Reza’s eyes snapped open, the sudden chill wrenching him awake. He lay quiet and trembling, turning his focus to his sleeping wife beside him. The chill didn’t seem to affect her.
Rolling out of his bed, he scanned the room groggily for the culprit of his sudden awakening. The door to the courtyard had been left open. Moving silently so as to not wake his wife, he made his way outside, shutting the door gently behind him.
The crisp, cold air chased away the last vestiges of drowsiness. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, stretching his arms high above his head. His body groaned in protest, urging him to return to the comfort of his bed.
He was growing soft. It had been a decade since he had left the service of the ironblood mercenary company. Ten years since he had been left for dead on the Yulong Grasslands.
Crouching low, he opened himself up to the qi surrounding him, letting it flow through him. It had been ages since he had last cycled his qi. He couldn't help but wince at the sharp pain overtaking his meridians.
“Fight through the pain,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Ignoring the pain, he began to move through the aggressive forms of Jorin, an esoteric martial art practiced by few. Feint. Strike. Block. He danced back and forth the courtyard, engaged in combat with an imaginary opponent.
Jorin, the national martial art of a small coastal nation to the east. He had picked up the first few basic forms from a compatriot in the Iron Blood Company. Later, through an immense stroke of luck, he met a wandering monk who guided him through the more advanced forms.
“Think you’ve punished the wind enough?”
Reza whipped around at the sound of his wife’s voice behind him. Zora. She had the bed sheet wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the cold. Her long black hair, usually braided to the right—hung loose and disheveled. Her skin was unusually tan on the account of her Cloud Walker heritage. A tribe of nomads situated in the plains north of Yulong. Her face was only partially illuminated by the light of the moon above, yet he could still see her lips pressed into a sardonic grin.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said with a faint blush, stopping mid-strike.
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“It's been awhile since you last practiced, what spurned you on?” Zora asked. “Life is good here, peaceful. There aren’t any more battles to fight, dear.”
Reza didn’t give an immediate answer. Life was good in Rulan. Their house was small but filled with love. They had enough funds left over from his warring days to live out their life comfortably, albeit a little frugally.
Soon, they would have children. And their children would have children, and then he would eventually pass on, hopefully surrounded by loved ones. Life was good. He had earned a quiet life. But something deep within still clawed at him. Doubt. Did he really make the right choice? Was the family life what he truly desired?
“I know. I like our life here too,” he said, walking up behind her and embracing her by the waist. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
“Liar,” she said, slipping out his embrace.
“Okay, maybe I lied a little. I wouldn’t mind a good fight every now and then. But I still like what we have here.”
Zora brought her finger up and placed it gently over his lips. “I know you, Reza. I know you regret marrying me. I know you’d rather be out there fighting battles with them again.”
Reza wrapped his fingers around her slim hand, and then softly pulled it down, leaning in for a quick peck on her lips. “Well I think you don’t know me well enough if you think I’d rather be anywhere but here.”
“Anway it’s cold out here,” he said, then awkwardly coughing into his hand. “We should go back inside.”
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Half an hour later, Zora was fast asleep, but Reza lay wide awake on the bed, staring out into empty space. His thoughts wandered back to his early days. He had been a product of war. From a homeless orphan, to a vagrant soldier, and now, a married man with responsibilities.
He was in his mid thirties now. A good portion of his life had been spent fighting for his paycheck. Wondering if he would live to see another day. And then it happened, so sudden, he lost everything that day. His friends, the men he considered brothers, his captain, the man he considered his father, were killed in a quick but brutal ambush. As he lay on the Yulong grasslands, his blood staining the dirt red, he met Zora.
She took him back to her village, and even nursed him back to health, despite the objections of her tribe. And then she left it all behind for him, her family, her way of life, all so they could be together. They eventually made their way to Rulan, strangers in a foriegn city, they did their best to acclimate.
He had been one of the lucky ones. To leave the battlefield with no permanent wounds was a blessing, and to be able to enjoy the rest of his life with a devoted wife? There was no greater blessing than that, yet a small part of him still yearned for the days of yore. Back when his blood ran hot in the heat of battle, back when the line between life and death was razor thin, it was then he felt most alive.
Those distant days of war and combat were only vague memories now, faded scars of a time long pass. The world was at peace now. There was no need for soldiers like him, for men of war whose only skill was taking lives. His time was over. There was a new era of peace, and he was starting to become afraid the world would leave him behind.