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

by Harmon Cooper

  “It’s my teacher,” Arik whispered, trying to understand what it all meant, feeling for a second as if he were hallucinating. “And… and my sister.”

  “What?” Meosa asked.

  Now it was the kami’s turn to gasp.

  “What do you see?” Arik asked as his opponent slowly began to approach, the brute gripping a large axe in his right hand.

  “Just…” Meosa’s voice hardened. “Focus on the fight, disciple. I will tell you everything later, but for now, we need to stay clear of Nobunaga and his attachment. At least for now.”

  You can do this, Arik thought, his mind swirling around the betrayal on display just about twenty-five yards away.

  You have to do this.

  ****

  Arik’s opponent spat. He stuck his tongue out, his body and face smeared in mud which had already dried, clearly some sort of ritual from some southwestern corner of the Crimson Realm. The front of his head was shaved, but he had a long braid in the back, tattoos slightly visible under the cracked mud on his neck, his axe with a red Crimsonian flag tied to its grip.

  He flourished his weapon once, his eyes locking on Arik as a drum rang out, signaling the start of the fight.

  “We have to get through this,” Meosa said, a phrase that Arik sensed was as much for the kami as it was for him.

  What had Meosa seen over in the stands? Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been worse than what Arik had seen, his teacher, his sister…

  None of it made any sense.

  The drum played again and Arik withdrew his blade. He loosened his form, remembering to flow forward like water. He got a feeling for his opponent almost immediately, one that told him that the man would play the aggressor, oblivious to the bead already drawn on his opponent’s neck.

  The Mask of the Fallen was doing its job, Arik able to see the beam of red energy even with the late morning sun.

  Autumn Leaves Strike, Second Form, Waiting Initiative…

  Arik tilted his wrist just a bit, ignoring everything around him, from the crowd to the shock he felt in seeing familiar faces joining Nobunaga. His sole focus now was on his opponent’s weapon, the disciple looking to end this fight as quickly as he could.

  His opponent waited, Arik in an upper stance to some degree, his head slightly dipped as everything on the periphery became a blur.

  The crowd grew quiet, and just as they did, the Crimsonian man exploded toward Arik and brought his right arm wide in the process, looking to cleave his head off in the first strike.

  Arik brazenly sidestepped his opponent and sent his blade down at an angle, all of his force behind his movement.

  His sword cut into the top of the man’s hand, severing a finger as it reached the grip of his axe, causing his opponent to drop his weapon. In a variation of the Body of Glue technique, Arik moved in immediately as the man stumbled forward, the disciple stopping with the tip of his blade at the back of his neck.

  (Do it…)

  The voice didn’t belong to him, nor did it belong to the echo that he often sensed when his nerves were most heightened. The voice he swore he heard at the back of his head belonged to the Mask of the Fallen.

  (Do it…)

  The drum played, initially startling Arik, the disciple slowly understanding that the match had been called.

  “What? No!” his opponent screamed, the mud-caked man gritting his teeth as he got to his feet, ignoring the blood and pain from his severed finger.

  He was just about to lunge for Arik when two blades immediately addressed him, both of the classically trained Crimsonian warriors with a pair of swords.

  The man’s head was quickly severed, his body falling, a bloodied, squirting mass left on the fighting grounds in a flash as the crowd roared with approval.

  Is that what happens when you lose? Arik wondered, horrified at what he just witnessed. Then he remembered what Combat Master Altai had told him, that survivors were going to be tossed into the Great Deep.

  No, this was the fate of someone who tried to fight after a match had been called, for those who disrespected what the Crimsonians considered an honorable fight.

  A different pair of red-robed blades came onto the fighting grounds and escorted Arik back to the gate that he had come from, the disciple taking one more glance over his shoulder at Master Guri Yarna and his sister. His former instructor was clapping, but Mori wasn’t, her head hung in shame.

  Arik heard his name announced as the winner, but all of this was behind him now as he was led back down the stone steps to the room where he would await his next combat.

