“Papa, what does ‘soulforge’ mean?”

“It means to meld your heart and soul into something.”

“How do you do that?”

“Well,” he answered, giving his hand to Mirai. She was only eight then, curious and wide-eyed full of wonder at the marvels of the world, including her father’s profession as a Quanmaster.

“Through understanding, and patience. Would you like to see?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay. Close your eyes.”

She closed her eyes expectantly.

In the beginning, only a soft, warm black draped her vision. But as she waited, and her father held her hand, she saw a wisp of a candle emerge from the dark – ever so it wavered, ever so it was out of the reach of her mind’s grasp.

Do not chase the flame – let it come to you instead.

And so Mirai took a measured breath, relaxed her brow, and whispered to it, wishing the candleflame no harm. Like a curious critter, the little flame stopped its retreat, and looked back towards her; it then cautiously inched towards Mirai’s outstretched arm in the realm of her mind. It hopped onto her cupped hands, sniffing this way and that, even though it was made of fire – no, she thought – it wasn’t fire as she knew it, but rather a spirit­-flame, the substances of great beings that once walked the world.

She heard her father’s voice through that strange empty world.

What does it say?

She leaned in her ears to hear the whispers of the little flame-sprite, and although the words came to her as incomprehensible at first, she remained ever so patient. Mirai relinquished the words she knew and listened into the little flame’s own language, and little by little, she felt the threads of meaning surfacing from the black, becoming threads of gold and shaping themselves into constellations in the sky. And the more she heard, the easier she could understand with intuition alone, like words said from a dream; the words of the little flame-sprite shaped itself into the earth and the waters, and transformed into wisps and clouds billowing past the sky in the world of dreams. Little Mirai pleasantly found herself in a forest by twilight, with soft grass at her feet and dew in her hair.

The flame sprite, satisfied with its creation, grew this time into a cat and stretched its back, rubbing against her; it turned into a fox with a fluffy tail, then into a great vermillion bird, and took flight to the night sky. Mirai briskly followed it in dreamlike wonder, over the streams, creeks, and log-bridges, and came upon a solitary cottage in a calm clearing. She cautiously opened the creaky door to the hut, and found her father there, busy at work; in front of him lay a heavy anvil with a worn top, and on it, a great, amber piece of metal shooting off fireworks with each strike of his hammer. The vermillion bird flew through the open ceiling and perched itself on his shoulder, pecking his cheek.

The shape of the soul, or Kaha, of Hinozawa Yamato noticed his daughter peeking through the door. He was much more youthful here in this realm, and his hair was very much like hers, except shaded much darker, and much longer, tied into a ruffled spiky ponytail at the back. He was lean and sharp, like a masterless warrior from a millennium ago, but his eyes emanated a warmth worthy of spring. He set down his hammer and welcomed Mirai into his arms.

“You made it! And on your first try!”

He ruffled her hair and lifted her up on his shoulders.

“See the Quan in front of me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“This is how it looked like thirty years ago. I invited you here so you could see me do it in my memories, rather than through the boring old adages.”

He held to her the piece of bronze metal from which his Quan once came, materializing from his fingers in the dream.

“To soulforge a Quan is to imbue it with the shape of your soul, your Kaha: the convictions you possess, your dearest hopes, who you wish to be, what virtue you idealize. Each strike of the Quan with your hammer at the forge infuses a portion of yourself into it. Your consciousness connects with the atoms of the metal, and it begins to understand who you are as a person, eventually becoming an incarnation of your very self. To affix your soul into your Quan, you must strike it at least ten thousand times.”

“Ten-thousand times?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Of course. But beware! Should the shape of your soul have destructive intent, that intent shall also be hammered into your Quan, making it corrupted with thirst. Thus, mastering the shape of your soul – to balance it and to maintain its goodness – is not simply a goal to which one should aspire, but a matter of professionalism if you are a Quanmaster.”

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“Why is it a matter of profe – um, how’d you say it – professionalism?”

“Because of what has happened before. Not all the Quans created in this world harbor good intentions. There are Quanmasters and weaponsmiths whose anguish and grief bore Quans of bloodlust and kill-thirst. There are also Quans whose souls were so strong they still affix the demons of old to this world...”

Her father trailed off, ruminating knowledge that Mirai did not yet possess. His soul wavered like a flame.

“Because each Quanmaster melts his and her soul into their creation, their Quans come to possess their virtues and personalities. Each Quanmaster’s works attract different sets of people – some noble, some notorious, some looking for a particular strength, and for some an affinity.”

Mirai listened quietly, inquisitive.

