Mask of the Fallen: A Cultivation/Progression Fantasy Series: (War Priest Book One)

by Harmon Cooper

  It was now the second time that Nyoko had stumbled forward, the woman landing on one knee before quickly turning to face him again, seething at this point. There were no calm breaths left. Her frustration had clearly won, strands of her blonde hair now in her face.

  Nyoko’s next approach finally gave Arik the chance he needed to mirror her movement, the woman bewildered at first as he stuck to her like glue.

  She brought her axe wide to cleave at him from the side, and as she did, Arik concentrated once again on her weapon. He finally went for his opening attack, the disciple able to cut her axe away without drawing blood, Autumn Leaves Strike, third form.

  Her weapon spun once and cracked against the stone, Nyoko’s eyes suddenly wide with fear.

  She dropped before Arik and looked up at him. “Do it,” she said, showing him her throat, disappointment at herself flashing across her eyes.

  Instead, Arik sheathed his blade. He turned away from her, and joined Hojo at the entrance to the pilgrimage courtyard, Nyoko behind him now, her head hung in shame.

  “She almost…”

  “I know,” Arik said, catching his breath.

  “But you were able to repel her attack.”

  Arik nodded. “Like water.”

  “Like water,” Hojo said with a proud nod.

  “That’s it?” Meosa asked as they passed under an archway covered in vines, Arik slowly relaxing his guard a bit, the disciple getting more used to the chemical change in his body when moving from combat back to his regular life. It was still jarring, but at least it was now something he was familiar with, his heightened senses slowly relaxing.

  “It’s enough for today,” Hojo said. “The lessons I’m teaching the disciple need time to sink in.”

  “Time to sink in? As soon as you finished running him through your little gauntlet, you sent him off to face a crazed woman with an axe.”

  “It’s best for the initial test to happen while it’s fresh on one’s mind,” said Hojo as they came to the main road, the clip-clop of hooves reaching Arik’s ears. He could smell the beast of burden, which carried a wooden cart full of fresh hay. “And after a successful test,” the master illusionist continued, “a good meal. I know a place. But we are going to have to practice our disguises to eat there.”

  “Why’s that?” Meosa asked.

  “The restaurant, if you could call it that, is attached to a distinguished home for the elderly, most of whom are quite wealthy, at least at this particular establishment. The only way to get a meal there is to be over a certain age and of a certain class.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “They’ll give you food for free if you come in off the street, which is what we plan to do.”

  “You’re joking,” Meosa said.

  “We will change at the inn, eat, and then I’ll be off for the night. You should get some rest tonight, disciple, and let the lessons I have now taught you sink in,” Hojo said. “Things are going to get more challenging.”

  ****

  The usuzumi ink in Arik’s hair was also smudged across his face, over oshiroi white face powder. He benefited from being in the company of Hojo, who had completely transformed the way he looked, to the point that if Arik had seen him from just a few feet away and hadn’t known he was a master illusionist, he would have been convinced of the disguise.

  Arik had some concerns with leaving the inn, the disciple worried that someone would see them in their elderly disguises, but there turned out to be no obstacles, and soon they were in the streets of Iga, moving just about as slowly as they possibly could, Hojo with his arms gripped tightly around Arik’s to better sell his limp.

  “I… I really should have brought my cane,” Hojo said, his voice no longer his own, now that of a man who was well into his late seventies. If Arik was forced to talk, he would do so through Meosa, who continued to exhibit his knack for impersonations.

  “You old fool,” Meosa said, going with an octogenarian voice, “and now you hope to use me as your cane. Bah! Bah, I say! Useless, you are!”

  Because they were moving at a quarter of their normal pace, it took them a good forty minutes to reach the place in question, and during that time, as silence spread between the three of them, Arik recalled the battle he’d just had with the female warrior named Nyoko. There had been a point when there was such fluidity to his movement that he almost felt as if it were out of body, and now looking back, this scared him to some degree.

