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

by Harmon Cooper

  What he had experienced was something that most in Taomoni could hardly fathom, a fact not lost on him as he slowly got to his feet the next morning and washed his face with a pail of cold water, as he had been instructed to do by the itako.

  The shaman woman was now seated on a stone not far from the shoreline, Hojo with her, hatless for once, almost no indication of what he experienced alongside Arik last night aside from a hint of sleepiness to his gray eyes.

  “I’m glad that you are taking it away from here,” the old woman said as she gestured to a place in front of her for Arik to sit. He did so, the Mask of the Fallen now in his lap. “It has been poisoning this lake for some time. You should be proud of what you accomplished. Both of you should be.”

  “Thank you, mother,” Hojo told her, Arik bowing his head. Meosa, whose water form floated off to the right of the itako, nodded in agreement. He hadn’t said much to Arik since the disciple had returned to his body last night, Meosa actually giving him some peace and quiet for once.

  A fish jumped out of the water, and struck the surface again, the old woman smiling at Arik. “See what I mean? They are happy that the cursed mask is no longer with us.”

  Arik ran his hand along the contours of the Mask of the Fallen, recalling what he had already learned about it, that it had been worn by a warrior in the eighth century who coated the mask in his fallen opponents’ blood, which, according to what Arik had read, had imbued it with the darker aspect of Thunderaura. Running his fingers along the surface of the mask made it seem as if it were ordinary, nothing mystical about it, no immediate power discernible.

  “Let’s test it out and get on our way,” Hojo said. “It will take us about two days to reach Omoto, and then you will need to leave immediately for Mogra. It’s going to be tight, but I believe you will get there the night before the tournament starts. There should still be time to sign up, and if not…” Hojo offered Arik one of his rare smiles. “Perhaps you could use some of the skills I taught you to put yourself on the list.”

  “You’re not coming to Mogra?” Arik asked as he looked up at the master illusionist.

  “No. Omoto is as far as I will go, but I will get you there safely, and I will secure your passage to Mogra.”

  “Right,” he said, looking away, not wanting Hojo to see that he was disappointed in his reply. He knew this day would come at some point, and it could have come sooner considering their near fallout back in Iga. It was expected, and Arik knew that the journey which lay ahead was his, and his alone.

  “Prepare your sword,” Hojo said. He walked a few paces away from where they had been sitting and found a flat stretch of rock in front of the lake. Hojo withdrew his blade, his gray hair beating in the wind behind him.

  Arik returned to his supplies and found his weapon, which he attached in the belt loop of his robes. He joined Hojo, sensing Meosa’s presence with them as well.

  “I need to know what this feels like too,” the kami told him.

  “Put the mask on and see what it does,” Hojo told him.

  “From what I’ve read, it connects the tip of the sword to the fastest way to kill your opponent.”

  “What you’ve read and what you may experience can often be two different things, disciple. Prepare your sword,” Hojo said again.

  Arik brought the mask to his face, ignoring the light from the morning sun dancing along the subtle waves of the lake, the apprehension he was feeling, and how poised Hojo looked, the master illusionist ready for anything.

  Arik placed the mask on and began to tie it behind his head, feeling a sudden warmth as soon as it was on securely. The poison hit him, a maniacal laugh at the back of Arik’s head as it did so. But he stopped the sensation before it could advance, his limbs trembling for just a moment, his natural healing capacity, his growing command over Revivaura, stopping the poisoning dead.

  The faint laughter stopped.

  “Well, disciple?” Meosa asked.

  Arik put his hands on the grip of his sword and removed it from his scabbard, noticing that his blade seemed to spark in a way, a red bead of energy appearing on Hojo’s throat, one that was connected to the tip of his sword.

  “Do you see it?” Hojo asked.

  “Can you see it?”

  “I can’t see anything aside from what is normally…” Hojo’s eyes went wide. “Oh, oh my.”