  As soon as the door was shut, Meosa started up.

  “Disciple, I know I haven’t told you everything…” The kami’s form appeared, drooping to some degree. “And I guess now is the time for me to come clean. You may recall me mentioning once that I was on the wrong side last time, which was true. Believe it or not, I was on the Onyxian side of the Crimson-Onyx Shroud War. There was another like me named Enenra, who joined with Coro Pache.”

  “Another like you?” Arik asked, the disciple turning to Meosa.

  “I may…” Meosa hesitated for a moment before continuing. “I may have mentioned in the past that I came from royalty to some degree and this is true. I was a head advisor to the Onyxian leader at that time, Queen Merit Akina. We fought, Enenra and I, and I wasn’t the winner. Let’s just say that.”

  “She’s a water kami?” Arik asked. He could have sworn he’d met a woman with the same name in one of his stints at a hospital up north.

  “No, Enenra is a wind kami, and she won, and Coro Pache won, and she personally had me sealed in that wretched cave. What I’m saying here is that she has chosen her side, and that I have chosen mine, and…” Meosa’s demeanor changed from dejection to glee. “Why, it means I have chosen right this time around, my boy! Ha! You are the War Priest, I’m sure of it, and we will solve this conflict together. We… we should be celebrating! We should forget the past…”

  “The past…” Arik thought of his teacher and his sister, who were sitting in the stands with Nobunaga. There was no way he was going to be able to forget the past, especially now, especially after what happened. Had Master Guri Yarna been in on it the entire time? It was the only explanation he could come up with in that moment, especially as he was coming down from the battle he’d just had.

  “Perhaps…” Meosa’s form sulked a bit. “Perhaps I’ve spoken too soon. I don’t know why your teacher is out there, nor do I know why your sister has joined him, but if we survive the tournament, we will be able to find out sooner rather than later. I assure you. Do not let their presence disturb you, disciple. You won your first match and you will win the next one, and the one following that. I’m certain of this. Soon we will be in the final, you will have your chance. Try not to overanalyze what you saw out there; try to just focus on the task at hand.”

  “I’ll try,” Arik said as he clenched his fists into balls at his side.

  “And I’ll do the same. If Enenra has attached herself to Nobunaga, which is clear to me now, this means that he is much stronger than any opponent you will ever face. Once we do get to them, it will be our biggest challenge yet. Listen to me, just rambling here. Catch your breath, disciple, close your eyes for a moment and relax. Remember all the things that supposed illusionist taught you. Your next match will start soon.”

  ****

  The next two fights were variations of the first, large, muscled Crimsonian fighters with plenty of strength but not enough wits, Arik aided by the Mask of the Fallen, which made him feel as if he were always a step ahead.

  He ended up slaying one of the combatants, not able to swipe the man’s serrated sword away, a fight that would have been fatally prolonged had it not been for his focus on moving like water.

  The other opponent, the one he didn’t bring down, had been beaten yet again by the Autumn Leaves Strike. He hadn’t put up a protest when the blades approached, and was led to a bleacher that was slowly starting
to fill up with losing combatants that were still alive, all of them forced to watch the tournament while they awaited their inevitable death later on that night.

  A knock at the door told Arik that it was time for his next fight, the disciple loosened up by this point, ready to reach the finale.

  As he made his way up the stone steps, the roar of the crowd came to him once again, not all that different from what he had experienced back at the stadium in Omoto. Patriotism was on display, red banners everywhere, Arik starting to notice that people were starting to cheer more and more for his arrival, the mysterious masked fighter with his strange combat style that was borderline offensive.

  His next opponent was already waiting for him, Arik slightly surprised to find a woman with two blades not quite as long as the traditional swords used by Crimsonian warriors. She wore a haori cape over her shoulders that was white and featured a butterfly motif now stained with blood. There was also blood on her face, the woman not bothering to wash off her earlier kills, her bangs cut short, her long dark ponytail braided and tied off with a red ribbon that matched her robes, a slightly sadistic look in her eyes.

