“I am Meosa, and if anyone is going to be giving orders around here, it is me, itako,” he said, his form surging to life. “I am an entity to be respected, one who has been caged away for the last five hundred years, and am of the potentially foolish belief that our disciple here may be the next War Priest. How is that for an introduction? Need I say any more? Come out of that hut, shaman woman, and tell us what we need to know.”
Arik was just about to scold Meosa when the door flung open, the woman cackling as she popped out of the hut, spry for her age with a wild smile on her face, her blackened clothing tattered and the ends of her cloak wet from the lake. “A mouthy kami at that! I suppose that you have found the passage about the Mask of the Fallen and don’t know how to interpret it, yes?”
“That is right, mother,” Hojo said, the master illusionist bowing his head.
“Well, you are in luck. I am fairly certain of the passage you possess, and should be able to interpret for you, but tonight isn’t the night. No,” she said, growing serious as she took her chin up at the sky. “Tonight is a bad night to communicate with the spirit world. But tomorrow night should be fine,” she said quickly, her voice filling with glee once again. “In the meantime, you can help me gather things around here. You’ll need to start fasting in the morning, and you will need to ingest the poison shortly after breakfast.”
“Poison?” Arik asked.
The woman turned in his direction, her withered face frightening yet calming at the same time. “Yes, I didn’t think about that. It will be hard for someone like you to prevent yourself from instinctually healing, won’t it?”
Arik shook his head. “No, it’s something I can do,” he said, recalling his imprisonment by the slavers, how he had to go for days with severed fingers and numerous wounds. “If it’s what it takes to get the Mask of the Fallen, I can do it.”
.Chapter Four.
“Life and death exist within one another.”
–A quote often attributed to the first itako to host the Osorezan Jizo Festival, Year 758, and remembered yearly at every festival since.
According to Hojo, all of the itako were female and nameless, a feature they took on once they accepted the role as a medium. This wasn’t the first time since leaving the Academy of Healing Arts that the disciple had encountered something he had never heard of, and unlike the other times, when he had been more inquisitive, Arik Dacre simply went with it now.
The custom, the ritual, the reasoning behind what they were set to do—all of it.
The next day came, the morning sun with a ghastly hue to it as it reflected off the surface of the acidic lake before them, Mount Osore in the distance, its peak obscured by lavender clouds.
Arik sat with his robes off even though it was cold, his head bent forward as the itako waved smoke in his face, Hojo next to him, also in his underpants, and in the same position. The itako had briefed them on what would happen throughout the day, starting with the sunrise. The ritual would press into the night, and as it did, the Symphony of Souls, as she called it, would begin.
I hope this works, Arik thought, remembering her explanation of what would happen next, how utterly bizarre it was. Hojo had read the passage to her last night, the one from the Coro Pache book. She seemed to understand immediately what it meant, and while she didn’t go into detail about it, the itako explained the ritual and what it would be like in the end.
The medium had also warned the two of them of what could happen if the ritual went wrong.
“I think I’ll stay over here,” Meosa said, the kami a few feet away from them, hovering in his water form.
Arik didn’t blame him. The smoke that the itako was now waving in his face was making him feel delirious, his environment already starting to shift, elongate in strange ways.
Don’t heal yourself…
As the first ritual ended the second began, which had both Hojo and Arik eating fermented flower bulbs that the itako had been saving for the upcoming festival. Their flavor triggered his gag reflexes.
He swallowed them down and pressed on. Arik wasn’t going to let an upset stomach stop him now.
The poison came next, through a weed that grew along the shoreline of the acidic lake. The weed was a survivor, just like the fish, and for that matter the itako, the plant yellow and bitter. Its effects were almost immediate once in his stomach, mixing with whatever was released by the fermented flower bulbs.
Arik’s skin felt prickly.
Subtle at first, but then increasingly noticeable as his arms and legs went numb, as his vision started to splinter.
“How are you doing, disciple?” the woman asked, seated and swaying as if she were slowly being possessed.
“Well…” He blinked his eyes open. Arik didn’t know how long he had been out, but it seemed much later now.
Have I been asleep? he thought.
“Now he decides to wake up,” Meosa said, confirming Arik’s suspicion.
“It’s a fascinating sensation, isn’t it?” the woman asked. “It feels as if you’re awake, but you are actually in a state of revelry. And you, illusionist? How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better, mother.” Hojo tilted his chin up, his conical hat falling back. A pained expression took shape on his face, something that Arik had never seen before. He gingerly reached around and took his disheveled hat, which he placed back on his head, his shoulders hunching forward. “I’ve… been better.”
He’s suffering alongside me… Arik thought, a newfound appreciation for the master illusionist blooming within him.
Hojo had joined him in the ceremony based on the itako’s interpretation of the cryptic War Priest text, Arik glad that Hojo had taken the journey to the mountain with him.
The itako began chanting and singing, her voice garbled, the woman speaking an old language that was no longer in usage. Everything around Arik blurred, and as he focused on the older woman, he saw that she was etching out characters in the white sand that lined the shoreline of the lake, the ancient petroglyphs of the Jade Realm.
