“I’m going to try to end this quickly,” he told Meosa as he prepared to move in. “Give me your strength.”
“It’s yours—”
Arik exploded forward, Meosa amplifying his charge, the hot coals around him rushing into thin red lines as he prepared to get into his opponent’s space.
Istvan swung his hammer, Arik having to put on the brakes, Revivaura surging just a few inches past him and then returning to his form.
“I fear this may not be as easy as we hoped,” Meosa said as Arik backpedaled, trying not to be intimidated by Istvan’s huge weapon and his sharp focus.
He went for his next strike, Istvan repelling it with his hammer, a burst of flame nearly singeing the tips of Arik’s hair. He felt a cool sensation wash over him as Meosa brought the temperature down.
“Thanks,” Arik said, the disciple trying to calculate how he would get into Istvan’s space. His opponent was certainly top-heavy from wielding a hammer as his weapon, yet he was also agile, his movements well orchestrated and fluid.
Maybe there is a way to use this to his advantage, to force him to swing at me, miss, and then go down with his hammer…
“I’m going to try something.” Arik took a few steps back, ignoring the spectators that yelled for him to hurry up and fight. “Give me your speed, and whatever you do, don’t let me be hit by that hammer.”
“You won’t be the only one struck by the hammer,” Meosa reminded him. “I didn’t emerge from a cave after five hundred years to be whacked on the head by a half-brained hammer boy from Sunocea. I’ll be there every step of the way, believe me. And if I have to punch him in the nether regions myself, be prepared to bolt. Hojo has to know that is an option here.”
Once again, Arik advanced on his opponent, avoiding Istvan’s next attack, a sideswipe, followed by another near miss, Arik calculating correctly that the man was winding up for a big overhead strike. Arik moved himself in a position to potentially be the recipient of such a blow.
Whooompf!
Istvan came down with his hammer, confidence in his eyes, Arik zipping to the right, his speed augmented by Meosa.
The Onyxian man stumbled forward and fell face first into the coals.
“Got him!” Meosa shouted with glee.
His sword now pointed at Istvan’s back, Arik lifted one hand into the air, signaling that he had won.
But the crowd didn’t seem to think so, surprise coming to the disciple when Istvan swiftly used an arm to bring Arik down as well, causing the disciple to drop his sword. Hot coals seared the disciple’s back, Istvan overpowering him as he pressed Arik down, the two struggling for a moment, steam hissing all around them.
His face… Arik thought as he saw Revivaura in action, Istvan’s face already starting to heal. Is he a disciple?
“Do something or I will!” Meosa said as more steam began to rise around the two of them. Arik managed to place his hands on Istvan’s arms, immediately transferring the wound he had just received, the burning coals on his back.
The effect was immediate.
Istvan fell off to the side, twitching.
After getting his weapon, Arik approached the man again, hunched over now, a bit haggard as he pointed his blade at his opponent.
This time, he was certain he had won.
Arik slowly lifted one hand into the air, and as much as they didn’t want to, the crowd began to cheer for him. He had done it, but in doing so Arik discovered something that he could have never expected.
It appeared that someone else could use Revivaura.
Yet there was no time to figure out more about Istvan and his legendary fire hammer. Arik turned to see Hojo, who quickly guided him away from the grotto before the crowd could begin to gather. Like a pair of true illusionists, the two disappeared into the night and swiftly returned to the inn.
Once they arrived in their room, Hojo remained standing near the door.
“If you’re hungry, disciple, there is food downstairs…”
“I’m fine.” Arik sat under his bed and looked up at the strange man, the wounds on his back now healed, but his robes permanently damaged. “You didn’t tell me that he could use Revivaura.”
“Pardon?”
“Istvan,” Arik said, noticing the sweat that had been on his brow earlier was now cool, his skin cold to the touch. “He was using Revivaura to prevent himself from sustaining any damage from the fire. That’s how he is able to host his pilgrimage in that way, and how he can keep his weapon so close to him.”
Hojo shrugged his statement off. “I’m not from the Onyx Realm; I wouldn’t recognize someone who can use your style of chi.”
Meosa’s form lifted and turned to Hojo. “So you’re saying that someone like you wouldn’t notice something like that. Nice try, illusionist.”
“Honest.”
“Yeah, honest,” Meosa scoffed. “That’ll be the day.”
“Maybe he studied the Faithful Branch of Common Restoration, but never continued on. That’s the branch where most disciples learn how to deal with burns…” Arik bit his lip as he remembered just how painful some of those lessons could be. They really did have to torture themselves to be able to withstand the power of fire.
“As I said, you would know more than I, disciple. But I can tell you this: you shouldn’t assume that things are always the way they seem.”
“Great. I’ll be sure to scribble that pithy little quote down in your biography,” Meosa told Hojo. “I can think of a number of titles for it, maybe a play on what’s-his-name’s famous bone quotes book. Any other wisdom you would like to impart to us?”