  “This one is going to be a challenge,” Meosa said, something that Arik already had sensed—she wasn’t like the others.

  A drum signaled the start of the fight, Arik now with his sword at the ready and moving into a fluid stance.

  It was as if she had been fired from a crossbow at him, the woman reaching him so quickly that lightning seemed to crackle all around her, Arik barely able to miss her first strike as she spun both blades.

  Klank!

  He brought his sword up just in time to parry one of her attacks, clearly one partially fueled by Thunderaura. Fighting in an unpredictable way, the woman shouldered toward Arik, one of her blades just about an inch away from reaching him as he slipped to the side.

  Body Replaces Sword…

  Arik went for it, throwing himself into her field of influence, the woman responding with a razor-fast vertical slash pattern that caused him to stumble backward.

  “Disciple!” Meosa shouted in his ear as Arik dropped his sword.

  She leaped for him, the female fighter attempting to cleave him to death as Arik rolled out of the way, toward his weapon.

  He thought about going for the dagger on his arm, but he went for his sanjaku cloth instead, pulling it off his neck and tightening it with both hands just in time to stop one of her swords. His haori cape now draped over his head, Arik ignored the crowd as he blocked another attempt with the cloth, the disciple thanking his lucky stars that the piece was holding up.

  Arik kicked up dirt, and used the momentary distraction to dive toward his sword. He managed to reach it and brought it up with both hands just as she tried to send her blades downward.

  Klank!

  He parried once again, Arik knowing that wasn’t going to be able to stop her advances, not with how quickly she was moving. The longer this fight lasted, the worse his chances of winning became.

  As if the Mask of the Fallen was listening, a trail of red energy connected the tip of his blade to her abdomen, Arik finally giving into the mask as he followed the line forward, oblivious to her next maneuver, and what her two blades would do if she reached him before he reached her.

  He reached his target and pulled up on his sword, the woman dropping both of her blades at the shock of his insane strike.

  “Finish…” she said, her gaze softening. “Kill me.”

  Arik was just about to honor her request when the sound of a gong reached his ears. Suddenly, the Crimsonian blades were all standing around him, three of them, each with a pair of swords drawn.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Arik asked, his voice haggard.

  “Nobunaga will spare her life,” one of the blades said. “You have won the bout.”

  “Spare her life?”

  “Step aside,” the blade said in an aggressive tone.

  Arik pulled his sword out of the woman’s body, leaving her on her knees.

  He took a few steps back and one of the men lifted the woman and carried her over to Nobunaga, Arik finally getting a good glimpse at the warlord as the man stepped down from his perched seat.

  Nobunaga was short with black hair and a long mustache that hung well past his beard, bushy eyebrows, his hairline receding to some degree, his robes of the finest crimson silk Arik had ever seen. He was by no means handsome, and there was nothing remarkable about him as far as Arik could tell.

  But as much as finally coming face to face with Nobunaga should have sparked something within Arik, he couldn’t strip his focus away from his former teacher, Master Guri Yarna, the priest joining the Crimsonian warlord and healing the female combatant, the crowd completely silent.

  Arik started to shake his head, barely able to contain a mixture of shock and anger.

  “So you aren’t the only healer,” Meosa said as the woman’s life was returned to her. It was only a matter of seconds before she was shaking her arms out, and bowing to Nobunaga and the northern priest, Arik now seeing Combat Master Altai standing as well, his focus not on the woman but on the disciple.

  Arik turned back to the gate.

  “Don’t let it get to you, disciple,” Meosa said as he reached the stone steps that led down to the underground waiting rooms. “Just focus on winning this wretched tournament. I’m so ready to be done with this.”

  ****

  As they waited, Meosa went into detail about his earlier revelation, explaining that he’d been looking for information when they had first separated in Omoto. He spoke quickly, as if he were trying to shift Arik’s focus on what was happening in the tournament, off the overbearing fact that Master Guri Yarna and Arik’s sister were present.

