The Shadow of Issu

The Orchid: Duty

The city of Ogana was known to be filled with several kinds of persons, and Akha was just another presence in the crowd.

He came to the estuarial harbor taking a boat and traveling a whole day on the river from the village of Hitan. For the few days that have passed, he had already seen and done so many things. His life in Atano has been a cyclical solitary routine that even to step outside Atano’s borders was an adventure all in itself. You could probably imagine the wonder in Akha’s eyes when he takes in all these sights and experiences for the first time.

But after all this, his demeanor flinched not a single time, or showed evidently in his face a feeling inside him that had a strange semblance to excitement—something between being impressed and being naturally indifferent. It was never either the two, or perhaps not completely. A grey line draws between all the radical and the more composed emotions that constantly washes in the Kinu’s mind.

After all, they are taught early in their age that emotion is an intrinsic fault of man that alters one’s being. It is astonishing, as much as it is frightening. How one can easily change his mood depending on circumstance, how many have done things when emotion came to intercede. It was a thing that his father has deemed as equally dangerous as a Kuratashi, or perhaps even deadlier. There are many recurrences when Akha remembers in his younger years that resonate the truth of how emotion has always been an enemy of clarity.

When one lives a life through death, the flicker of flames burning in one’s eyes becomes a non-stop occurrence in the life of a Kinu, there are many things that will surely haunt him when he seeks for peace.

This was imminently true for his father, a Kinu, who speaks of a past through his nightmares, and a mother that Akha never knew.

It is like the ripples of a calm lake. A Kinu achieves to mirror the sky’s perfect stillness, and a single ripple can distort that image, and sway the balance that one aims to attain.    

His father once said, ‘If you want to know what it is to be human; you must first learn not to rely on emotion.’. Akha realizes in his youth that it is a fickle thing, just like us, easily bent, broken, and destroyed, whereas the Kinu are sworn to absolute focus. Though it is actuality that one should and must feel emotion to distinguish morality, a Kinu is expected to suppress it by will and to exercise this ability flawlessly, lest he wishes to be wavered, and lose the battle forthwith.

Decisions are best made with a sound mind, and that is all that matters.

Now by this time, Akha was able to procure himself some shade under a street vendor. This bazaar was unlike any other. The fruit stalls besides both left and right presented an assorted bouquet of fruits in flashing colors, while his was the monotonous shade of red—rows and rows and rows of apples.

When one wishes to buy apples and speaks in a straight face, this peculiar vendor, tall and covered in all kinds of dark colored fabrics, cannot help but wonder if the customer he has consulted in that moment in time someone really important, one who probably has attained strength like no other, or just another measly demented fool. Still, the purchase went on subtly.

“Do you want that peeled, master?” The man asks.

Akha shook his head, and the vendor received the message. 

“You are not from here, are you?” He asks, catching the Kinu’s eyes stray to the occasional roads and buildings.

The swordsman shook his head again. “Just a traveler.” He adds.

“I can tell.”

“That so,” Akha whispers in a dismissive tone.

“There are notably lesser people that I can distinguish in recent time than my ability to distinguish rumors that have fell upon palisading ears in Ogana.” The man glances over Akha’s hip and catches the partially concealed hilt of his Kuratashi.

“What rumors?”

“All different kinds of humors, master, sadly most which are not for the common buyer.”

Akha turned quiet once again. “The Kuzuboki,” He mutters.

The man raises an eyebrow.

“The Imperial Palace.” Akha asks one more time.

“Ah, you must have a particular business with the administration.” The vendor snapped his fingers. “You are not the first time to ask for such directions, but certainly the most peculiar. You go left from here and you’ll come across a crossroad, once you do, go right. This’ll lead you further to Muriko middle district, and farther on you’ll come upon the hill where it stands.”

“Thank you.”

The merchant called to him. “Wait.”

Akha nudges his head back, the conic hat above him shadowing his whole gaze.

“Listen, master, if you are going to meet the minister of Ogana, best be warned that something strange is afoot in the Kuzuboki. The minister is playing with fire. Deadly fire. No one really knows what, and no one really questions why…”

The man stopped talking, grabs his roof covers and scrutinizes the sky carefully. 

He returned back to his stall and continued. “But ever since the looming march of the Teyan from the Far East, the Minister Yukono has resorted to rather strange decisions. Best be warned before anything happens, you are a true swordsman are you not? One who fights for Ogana?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

The vendor grinned. “Information isn’t always for free, a time will come when all debt will be paid.”

Akha walks away only to be called once again.

“And master, there is a place that serves good food nearby. Just go to where I told you, and you’ll notice smoke a few walks away. There’s cook there who serves a good variety. I doubt a man such as yourself can live off to an apple alone.”

A strange conversation, Akha thought, but he turned and walked to where the man has told him.