Since when was she wearing a mask? he thought as he noticed the covering over the woman’s face, one akin to the square hats they wore in Mogra but rounded on top, something slightly devilish about it. This coupled with the straw jutting off her shoulders like the mane of a lion, and her long nails, produced a demonic image that initially made Arik recoil.
But then he remembered that she was trying to help, and doing so without anything in exchange. All she had asked for last night was for Hojo and Arik to gather some cordwood that someone had dropped off about a mile away. That was it. They had done so quickly, and by the time they returned she had already fired up a few fish, the medium gleefully feeding them.
And thus far, she had lived up to her promise, the itako chanting herself into a trance, everything around Arik starting to have a watery layer to it. The disciple came to recognize something he had seen long ago in one of his trials.
The world, and everything in it, is made of chi…
Revivaura, Chimaura, Thunderaura…
These are just interpretations…
Therefore…
Arik glanced down at his hand and noticed the spark of electricity, his eyes going wide as it fizzled into smoke that melted away as if water had been poured over it.
“We continue,” the woman said, now standing before Arik and beating a drum. The startling sounds seemed to echo much longer than they should have, but soon he felt as if he had matched his heartbeat to the percussive noise, Arik nodding along, the disciple barely hearing the woman telling him to breathe, to refrain from healing.
“Resist the urge…”
(Resist the urge.)
And so it continued, the woman seemingly drumming and chanting for hours, late afternoon setting in before she had them eat another round of flower bulbs and yellow weeds.
Hojo gestured as if he were going to vomit.
He even bent over, spit dripping down his lips, when he stopped himself. The master illu
sionist sucked in a deep breath and made a grunting sound, gritting his teeth as he lowered his face forward far enough that it eventually touched the ground, his conical hat once again pressed off the crown of his head.
He stayed there like that for a long time.
The ritual inched onward.
Light danced on the surface of the lake in iridescent columns, bright colors that as far as Arik knew didn’t even exist, everything spiraling away. Once again, he resisted the urge to heal himself as the woman began smacking both of them on the back with a switch, the disciple hardly noticing her actions.
He heard Meosa’s voice at some point, the kami concerned for his well-being, but Arik managed to convince him that he was fine.
The pain pushed him to the point of slumber once again, Arik giving over to it, his dreams hot flashes rimmed in flames. He came to just about the time the sun had set, Arik’s entire body numb. He managed to tilt his head to the side to see Hojo, who still had his forehead on the ground, his legs crossed beneath him. Barely breathing.
Arik made to reach out for him, but when he did something else took shape, someone moved between them. He brought his hand back suddenly, the itako, who’d been seated before speaking: “It has begun,” she said, her mask off again, eyes blazing white. “Illusionist, disciple. Are you ready?”
Arik squinted at the woman for a moment as another person moved past her toward the lake, someone whose form was almost translucent.
A spirit…
“I think…” he said, his throat parched. “Ready.”
“Ready,” said Hojo as he slowly sat up.
“Soon, your spirits will begin to leave your body,” the itako said. “Nod if you can hear me.”
Arik nodded, and he assumed Hojo did the same.
“According to your text, it must be night, there must be two of you, and there must be a campsite.” A fire blazed behind her as she stood, their two weapons stabbed into the ground in front of it.
Did we do that? Arik wondered, vaguely remembering that at some point in the morning they had both done something with their weapons. He also tried to remember the cryptic passage, the words coming to him as quickly as they dissipated.
…Coro Pache War Priest two sword healer Mount Osore flat plane. One night campsite flames blue starscape voice two. Living dead swords living gravestones living light death night. Sea of them see of them be of them Mount Osore calling. Mask of the Fallen…
It was beyond him how she had so readily interpreted the text, but here they were, and it was clear something was happening.
“The spirits will gather, and as they do you will join them.” The itako motioned toward another passing body, Arik realizing yet again that he was looking at a ghost. “Remember what I told you. Retrieve the mask, and return. Or perish.” She peered up at the sky, stars just beginning to take shape. “It won’t be long now.”
****
Hojo was the first to stand, only it wasn’t his physical body that stood; something else lifted out of his form and took a few steps forward before Arik noticed it. Breathing heavily now, everything around him starting to fade, Arik began to notice his own separation, starting with the absence of the tingling sensation he had been feeling earlier, a cry at the back of his head to not let go, to hold on.
But he pushed forward anyway, more spirits swaying around the two as they dragged their feet toward the lake, toward Mount Osore. His first few steps were the hardest, but then it became easier, Arik glancing back at his physical body to see it lurched forward.
Am I… dead?
He could see Meosa as well through the glint of the fire, and from what he could tell the kami seemed to be pacing, his form held in a very nervous way.
“Go, disciple, follow the illusionist…” came the itako’s voice. The old woman was seated once again on the periphery, her eyes blazing white, her head rolled back, palms open wide to the night’s sky.
Arik glanced back toward the lake to see that Hojo was nearing its shoreline.
