by J. C. Fiske
“Just curiosity,” Musashi said.
“Judging by your blades, I think not. If you are requesting membership, then I’d look elsewhere. The Yoshioka-ryu is the heart and pride of Kyoto, going back four generations. It is the purest and greatest sword art in my opinion, and they would never take a . . . when was the last time you bathed?” The eel salesman asked.
“I’m, but a humble wanderer. I at least want to try my hand,” Musashi said.
“Well, I’d suggest getting a new robe, a hairbrush, a shave, a bath, and if you can manage, a new face before you try, but, if you are a glutton for humiliation, the school is just down this street, you can’t miss it. The Yoshioka-ryu is run by the Kenpo Brothers, some, if not the greatest swordsman in the land, from the purest of lines. The elder brother, Seijuro, will probably not even honor you with a meeting. I’d ask for the younger, Denshichiro. He probably has more time on his hands and may see to someone of . . . your status,” The eel salesman said, arms still folded, gazing down at the unkempt and rather smelly Musashi.
“I thank you for your time,” Musashi said, bowing respectfully. He walked down the village road, taking in the smells of the local market, of spitting meats on skewers, of squealing pigs, honking geese and the distinct waftings from several opium tents before he saw it, a grand, yet humble building equal on all sides, symmetric, neat, and tidy, a devout representation of their sword art.
Musashi climbed the steps, hearing the sounds of wooden training swords smacking and clunking together. All of them clad in pure white, their hair tied up neatly in buns and all clean shaven. A large man walked between the men training, as he looked on them, pointing out errors in foot placements and striking angles, when the school froze and all grew quiet, staring at the unkempt man standing in their doorway.
“You there, beggar! Out with you. There are no handouts here.” The large man said, folding his arms.
“I seek out Seijuro Kenpo, is he here?” Musashi asked plainly. The large man’s eyes narrowed.
“He is not here at the moment, and for what purpose do you seek an audience?” The large man asked.
“Are these his students?” Musashi asked.
“They are,” The large man said.
“And they honor him, obey him and above all, respect him?” Musashi asked.
“They do,” The large man said.
“Then, if I were to call their master, a no talent piece of pig shit, they may take offense?” Musashi asked. At that moment, the students all raised their swords in unison, ready to charge.
“Stand down,” A voice called from the back. A shadow moved across the paper walls and out walked a man, slightly taller than Musashi, dressed neat as a pin, and wearing the appropriate attire of master of the school. He looked Musashi up and down with a haughty disgust. “For such a sharp tongue, I expected a swordsman, not a . . . well . . . you . . .”
“My name is Miyomoto Musashi. I am a wandering swordsman, and I hear, your school is of vast renown, a renown that stretched back three generations. Is that true?” Musashi asked.
“Four generations and seventy students, and, I can assure you, if you’ve come looking to be seventy one, you can keep on dreaming. The Yoshioka-ryu is a time honored sword tradition and lifestyle. You, if anything, are a walking contradiction, and offense to everything we uphold, and believe, but I am not without pity. Recant your insult, and I will allow you to leave with what little honor you cling to.” Seijuro said. Musashi’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh, I think you misunderstand me. I do not wish to join you. I wish to duel you, here, in front of all your students, and show you all just how your, lifestyle, as you call it, belongs in the realm of women’s fashion, not the field of battle . . .” Musashi taunted.
“YOU DARE!” The large man said. Seijuro raised a hand.
“Calm yourself, Denshichiro.” Seijuro said. “Beggar, it has been quite some time since I’ve put my life on the line. A samurai needs to keep his blade sharp. Be here, on the morrow, at sunrise and I will humor you, as well as myself.”
“Thank you, for honoring such a miscreant as myself. Sunrise, I shall be outside the capital in the first field you come across, to the right of the road, at the time of the Dragon,” Musashi said, bowing politely, he took his leave.
“You have nothing to prove,” Denshichiro said. “Let me fight him. To do battle with him is to, but dirty your blade,”
“When a man openly challenges you a duel, we are equals, brother. Besides, it will do my students well to show them the superiority of the art they have dedicated their lives to, as well as the patience, that comes with it . . .” Seijuro said.