The streets were busy, lined with numerous other more vendors, elbowing those participating in the same trade. Paddlers, hustlers, merchants, and scammers all huddled in the arid stone paths of the square.

Spring just passed, and the festivities of summer rites have already thickened the crowd with the promise of blessings and good fortune from the shrines that are set upon in Ogana.

As Akha walked with head down, he takes a quick glance up, and his head stayed that way. The walled capital of Ogana may not be as huge as the expansive landscapes of Atano and roadside Ogana, it was still massive, undoubtedly something else. The whole land was leveled, one can go up a high surface and watch the whole market area hustle in the heat, while at some farther distance north, large estates, buildings, and subdivisions of wooden painted houses, possibly owned by the many noble bloods—clans that founded Ogana— extend to the eastern planes.

Just over a large hill, a palace is built that reached high peaking from a clouded gaze. It gleamed of gold, and draped in colors of red, white, and a deep cedar.

Akha instantly knew that was his destination, but he had to walk there first.

 Being conspicuous was something that should be avoided, therefore walking over the rooftops of the many establishments would lead to situations uncalled for.

So he walked and saw what the man had meant. White smoke came from a distance and the scent of searing meat oil wafted into his sense. He followed it, and eventually he saw a place where people came in and came out. Fabrics draped from the entrance, and there the name of the establishment was written—Traditional Flame, it says.

He came in, and found himself a quick seat.

A set of eyes pierced at his back as he stayed silent. Twelve people, he observes from his periphery, about three or four had a Kuratashi strapped to their waist.

A woman came over to her and asked what he wanted.

“Anything you would like, master?”

Akha held his head down, he did not know exactly what to say. He proceeded to glance over to his right, where he saw a smoking plate of stir fried meat and few glasses of liquor on the table of the sword-clad men. He pointed at the dish, and the woman received his message, though with that dismissive look on his face, and the lack of conversation, made it quite a lengthy exchange.

“Dumplings and sweet rolls, seven of them, both. Don’t forget the persimmon wine.” A gentle voice interfered into this awkward silence.

A woman came in front of him. She had a straightforward look on her face, and a calm smile. Her short brown hair was tied back to a ponytail. She was wearing a traditional Issian garment, though clearly modified, to cater an adventurous spirit, with her arm straps fitting tightly around her and a hooded shawl that she momentarily removed as she sat down in front of him.

Even beneath that confident countenance, something else dances in the woman's eyes, a yearning, and beyond it, a particular sense of dread, the dread that comes after witnessing something horrifying and traumatic, meticulously masked by a humble aspect of intimidating strength that emanates greatly from her. Akha could distinguish it, how much one hides beneath, but he continues to mind his own business.

The swordsman did not move or even acknowledge her presence, and this caught the woman’s attention.

“Gado?” She suddenly asked.

The swordsman lifted his stare from the ground and met hers in a dismissive look.

“Katen? Yura? So where are you from?”

Akha stayed silent for a while, and answered without hesitation. “Atano.”

The woman leaned back and raised her chin, thinking. “Ah, that’s far south from here. Amazing. Quite a journey it must have been.” She utters. Akha did not react to her comment.

“So what brings you to Ogana?” She asked.

The service woman arrived and placed the food promptly in front of them. She placed a glass for the two, as she poured into them the golden persimmon wine.

The woman took a long gulp, and ended her indulgence with a satisfied sigh. “Ah! This does sure take me back home. Persimmon wine is always great, no matter where you are, and when you drink it.”

“Where I’m from, we used to call it god’s blood, my ancestors could never be more than right to call it that. The Valley of God’s Blood indeed. Goundo’s invention of such fine beverage has definitely turned Issu into something far much sufferable, especially in these times.”

As the woman was busy praising and enjoying her drink, she began to notice that Akha had not touched his glass. With a raised eyebrow, she called his attention.

 “Quite a rare sight to see a Tenshando say no in front of liquor. Is your tolerance for alcohol equal to a child’s?” She snickered.

Akha did not answer, for he knew what the code dictates.

The Bladesworn were not necessarily disallowed to drink, though they are forbidden to be in a drunken state. Akha had not tasted alcohol, and so he did not know how much he could take, or when he can be deemed as drunk. His life was absolute to the code of the Kinu, and experimentation was not highly favored for those who had the privilege to practice it for over a hundred years.

“Oh, but where are my manners. I have not even introduced myself yet.” She dropped her chopsticks which were already held midair to raise a sizzling piece of pork to her mouth, as she blew away the smoke that snaked from it. She sat straight up and bowed. “Hina Iyone,” She spoke. “From east of Goundo.”

Akha’s eyes caught something that she seemed to be hiding from plain sight, albeit the fact that it was merely beside her, inconspicuous, was unsettling. She was also a swordsman.

