone has a sensitive spot. I was never able to find Kobori’s, but it’s your only real hope of defeating him in a duel.

“I’ve heard about you, too,” Sano said, barely able to think, speaking on instinct. He swallowed blood and mucus; he pushed himself upright. “From a priest named Ozuno. I understand he was your teacher.”

A beat passed. “What did he say?” Kobori’s tone was indifferent, but Sano could tell he was only pretending he didn’t care what Ozuno thought of him.

“He said he disowned you,” Sano said.

“Never!” Kobori spoke with such haste and fervor that Sano knew Ozuno’s rejection of him still hurt. “We had a difference in philosophy. We went our separate ways.”

Sano praised the cosmos for blessing him: He’d found Kobori’s sensitive spot. It was Ozuno himself. “You joined Yanagisawa’s elite squadron,” Sano said. “You used your skills to commit political assassinations.”

“That’s better than what Ozuno and his brotherhood of old geezers did,” Kobori said. “They were content to preserve the knowledge for posterity. What a waste!”

Sano was glad to feel Kobori’s energy diverted from himself. His strength revived, and although he was still dizzy, he managed to regain his feet. “I understand. You wanted more than you could get from the brotherhood.”

“Why not? I didn’t want to be a provincial samurai and spend my life guarding the local daimyo’s lands, keeping bandits away and the peasants in line. Nor did I want to dedicate myself to Ozuno’s obsolete traditions. I deserved more.”

“So you sold yourself to Yanagisawa.”

“Yes!” Kobori hastened to justify himself: “Yanagisawa gave me a chance to be somebody. To move in bigger, higher circles. To have a purpose in life.”

Sano comprehended that Kobori’s motives went beyond the usual Bushido code of obeying a superior. They were personal, and so must be his reasons for his crusade against Lord Matsudaira. “Well, now that Yanagisawa is gone, so is your purpose. Without him, you’re nothing again.”

“He’s not gone forever. I’m creating such a panic in Lord Matsudaira’s regime that it will soon fall. My master will return to power.”

And then, Kobori believed, he would regain his own status. Sano saw that Kobori was only waging war for Yanagisawa because their interests coincided. Kobori’s personal pride, not the honor that bound a samurai to his master, was at issue. As a fighter he was invincible, but his pride was his weakness. It had suffered a huge blow when Ozuno disowned him, and another when Yanagisawa had fallen and taken him down, too. Now it needed one more, decisive blow.

“Do you want to know what else Ozuno said about you?” Sano said.

“What do I care?” Kobori said, annoyed as well as clearly eager to know. “Save your breath and maybe you’ll live a little longer.”

Sano thought that the longer he kept Kobori talking, the better his chances of survival. “Ozuno said you never completely mastered the art of dim-mak because you didn’t finish your training.”

Indignation tinged Kobori’s expression. “I quit when I’d learned everything I could from him. I surpassed him. Did he mention that he tried to kill me and I beat him up?”

“He said you’ll never fulfill your potential,” Sano said, putting more words in Ozuno’s mouth. “You could have been the greatest martial artist in history. But you’ve wasted your training and your talent and your life. You’re nothing but one of a thousand rōnin outlaws.”

“I am the greatest martial artist! I’ve proved it tonight. Tomorrow he’ll know he was wrong about me. He’ll smell the smoke from the funeral pyres of all the men I’ve killed here.” Goaded into a rage, Kobori shouted, “And he’ll breathe your ashes along with theirs!”

He lunged at Sano, multiplying himself into an army that struck Sano repeatedly from all directions. But even as Sano jerked, spun, and cried out in pain, he perceived that Kobori had lost self-control. The insults to his pride, and his fear that his crusade would indeed fail, had gotten the better of him. He struck without caring whether he hit lethal points, venting his anger at Ozuno on Sano. His breaths now sounded more like sobs than like flames igniting. Sano sensed that Kobori wanted to torture him more than kill him. He forced himself to endure and suffer, biding his time.

Kobori slowed his movements, confident now of his victory over Sano, if not his future. Sano deliberately fell onto a gable that jutted from the roof. Kobori reached down to grab him. Sano’s eyes were so awash in blood and sweat that he could barely see. Guided by blind instinct, he shot out his hand and locked it around Kobori’s wrist. His fingers found two indentations on the bone. He squeezed with all his might.

Kobori exhaled in surprise. For just an instant, his muscles went slack as Sano’s grip drained the energy from him. Sano yanked Kobori down. He stiffened his other hand and jabbed the fingers under Kobori’s chin. Kobori uttered a cry of pained alarm. He reared back from Sano. His free arm swung up to strike a death-blow at Sano’s face. At the same time Sano thrust himself forward in a last, desperate effort. His forehead slammed Kobori high on the right breast.

The shock of the collision reverberated through Sano’s skull.

White lights exploded across his vision as if the stars in heaven were splintering.

Before Sano knew whether Kobori’s blow landed on him, the universe went black and silent.

Reiko, Hirata, the guards, and detectives tore through the dark, labyrinthine house. “There must be stairs to the roof,” Fukida said. Ahead of him, Lieutenant Asukai called, “Here!”

They rampaged up the staircase. Marume pushed open a trapdoor. The men clambered through it onto the roof. Lieutenant Asukai pulled Reiko up. Wind buffeted her. The thatched roof was a wide, slanted gray landscape in the moonlight. She heard no sound, no movement on it: The fighting had stopped. Then she saw two human forms lying side by side on the slope of a gable, as though tossed by the wind, their bodies broken.

“Over there!” she cried, pointing. Dread tightened around her heart.

One of the figures moved, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He stood over the other, prone figure. Reiko’s dread turned to sickening horror. Two men had fought. One had conquered and survived. She thought she knew which.

“No!” Reiko screamed.

Her voice echoed across the hills. The victor slowly turned to her.

As the moonlight revealed him, Reiko braced herself to see the face of Kobori, the assassin who’d slain her husband. But instead the light illuminated Sano’s face. It was so battered, bloody, and swollen that Reiko barely recognized him. But it was Sano, alive and victorious. Such relief overwhelmed Reiko that she almost fainted. She moaned and would have run to Sano, but he held up his hand.

“Don’t come any closer,” he said. “Kobori’s alive.”

The prone figure stirred. Marume and Fukida rushed across the roof. They seized Kobori and bound his wrists and ankles with his sash. Reiko hurried to Sano. He held her in his arms as she wept with joy.

“I thought you were dead!” she cried. “I thought the Ghost killed you!

Sano gave a chuckle that turned into a coughing fit. “You should have a little more faith in me.”