  While he could heal from a good many wounds, he was unable to do so in public, and Hojo wouldn’t always be there to drop a smoke bomb and whisk him away to safety.

  He would need to be more careful.

  Arik didn’t know what to expect once they arrived at the distinguished home for the elderly, the disciple a bit surprised to see women in fine silks spooning out bowls of porridge to older men and women draped in rags, all lined up in front of a grand estate protected by a wall and cylindrical shrubs, the kawara clay roof recently retiled.

  “Are we really this poor?” Meosa asked Hojo as they got in line behind a pair of leprous beggars, both barely able to stand, their ankles swollen.

  Hojo’s peculiar behaviors had a way of constantly questioning Arik’s code of ethics, which was something he was coming to accept, even if he felt a pang of guilt for accompanying the master illusionist on this particular deception. He also wished that it was within his power to heal the two in front of him. He wouldn’t be able to do anything about their age, but their swollen ankles, and whatever was causing it, was something that Arik could certainly see to.

  If only he could get close enough to touch one of them…

  He found his opportunity when both elderly men leaned against the table that had been erected along the wall.

  “What are you doing?” Meosa hissed as Arik stepped between the two of them and placed his hands on their exposed elbows, both of the elderly men tilting their heads in his direction.

  “Just need something to lean on,” Arik said in his best impression of an older man’s voice.

  He dipped his head even further as he quickly absorbed as much of their ailments as he could. Arik merged back into the line as Hojo stepped forward, the master illusionist’s teeth smeared with usuzumi to the point that they were nearly black.

  “Bowl for me… and for him…” Hojo said, his words slurred together now as if his jaw was loose, joints worn bare after years of chewing. The woman nodded, Meosa lighting into Arik just about as soon as he could.

  “You almost got discovered there, disciple,” he scolded him. “And for what? To heal those two men destined to die soon anyway?”

  “That’s right…” Arik said, his voice thin now. The fastest way for him to help the two was through wound transfer, the disciple absorbing their ailments to the point that he felt a bit wobbly himself. The two older men still had plenty of problems, but at least the swelling in their ankles had gone down to some degree, both of them exchanging glances, not certain of why they suddenly felt better.

  Hojo guided Arik away from the destitute line of beggars, the master illusionist finding a place for them to sit. He handed Arik a bowl of porridge and gingerly lowered himself onto the ground.

  “You shouldn’t have healed them,” Hojo said in his normal voice, his eyes laser focused on the disciple.

  “Why are we eating this?” Arik asked him. “We have money.”

  “We are eating it because it is good,” Hojo said matter-of-factly. “I would pay for it if I could, but I have yet to find a place that makes porridge as good as this distinguished home for the elderly, and they won’t sell it. Believe me, I’ve tried to buy it before. Why don’t you try it and see.”

  Arik lifted the porridge to his face and sniffed the simmering mush. It had a buttery scent to it, a hint of something that tasted like cardamom. He took his first bite, surprised at its milky goodness, a touch of honey as well.

  “See?”

  Meosa grumbled something, but Arik did
n’t respond.

  “An illusionist constantly must keep their skill set in mind,” Hojo said. “This isn’t like being a disciple or priest, nor is it like being a blade or combat master, although there are similarities in terms of keeping one’s practice up. Our practice, an illusionist’s practice, is one that operates in a social theater, and requires constant honing. Who knows when the day will come that you need to actually pull a task like this off. And for your troubles?” Hojo lifted his bowl of porridge and gestured toward Arik. “The spoils of deception. But don’t take this as an opportunity to start healing everyone around you. Remember, people like you are supposed to be dead.”

  Once they finished their porridge, the two hobbled back toward the inn. As if they didn’t exist, Arik and Hojo simply shuffled in, straight up to the rooms above, no one paying attention to the two presumably older men.

