3:03am, Friday the 10th October, 2132.

The monk looked across at Aiden from behind his steaming tea, and sipped it slowly as the young man’s doubts were revealed.

“You are lost,” said Shinran, turning to peer at the green of the garden outside. Even in in the middle of the night, that green was vibrant. “I was also lost, once, but it was in a garden such as this that I found myself. That is why I grew this one here, so that in a city of a billion souls, there would be at least one place that could still remind us how things used to be.”

“My memory is… Lost,” Aiden told him. “Or at least the parts that led me here. Before I woke here, there are seven entire years of my life that just… Vanished. And the enemies I made in those seven years, that cannot even remember, hunt me for a reason I can’t recall.”

Shinran smiled at him and said, “let me tell you a small tale. One day, many years ago now, I met an immortal man. He was over 150 years old. And he was a wise man. You might even call him a monk, like me, or perhaps it is more apt to call him a scholar of religion. This man had lost his hand and since replaced it with a fist of metal, and as we spoke, he would wince as though something pained him. I asked him if he was hurt and he told me that he was, but as I examined him, I could find no evidence of an injury. He explained to me that, sometimes, he still felt pain in the hand that was no longer there, and that that pain was not in the flesh of that hand – which had long since gone from this world – but in the soul. I told him that such a thing could not, for there was no such thing as the soul.”

Shinran paused a moment to drink again and Aiden, who wanted to hear what happened next, leaned forward and insisted he continue. “He said that there was indeed a soul,” the monk said. “And that, more importantly, he could prove it to me. Can you guess how?”

Aiden thought for a moment, but shook his head. “I can’t.”

“He took a knife and made a cut in his arm. He claimed that the cut in his flesh proved the existence of the soul because soon the flesh would be healed. The soul would share the body’s pain, and, in doing so, allow it to heal. Moreover, he claimed that it was the duty of the flesh to protect the soul, and that when he used the knife, it was the presence of that flesh that stopped the soul from being wounded.”

Aiden sighed slightly. “I apologize, Shinran, but I do not fully understand the meaning of your story,” he said. “Also, his words don’t make much sense.”

The monk gave him a quick, harsh glare, slightly irritated by the interruption. “Not all words have to make sense, Aiden,” he said. Still, he continued. “When he received the blow that stole his hand, his hand’s flesh sacrificed itself to save the spirit. That way, he claimed, when the rest of his flesh failed him, he would still have two hands to use.”

“I’m still not sure I understand,” said Aiden. “Are you saying that my memories were lost to protect my soul?”

“Not your soul, but your mind. There may be no such thing as the soul,” said Shinran. “Still, the man believed that even though his soul would be whole, the spirit of his hand would always remember the pain of the flesh that was lost to protect it. He believed the only way to end his phantom pain was to recover what he had lost, and he spent many years searching for a way to do so.”

“And did he? Find it, or heal it?” Asked Aiden.

“I don’t know,” replied the monk. “My point is that, yes, perhaps your mind is like your soul, and your lost memories are like his lost hand. The anxiety you feel, the fear, is merely your mind reacting to what is missing. Find what you have lost and perhaps that pain will go away.”

Aiden sighed. “I knew this already. I’ve been trying to find them. Or, at least, something to tell me what I might never remember. By the way, that was an incredibly long story for such a small point.”

Shinran laughed at him, rubbing the back of his head. “I suppose I could have gotten to the point a little sooner. It’s not very often I get a genuine lost soul – no pun intended – to entertain with a good parable. Still, perhaps there are other lessons to be learned from it?”

“Who knows?” Aiden replied. “It’s not like the story was true.”

The monk, halfway through sipping his tea, burst out into great guffaws of laughter. When he finally calmed, he regarded Aiden with a great smile. “You think I lie?” He asked.

“You said that the man was a century and a half old. That he was immortal. That’s not possible.”

Shinran’s smile began to fade, then he shrugged. “Why would it not be possible?” He asked. “We have known the secrets to immortality for some time now. Immortality is similar to a martial art – it requires constant practice, constant discipline. And most people either do not understand it, do not care about it, or do not commit to it. If you wish to prolong the life of your body you must tend to it as diligently as the most pristine garden. Money is also a factor, I suppose. Why do you think it is so rare for the head of a corporation, or anyone with great wealth, to die? Because they do not. Not unless taken by an accident or by violence.”

Aiden looked down. “I don’t even think violence or accidents can kill me,” he admitted. “Not anymore. You would not believe me if I told you what injuries I’ve sustained these past few days, and how I’ve grown so used to the pain of them that it has become nothing more than a fleeting feeling; even serious injuries not worthy of concern.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“You don’t look injured,” said Shinran. “Of course, medical technology is now extremely advanced, and there are even cybernetics to aid with the closing and healing wounds, but you do not look to be enhanced.”

“Because I’m not. At least not that I’m aware. I have… Considered the possibility of nanotechnology, but I don’t think even the most advanced science could allow me to do what I can do.”

Shinran leaned back slightly, and asked, “what is it, exactly, that you can do?”

Aiden put down his cup of tea, then placed his finger between his teeth and bit down – hard – until white blood ran down his hand and began dripping to the ground. Then he held up his wound and Shinran watched without fear or shock as the bleeding ceased, and the bite closed and sealed itself as though there had never been a wound at all.

“Your blood. It’s not red,” the monk said, looking at where it now stained the floor of his home.

“I can’t explain why,” Aiden admitted.

