The Code of the Blade

2513 Words
It was by the tenth day that he had reached the village of Hitan by sundown. It was a town of mud and straw, the road was slick and damp, the roads busy with carts hauling pots filled with all sorts of things and dragged by livestock. The eyes of each villager were filled with a certain dark hue, a set of eyes that seemed to be when one abandons hope. Akha looked at everyone, especially over the docks, trying to distinguish anyone who would allow him a boat to Ogana. One particular person seemed to have caught his eye, or rather, this person seemed to have been calling him. "You, sir, with the-with the sword!" Akha came over him and the man smiled. "Searching for a boat in this hour ain't ya?" The swordsman nodded, but the man who had called him shrugged his head, which, by Akha's mind, was a complete waste of his time sensing what the man was going to say next. "You do not ride after light?" The man held his chin high, tilting over his head as one of his eyebrows arched. "You're probably a man of the road," he glanced at the sword strapped on his hip. " You've already known no one travels in these parts by night." "Do you fear the Yasu?" "Yasu? Ah, that they call woodspirits. Not at all, not at all! Never had been afraid of those things, never will be. What you should be are the Tsagari, kid" "Tsagari?" The man jolted in surprise, "For a man of your... trade, you seem to ask strange questions." "Is it that strange for one to not know of this Tsagari?" Akha asked. The bells of the town rang, and as Akha looked up, the vault of stars had begun to drape the twilight sky as the colors of the night had begun to traverse across the crimson streaks of the sun that has now hid in the shadow of the mountains to the far west. "Best to stay at the local innskeep.” “Mm.” Akha nodded. “Before you do that! I'm actually something of a merchant myself. I found this idol just by one of the abandoned shrines near Raikano, an old one, almost as if it wouldn’t mind being pried around. You know the deity of Raikano, don’t you?” “The Land of Iron, where Issu’s fire sleeps.” “It was said that this shrine belonged to a deity of protection and strength, a far different one that sleeps in the mountains of Uro. A watcher, one that holds a light paler and softer than fire. Perhaps such a charm interests you?" He reveals from a lilac cloth a palm-sized figure of a long-haired woman. "Just for four pieces of silver khands." he smiles. "No, not interested." Akha spoke. "Well... how about, I give this for free, and in return, I want you to lend me your services." Akha did not speak and the man's patience started to wane. "Well, your manners are in need of tuning, but if you do change your mind. It is still here." The man turned to his raft, a small portion was fitted into a space where a fabric swing was uncomfortably positioned and oiled leather over the head as shade. A small curtain over a line was used as cover, but as he pulled it over, the whole thing crashed down and he was on his back staring into the night sky. Nightfall followed and the streets were still like the bamboo thickets of Jinkko. Akha began to close his eyes. The cicadas contested his master's voice, ringing as loud as the ear could hear them from a dense forestry of bamboo thickets to his far right. The air was filled with a mild breeze, filling the trees and carrying back an earthly scent from the ground and from the canopies. The two were positioned in the middle of a clearing, the ground was soft with dried grass upon concrete pavements. Several stone lanterns, unlit, surrounded them in intervals around the elevated stone. The wind howled. Sunlight glistened in the leaves of the bamboo coppices, seeping into what little nook or crevice they were given allowance to illuminate the circle by which the master and the young swordsman had sat. “The duty of a Kinu is...” The master's brow furrowed, he placed his hands by the boy's shoulder, startling the boy and waking him up from a repetitive daze of meaningless utters. “Unquestionable.” He corrected. The young boy was silent, dazed and wandered. The man lifted his hand and tapped his own chest. "Let it course through your being. Soul. Again. If he is in danger,” “Protect him. “ “If he is taken” “Bring him back at all cost,” The child answered. “It is blood and life of Kinu. What use is a blade if it does not cut thoroughly?" He said. ---------------------------------------------- Akha heard the rumble at a distance. A large wooden crate toppled over, forcibly struck. He stood up, and walked across town, his sword’s cord strapped tight to his waist. Akha followed their trail. When they reached the river shores, he saw them pull the man from his boat. Taken aback by shock, the merchant waved his hands around drastically, frantically speaking and gesturing in an anxious manner. From the looks of it, the men were set on the very thing they had come for as the merchant desperately stalled, glancing left and right for a single soul to call upon. One of them landed a jab into the man's gut as he coiled and dropped to the ground. The town had not given an answer to his pleas. Some windows opened, but closed just as fast when eyes behind them had glanced upon the masked figures. Others stayed open to a small gap, enough for a set of lingering eyes to look upon a lone swordsman. ------------------------------------- “To serve a master, one must know the reason why he brings a weapon.” His master withdrew his hand, and placed them upon his lap. "Maybe it would be best if one was to refresh his memory." He spoke. "The mountains, boy. What makes a mountain, a mountain?" The master asks. The boy was hesitant to answer, perhaps he did not know the answer to it, for not once had his master asked such a strange question. "Stone?" "No," "The trees?" The boy finally fell silent after replying with a few dozen things he associated with the blue giants draped in clouds that rested upon the distant horizon. The father sighed, no expression left or bore unto his face. He was extremely placid, almost devoid of emotion, but in his sigh was not something that brought a sense of regret to the boy's answers, but rather a sort of attachment to invisible things around them, talking to them in a mere form of breath. "A mountain is a mountain because of the sky, as so is the sea because of the land. We live in a world where one thing cannot exist without the other. For one cannot say that he has climbed a mountain if he had not known of the sky, or sailed through the sea if he did not seek of land. Purpose. Without purpose, there is no reason for being. Though, you are not far wrong as well in your own right." The master continued, "A mountain cannot be a mountain without trees, a mountain