Chapter 1
Between two grey cliff sides, which were crumbling, lies one man who stands in the middle of two dozen bodies of soldiers. The dusty air mixed with iron-scented blood, forming an orange mist. The man, with his light brown hair tinged with small hints of grey, flowing to his shoulders wild, has a blank expression on his face. His dark purple eyes matched his kimono, which had small splotches of blood from his fallen adversaries. The man then sheathed his katana, making a quiet “clink.” Just then, another appeared with short orange hair and a grin on his face.
“Hey, Master Joge!” The man shouted with great enthusiasm.
“Hello, Yoshi,” the man said back in a calm tone.
“I came to help you here, but it seems you didn’t need it,” an audible sigh was heard.
“You were right.”
As Joge started to make his way up the sides of the canyon, Yoshi spoke again.
“You don’t seem to be much of a conversationalist today, master, huh?” Yoshi said, keeping his enthusiasm.
“Trivial conversation is something I don’t desire, you know this.”
“Y-yes, I know that, sir. All of us do. I just thought that now that we were all soldiers, maybe we cou—” Yoshi’s smile was fading.
“You thought wrong,” Joge said plainly.
“Sorry, master,” Yoshi said dejectedly.
“Now, is there any other reason why you came all the way out here to get me?” Joge asked inquisitively.
“Yes, master, it was just to bring you back to camp. We have something urgent for you.”
“Oh, what is it?” Joge said, turning his head for the first time to face Yoshi. His dark purple eyes sent shivers down Yoshi’s spine.
“Oh, it’s, uh… I c-can’t really sa—. I don’t really know, master. Sorry, master,” Yoshi said nervously.
“Okay, Yoshi,” Joge turned his head back to the view—dead trees, giant rocks, and the blood-red sun.
“Let’s be on our way then, master,” Yoshi said, as the air started to release its grip on his throat.
Some time passed as the two walked in silence.
Why am I still on the front lines of this never-ending war? War is something… I don’t know what I think about war. On one hand, it causes misery and sadness, especially when I watch someone’s very soul leave their body—the link to this world being severed. But on the other hand, war has given me everything. It’s all I know, and all I will ever know. After all, what will happen after I retire or after the war is over? I was born in this war. I will likely die in this war. I’m reaching far past the ages many soldiers live to. I’ve already reached 40; most soldiers retire by 35. Even grey is starting to creep into my hair. I have no family outside of my students, and they aren’t my children, so I will not treat them as such. But… never mind. Anyway, Yoshi and I are about to reach the camp.
“Master, do you see the camp?” Yoshi said with a big smile on his face.
“Yes, Yoshi, my eyes haven’t failed me yet,” Joge said, glancing at Yoshi.
“Right, master, I just d-didn’t know with your age and all,” Yoshi’s eyes looked up, his smile replaced with a nervous grin.
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“Despite my ‘advanced age,’ I can still see just fine,” Joge said with irritation.
“Well, what about your left index finger? The tip of it is missing,” Yoshi said, focusing on that and not Joge’s eyes, which were now tilted up at him.
“I’m fine!” Joge said, gripping the hilt of his katana in frustration.
“Sorry, master, I was wrong,” Yoshi said, gripping the hilt of his saber, nervous, barely able to move.
“Sorry, Yoshi, I’m on edge. I feel like there is something being plotted against me, and I can’t find out what it is,” Joge said, still gripping the hilt of his katana but not with anger, just frustration.
“It’s okay, master,” Yoshi said, his hand leaving the hilt of his sword. “Looks like we’ve arrived, sir,” Yoshi said, his voice drained of all emotion.
“Thank you for escorting me, Yoshi,” Joge said with a hint of genuine kindness in his voice.
“Y-your welcome, master,” Yoshi said, forcing a smile.
Joge walked to his tent when…
“Master,” said a tall man with tied-up purplish-black hair.
“Oh, hello, Ishka,” Joge said, surprised. “I thought it was just me and Yoshi at this camp?” Joge said curiously.
“Well, all of us wanted to surprise you,” Ishka said with a sinister grin stretching across his face.
“What do you mean ‘all of us’?” Joge said, his eyes narrowing.
“All of your students, of course, all nine of us,” Ishka said, his grin growing wider.
As he said that, eight other figures emerged around Joge, surrounding him.
“Hello, master,” said a large man with long, flowing gold-colored hair and light yellow eyes.
“Hello, Yormin,” Joge said indifferently.
“We should get down to business. We all know very well how much you HATE small talk!” Ishka said, scratching at his neck, making visible red marks. “Why don’t you say it, Saki? You were always better with words than the rest of us.”
“Sir Joge, we nine have been assigned to exterminate you. These orders come directly from the Arch General himself.”
“Oh, I see.” His fingers brushed against his blade, but his expression stayed unchanged.
“C’mon, you dumb old man. Won’t you show just a little bit of emotion or something?” Yoshi said, with his once vibrant smile replaced with bloodshot eyes and a teeth-clenching frown.
“Why would I disregard my first lesson? Or do I need to tell you all again? Keep c—”
“Keep calm in a fight so your enemy can’t manipulate you,” a short young man of 16, wearing a white mask with long red scratch marks on it and long black hair, said softly.
“Correct, Horus. Good job,” Joge said, impressed.
“I was only getting you to stop talking,” Horus said coldly, gripping his chains. “But thank you, Master Joge,” he said under his breath.
“So, are you going to get on with it, children?” Joge said with a small smirk crossing his face.
“This old man still thinks he can tell us what to do, huh!? What a load of bullshit!” yelled a tall, lanky man with fixed red hair, with hints of black on each strand. His black and red eyes fixed directly on Joge’s hand, his glasses reflecting the red sun.
“Ah, my least favorite kenchi,” Joge said, not even glancing at the man. “You were always so nice unt—”
“Until you dragged it out of me! You bastard!” Kenchi yelled, irate, as two tall puppets emerged behind him.
“I think we’ve let this go long enough,” Ishka said, as his grin started to stretch across his face again.
“Any last words, master?” A normal-sized man said, clenching his katana, with dark blue eyes as wide as the ocean.
“I have nothing to say to a bunch of immature little brats who do—” Joge said, irritated, before a piercing pain was felt in his chest. Blood ran down his kimono, staining it with thick red blood.
“Give a sense of security before striking. Lesson five, right?” Ishka said, laughing.
“No, that was lesson six. Your memory fails you,” Joge said before sending Ishka flying back with a kick.
Just then, a chain came flying toward him. He dodged, but not fast enough—it pierced his right eye.
“Ughhh,” Joge exclaimed in pain.
Before he could think, he felt another slash in his side, a neat, clever courtesy of Yormin.
Joge dashed toward Horus and clenched his weapon when he felt a thousand cuts across his body.
“How’d that feel, ‘master’? I hope it hurts,” Yoshi exclaimed, his ever-changing expression now one of coldness and sorrow.
I have nothing I can do here. They know my fighting style. They are my students, after all. Maybe this is deserved. I was brutal with my students, but you need that—wouldn’t any father be like that? Any teacher? It’s how I was raised, and turned out fine.
A swift punch from Saki sent Joge flying to the other side of the camp.
As more and more of them plunged their weapons into Joge, a sense of emptiness hit some, and they stopped, while others, still fueled by rage, restrained themselves out of an odd sense of respect for the man who had raised them. He may not have raised them right, but he raised them nonetheless.
As the students grabbed Joge’s body, they threw it out of the camp to be picked up.
As the students left, a small twitch from Joge could be seen.