“The only explanation is that it is not blood at all. Or not blood as we know it. You say science could not allow such a thing, but I would not be so sure. The greatest advances are always kept hidden. Knowledge is power, as they say, and those who had power loathe to share it.”

“I had wanted to go to a hospital, to find a doctor who could tell me what was wrong. When I finally ended up in one, I did not get time to ask questions.”

The monk smiled, then from inside his robe he pulled out a small phone. Aiden recognized it as a model that had been old even seven years ago, but Shinran seemed perfectly content with its age, and he scrolled and tapped with his finger until something lit up.

“Here,” said the monk, who placed the screen down on the floor between them and turned it so that Aiden could see.

It displayed a portrait of a young asian man named Zhang Xinyue, who lived in apartment number 1081 of the Aoi-Tori Apartment Building in downtown Fukaya.

“Who is he?” Aiden asked.

“A doctor,” said Shinran. “And no ordinary one, either. He might be able to help you.”

Aiden looked at the doctor’s picture carefully, as though it might tell him if the man could be trusted. “Why are you helping me so much?” He asked.

“Why not?” The monk replied. “You’ve done no harm to me, and helping you costs me little.”

“Thank you, Shinran,” said Aiden, slowly pushing himself to his feet. He was eager to get going. “Can you tell me where the Aoi-Tori Apartment Building is?”

“Not far,” Shinran replied. “Perhaps twenty minutes away. Walk towards the main gravroad east of here, then get to the other side and turn south. You’ll not miss it; it’s large, with black windows, and its name is in blue on the tower’s side.”

Aiden nodded to him. “One day I will repay your kindness,” he said.

“I assume you are not staying, then?” Shinran asked.

“I can’t. The longer I stay here, the more dangerous it becomes.”

With a nod, Shinran stood and offered his hand. Aiden shook it.

“Keep my story in mind as you go, Aiden,” said the monk. “If the soul turns out to be real, then you should take its care into consideration.”

Aiden left the old monk in his small temple paradise; his island garden in a sea of concrete and metal. He left through the same gate he came in, then followed the residential side-streets through the maze of buildings that had brought him there. He was motivated, almost excited, by the prospect of finally meeting someone who might understand what had happened to him – by the very idea of a doctor who could help him and not throw him to the wolves who snapped at his heels.

Yet still he was alert, and as he walked those unpopulated streets, he kept his head low so that his face was a little harder to see. He could hear the revving of ancient bike engines in the distance, and wondered if the Kumo gang was still prowling the streets. Soon he had his answer.

“Do you think that’s him?” A voice asked from somewhere behind him. It was barely more than a whisper, yet it belonged to a man sitting on a bike that was not loud and violent, but silent, and that hummed and whirred with the subtlety of an advanced engine.

“I don’t know, maybe,” whispered another voice, on another, similar bike. “But he’s not a Mukade. Are we really gonna bother with some random guy?”

“You’ve seen the listings, man.”

“Tsch, fine. Let’s do this quick and quiet.”

“We’ve found him. East of the old temple.”

Aiden kept walking, kept looking ahead of him and acting as though he had no idea the bikers were there. He heard the increased intensity of their whirs and the kick of the tires spraying water from the wet road, and soon he could hear them riding towards him at speed. There was a metal sound then, growing closer… But what was it? A gun? No, they would have shot him already if it had been a gun. Then what?

Aiden realized what the sound was just before they reached him. He leaped up into the air – higher than he had ever jumped before – and looked down to see the biker swiping a long, metal pole beneath him. Aiden kicked down, planting both feet into the first biker’s side, and as the entire bike toppled and slid across the road beneath him, he turned, still suspended in the air.

The second biker had a japanese sword, a katana he waved in the air like a fool, but Aiden had no time or ability to react. The sword sliced through his side and the biker sped on past him, soon, skidding to a turning halt. Aiden hit the ground with a thud, his hands planted against the concrete to steady himself.

“Yo, you good?!” The second biker called to the first, who lay on the ground groaning, and trying to get free of where his bike had landed on him.

Aiden pushed himself up again and turned to face his remaining foe, his face obscured by his helmet. His red and black leathers, however, proved what Aiden had already suspected – he was one of the Kumo.

“How the fuck are you still standing?” The biker called out, but didn’t wait for an answer before launching his second attack.

He rode at Aiden, swinging his katana with a timing that could have severed Aiden’s head. Aiden rolled beneath it, then as the bike came to a skidding halt behind him, he ran over to where the other had dropped his metal pole and snatched it from the ground. Then Aiden turned, standing in the middle of the road with the weapon held tightly in his right hand, and his posture wide and full of challenge.

“You wanna play?” The biker asked. “Okay, let’s play.”

The bike came shooting towards him again. He raised the pole as though he planned to parry the sword’s edge, and the biker responded by swinging his sword to meet it. Yet Aiden didn’t.

As the sword came in with its wide, swinging arc, Aiden merely dropped the pole and dived right into the man himself. He clashed with the Kumo’s unguarded body, and together they toppled over with the bike and went rolling and sliding until the biker was flung into the glass of a nearby building, and his bike was broken around a reinforced lamppost.

Aiden groaned on the roadside, a piece of shrapnel from the bike piercing through his side. He gripped it tightly with one hand and yanked it from his flesh with a pained yell, then lay there as he felt the wound knit itself closed. Slowly, he pushed himself back to his feet again, and turned to look if anyone had seen what he had done. They had.

“Shit,” he groaned, as ten more Kumo sat on their bikes and watched him from the end of the street.