Whatever happened next would be remembered as a blur. One moment, Wujun was running, his chest full of hope and certainty, and the next he was filled with blinding, fiery rage. His stride changed; he was no longer rushing toward a beloved mentor with the expectation of a relieved reunion. He was charging into battle, a terrible cry of anguish and fury tearing from his lungs that seemed to echo in the hazy night air.
There were three soldiers loitering by the door, sharing a drink and patting each other on the back after what they perceived to be a job well done. It wasn’t until they heard Wujun’s fearsome shout they realized they were under attack.
Closing the distance, Wujun didn’t falter at the terrifying sight of the three seasoned troops. No, not troops, murderers. Their hands were coated in blood, their uniforms drenched in it. Black paint made their faces appear demonic and otherworldly. One, who he assumed was the leader, had a white stripe across the bridge of his nose from cheek to cheek.
These details washed over Wujun seconds before he fell on them like a bird of prey snaring a careless hare. He didn’t have a weapon, but he didn’t need one; his specialty of fighting had always been martial arts. The young man moved like a serpent, twisting and weaving around his opponents who discovered quickly he was a greater threat than he appeared to be.
Wujun had never killed before, but he was certain if he’d had a blade, he’d have stuck them all and then stood over them, watching with glee as they bled out. He wouldn’t have entertained such thoughts under normal circumstances. Now grief and anger curdled his blood, piercing through him like an infection. Something wet splashed down his face and he wondered if he had taken a glancing blow.
So what if I did? It doesn’t matter… Nothing matters anymore!
He continued to lash out, striking every weak point they revealed to him, wearing them down blow by blow. His vision blurred and he stumbled, his head reeling, breath ragged, and his chest full of white, seething pain. Something grabbed onto him, grappling him, and he flailed again expecting any second to feel a blade pierce his body. In fact, he almost welcomed death. It had to be better than the torment of living with the memory of this day…
“Wujun, stop!” The voice was familiar. Gruff, yet soothing to his ears. “It’s me, Wujun! It’s okay now, just stop!”
Kentai had found him here in this waking nightmare. Some part of him was glad and yet he couldn’t feel it. He was consumed. He swiped at his eyes, realizing it had not been blood on his face, obscuring his vision; it was tears. He was crying.
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He pulled away from the swordsman, swatting away a fresh wave of emotion. He wanted to fall apart now, to collapse into Kentai’s arms and unleash the storm inside him, but there was more left to do.
With a quick glance, he found the three soldiers. Two had been slain already, their necks slit from ear-to-ear by the delicate, but deadly blade belonging to Soki. The leader was the only one left alive. He was on his knees; his right arm broken by Wujun and hanging limply at his side. Soki, her stoic face cast in orange from the flames, was on his left, her dagger held to his jugular.
Her dark eyes flickered in the crackling fire. “For Goratsu,” she said and then, with a swift stroke, carved a red gash across his throat as well. Blood gushed from the wound in waves, the man gurgling and gasping as she released him. He fell to the brown grass, writhing.
Wujun found imagining this moment and living it were very different. He couldn’t stomach the sight and turned away, trying to block out the choking sounds behind him. His gaze was met with a more disturbing image; Goratsu’s body.
Fresh tears blinded him. Wujun stepped to the door, emotion tangling around his heart, squirming in his chest and gut. He pulled at the metal stakes that had been pounded through the old tutor’s shoulders to hold him to the wooden door. He tried not to think about the blood from the wounds, the sign this torment had been inflicted while he was still alive. It was proof the last minutes of his life were spent in terrible agony and it broke Wujun’s heart anew.
If I hadn’t argued… If I had been here… If…
He knew such thoughts were pointless and yet he wallowed in them, letting their barbed vines pierce his mind and soul. A cry of frustration welled up within him, but it came out as a heart-wrenching sob.
Dammit! I can’t get this damn stake out!
Wujun was struggling to pry it free of the wood. His body wasn’t cooperating. He could barely see through the tears. The smoke and yelling had made his throat raw and sore.
Suddenly, the stake gave and he yanked it out. Or so he thought. It took his grief-addled mind a second to realize it had actually been Kentai’s magic, not his own strength, that allowed him to remove the cursed metal. When the first one was out, he grabbed onto the second and found it much more cooperative. He was sure this was also because of Kentai’s help.
As Goratsu’s body slipped down, Wujun caught it and reverently laid it on the ground. He was dimly aware of Soki muttering something to Kentai and slipping away, but he couldn’t process her words. He was focused on the empty face, the blank, staring eyes of his tutor. With a trembling hand, he brushed his eyelids closed, unable to bear their soullessness any longer.
The last thing I said to him was… Oh, Goratsu… I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean any of it! Please forgive me…
Overwhelmed by grief, Wujun fell against Goratsu’s cold, still chest and sobbed.