That evening, huddled around a fire in the depths of the abandoned temple, I tossed him a knife. It was a simple thing, a utility blade taken from one of the dead ronin. He fumbled it, the metal clattering against the stone floor.
"My lord?"
"You're learning to fight," I said.
"But... this one is just a cook's son. I chop vegetables."
"Good," I replied. "Then you understand how to separate things from what they were. Stand up."
He obeyed, his body a bundle of nervous energy, his stance awkward.
"Why?" he blurted out, the question bursting out of him. "Why are you doing this? For me?"
"Don't be sentimental," I scoffed. "I'm testing a theory. I want to see if a human with no training can be taught anything useful, or if you're all born useless."
We worked until the moon was high. His movements were clumsy, his grip too tight, his feet all wrong. But he didn't complain. He just absorbed every correction, his face a mask of intense concentration.