“Time of the Dragon he says? Time of the DRAGON HE SAYS!? IT’S THREE HOURS PAST THE TIME OF THE DRAGON! WHERE IS THIS BEGGAR?” Seijuro said, pacing back and forth, dressed to impress in fine new robes, and his hand on his freshly polished sword lying in his ornate sword sheath. All of his students stood at attention, at ease, behind him, sweating in the hot sun but offering up no complaints, as Seijuro basked and marinated in his frustration and anger.
“I told you brother, I told you two hours ago he wasn’t going to come! He is not your worth your time, let us . . .” Denshichiro started.
“NO! When a man challenges you to a duel, you show up, and show up on time! I . . .” Seijuro started, when up the path, from the wilderness, a figure could be seen taking a slow stroll toward them.
“Is it him?” Denshichiro asked, his eyes squinting, trying to get a good look. The smell of him in the sun however, hit his nostrils first, and he knew without a doubt, it was him. Musashi arrived before them a minute later looking just as unkempt, if not more so as the day before. Not even offering a greeting, Musashi yawned loudly, scratched his ass, and placed a hand on a big, thick, wooden sword.
“Ready?” Musashi asked plainly.
“Ready? READY!? I WAS READY THREE HOURS AGO!? HAVE YOU NO SHAME!? HAVE YOU NO HONOR!?” Seijuro asked.
“Not a bit,” Musashi said.
“I WILL KILL YOU WHERE YOU . . . is that . . . did you bring a, a stick? A wooden blade to this fight? DO YOU MOCK ME!?” Seijuro asked, a vein in his forehead pulsating dangerously.
“Yes,” Musashi said haphazardly, then sniffing hard, he hacked up a loogie, and spat it between them.
Now, with Seijuro’s rage and his patience spent, he was no longer in control of himself. With a shing noise, he pulled his shining blade free from his sheath and charged for Musashi, bloodlust in his eyes.
Musashi let him come, waited for just the right moment, then struck with his wooden blade in a rising arc straight into Siejuro’s chin. Siejuro saw white, then black, and his body crumpled to the ground, rolled, and lay still and unconscious. Musashi looked down at his attacker’s downed, defeated body, then up at the students and the brother, shrugged, and without a word, walked back up the path from where he came, whistling as he walked, leaving the students and Denshichiro in a state of unequivocal shock.
“A fluke,” Denshichiro said, pacing back and forth.
“Yes, sir,” Oni said.
“That’s all, just a fluke,” Denshichiro said.
“Absolutely,” Oni said.
“He already embarrassed my brother, so much so, he quit the martial arts and became a monk, A MONK! He’s a proud warrior who lost to a FLUKE! A FLUKE! I will reclaim my brother’s honor! I will defeat this beggar! I have two feet on him, a longer reach and now, a longer sword! His wooden sword, he must have known it would fly quicker! Now, I have matched him!” Denshichiro said, holding up a wooden blade, made and crafted especially for him that was over five feet long and sharpened at the end.
“No doubt, master,” Oni said.
“Oni, my students, watch as the honor of the Kenpo brothers are restored! You have not trained in vain! Greatness and skill does not come from being self-taught! Only pride and luck comes from such! And that, that will be his downfall! That will, will, WHERE IS HE!? AGAIN HE DISHONORS US! AGAIN HE MOCKS US! AGAIN HE�
��S LATE! DOING WHAT!? WHAT IS SO IMPORTANT TO BE LATE FOR THIS DUEL!?”
Denshichiro fired off several broad curses and continued his pacing, and just like his brother, marinated in his juices of rage and frustration. This went on for another hour until finally, Musashi arrived without an apology, as if he had no idea he was tardy, and again, came just as unkempt, if not more so.
“Shall we begin? Wait . . . didn’t I beat you before?” Musashi asked curiously.
“You, YOU! That was my brother!” Denshichiro said.
“Oh, right, you’re the big dumb one, with an . . . look at that wood! Was the wood you were born with really so small as to compensate with that . . . boat oar you brandish?” Musashi asked, not in a mocking tone, but a curious one. This infuriated Denshichiro all the more.
“I . . . YOU . . . I . . .” Denshichiro stammered, shaking.
“Well? Is it ‘you’ or ‘I’? And you, students, you still follow this fools way of the sword?” Musashi asked.