“Hirata Masuhiro de Iga. The book is called Hirata in Stone,” Hojo told him, yet still not taking the bait. “I’m simply asking you to think deeply about this, disciple. Just because it appears that Nobunaga has made it his goal to kill all the disciples and priests in the Onyx Realm, doesn’t mean he has reached everyone, nor that there aren’t those who have come to understand the power on their own. That is, after all, how they test for your kind, right? Those who have a unique command over Revivaura, right?”
“As children, yes.”
“And they test everyone in your realm?”
“Yes, that’s why all Oynxians have scars on their wrists or arms,” Arik said, recalling that the nursemaid Indra had shown him this when she first encountered him.
“Maybe there are some that were able to avoid the tests, or, as you suggested, perhaps Istvan never completed another branch and took up the life of a warrior instead. I don’t know. But it is best to operate under the assumption that everything you know as well as your worldviews are going to be tested going forward, especially if you survive the tournament.” Hojo smoothed his hands over his robes and turned to the door. “I will see you in the morning. We will continue.”
And with those words, the master illusionist left.
****
Arik awoke the next morning, hazy light illuminating the room, dust visible in the air.
He found Hojo seated on his bed, the illusionist using his stone pencil to make markings on a scrap of parchment. He was already dressed, and before Arik could speak, Hojo motioned toward a set of fresh robes on the nightstand, meant to replace the ones that had been burned last night.
“Things have changed,” Hojo said, now with a troubled look on his face, a hint of apprehension in his gray eyes. “The Mask of the Fallen is here in Iga. The combat leg of your training is over, disciple. Now we must focus on espionage and infiltration. It is equally important, and necessary for our next task. Pack your things, we are moving to a different inn.”
Part Three
.Chapter One.
“Glide on the edge of a sword through life.”
–Combat Master Jurstrom Yinzo, lifted from a textbook compiled for the Double Sword Academy of Combat Arts detailing a maneuver known as One-Count Strike in Year 794, out of print.
Arik Dacre was disguised as a beggar, his haori cape over his head like a hood,
the disciple using a scarf as a sling, his arm actually injured, which was one of the ways he could truly sell an injury. And this wasn’t to mention his skin.
Arik had got the idea in his match against Istvan, a quick way to change the appearance of his skin.
Burning himself wasn’t pleasant, and the smell was dreadful, but he could easily heal a surface wound, and it not only had the effect that he wanted, making Arik appear even more injured, but it also had a way of forcing people to look away, at least upon first glance, also a plus for someone training in the ways of an illusionist.
Days had passed since the end of his combat training, Arik never seeing any of his combatants again. He had received an update on Tatum, the first warrior he had faced off against and lost. From what Hojo had heard, the Crimsonian man had returned south, Arik not given the chance for a rematch.
And perhaps things were better that way, especially with his new focus on espionage and infiltration.
His target was a grand estate owned by a businessman named Kogu, one that was protected by an enormous gate and high walls, the rest surrounded by a moat, Arik able to see the buildings on the other side.
He dropped another small stone to the ground and continued on, shuffling along the water’s edge, his face done up in makeup, the disciple even dyeing a few patches of his hair and making sure that they were matted to his forehead, making him appear as if he were someone else entirely.
One thing he had discovered through Hojo’s lessons was that espionage and deception went hand-in-hand, but infiltration was another thing entirely, a skill that built upon the other concepts and amplified by adding a necessary physical action.
Arik would need to break into the estate to get the Mask of the Fallen, which would be incredibly dangerous considering the guards that were present, the moat, the large gate, and what he was currently trying to better understand, the password system for getting inside.
Arik dropped yet another rock as he shuffled on, his legs bare, nothing on his feet aside from dried blood and scabbed-up wounds meant to augment the mud he had rubbed across his calves. He loosed a final stone, confirming what he had counted multiple times now. To be sure, he lowered to the ground and dumped out the rocks that were still in his hand, counting six.
This was a technique that Hojo had taught him to better understand the layout of an estate. It was important to know how many buildings there were, and one of the easier ways to do this when they were clustered together was by using stones to count them. Arik started with fifteen stones and he now had six, thus confirming the number he had counted earlier.
Nine buildings in total, he thought as he saw a tailor and his female assistant approach the compound.
The tailor sat in the dirt, the man eliciting an annoyed sigh as he did so. The tailor stood again, and as he did the guards opened the gate, allowing the man and his assistant to enter the compound.
It was the piece of the puzzle Arik had been looking for.
There was indeed a password system, but there seemed to be another aspect of it as well—the password had to be spoken while sitting down. Now all Arik needed to do was find the man or his female assistant and get the password.
“Time to go,” he told Meosa, who pretended as if he were waking up from a nap.
“What? I was getting so bored here…”
Rather than respond, Arik hobbled off toward the inn they were currently staying at, one set above a small restaurant that reeked of fried onions. He had to hurry. The tailor and assistant wouldn’t be long, something he surmised by the fact they were only carrying measuring tapes with them and not trunks of cloth.
Hojo had chosen this particular inn because it also had a back entrance, which Arik readily took, the disciple hobbling up a flight of carpeted stairs as he began healing his arms. He reached the room to find Hojo resting with his conical hat over his face. Rather than disturb him, Arik cleaned off the mud and began changing his robes.