cannot be a mountain without stone. It is by all means, what it is to be one. And that is the premise of the blade, young one." The boy tilted his head in confusion, asking for a more clarified answer. "The sword is a mountain, and we are the sky. The sword has its own identity, but we are what makes it so. We are what gives it purpose. For the hand that holds the blade is what matters, and never the weapon itself." ---------------------------------------- He turned towards the docks, where one had begun to unsheathe a blade. “This is not yours to meddle with.” A masked figure unsheathed a short sword from his cloak and struck the edge down on two of the merchant’s fingers after whispering something into his ears. More screams filled the dead silence of the night. Akha continues to look. There are two instances that one should be able to act upon when the situation needs to be. If one was to raise a sword against his master, or himself. "Somebody! Argh. Somebody Help!" One of the men spoke to his ear, fingers dug hard into the hair of his head, as another came with a sword taken out to capture the eerie glow of the summer moon. The faint white light gleamed over the piece of metal, bringing dread with every step nearing towards the merchant. The one with the sword faced towards him. He assumed a stance, holding the curved blade overhead, preparing for a clean swipe over the neck. “You will die a death unlike ours, thieving worm. A dark and painful one.” Sparks flew, and the blade fell back, bringing its owner to a surprise. He swung the sword down after those words but a force of great strength stood against his blade. This bewilderment came to the onlookers, a scene unlike any other. The village of Hitan was one inconsequential to the stirrings of the capital of the north, that a swordsman’s quarrel would be enough to bring forth spreading talk. But in this moment, the air was held by the edge of a sharp blade. Atano was a massive expanse that covered a third of whole Issu. Through the lone swordsman's travels, he encountered many feats to hone his aptitude with the sword. He had endured wolves, bears, and the many restless spirits that walked the numerous forests of Atano, where legend had spoken of demons that lurked in the night that took on the forms of twisted beasts, the Yasu. It was on the seventh day that he encountered a Yasu that wore the visage of a stag. The demon stood on two legs with three arms on each side armed with claws upon each finger that vaguely resembled a human hand. It was his first battle against such a creature, and it was a battle that resounded in his mind, imbuing him an immense strength from such a memory, as if almost surreal. A visor was upon his person, hiding any form of expression that was to stem from a reaction as fast as lightning. These visors were a resemblance to the Yasu, but had come to be more humanoid in form, more threatening in appearance. Akha held the sword's hilt to his ear, the blade pointing to his adversary. "Sekaguro." The man clad in black spoke, a stretched right arm hovering over the merchant as he coiled there on the pebbles. "Are you of the Tenshando," Akha did not utter a word, and his stance was as unfaltering as his answer of silence. "A man of few words, certainly an imperial swordsman would not be this unrefined to simple etiquette." He spoke amused. “If you do not follow the code of the Tenshando, then one must assume that you are a traveler of the south. A journey to the capital, perhaps?” "Leave," The swordsman spoke. The seven turned to each other, but what Akha expected mockery, the six receded. The one who had spoken to him from the beginning came to let his presence show. "Quite a few had raised a sword against the Tsagiri, and only fewer had survived from these foolish instigations." He dropped his robes to the ground, and he showed a physique lined with well-defined muscular properties. A black tight apparel covered the man's upper torso, reached up to his neck and opened each shoulder, revealing his arms. His hand rested upon the hilt of his blade, but he had not drawn the sword yet. "Tell me, swordsman, why do you interfere?" The chirping of river crickets filled the cold perturbed evening breeze, reverberating in the air as each breath from Akha’s mouth came as a reply to the man’s query. The moonlight begins to reflect on his opponent’s mask as it has on his blade that remained still in the air, his arm refusing to show any form of weakness. His mask was porcelain, and it was haunting. It seemed to have taken on a resemblance to the Yasu he had faced days back in the forests of Gyun Han deep in Atano. The forest had fallen silent— the trees had hidden the creatures that had come to wander into the hours of dusk. It was unlikely, for not even the fireflies had come out to illuminate the many ominous nooks of the Gyun Han. A dark shadow casts overhead across the peace of the great woodland expanse, and its presence was shown by a disfigured creature. In the eyes of the swordsman, the world had fallen to that same exact moment. A reflection of his fight that by which each swing of his weapon was not intended to the blade of his master. This was another opponent he was facing, one that intended death. But this was far beyond the Yasu he had defeated in Gyun Han, for he was human, as well. “My steel will do the talking,” He decided. The man placed his hand over his face, as if disappointed. “And here I thought I had finally found someone to interest me in the art of killing, but it is yet again, another fanatic of the blade, disposable and so eager of death.” Akha swept his left foot back, leaning over his right knee, taking a stance that seemed to have sent a wave of caution to the audience, both the townsfolk and the Tsagari. "What is your name" The man asked. "You will know of it once you lay dying." Akha replied. The Tsagari smirked, "I will look forward to that." Like a peal of lightning, the two dashed forward as two blades clashed into the night. What he was supposed to hear was the sharp ring of steel upon steel, but what resounded in his ear was that of thunder. He sat up, his hand reaching to an empty space beside him. His face was clad in cold sweat, and his eyes were those of a man’s before his last breath, a flashing of fear that took on the color of white, consuming every nook of the man’s glare, and in the middle of that blank canvas, a circle that stemmed from a great unparalleled regret. He receded his hand, took the wrist into the grasp of the other, and placed them to his chest. It was a storm, one that raged outside his cave. It was merely a dream.
Free reading for new users
Scan code to download app
Facebookexpand_more
  • author-avatar
    Writer
  • chap_listContents
  • likeADD