“And you are?”

Akha lifted his gaze to meet her eyes widened and full of interest. Awaiting an answer even if she was waiting for naught.

The Kinu sighed and entertained her. “Akha.”

“Interesting name.” she nods, as she chews on the food in front of them. “Orchid, no… Red Orchid. A beautiful name. Strange, but interesting, as expected from someone who is from Atano.”

Akha nodded and he partook also of the food. The girl chewed her food and stared at him, his eyes full of curiosity. “Are you perhaps… what they call a Bladesworn?”

A gust of wind came into the establishment, and the fire that crackled at the kitchen gave rise to a massive flame as oil was added unto the food that was searing inside the metal pan. Akha ate on, as if he had not heard her speak.

“Hey, I was asking you a question.” The girl pestered again.

“What does it matter?” Akha finally replies.

“Well,” She laid back. “It is not every day one can see a Kinu in person. A peculiar lot— travelling all of Issu, following an enigmatic esoteric code, abiding to masters of great status and influence, killing with ancient blade arts originating from the depths of Icathia. Any aspiring blademaster knows of them, and that their skill with the blade is absolute, perfect, and lethal.” Akha glances to the weapon beside her.

She leaned forward. “Their reputation precedes them and many dare even say that the Kinu are not human. Some say that they are incapable of emotion. Given the chance right now, I can’t help but want to confirm it myself…” She examined the look on Akha’s face for a while.

She smirked, nodded, and went back to the meal. “But I guess those are merely hearsay.”

“A blademaster…” Akha mutters as he placed a piece of fried chicken in his mouth.

The girl was suddenly taken aback by his statement. With a piece going down the wrong whole, a hoarse series of coughing, and a large gulp of midday liquor, she sat right up with a face flustered ruby red.

“Is it so strange for a woman to take up a sword?”

Akha lowered his head in thinking, his expression as constant as the waves. “Is this the reason why you come here to Ogana?”

“How did you—” Hina cleared her throat. “I did not consider that I would get to immerse myself in a conversation with a stranger today, much less a Kinu. but the road is always full of surprises. I guess I owe you a story for sitting at your table unannounced.”

Hina raised her glass and finished down the rest of the liquor. Her cheeks have taken a bright pomegranate color. “Everyone knows how opportunity can be vast in Ogana. Sadly, these opportunities have taken a descending toll, reduced to mercenary work, circulating the currency in every city and nation to procuring convenient, and necessary, actions in this restless time—swords for hire, military supplies, connections, you name it. Goundo has been doing this for quite some time, and the viceroy has recently paid a numerous amount to strengthen connections from those outside the Ogana regime, whilst others take out the roots that seem to be a threat to both the capital and its connections with Goundo, and there you have it.”

“You are part of Goundo’s Shin.” Akha spoke.

“I am.” She smiled.

“And a while ago you were just flustered…” The Kinu whispered. “Is this information not for public ears?” He continued.

She filled her cup again with the golden liquid, she backed her head in confusion and laughed. “Not exactly. It may seem like I am selling out the schemes of Goundo’s viceroy, but to tell you what…” She leaned over to Akha and began to whisper.

“If you’ve not known which side to fight for, then do you even have a business with a sword?”

She sat back and grinned, a threatening aura emerged from the girl, but it was at the slightest shade, barely seen from the Akha’s eyes, but imminently there.

“Quite the irony for someone who lives and dies by the blade.” She continues.

Akha’s face was unfaltering, taking on the same expression as it had when he first came here. The girl might be an experienced swordsman, but she had trodden into ideas that are unconventional, only either a novice, or a veteran would ask. It is impeccable that the Kinu have fought for Ogana since the dawn of time, against enemies who once coalesced to threaten their country. An endless watch from an enemy long gone. Now that Akha puts more thought into it, what do the Kinu really fight for?

            Akha stood up, took up his sword and turned from the girl who was busy picking off the left overs on the table. She caught him stand up, but no words were exchanged.

What a strange man, she whispered to herself. In the end, she had not really confirmed if he was a real Kinu or not, many, especially in these restless times, feign to be Bladesworn. Hina’s own mission to seek for something here in the city of opportunities had not concluded. As she sees him off without a word, Hina realized, she might have really witnessed a true Kinu this time.

“Perhaps I should have asked him to teach me.”

 “I guess it is not every day one can see a Kinu in person, and it is definitely in one’s lifetime if he should challenge one with a blade.” She utters to herself hovering her hand over her sword.

The bright golden sheen of summer met him the moment he went out back into the bustling streets of Ogana. He continued his path going to Muriko district until the roads that were once lined with rows of makeshift stalls and hustling paddlers, turned silent and paved with swept cobblestone. The occasional Tenshando would patrol around this small prefecture. When passed by with wary glares, Akha simply walked straight on.

