AS KASAKI APPROACHED the crossroad, excitement surged through him. The prospect of starting his samurai training filled him with eagerness. He envisioned overcoming challenges to prove he deserved the samurai title, determined never to quit, no matter how tough it got. Time felt precious now; Misuki's impending invasion threatened his family and countless others.

The group turned right, descending a hill by a river. Concealed by towering trees stood a two-story house. Kasaki recognized the parrot in the front yard, casually munching on a mango as they arrived.

"You're here," the parrot greeted. Night still lingered, with dawn expected in three hours. A man in a silk outfit emerged, pale with narrow eyes and long, sleek black hair.

"Welcome," he said.

Everyone bowed in respect. Kasaki followed suit, mirroring the actions of the others.

The man exuded extreme benevolence; his movements were graceful. He didn't appear like a warrior at all. It was challenging to picture him as someone capable of killing, to be honest. Kasaki thought his voice sounded peaceful and filled with calm.

"Thank you for accepting us here, master," a tall man, likely the oldest in the group, said.

"It's my pleasure. I know you endured some hardships to come here." After a pause, an innocent smile on the master's face confused everybody.

“Mikono!” he said, addressing the tough guy who had insulted Kasaki at The Golden Bridge. “You’re here. I must say I was expecting you, but it's still a wonderful surprise to see you.”

Mikono looked embarrassed, flushing.

“Thank you, master. I’m now a man, so it is my duty to come here and fight for our freedom.”

“You are as stubborn as your father,” the master said with a smile.

Kasaki noticed Mikono's countenance turn sad when his father was mentioned.

“Thank you, master,” Mikono replied. “But I hope I have a different fate.”

“That’ll depend on your own efforts,” the master said plainly again.

Everyone seemed relaxed. Somehow, the master’s voice had transmitted a sense of peace to everyone.

“Chichi,” the master said. “Call the training squad. Inform them our candidates are here.”

“Yes, master,” replied the parrot, dropping the mango and flying to the back of the house.

“For those of you who don’t know what our training consists of, I’ll briefly explain it.” The master’s voice became a little tougher now. “We’ll make you suffer. You’ll want to die. But if you don’t quit, and don’t die, we’ll make you stronger, stronger than ever. We’ll push you beyond your supposed limits. And, more importantly, we’ll teach you magic.”

“What?” the tall man replied. “Are we going to use magic?”

“How else do you think a small group of samurais can defeat an entire kingdom’s army?”

“Well, I guess it makes sense.”

"Indeed," the master pressed on. "The core: believe. Every time. Whether your intent, magic or mundane, lacks conviction, it's powerless. Belief. Faith. Call it what you will, this conviction fuels possibility. This training, though physical, is mental at its heart. Your minds will be hardened."

"Master," Mikono interrupted, "were those savage beasts in the Wild Forest illusions?"

The master smiled. "A nuanced question, Mikono. You have a sharp mind. Not illusions, precisely. They are magic, real as your wounds, real as fallen comrades. True illusions exist, for deception, but magic isn't a parlor trick. It hurts, as you saw. Here, you'll unlock your potential, but be warned: our foe knows magic too."

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"Misuki uses magic?" the tall man gaped, worry etching his features.

"No," the master replied, "but he's bought the loyalty of powerful magic users. Bet he'll unleash them when war explodes."

Mikono frowned. "Do we have a chance, Master?"

The master's expression hardened. "A naive question, Mikono. We fight not because we might win, but because surrender means death or worse. Our only path is resistance. When that's your only choice, victory isn't a question, it's a necessity. Believe in it, blindly."

Master's words hung heavy in the air, leaving Kasaki speechless. Every sentence resonated with truth, painting a stark picture of their future.

“So when will the training start?” the tall man asked.

"Right now," the master declared, his smile cryptic as before.

Kasaki barely registered the parrot's wings before the ground groaned beneath their feet. A swirling grey vortex materialized, consuming the courtyard. Instinctively, Kasaki shielded his face, preparing for anything. The wind howled, then abruptly, silence.