  “That is another thing you will come to understand about impersonating the elderly,” Hojo said once they were in their room. “Doing so is one of the best ways to be invisible. People pay attention to those that are younger than them, more beautiful and handsome. They also pay attention to those that are their age, comparing themselves to them, judging, and those with wealth. But if you make yourself look old and poor enough, people will only feel pity for you, and that pity will come from the mixture of their own guilt and whatever lens they view potential poverty through. Will they end up the same way as you? Should they have spent more time with their elderly father? Is there a way to help you? Why won’t you leave so they don’t have to look at you? A number of thoughts can arise, although these generally shift to a type of shunning. Think about that while I’m gone.”

  “Right.”

  Hojo used the basin and the bucket of water in their room to wash the makeup off his face. He swept his hair back, his gray eyes softening as he offered Arik a short nod. “We continue tomorrow.”

  ****

  Arik didn’t know what time Hojo came in later that night, the disciple experiencing yet another satisfying sleep. Murmuring awoke him the next morning, Arik blinking his eyes open to find Hojo already dressed, the master illusionist holding a kunai dagger.

  “Heal me, disciple.” Hojo swiftly moved the blade to his exposed arm and cut into his own flesh, his throat constricting as he did so, blood immediately running down to his hand. “Heal me…”

  “Wh-what?” Arik asked, trying to understand what lesson, if any, Hojo was trying to impart on him.

  “Just do it and get this over with,” Meosa groaned. “The master illusionist apparently isn’t himself today.”

  Hojo brought his blade across his arm again, Arik almost feeling the pain as he drew another cut on his arm, an even deeper one. Stumbling out of bed, Arik came to Hojo’s side, where he began quickly absorbing the two self-inflicted injuries through wound transfer. It was, after all, the fastest way.

  The swell of pain within Arik diminished almost immediately.

  He went for a pail on the other side of the room and returned with a wet rag to clean the man’s arm. Soon, there was no evidence whatsoever of the two cuts Hojo had made in his flesh aside from the blood on the towel, and a few drops on the wooden floor.

  “Why did you do that?” Arik asked.

  “I’ve never been healed before by a professional,” Hojo said with a satisfied smile. He stood immediately, his shoulders hunched just a bit forward as they normally were, the rest of his demeanor prim and proper, as if he hadn’t just cut himself. “Come, the cryptomeria wood is ready for your test cutting.”

  With that, Hojo stepped out of the room, the ends of his haori cape trailing after him.

  “The master illusionist is as baffling as he is mad,” Meosa said once he was gone. “And I wonder where he keeps going at night.”

  “Likely to find information.”

  Arik put on his boots and changed into a fresh set of robes, which had a collarless top lined with a rim of gray thread.

  “How much information does one former instructor of the School of Illusion need? Maybe…” Meosa considered this for a moment. “Yes, tonight, I will follow him and see where he goes.”

  “If you think it is necessary,” Arik said as he went for his weapon. He was just about to step out of the room when he realized he hadn’t eaten anything. He wolfed down the two peaches and a boiled egg that had been set up for him, and headed out.

  He came to the courtyard to find Hojo tossing a bucket of water on a log about three feet long and three feet thick, bees buzzing in the air once again, the morning sun bright in the sky.

  “Cryptomeria wood,” said Hojo. “Perfect for test cutting. You are familiar with Striking Body, Striking Mind, yes?”

  Arik nodded, feeling a hint of elation in his chest. It was the first time he had been intimately familiar with something that Hojo had told him, the master illusionist once again showing Arik that he knew much more than he was letting on.

  “And I’m assuming that you have never used cryptomeria wood for test cutting.”

  “No.”

  “But you have killed before.”

  Arik tensed up, recalling his very first kill, Konwa, the slaver. Rather than reply, he simply grunted a response.

  “Then this should feel somewhat familiar to you. Your goal in hacking away at this piece of wood isn’t to actually cut it in half. It’s just to get a sense of what it feels like to cut into actual flesh. It has been soaking all night…” Hojo knocked his fist against it, showing that the piece of wood was a bit soggy. He then lifted the cryptomeria log and placed it on a stone that would serve as a pedestal. “Have at it, disciple. Unless you prefer that I find us a cadaver.”

