Flower petals fell around the swordsman as he practiced his forms on the southern side of Mt. Kunlun. His movements reflected on the still lake. The tip of his sword dipped down into the water and sprayed droplets across the lake in an elegant arc. Controlled breathing let out gusts of chilled air.
His test to become a master of the sect would be held in three days. Ever since he was found abandoned in a village at the bottom of the mountain and taken in as a student he had been dreaming of this day. He who came from nothing would make something of himself and leave his mark on the martial arts world. The care and kindness he had been shown would be repaid with a decade of sweat and diligence. His sword cut horizontally and bounced falling petals off the side of the blade in a graceful display of talent.
Quiet footsteps on the rocks behind him left slight ripples on the water. Grandmaster Wu sat down on one of numerous boulders strewn around the lake and watched his favorite student. A growing wind blew through spruce trees and covered the area in a pleasant smell that was characteristic of the alpine ecosystem. It was late in autumn, and the chrysanthemums lining the lake had begun to die off and shed their petals in preparation for winter.
“Lakhuto, the blade must always be still, even as it moves through the air. Graceful and elegant. It must be neither good nor bad. The blade simply is. And while holding it, you simply are. No emotions or thought, just graceful movement from one stroke to the next. You and the blade are in harmony with the universe. That is the secret of our Falling Flower Sword.”
“Yes, master. One with the sword.”
“And the Universe. Never forget that.”
He had heard his master’s teachings repeated ten thousand times over the years. Repetition was at the core of Mt. Kunlun’s philosophy. He supposed that he would hear them at least ten thousand times more before the Grandmaster retired. As he reached the apex of the form, his sword skipping off the water in a low sweep, it began to rain and lightning shot through the sky in nature's display of its own talent. His sword returned to its starting position and he let out a long sigh, with a slight smile breaking his stoic face.
Grandmaster Wu stood up and began to give a lecture on the danger of practicing on wet rocks.
“I don’t need to remind you that just a month ago young master Yao slipped and sprained his ankle on this very spot.”
“Yes, master. I’ll head inside in a moment. I think I would like to sit down for a few minutes and meditate here once more as a disciple. No practicing, just sitting.”
Wu laughed and agreed that someone sitting on the ground would have a hard time finding a way to fall. He put his hand on Lakhuto’s shoulder and told him how proud he was of him.
“I still remember your first week here. You were the youngest person around but tried harder than anyone. You’re going to be a fine master.”
"Thank you, master. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
The grandmaster smiled and nodded at the young man, and as he walked away Lakhuto thought of the strange sense of serenity that permeated the mountain after a storm had begun. It was quiet. The splashes of water drowned out the fading footsteps of his master. It was quiet. He sat down on the wet rock and let his long black hair fall out of its ponytail. His flowing white robe became heavy in the downpour. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of falling water. In three days, he would make his master proud and could take on students of his own. In three days, he would join over ten generations of Mt. Kunlun’s masters. It was quiet, and he found himself at peace with the world.
An indeterminate number of hours had passed. He heard rushed footsteps slapping against wet rock. Shouting was heard in the distance. His friend of a decade, Zhao Lin, ran towards him and called out in a frantic voice.
“Lakhuto! Lakhuto! We’re under attack!”
“Under attack? Are the villagers starving and looking for food again?”
“No…there are soldiers from the capital.”
Zhao spent a few moments attempting to catch his breath.
“Hundreds of them are marching up the mountain path now. They ransacked the village. We saw it burning!”
Lakhuto stood up and shook out the water that had soaked into his robes. This was genuinely concerning. Imperial soldiers rarely ever travelled this far west since they were always needed to fight off Mongolian incursions at the northern border. If they ransacked a village, it meant that they were after something important.
“Okay, calm down. If imperial soldiers are here than they must be on important business from the Emperor. We just need to talk to them. The Grandmaster will know what to do.”
“Alright, but let’s join the rest of the disciples at the gate just in case we’re needed.”
“Agreed.”
As they ran through the rain to join the defense at the gate of the sect, other disciples and masters ran from every direction with swords drawn, ready to protect their home.
Soldiers wearing heavy metal armor and carrying long elegant spears rushed up the steps to the gate. Thinking that there would be some form of communication from the imperial soldiers, the disciples already at the gate waited for the commanding officer to appear before attacking; but there was no signal or words exchanged with the sect, as the general had already given the orders to immediately attack.
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Soldiers crashed into the confused disciples as a wave does when it breaks onto the shore. Bloodcurdling screams rang through the courtyard as spears were thrust into the bodies of the first wave of defenders. Even though some of them were skilled martial artists and had been longstanding members of the sect, they were given no chance to react. They were thrown aside with ruthlessness and savagery as the soldiers advanced.
Lakhuto wept as each step towards his fallen friends felt like an agonizing eternity. He yelled to his friend as the sound of pouring rain and falling comrades became deafening.
“Zhao! They’re already attacking! Where’s the Grandmaster?”
“I don’t know! Nobody has seen him for over an hour!