The students cheered in response. Musashi just shrugged.
“Well, suit yourselves, but eventually, you’ll follow them straight to the Monk temple, or grave . . . same thing . . .” Musashi said.
Upon hearing this, Denshichiro charged like a mad man, his giant wooden blade held high above his head. Again, Musashi waited, calmly, for the elder and much larger Kenpo brother to strike, and strike he did. No doubt it would have ended Musashi’s consciousness if it struck true, but all the elder man hit, was the dirt Musashi once stood in.
After the leap backward, Musashi then moved leaped forward once more and grabbed for the younger Kenpo brother’s hands, Denshichiro screamed, dropped his big, wooden sword, and held up a few broken fingers. Musashi then, rather than pull out a wooden blade, retrieved a steel one, and ran the younger Kenpo brother through, killing him.
In a bloody splash, Denshichiro, unlike his brother, fell not unconscious, but dead. Musashi looked down at the younger Kenpo brother, and shook his head.
“Who brings a stick to a sword fight? Shameful,” Musashi said, as he shrugged once more and began walking away, this time, into the city where his reputation skyrocketed and he had many, many men waiting, and ready, to train under him and offer their services, and so, Musashi’s first school was opened, and the wanderer, became a master of not only himself, but of many, as the left over Yoshioka-ryu, now without masters, plotted their revenge . . .
“Please, Master, haven’t you proved enough? The son of Seijuro is all that remains of their school! He is the last thread keeping it together. Do not accept his challenge, please, just let it go!” Shin pleaded. Musashi placed a hand on his student’s shoulder.
“You are a fine student Shin, but this is something I need to finish. I cannot back down from an open challenge, nor will I,” Musashi said.
“But, you are not dueling just the son! We heard them talking in the marketplace! They aim to send all the remaining seventy students after you! It’s an ambush! The Yoshioka-ryu is in ruins, they are desperate, have nothing left to lose and everything to gain by your defeat! They are dangerous! At least, at least let us accompany you! Without us, you will surely die!” Shin said.
“Me? Die? Oh, wouldn’t that be quite the adventure. Nothing to prove? Maybe so, but I do not do what I do for the sake of others . . . I do it for myself. To face the might of seventy, and say, ‘here I stand, make me move’, is my way, and my way, is unlike your way. I thank you, Shin, but please, remain here with the others. I will be back soon, alive and stronger than ever before!” Musashi said, and with that, he left his new dojo, his students behind, and made his way down the road toward the designated meeting place. On the way, he passed a shrine to the Gods, located on the side of the road, and decided to stop, and give praise and thanks, and bless the oncoming fight, only to stop himself.
“Pray? To the Gods? Hah! What am I doing? I’ve never relied on them before, why begin now? My actions, not the Gods, led me to this moment and this moment is mine, and no matter the consequences, I will own it!” Musashi declared, as he rose up and continued his walk to the meeting place, an open field with lots of heavy brush, and there, from afar, he saw the son of Seijuro, rising up to the field, early, ahead of schedule. He looked at him, then at the heavy brush, and rather than make his way to the field, he instead, cut around the back, as silent as could be, become one with the brush, and saw that the rumors were indeed true. Before him lying in wait, were a multitude of men, ready to spring from the bushes, and ambush him.
“Even in a morning as dark as this, I see our master. He’s in position, alone. Best get comfortable men! Musashi is no doubt going to be late again!” The man said. As soon as the word, “comfortable” was said, Musashi noticed every man in the bush relax.
Musashi smiled.
“Did I keep you waiting?” Musashi yelled, as he leapt from hiding, and fell the leader of the small ambush group in one blow.
The men, now completely thrown into disarray, screamed and began slicing at everything that moved in the darkness, as Musashi moved like a shadow, slaying all within his sword’s reach until the men began their retreat, running out into the open field.
Musashi gave chase, hacking down the lot of them, then sprinted right for the son of Seijuro, and ran him through, then, unsheathed another samurai sword, and now holding a blade in each hand, he placed a foot atop the man’s head.