Which one would provide the better answer, the tailor or the assistant? More importantly, which one would be easier to manipulate?
Arik thought back to what he had noticed about the two of them, the tailor in fine clothes, his cheeks puffy red. Perhaps he’s a drinker, Arik thought, recalling some of the things that Hojo had taught him to look out for. He then recalled the woman, nothing quite discernible about her, her face unremarkable, no immediate angle for exploitation.
If he’d had longer, perhaps he could attempt to spark up a romance with her, something that Arik would have never even considered a few weeks back. But Hojo had spoken highly of this tactic, especially when dealing with certain women, the ones that didn’t seem to have men fawning over them.
He glanced over to the master illusionist, who appeared to be out cold, Arik sensing that he was likely awake.
He still didn’t trust him, and like Meosa, he had a feeling that Hojo had his own motives. But there was little he could do about it now. This was the world the disciple had chosen, one in which everyone had their secrets, including the aqueous kami, who had yet to explain to Arik why he had been locked in the cave, what he was being punished for.
It was too late to turn back now.
Arik washed the paint out of his hair and then began slicking it back using a comb made of kayno bone. If he had more time, and likely more training, the best option would be the assistant. Get close to her, find out the password or how the system itself worked, and move in that way. But as it stood, his best option seemed to be the tailor himself, taking advantage of his drunkenness.
There was a mirror on the opposite side of the room, and as Arik looked at himself, he saw someone he hardly recognized. He certainly didn’t resemble a disciple with the makeup on his face, but even without it he had aged to some degree, matured, hardened in a very short amount of time. He could see it now, mostly in his eyes, but also in the subtleties of his features. Not to mention that he also looked thinner, a bit more chiseled.
Once he washed the makeup away, Arik began applying an ink known as shu to his face, which had a vermilion red shade to it. He rubbed it into his cheeks to make him look like he’d had several drinks. Not liking his long hair combed back, he ruffled it and then smoothed it out with his hands, which made it appear as if he’d perhaps been wearing it a certain way earlier, but was now in a more relaxed state.
“Look at you,” Meosa commented once Arik checked his features again. “From a disciple to an illusionist.”
“I’m not an illusionist.”
“No, you’re the War Priest, I’ve already told you that. But, you have adapted well. I would say you have a certain talent for it, but don’t let my compliments go to your head.”
Arik counted what little money he had. He was just turning to Hojo when the master illusionist sat up, his face now hidden by his hat, just a sliver of light cutting across his visage. “Take all you need,” he said, gesturing toward his bag. “It appears as if you found an angle in.”
“There’s a password system, and the tailor looks to be a drunkard. I have to go. I’m going to follow him to whatever tavern he goes to later in the day and figure out the system then.”
“Yes, that is a good option. Was anyone with him?”
Arik nodded. “A female assistant. But I don’t think she’s the easiest angle. Perhaps if we had more time.”
“Good observation, disciple. And if the tailor goes home rather than a tavern, then what?”
“Then I will…” Arik considered what he would do in this case.
“It’s a risk, but you will show up at his doorstep with a bottle of ale and tell him you are delivering it on behalf of Kogu,” he said, referring to the businessman that owned the estate, the one who had the Mask of the Fallen in his possession. “You will then produce another bottle, asking if he’d care to partake. This will be your angle. You are an associate of Kogu’s.” Hojo tilted his chin up, his eyes steadying on Arik. “Make sense?”
“Right,” Arik said. “And in the tavern, I�
��ll do the same.”
“Show up with a drink, and make it a good one, not top of the range because you don’t want to appear as if you are higher than him, but not the swill at the bottom either. Ask him questions, make him talk about himself. Flatter him to some degree. Figure out the system, and get the password. I have already given you several options in doing this, but the drunker he gets, the more difficult it can become. Try to get the information you need before he gets too drunk. Good luck, disciple.”
****
Arik turned out to be lucky, the tailor heading straight to a nearby tavern after bidding farewell to his female assistant. Along his way, the man took a swig from a murky glass container that he kept on his person, tucked deep into his robes, confirming to Arik that he was indeed a drunkard.
“I won’t be able to do the talking for you this time,” Meosa reminded the disciple. “So keep your wits about you.”
“I have my wits.”
“I can’t wait to see this…” Meosa laughed to himself. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop. I’m here to help, as always. Try to answer any questions he may have slowly so I have a chance to assist you if need be. While I don’t know how I feel about you stealing the Mask of the Fallen, if Hojo’s information is indeed correct, I suppose that’s the last step, isn’t it?”
“It is. Well, for now.”
“Yes, for now. There’s still the tournament. And to think that you stumbled upon me while I was trapped in a cave, and I later went on to save you multiple times…”
“Multiple times, is it?” Arik asked Meosa as he watched the tailor speak to someone outside the tavern. After a hearty laugh, the man entered the establishment.
“Don’t get confident in your old age, my boy. Remember that I have hundreds of years on you, and that I know the truth about the past, and the reputation you may have in the future depending on your upcoming success in the tournament.”
Mask of the Fallen: A Cultivation/Progression Fantasy Series: (War Priest Book One) Page 30