When the dust settled, three figures stood in the center, clad in black. Tall and muscular, with flowing hair, they resembled the epitome of warriors. Their eyes remained closed, yet their hands danced in unison, weaving an intricate, silent spell.

The master looked at them with the expression of a proud father. Everyone else was worried, alert and confused.

One of the Samurais looked around and smiled.

“Whenever you want, sir,” he said to the master.

“Do it,” the master answered him.

The samurai's head dipped in assent, followed by a thunderous, "Seventh position, karma illusion!" In unison, the three warriors moved as one, their blades clanging together in a metallic chime. Kasaki's gaze locked on the intersecting steel, a spark of curiosity flickering in his chest. The master had promised training, but its form remained shrouded in mystery.

Then, it hit him. An unsettling loss of control, his body moving independent of his will. Darkness swallowed him whole, only to spew him back a moment later, hurtling through an endless tunnel. The world blurred, a rapid kaleidoscope of colors and shapes defying comprehension. His mind wrestled with the chaos, but resistance was futile. Accepting the unknown, he surrendered to the master's test.

His senses swam back into focus, revealing a scene straight out of his worst nightmares. An oil well, a grotesque parody of nature, dominated the landscape. Monstrous machines groaned, sucking the earth's lifeblood dry. Familiar faces, villagers dragged from their homes, toiled under the scorching sun, their backs bent under the weight of crude oil. Each flicker of exhaustion was met with the sting of a guard's whip.

One such blow, aimed at an old man who crumpled to the ground, his pleas lost in the din, ignited a fire within Kasaki. He lunged towards the guard, desperate to intervene. But his hand passed through flesh and bone, his form a mere wisp of air, unseen and unheard. A chilling truth settled on his stomach - he was a ghost, trapped in a world of suffering. Panic gave way to determination. "I have to find my parents," he vowed, his voice echoing only in the hollow chambers of his soul.

Kasaki's lungs burned, his legs ached, but he pushed on. Every creak of the metal structure echoed in his ears, a constant reminder of their captivity. He'd scanned every grimy corner, every oil-slicked pipe, but his parents remained missing. Finally, a flicker of light drew him to a dilapidated building. Hope flickered in his chest, but it died as quickly as it came. Inside, hunched over a mountain of pots and pans, his mother toiled. Her once vibrant eyes were dulled, her hands calloused and raw from endless scrubbing. She was a slave, too, forced to feed the hundreds of others trapped in this desolate prison.

Kasaki's gaze drifted to the pots. A meager slop of rice and unrecognizable grains clung to the bottom. This was their sustenance, their fuel for another day of backbreaking labor. Misuki, their captor, thrived on their misery, feeding them just enough to survive, not enough to rebel. Despair clawed at Kasaki, a physical ache in his throat.

Suddenly, his mother paused, a flicker of awareness crossing her face. Her hand, worn and scarred, went to her chest. Kasaki knew the silver chain hidden beneath her ragged clothes, a talisman she touched when danger neared, when hope flickered. "Kasaki," she whispered, her voice hoarse but resolute.

The words hung heavy in the air, their hope a cruel illusion that mocked his helplessness. "Stay safe, my boy," his mother's voice echoed in his mind, a desperate plea that sent tears stinging down his face. He reached for her, yearning for the comfort of a touch denied by the shimmering barrier separating them. It was a phantom embrace, mirroring the phantom existence Kasaki found himself in.

His gaze shifted to his father, a stark contrast to the mother's forced stoicism. Muscles strained under the weight of oil barrels, each lift a defiant act against the chains that bound him. Frustration etched lines on his weathered face, the stolen joy of woodworking replaced by the soul-crushing labor of a slave. Questions churned in Kasaki's gut: Did they allow stolen moments of solace, a glance across the crowded yard, a whispered word in the dead of night?

And then there was Misuki, perched on his high throne, a chilling symbol of their subjugation. "All that oil… for what?" Kasaki thought, the question a burning ember in his chest. It wouldn't remain unanswered. He would find out.