  “She always liked Omoto,” Meosa explained, “Enenra did. An acquired taste, if ever there were one. I didn’t think I would actually run into her, but I knew if she were alive, that this was where she would be. We chose our sides back then, Enenra with Coro Pache, myself with the Queen Merit. When the war ended, I couldn’t break my agreement with her. Enenra didn’t exactly beat me in a fight—I let her win, I’ll have you know—but I had lost our agreement regardless, and I reluctantly agreed to her demands.”

  Not only had the kami known Coro Pache, but he had been quite active in the Crimson-Onyx Shroud War, which Arik had sensed to some degree. Still, like Hojo, Meosa had been keeping things from the disciple, and also like Hojo, it wasn’t clear to Arik why this was necessary in the first place. What was the point in these secrets? How would knowing this information have changed their relationship in any way?

  “So you basically bet on the outcome?” Arik finally asked.

  “Yes, we did. And that was my punishment, forced slumber in that cave. Things were different back then, you know. Chi was utilized in ways that have long been forgotten, at least from what I have seen. Let me ask you, my boy, have you ever heard of Yokaura? I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that you haven’t.”

  “Yokaura?” Arik asked, interpreting that it was a merger between the words ‘yokai’ and the ‘aura,’ which would make it similar to the three known classifications of chi.

  “You recall the itako, and what she was able to do.”

  “I do,” Arik said, remembering what it had been like separate from his body, how otherworldly it felt.

  “You’ve also seen what I am capable of when feeding off your power. This is an aspect of Yokaura, which seems to have been all but forgotten these days. Hell, five hundred years ago it was already on its way out, but before then…” Meosa sighed. “Let’s just say that Taomoni used to be more like that. Humans were still rooted in their three main interpretations of chi, sure, but there were other things that could be done with it, the kind of magic that was able to seal me in a stone box, or separate your soul from your body. That’s called Yokaura.”

  “What about Hojo’s daughter?”

  “What about her?”

  “Her name is Tayau
ra.”

  “Ah, that.”

  “Is it another aspect of chi?”

  “No, I think it’s just a name that the supposed illusionist came up with. You’d have to ask him. It definitely has nothing to do with Yokaura.”

  Arik nodded slowly, feeling very small as he continued to learn new things about a world that seemed crystalized not so long ago.

  “This was why I called you the War Priest early on, after I saw what you are capable of. I try not to be one who believes in destiny, but in that regard, I am no different than a typical human. It was fate that brought you to that cave, I’m certain of it, your Revivaura unlocking the box sealed by Yokaura, our paths joined.” Meosa laughed bitterly. “I don’t know if this is a good thing or bad thing, but I still feel I am on the right side of this. But Enenra won last time, and she is as cunning as she is powerful.”

  “This isn’t a game,” Arik said, the scowl on his face actually matching the grotesque visual of his mask. “Thousands upon thousands of people died in that war.”

  “I don’t think this is a game, but at some point, in all wars, you must choose your side, disciple. The Jade Realm and lofty fools like Hojo pretend that there is always a balancing act that can be exploited, and oftentimes this is the case. But there always comes a time. Eventually, we can no longer be neutral. So…”

  A knock at the door caused Arik to get to his feet.

  “I apologize if I made it sound like a game, I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean I’ve chosen my side, and I will fight with you to the end. Now…” Meosa’s voice grew louder. “Let’s get out there and win this despicable tournament. We can deal with the aftermath later.”

  Arik approached the door, once again moving through the corridor and up the stairs to the fighting grounds. He was met by a bright sun and a crowd cheering for a fighter that they knew little about. His dark clothing, sinister black mask over the bottom portion of his face, red paint smeared over his eyes and his haori cape fashioned into a hood, adding shadows and mystery to his features—who could blame them? There was something enigmatic about his appearance, fierce and memorable.