He caught up with the master illusionist, whose features were semi-opaque, the ends of his robes beating in a nonexistent wind. There were countless spirits around them now of all ages, and as soon as Hojo stepped forward, his foot grazing the surface of the water, Arik did the same.
There was no sensation tied to his actions now, all of that somewhere behind him, in the tangible world, and his body.
Don’t look around, Arik reminded himself, which had been one of the itako’s key points when going over the ritual last night and earlier that morning. As soon as he looked around, he would see people he was familiar with.
It happened every time, according to her.
Still, the urge to see his mother and father one more time, his sister Mori Ehara, his two instructors, Nankai and Guri Yarna, Jinmo, was ever present. To resist the urge, Arik simply looked down at his feet, noticing that they were barely visible, a faint light rimming his form.
He continued over the water, Hojo next to him, the swell of spirits around them growing the further they got away from the campfire, from their seemingly dead bodies. Looking up to Mount Osore made him realize where everyone was going, a halo of light swirling around its peak, an enormous stairwell taking shape.
But Hojo and Arik didn’t take the floating stairs.
Instead, they shifted around it, once again following the itako’s directions. It became darker behind the celestial stairwell, and the spirits present here were different than the crowd from before, these lost souls deformed and half submerged in the water, all with hideous faces.
Don’t look around, Arik reminded himself as he once again tilted his gaze toward the surface of the water, where he saw that his own features were starting to turn a light blue, Hojo’s as well.
Tendrils of this same pale blue light formed into a striking blue sigil, Hojo stopping before it. As Arik reached it, a pedestal of water began to materialize.
The Mask of the Fallen, Arik thought as the black mask took shape.
He glanced at Hojo and wished he hadn’t once he saw that the master illusionist’s face was starting to peel back, some of his bone exposed, a single eye watching the proceedings through the slit of his beat-up conical hat.
Arik nodded and returned his focus to the Mask of the Fallen. He reached for the legendary item, and as his fingers grazed its surface he felt a shift deep within him, akin to having all the air punched out of him.
The pedestal began to sink back into the water, the mask now in Arik’s hand.
He gasped, and as he did Arik and Hojo were tugged back toward the illuminated stairwell. It was only when he looked down that he saw that he was now holding the black mask with its white teeth.
Must… return…
Once again relying on the itako’s information, Arik began to walk backwards, spirits passing through him as he tightly gripped the Mask of the Fallen. He tried to keep his gaze down, but then he saw…
No…
Arik’s mother reached out for him, and while he didn’t feel anything in his body considering it was back along the shoreline, he did notice change within him, a desire to go to her.
But then he saw Hojo out of the corner of his eye, his head bent forward, the master illusionist still walking backward.
Follow… Hojo…
Arik looked away from his mother and focused once again on the Mask of the Fallen as he took a few more steps backward, matching the master illusionist’s pace.
The black mask would only cover the bottom half of his face, but its wicked teeth and flared nostrils told him immediately how he would look in it, how the mask would be affixed to his head through a pair of long, purple straps that would tie just above the back of his neck.
This was who he was now, Arik sure of it, he just had to make it back to the shoreline, to his waiting body. He just needed to claim his prize.
Hojo became his inspiration, the master illusionist seeming to sob as he continued to walk backward, his shoulders moving up and down,
the skin that had been torn away from his arms and his face starting to reform one layer at a time.
Was this a result of Hidden Warrior Sickness? Was this what Hojo had once referred to in a moment of honesty?
The itako’s chanting grew louder, the campfire reflecting off the surface of the water in orange arcs, the spirits moving toward Mount Osore thinning.
Arik and Hojo reached the shoreline, and as they did both men fell backward into their bodies, the disciple coming awake with a gasp.
What felt like a pail of cold water was tossed into his face, which had a way of snapping him out of his transforming hallucination, Meosa’s voice reaching him as well.
“Disciple, say something!”
As he slowly became aware of what was happening, including the itako now fanning smoke along the periphery, Arik felt something in his hands.
He looked down to see the Mask of the Fallen.
Arik had truly done it.
.Chapter Five.
“It takes over a thousand days of training to forge a blade, and another thousand days of training to refine one, yet a fight is decided in the time it takes for a hummingbird to clap its wings. Such an utter pity.”
–Combat Master Rai Dalanzad from his battle treaty The Three Rings, Third Edition, Yoshimura Books, Year 1429, Page 68.
Arik Dacre didn’t dare try on the Mask of the Fallen that night. He waited until the next morning, glad to be able to get some rest, the disciple absolutely exhausted after the previous day’s ritual. As he had the previous night, he slept outside under the stars, using some bedding that the itako provided to both Hojo and him.
He did remember one thing upon waking at some point late that night.
The sky had morphed from a deep purple color to a dark-green one, and in sitting up for just a moment looking out at Mount Osore, Arik could have sworn that he saw the mystic staircase leading to the top yet again, the disciple remembering in that brief moment everything that had happened during his time in the spirit realm.
Mask of the Fallen: A Cultivation/Progression Fantasy Series: (War Priest Book One) Page 34