  “It seemed as if you were open to becoming one this morning,” Meosa commented as Arik approached the log with his sword drawn, Hojo now standing behind it, his hand on top.

  “I was telling the truth,” said the master illusionist. “I truly haven’t been professionally healed before. I also wanted to make sure our disciple here was as good as he says he is before I place my hand on a log that he’s going to be hacking away at. Please, disciple, feel free to begin.”

  Both hands down the sword, Arik got into an upper stance and settled his breath, recalling what it had been like the day before, how he had felt as if he were water.

  With this in mind, he cut into the log, noticing that there was a thick sogginess to it, nothing like actually chopping into a piece of wood. Arik withdrew his blade from the cryptomeria wood and sent it in again, this time going for a stabbing motion.

  “Good, destroy this piece of wood to the best of your ability because in a real fight, the kind that you plan to embark upon soon, there is little chance for error.”

  “Who will my opponent be today?” Arik asked after he’d been hacking at the log for a good twenty minutes, his Revivaura-driven stamina preventing exhaustion from setting in. “Tatum?”

  “No, it seems he’s still missing. Your opponent today is a seasoned veteran of these warrior pilgrimages, well past his prime. He’ll fight you with a wooden weapon, and he will provide one for you as well. It is sort of sad, really, what becomes of some of these Crimsonians. Raised to be combatants, then spending their lives always preparing for a war that has yet to happen. The last time the realms truly battled was five hundred years ago…”

  “I could have told him this,” Meosa said as Arik once again brought his sword to the ready.

  “And the Crimsonians have been preparing for the next one ever since. There are plenty of older warriors like him that have been discarded by their own country, never making the rankings necessary to receive a pension. A pity, really. Imagine spending your entire life fighting and not gaining any skills that would help you generate an income once you are forced to retire. Some are taken back in by their families, but others, like the man you’re going to meet later today, have continued on fighting.”

  Arik lowered his sword to some degree. “I find that sad.”

  “It is sad, but he is experience
d, and he’ll prove challenging to you. Do not pity him. Never pity your opponent if you can help it. Akamatsu has as much stamina as a man half his age. Expect to spend the rest of your day battling him. It has already been arranged, and I hope that you are ready to heal a good many bruises later on. This is going to hurt.”

  ****

  The Crimsonian warrior known as Akamatsu was well into his sixties, yet he was still muscular, his posture strong, a deep scar running down the side of his face indicating that he was a blade, a professionally trained combatant.

  There was nothing professional about the courtyard that hosted his warrior pilgrimage, wooden weapons lying all around, cracks in the pavement, not to mention the man’s clothing, threadbare and cast over leather bits stretched across iron.

  Akamatsu didn’t say anything, and the few people gathered to watch the challenge didn’t cheer, or indicate in any way that they were interested in watching the fight to come. At least two of them were dozing off, and the rest having huddled conversations, Arik only seeing money exchange hands once. Then there was Hojo, seated amongst them, blending in as always, his face shaded by his conical hat.

  Akamatsu swept his hand toward some of the discarded wooden weapons.

  In the end, Arik went for a wooden sword that reminded him of the weapons he had trained with back at the Academy of Healing Arts. He blinked twice, discarding any nostalgia that suddenly came to him as he remembered his numerous afternoon lessons with Combat Master Nankai, or what happened at the ceremony. This was a safe enough space; shinobi weren’t going to suddenly attack, and if they did, there was always Hojo and Meosa to help him fight this time.

  Akamatsu bent over slowly, the older man gritting his teeth as he finally picked one of the wooden swords off the ground. He looked around for a moment and located another, which was leaning against a stone step. He went for it, once again with a pained expression on his face.

  Is he even in a state where he can fight someone? Arik thought.