“Each Quanmaster lineage, as you’ll get to know when you grow, is known for a particular virtue, a virtue that exemplifies the Quans they create for others,” explained Yamato, the fire in front of him splitting to multicolored weaves that ascended to the sky in straight lines. “They bequeath the traditions of that virtue to their descendants, so they may continue their legacy. The Ashiyani are known for their unwavering loyalty to the Republics and its people, favored by presidents and chancellors. The Mukarram are known for their courage they inspire in the wielders, useful in the heat of battle. The Tishtraya are known for their affinity with those favoring the ways of peace and diplomacy, whose wielders are even venerated in ancient tomes of the Empire of Jin.

“What are our Quans known for, Papa?”

He paused, and looked through the open ceiling of the cottage into the night sky, studded with thousands of stars.

“In lighting people’s way through the long, dark night. We are Hinozawa, the union of the Sun and Earth. For seven centuries, people have used our Quans to dispel evils and injustices of the world; to shine light through the most tenebris tunnels.”

“What sort of evils did we fight?”

He looked at her, worried that what he might say would burden his young daughter. So he didn’t speak of what such evils were, for there were many, some ordinary and common, some terrifying and absolute.

“That is something you would have to find for yourself. But I ask that you wouldn’t go out of your way to look for it. It will dishearten you to see the nature of the world.”

“Aww...”

He ruffled her hair.

“But promise to teach me how to forge my own Quan, papa?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow. I have yet to finish Chancellor Tensei’s Quan. You’ve seen me work for the past month, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When I finish the Chancellor’s Quan, I will teach you what you want to know.”

Chancellor Tensei Hiromitsu Masamune of the Republic of Heian had, in 1877, commissioned Quanmaster Hinozawa to produce a new Quan for him. The Chancellor was universally loved by his people; he was fair in the administration of justice, encouraged the legislation of sensible laws, and provided a great deal of charity to Heian and the welfare of its peoples. He also defended it against the Federal Ministry of Order from the west and its attempts at overreach into his Republic. Twenty-five years ago, at the zenith of the Mythrisian-Syndicate Wars, Heian was one of the very few republics that managed to escape total destruction, thanks to the great efforts and leadership of the Chancellor.

So what happens when such a Chancellor is killed, rather, murdered?

The day of the Quan gifting ceremony came, and half a million people were gathered at the plaza of the City Hall. But, in the moment that Hinozawa Yamato passed the Quan he forged, dedicated to the Chancellor, it exploded upon changing hands. It immediately took the lives of the Chancellor, his wife, and his entire entourage of attendants and officials; Mirai’s mother Sena, who stood beside the Chancellor in praise, perished instantly. The only survivors on that stage was Mirai and Mirai’s father – she only survived because her father shielded her in the nick of time, and sacrificed his left arm and leg in the tragedy.

The days after were like a blur to Mirai. The treatments at the hospital and the funeral for her mother were replaced soon after by interrogations. For the peoples of Heian, it was not an accident that took their beloved Chancellor’s life, but rather a deliberate attempt on it, an assassination.

And although it wasn’t immediately apparent to Mirai, there were many who could benefit from the demise of the Hinozawa family. For decades, other Quanmaster families were looking to expand their share of the tradition, and new industrialists, who incessantly lobbied the authorities of Heian to permit new methods of manufacture, sought to discredit the old Quanmasters as ossified obstacles to modern progress, and most importantly, for the national defense of the Republics.

But it wasn’t those two groups that set off the fire; there was an ancient mover behind their demise. It was altogether too easy to exploit the greed of humankind to advance every evil in their favor, and that they did; with a lift of their finger, a tipping of the first domino.

A thousand years ago, at the zenith of the Second Republic which stretched from Ascension to Heian, there was a practice known as Blood Punishment.

It was reserved for traitors who sold secrets to the Empire of Jin, their sworn enemy at the time, and also to the foolhardy who sought power through knives in the dark. The punishment eventually fell out of use, but was, for reasons unknown to the people of Heian, revived as an extraordinary measure in light of the deceased Chancellor.

The punishment dictated that any and all kin related to the guilty by at least a quarter of their blood would be given the death penalty. By definition, it included Mirai, her two little brothers, and even her aunts and uncles, who lived not in Heian but faraway. The verdict was guilty, and the ultimate sentence was to be finalized in a week.

Mirai, only nine years old by then, sat huddled in an empty room with her brothers, trying to comfort them. Even though they were only toddlers, one five and one barely four, they too possessed an intuitive grasp of what was to arrive. And in the darkest moment before dawn, at the edge of consciousness driven to desperation...

Mirai witnessed a hand slice open the empty space in front of them. It was a hand most beautiful; unblemished, bright, fragrant with scent of spring leaves, its forearm robed in sleeves of ethereal silk. Its fingers steadily curtained away the air, until at last it was just upon her face and that of her brothers, lending it to her as one offers help.