“We have no choice but to fight, then!”
They reached the gate and leapt into the fray. Lakhuto went into a Sparrow Flits Between Branches, his sword dipping into unprotected gaps in the armor of the soldiers with graceful precision, each slash slicing clean through flesh and bone. The sword strokes left arcs of blood spraying through the still falling rain. It dipped down, then shot back up vertically and cut through a neck; drops of blood and water splashed on the length of the blade; he danced through the battlefield in a precise and elegant display of talent, leaving soldiers falling to the ground in his wake. He lost sense of time as adrenaline overtook his body and every ounce of focus and willpower went into dodging and returning attacks.
After going through all sixty-four moves of Falling Flower Sword, he heard his Grandmaster shouting at him to run and his focus shattered. Lakhuto realized that he had been alone on the battlefield. His friends lay dead on the cold wet ground as soldiers circled around him. Zhao, who was running beside him mere minutes ago, was dead. Everyone was gone, never to return. They had long been emptied of their last screams and breath. Rage filled the veins of an otherwise emotionless and precise swordsman. None of his friends deserved their fate. They were all innocent, cut down for no apparent reason by the cold hand of the Emperor.
He let out a low guttural yell filled with rage and shot towards the nearest soldier like an arrow. His once calm and precise blade quivered, and he missed his mark. A spear cut across his abdomen as he fell; his sword flew out of his hand and skipped across the ground. He closed his eyes. It was over. The sect had fallen, and its last disciple would be dead in mere moments. The thought of not being able to pass on his master’s teachings filled him with sorrow.
He heard soldiers screaming as a flash of white cut down half a dozen of them. Grandmaster Wu flew across his vision and cut the throats of the soldiers in beautiful strokes, his sword as the brush of a calligraphy master. Flower petals shaken lose by the downpour accentuated his masterful display of swordsmanship. As the last soldier fell, he thought of how beautiful the form of his master was. It was apparent to him now that while he was talented and had come a long way, he fell far short of what was possible. His master walked towards him and helped him off the ground.
“Lakhuto, you need to get out of here. More soldiers are running up the mountain. They are only slowed momentarily by a landslide. I held them off as long as I could.”
“But I can still fight and defend our home. I’m not leaving and letting Mt. Kunlun fall. I’m not leaving you. Everything I care about is here!”
His master smiled and handed him the sect’s ceremonial sword that had been passed down from each grandmaster to the next, pressing it into his hands with great tenderness.
“Take it, it’s yours now. You were always dedicated enough to become grandmaster one day, and now I pass that mantle onto you. Live to teach a new generation of students, so that our sect can survive. Mt. Kunlun is the teachings that have been passed down for generations, not this physical location.”
He held back tears as his master spoke to him. The man who had been his father and had given him everything over the years was saying his goodbyes. Inspecting his wound, he saw that it was superficial and that he would live. He would live and pass down the kindness that had been shown to him. He would travel to the other sects and warn them of the Emperor's attacks. It was possible to make it down the mountain and escape to safety with his master, he thought.
“Master, we can both—”
But as he looked up, he found himself alone. He searched frantically for his master as a child would when separated from their mother or father, but he was nowhere in sight. Grandmaster Wu had left through the gate to meet the army alone, so that his student could live. Lakhuto limped towards the other side of the mountain where a hidden path would take him down to the valley, determined to carry out his master’s dying will. The sound of clanging metal echoed throughout the mountain, until everything was stilled. Until the universe lay silent. He knew his master had fallen, and he collapsed against the side of the mountain and sobbed as he had when he first found himself alone in an unknown village as a small child.
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The soldiers searched the entirety of the sect and did not find what they were looking for. The place was both devoid of its former life and barren of anything of interest to their investigation. General Zhong Li commanded his men to search the premises once more before heading back down the mountain. The Emperor was growing impatient, and Li grew concerned that the investigation would not be concluded anytime soon. His wrath knew no bounds and spared not even the most decorated of his officials. They would march to the next sect in the morning. Even if they had to go through every sword sect in the country in pursuit of the culprit, Li felt that it was well justified. There exists no man who can steal from the Emperor and get away with it.
Li watched his soldiers as they finished their search and began the journey back down the mountain. He leaned against the stone gateposts as the rain gently pattered on the solemn roofs and bodies sprawled throughout the courtyard. There was nothing quieter than a battlefield after its battle had concluded, he thought. The clamor and frenzy extinguished, with those remaining alive left to ponder the meaning of it all. As he walked past the gate and began down the path leading to the base of the mountain, he felt that there was something sad about his footsteps being the last that the place would hear. The Emperor’s will is absolute, he thought, and cares not about any individual feelings or thoughts or philosophies. He looked down at the corpse of the grandmaster slumped against the mountainside and gave a stern nod to the fallen master. He had fought well and died embodying his beliefs. It was a shame that the world was now devoid of such a skilled and brave swordsman, but there was no shame in the way he went out. Li hoped that his last breaths carried even half the beauty and valor.
The rain continued to pour long into the night.