 Most of the buildings in the Muriko district were either residential or commercial, with a few restaurants starting to prepare in the back kitchens for a night’s work of servility to the Ogana night populace.

Akha finally came upon the stairs that led to the Ogana’s Kuzuboki, the palace that rested atop a hill.

When he saw the entrance, three men were there in conversation. Two of them were Tenshando appointed with guarding, and the other one was a man clad in bright colors. The latter gave off an aura of an egoistic fellow, and his stand and posture was that of a noble’s figure. He seemed to be in a prolonged argument with the Tenshando, which was made evident by their worn-out expressions.

After a while, he finally gave up. Akha found a small wooden bench just a few walks from the entrance so he went over to the place and sat. The midday sun positioned itself just directly above him, so the tree had given shade enough to lull a tired man to sleep.

The odd man walked to his direction. Passing by the swordsman, he crossed his arm and took a seat on the bench by the other side. The man was still mumbling.

His forehead was wrinkled. His frown dropped so low his lips could fall off from his face. His left leg tapped restlessly. He was so preoccupied and absorbed by his agitation that he failed to notice the presence of another in his vicinity.

The cicadas rung loud in the heat and a gentle breeze came to them every now and then. Somehow this brought a soothing memory over Akha. He remembers fondly of his home in Atano.

“Bah! If it weren’t for that wretched swordsman in Hitan, I would still have my papers of passage!”

The two sat there in the cool shade under a searing afternoon heat, with the man battling with his wits. Akha knew what the man was talking about. This man was one of the lodgers at that Inn, though he could remember no correlation to this man’s documental predicament.

As time passed by, and his temperament began to cool slowly, he notices the stranger beside him.

“Excuse me,” he called. Akha was closing his eyes, waiting for noon to end so he may enter the palace in a more undisruptive time. The man’s temper beside him was already attest to that.

“Excuse me,” He called once again, this time Akha woke from his meditation but he did not move his head to return the man’s gaze.

“You look familiar, have I not seen you before?”

“No,” Akha answered.

“The hair, the sword… There is no mistaking it.” He stood up and suddenly, his almost-calmed face began to sear with an intense redness. “You were the ruffian back at Hitan! Oh the nerve to show your face in the presence of the great Master Buji!”

“I have no recollection of you.” Akha feigned ignorance, in hopes of shutting the man up.

“Bah! If my men weren’t in probation by the Tenshando, I would have you put down here and now! You are the sole reason why they do not allow me to see the minister, I lost everything! My parchments, the letter of passage, the document of land ownership—Oh why, I had three governors— three! —to allow me a place in Senai, now it’s gone! Gone, you understand? Irretrievable!”

Akha looked at him, his face filled with confusion.

“The fire?! You caused that fire in the Inn at Hitan! If you just stayed put and allowed that merchant to get what he deserved, I would not have to suffer all of this! What have I ever done to deserve this, what karmic debt have I owed to the gods to be treated this way?”

Akha stood up, his left hand grabbing the mouth of his sword threateningly.

“You speak as if another’s life is below yours.”

“Speak for yourself, demon! You slaughtered seven men by the river banks on that night!”

The shadow on Akha’s face grew darker. It came to be like a threatening aura, but revealed upon his visage unlike the nature of Hinace, but something that resembled something else instead. Though swiftly, it abated, and his expression was as stoic as it was before, his gaze steady towards the man who was trembling on his knees.

“You better return what you have stolen, my dear friend. I am not one without power.” The man instigated standing straight up and with chin held high, though Akha could tell that his voice was shaking.

Akha tipped the guard of his sword in a sudden manner. The man was immediately caught by surprise, a somewhat exaggeratingly feminine scream followed, catching the attention of the Tenshando by the entrance.

He lost footing and stumbled on the scorching pavements. Akha returned the sword back to its sheathe and released his hand from the handle.

“I did not intend to burn your documents, but I also do not intend murder.” Akha spoke.

The man, now crouching with his hand raised, stood straight up. He patted his garments and cleared his throat.

“F-Forgive me,” He spoke hesitantly. “B-But this has not yet settled things, ruffian! I will have what I lost upon a given date, and in time you cannot pay me back what I have lost, then I—”

“Gentlemen,” A voice came over. A dry cold wind swept over. This silent part of Ogana has become even more serene once the voice intervened, with nothing but the afternoon cicadas to fill the air with sound.

It was a gentle voice, one that called and tugged his soul, even though it was the first that Akha has heard of it. Her silver hair was moving in the direction of the wind.

“Perhaps a matter of sorts is best discussed indoors?”

“Who are you?” The man asked, still agitated.

“A teacher,” She answered. “…of the Kobeka household, and a guest of Lord Kuzaemon Yukono.”