“For those of you wanting death, COME! COME AND . . .” Musashi started, when suddenly, there was a thwip noise and an arrow pierced his arm, but Musashi took the blow, and continued, undeterred. “ . . . COME AND MEET MY BLADES! I AM MIYOMOTO MUSASHI! THE GREATEST SWORDSMAN OF MY TIME AND TIMES TO COME! THIS IS MY TITLE! YOU WANT IT? COME AND TAKE IT!”
No more arrows fired. No more swords flashed. All that could be heard, and seen, were the fleeting feet of lesser men garbed in white, the color of surrender.
Gisbo Falcon opened his eyes to see his grandfather seated before him. They stared at one another for a long moment.
“How do you feel?” Vadid asked.
“Unbeatable,” Gisbo said, and for the first time since the Rupture, before all his tragedies, Gisbo’s wicked, infectious smirk, returned.
“Prove it,” Vadid said, motioning to the Phoenix blade planted into the ground before them. Without hesitation, Gisbo rose to his feet, strolled over to it, gripped the handle, and without hesitation, pulled it from the ground, and raised it to the sky, igniting the entire area in blue white light in a rising battle cry as red, fiery letters formed down the side of the blade reading, “Gisbo Falcon, Man-Phoenix.”
Gisbo then fell to one knee, woozy from the power surge, and saw Vadid standing over him with an outstretched hand.
“Now, we can begin,” Vadid said.
Chapter Eighteen: Train, Beer, Sleep . . .
There was a knock at the door. Rolce walked across the floor, garbed in golden bed robes and opened the door, having to look up at his guest.
“Lady Seveara?” Rolce asked.
“Greetings, Rolce. May I come in?” Seveara asked, her eyes twinkling in the holes of her mask.
“Ugh, yeah, yeah come on in,” Rolce said, motioning her forward. Lady Seveara had to duck under the archway to step inside then stood at full height.
“Is Jackobi here?” Lady Seveara asked.
“Sleeping upstairs.” Rolce said. “Um, if you don’t mind, may I ask the reason for your visit?”
“Well, let’s not wake him. Come on out here and we can talk.” Lady Seveara said.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Rolce said as he they both walked outside, and Rolce closed the door behind him, joining Lady Seveara who looked out over a balcony where below, sat a giant auditorium and in the middle, was an arena, the very arena, that Rolce would put his life on the line. Rolce stared at it, transfixed.
“Beautiful. Isn’t it?” Lady Seveara asked.
“Sure, as arenas go . . .” Rolce said.
“No, no, look higher.” Lady Seveara said. Rol
ce looked up at Lady Seveara, only to see she wasn’t staring at the arena, but rather, she was staring at what lay above. Rolce raised his gaze to see a massive ball of golden energy with three halo’s that circled about it, keeping it contained.
“What is it?” Rolce asked.
“A self replicating energy field that acts as a beating heart for our city. It powers everything, and keeps our home afloat.” Lady Seveara.
“Energy that self replicates? How is that even possible?” Rolce asked.
“Much is possible when the greatest scientific minds the world has to offer come together as one.” Lady Seveara said.
“You realize, that such technology, could change this world, don’t you?” Rolce asked.
“It would only change a world that is not ready,” Lady Seveara said. “But, I have not come to debate with you. Instead, I’ve come, to make you an offer.”
“An, an offer?” Rolce asked.
“Yes, one I know you will take. I brought you here because I believe, in so many ways, you are everything that Purah doesn’t stand for, but there was also another reason . . .” Lady Seveara said, keeping her gaze on the spinning halos.
“Another?” Rolce asked. Lady Seveara, put a hand through her long, golden hair, and turned her gaze upon him.
“Do I make you nervous, Rolce?” Lady Seveara asked, as she stepped toward him, invading his personal space.
“Um, no, no, I . . . I just,” Rolce stammered, swallowing hard, but he did not retreat in his steps.
“I see the way you look at me, Rolce. I see the way every man looks at me. Their eyes, they give away so much,” Seveara said, suddenly reaching forward with a hand, and caressing the side of Rolce’s cheek. Rolce lost his breath upon her touch. “Some men look into my eyes and I see fear. They see the power of the sexes, reversed, and they know not how to take it, so, they lash out with hurtful words to cover their own insecurities. Then, there are others, men and woman included, who become so captivated, so drawn to me, they lose who they are and I become an unresistible object of desire and worship. But then, there are men like yourself . . .”