  “What is it?” Arik asked, noticing that his sword suddenly felt ravenous. It wasn’t shaking or anything, but he could feel the urge to fight, to draw blood in a way that he’d never noticed before.

  “I can see it,” Hojo said.

  “I can’t see anything,” said Meosa, “and I know the itako can’t. She’s blind.”

  “Not as blind as you think, kami!” the itako said as she hobbled over to them. “And the reason you can see it, illusionist, is because of your command over Chimaura. Surely, you’ve figured this out by now.”

  “Yes, that would make sense,” said Hojo with a short nod. “Is the mask communicating with you?”

  “Just some laughter at the back of my head or…” Arik slowly lowered his weapon. “Somewhere. I can’t explain it.”

  “Do you feel its poison?” the itako asked.

  “No effect,” Arik said, humbly correcting himself. “At first I felt it, but now I don’t. It isn’t strong enough to truly disturb me.”

  “Heh. You are very fortunate then,” said the itako, her white eyes gleaming for a second. “Or should I say, you are very blessed. That mask will make you stronger than you have ever been before. You know that, right? At least if the legend holds true. It doesn’t miss, but only if you follow its trajectory.”

  “What about my training?” Arik asked Hojo.

  “Your training still stands, you could always use more. You have to have an opening for the Mask of the Fallen to help you. Notice that my sword is down,” Hojo said, Arik now confirming that his weapon was at his side. The string of red energy connecting the tip of his blade to Hojo’s throat diminished as soon as the master illusionist brought his sword up.

  “There was a change.”

  “Just as I suspected,” said Hojo. “I can’t believe that I can see it as well. It looks like someone is pointing a torch at me or better, reflecting light from a mirror.”

  “Is it blinding?” Arik asked.

  “No, nothing like that, but the tip of your sword shouldn’t be as bright as it is. I can’t see your trajectory, but I do notice something different about your weapon, which shouldn’t be the case, considering your sword isn’t that remarkable.”

  “How did you know that it would reduce visibility then?” Meosa asked. “You act as if you’ve seen the mask before.”

  “A guess, kami. A good one too, it seems.”

  “Lucky guess,” Meosa said with a huff.

  “We need to test it.” An idea came to Hojo. “Kami. Let’s have the disciple test it on you.”

  Meosa scoffed at the suggestion. “Test it on me? Do I look like cryptomeria wood?”

  “A sword won’t kill you, will it?”

  “It never has in the past.”

  “I just want him to know what it’s like to wield the weapon while wearing the Mask of the Fallen, if it gives him any other advantages,” Hojo explained.

  “It will,” said the itako, “but it may not come on immediately. There may be a period of static between you and the mask.”

  “Yes,” Hojo said as he stepped aside. “Regardless, you’re up, kami.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this…”

  Arik felt some rumbling in his body as Meosa separated from him, the aqueous kami floating a good twenty feet away and replacing Hojo, who stepped off to the side, the beam of energy connecting Arik’s blade to Hojo fading away.

  “The energy is no longer there.”

  “As I suspected,” said Hojo. “See if it does anything with the strength of your strikes. Perhaps you need to be facing a human for it to work. Testing is in order.”

/>   “Are you ready?” Arik asked the aqueous kami.

  Meosa formed into a massive shield. “Hit me with everything you’ve got, disciple.”

  Arik shot forward, and brought his blade around, noticing no difference in his swing. He cut through the water, nothing augmented about his strike.

  “Ah. As I suspected. It will require further testing, but unfortunately…” Hojo glanced up at the sky, the master illusionist squinty in the direction of the sun. “You’re going to have to test in the field. We need to get moving. Thank you, mother, for everything you have done here,” he told the itako.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Arik as he sheathed his blade. He turned to the older woman and bowed, the Mask of the Fallen still on his face.

  Even though she seemed blind, there was now a hint of hesitation in her eyes. “Please, disciple, the mask. It would probably be best if you don’t wear it in public settings. Those of us that are more attuned to the spiritual world, like myself, can sense what it is. And there’s always a chance that someone clever will know what it is, which could put you in harm’s way.”

