“Initially, I held the vanguard,” he continued, “but then Noda matched my pace. We advanced shoulder to shoulder, like two tigers prowling a bamboo grove. Every arc of the blade — a flash of lightning; every kiai shout — a clap of thunder.” “I recall,” Noda interjected, “how the blood sprayed across the snow like sakura petals caught in an April gale. We did not tally the strokes; we tallied only honor.” “By the day’s end,” Mukai declared, “I had cut down one hundred and five men. Noda — one hundred and six”