  “She’s right,” said Hojo. “It’s best that you keep the mask hidden until it is absolutely necessary for you to wear it.”

  ****

  How they made it to Omoto so quickly was something that could be attributed to Hojo’s nonstop pace, little conversation, and the master illusionist’s knowledge of the wooded and mountainous terrain of the Jade Realm.

  It had taken two days, and during that time Arik had continued to go over the lessons he had learned from Hojo, only trying on the Mask of the Fallen one additional time, earlier that morning, the sudden sensation of being poisoned dissipating almost immediately.

  He had to keep in mind what Hojo had told him, that an opening had to actually be present, and that sense of bloodlust Arik got when wearing the mask could make maneuvers such as the Autumn Leaves Strike much harder to pull off.

  But there was little time for practice.

  Arik needed to get to Mogra in time to sign up for the tournament, the disciple hoping that he wouldn’t have to rely on his recently acquired illusionist techniques to add his name to the roster.

  The outskirts of Omoto when coming in from the east were quite different than coming from the west. The disciple saw the border city in a new light, the Jadean side of the city much more welcoming, men and women in conical hats riding out on horses, merchants moving their wares in big sacks thrown over their shoulders, the commotion of it all.

  “We will get you to the caravan heading south and then part ways,” Hojo told him, the master illusionist turning to Arik, just a bit of his face visible in a wedge of triangular light. “It shouldn’t be much longer now, disciple.”

  “I need to do something before I go to the Crimson Realm,” Arik told him.

  “Oh?”

  “I can’t go like this,” he said as he motioned to the clothing that he was wearing.

  Hojo nodded, impressed. “You are right, you can’t. I suppose we could visit the market.”

  “I already have Crimson clothing,” Arik told him. “It’s being held at the infirmary near the stadium.”

  “Yes, the stadium. Let’s head there first.”

  “I don’t know about you, disciple,” Meosa said privately as they passed in front of a bakery, the three taking the alley that Master Kojiro had pointed out to Arik a little less than a month ago, “but I’m going to miss the master illusionist. Not that I’m saying I like him or anything, don’t get the wrong idea, but at least when he’s around, I know that there is someone else to take the brunt of whatever attack you may have coming your way.”

  There had been many times over the last month that Arik had doubted Hojo, and there had almost been a time in which he had parted ways with him altogether. But Hojo had proven something to the disciple back at Mount Osore, that deep within his deception was a man of his word. He had shown Arik a number of new things, and had even volunteered his own life to help him acquire the Mask of the Fallen.

  Arik couldn’t forget that, and he would be lying to himself if he said that he wasn’t intrigued by the teachings of the School of Illusion, the disciple wishing that Hojo had explained more about Chimaura to him, especially after Arik had witnessed the unique power in action.

  His face had morphed back in Iga. He’d witnessed it first hand, and it was something the disciple couldn’t forget. There was clearly much more to understanding chi, perhaps beyond the three most common interpretations of Chimaura, Revivaura, and Thunderaura.

  Clearly.

  As it had been the last time he had visited, the infirmary’s entrance seemed almost flush with the side of the stadium, no indication really of what it was on the other side of the door. Hojo stepped off to the side, his hat obscuring his face as he nodded at Arik, letting him know in his own way that he would be waiting outside.

  “Always the mysterious stranger, right?” Meosa asked as Arik entered the infirmary to find Indra the nursemaid washing some of Master Kojiro’s surgery tools in a basin. There were only two patients in the front-facing office, both of whom were asleep, Indra smiling as she looked up at the disciple.

  “Disciple Arik,” she said as she immediately wiped her hands. “Something has changed about you.” She approached Arik and examined him further. “Yes, something…”

  “It’s been quite a journey,” was all he said.

  She waited for him to speak more about it, but he didn’t. Hojo had taught him better.

  “In that case, I suppose you’re here for your clothing?”

  “I am. If I could have a few words with Master Kojiro as well.”

  “Yes,” Meosa said so only Arik could hear, “where is that raggedy little tanuki?”

  “He stepped out for the day,” Indra told Arik. “He went on a hike, believe it or not. He does that from time to time, just needs a breath of fresh air. Normally, I’d join him, but I decided to stay around and take care of a few tasks before enjoying a long nap. It has been months since I had one.” She yawned playfully. “I’ve earned it.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “Come, I’ll lead you to your things.”

  Indra guided Arik up a flight of stairs to the room that he had stayed in for three nights upon first arriving in Omoto, something that seemed like a distant memory now. Once she was out of the room, he changed into the crimson robes that Combat Master Altai had given him, finishing up with the square hat on his head, his shoulder bag containing his shinobi tools, the Mask of the Fallen, which was wrapped in the fabric of a frayed prayer flag, and the Coro Pache book.

  He came downstairs to find Indra seated on one of the cots, Arik refilling his waterskin as she spoke to him.

  “Are you all right, disciple?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding in her direction. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Something is different.”

  He turned to her, Indra motioning toward some rations she had put together for his trip. “I’m just focused,” Arik told her as he went for the rations. “Thanks for this. And thank you again for storing my things. I will return soon.”

  Indra led him to the door, and once they reached it she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful out there, Disciple Arik. The world needs people like you. Don’t forget that, and don’t lose…” She tried to hide a hint of sadness in her eyes and failed. “Don’t lose your humanity.”

  It was as if he were stepping into another life and right back out of it, Arik picking back up where he left off with Hojo, the master illusionist moving alongside him like he had been there all along.

  “I hope you remember everything I’ve shown you,” Hojo said, not looking at Arik, his gaze angled at the dust-ridden road beneath their feet. “And I hope you survive.”

  I will survive, Arik thought, nodding his reply rather than saying anything. They continued onward toward the border, Hojo eventually speaking again. “And I have to commend you on your disguise—you truly look as if
you are from the Crimson Realm.”

  The river that had once greeted Arik at the Jadean entrance to Omoto seemed to spin away at the border between the two countries, trickling back toward the west, creating a shallow canyon empty of life. While the waters were closer to the surface on the Jadean side, they seemed to cascade downward on the Crimsonian part of the city, forming a series of enormous waterfalls that were partially hidden by walls erected long ago.

  It was here that they came to the caravan, Hojo stopping Arik from proceeding. “I’ll handle everything from here.”

  Now in a square hat, his view of the world limited to a rectangular slat, Arik stood silently while the master illusionist did his work, the disciple eventually led to the nicest carriage in the caravan. This was confirmed when he got inside he noticed that everything was cushioned, the space much more comfortable than he was expecting.

  “You know where to find me if you survive,” was all Hojo said as he shut the door.

  “And where would that be exactly?” Meosa asked as Arik got comfortable. “There is no telling where that fool would be.”

  “In Avarga,” said Arik, sure as day that this was what Hojo was referring to, to the cabin that they had stayed in outside of the city.

  “Avarga, huh? If you actually do this, if you are actually able to win the tournament and kill Nobunaga, would you seek him out?”

  Arik thought about this for a moment. “I really don’t know. I still need to visit Avarga to figure out if the bookseller there has the missing pages for the Whispering Sword passages. I may also train with Master Altai.”

  “Don’t tell me you are interested in another legendary weapon…” Meosa said with a groan. “They don’t all exist, you know.”

  Arik removed his square hat and glanced out one of the shutters, scanning the people for any sign of the master illusionist. As he would have predicted, Hojo was nowhere to be seen.

  “We will have to see what happens,” he finally told Meosa.

  “I suppose the uncertainty is to be expected in joining with someone like you. I just hope that for our sake, this is the right move. We are in the realm of the enemy now, my boy, and things may not work out the way that you would like.”