Kondo made his way toward the New Capital in a foul mood. He was worn out, sore, and hungry from his exploits. He had not slept on a real bed in weeks. He had not taken a warm bath since he had left the New Capital. The meager food that he still carried had started to go bad days ago. He had nearly forgotten the sweet bite of sake altogether.
He had been driven by an unearthly fervor to accomplish all that he had done in the past few weeks, but now the flame had simply run out of fuel. Delirium from sheer exhaustion was overwhelming him, but he continued on. He had another mission to complete after all.
After several hours it became plain that he could no longer continue, for even his black steed began to stumble on the dirt path before them. Perhaps because the beast itself was exhausted from all that it endured, or because its rider swayed in the saddle so violently that it drove the horse off its track. Realizing that it was futile to push on, Kondo stopped his horse in a small mountain glade and sat down by a shallow stream.
He filled a bowl with water and drank, then ripped off a haunch of bread and gnawed on enough of it to fill his belly. It was midmorning, and the sun was high in the clear blue sky above, without a single cloud to mar its consistent hue.
“Akizora…” he said aloud, remembering the word for such an occasion. “In autumn when the skies are cloudless and all that can be seen is the radiant blue.”
For some strange reason, the clarity of this pristine sky was a sharp contrast to the turmoil within him. He took another sip of water and then reflected, for the first time, on the events of the last few weeks. He had orchestrated the sack of Shiroha of Akaii, a city which had never fallen. Then, almost immediately after, he helped win one of the greatest battles of the age and thwarted the barbarians for another thousand years or more. He was soon to be the master of the Shin-Shadowhand, the most fearsome group of ninja in the land. He had done everything asked of him, and history would be greatly changed by these deeds.
“Greatness…” he murmured aloud.
He glanced down at the ring that now sat on his finger. The rubies sparkled in the midday light. The ring was a symbol of absolute destructive power. The fear of the ring alone could grant him access to nearly any place on the Islands without question. The mere sight of it by others would have them bowing on their hands and knees or fleeing in terror. If he simply wished someone dead, all he had to do was utter their name. He would no longer have to do the dirty work himself.
“What shall I do with this…power of authority?” he wondered. Kondo admired the ring affectionately, letting his eyes rest upon it as if to regain his balance from it. Yet, the longer he looked at it, the worse he felt.
“Why did Henji give this to me now?” he suddenly asked himself.
He then thought of his enigmatic master and tried to recount the details of his promotion. He was so exhausted, so shaken by the events of the previous night. He had not expected such an honor. He imagined it may come eventually, for he had been groomed for it as Henji’s closest disciple, but he did not expect it to come so soon. He knew that the victory against the barbarians would change much, but to step down from a ninja clan, especially the Shin-Shadowhand, was unprecedented. Traditionally, one held the position of master until they died, were defeated in battle, or were supplanted by a successor.
Henji had always been an exception, though. The old Shadowhand had been systematically destroyed by the Kurogumi during the War of Shadows. Nothing and no one remained. Somehow Henji, an unknown prodigy of the sword, revived it just as Mashige took control of the Shōgunate. He alone rebuilt it to what it now was, making it more potent and deadlier than ever. He had the favor of Mashige, of course, and as adopted heir of the Henji daimyō, a vast source of income and power to hide his growing enclave of ninja.
Henji had been challenged a few times in the early days, once even by Kondo himself, but he so thoroughly defeated those who would seek to overthrow him, that all opposition quickly ceased. Kondo, who had always considered himself to be a skilled swordsman and duelist, was amazed by Henji’s abilities and was quickly won over. He devoted himself to the clan and soon rose through the ranks to become Henji’s right-hand. Thus, his succession was something that seemed inevitable, but never something so near.
“He must have a plan,” he thought to himself. “He always has a plan. But what is his plan for me?”
As Master of the Shin-Shadowhand, he would soon wield incredible power. Yet this was not a source of power he was accustomed to. He understood the elements of power well: the power of wealth, of mind, and of authority. These, he thought, had never been accessible to him and so he had always rejected them. There was another he favored above all.
He could have sought after wealth, the currency of the age, and used that for his purposes. Wealth, indeed, was not a power to be trifled with. If amassed and used correctly, one could buy nearly anything or anyone. In fact, one could even buy life, in all its meanings. With enough wealth, one could buy a wife and have a child by them. One could buy a servant and be cared for. One could buy a courtesan and have earthly pleasure. One could buy a retainer who would lay down their life for them. There was little that could not be bought or sold, and the more money one had, the more of everything one could have.
Yet Kondo did not find this source of power appealing to him. It was too vulgar, too base. Did not the masses already squabble over money? The dream of wealth already dominated those who were poor, and the rich wore away their avaricious lives for more of it. Why should he be like them, another rat scouring for morsels in the gutter? No, his innate sense of honor would not permit it. He could not lower himself to that level. Of course, he would need money at times, but it would not be how he changed the world.
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The power of mind was another source of power that he had not been able to attain. He thought himself clever enough, but he had never been properly educated at any time throughout his life. He was an orphan, a street child, a vagabond. The power of mind had always been seductive to him, for with intellect one could be penniless and without pedigree but still have an innate depth. It was the minimalist power that he admired in the Truists. They had neither wealth nor authority, but they were still a force to be reckoned with. They had the power of mind, and this kept them alive, despite the repeated attempts to stamp them out. They could outthink their foes, and with their strange teachings attract others, even amidst intense persecution. Their memories were deep, and their roots were strong. This was a power he one day hoped to gain but could not depend on it now.
Authority, too, had always seemed beyond his grasp. For one, it often went hand in hand with wealth. Some could simply buy their authority and did. This Kondo detested more than anything. He preferred to think of authority as a thing conferred, not bought. It was something to be earned, through great struggle and sacrifice. This kind of power was superior to money, for with wealth one might control the actions of another, but with authority, one might control the heart. Yoshimitsu Akira was not as fabulously rich as the Shōguns who preceded him, but he was revered throughout the lands by friend and foe alike. Many willingly laid down their lives for him simply because he was the ruling Shōgun. It was natural for them to throw their lives away for him and many did just that.
This was the kind of power that Kondo had rightfully earned and would soon wield. Yet it felt foreign to him, as when one tries on a pair of well-worn sandals that belonged to someone else. He always imagined that he would be prepared for this moment but now that it had come, he felt a strange unsteadiness in his soul.
“Mine is the power of the sword, and ever shall be,” he decided. “For before the sword, all must bow down.”
With the power of the sword, he could thwart the rich, the wise, and the powerful. For when one’s neck is against the edge of sharpened steel, what does any of that matter anymore? Surely money does not matter to the sword. The sword is emotionless and cold. And what is the value of life anyway? Will not a man readily pay every last coin he has hoarded to save his own life?
And mind? Perhaps the mind may stay the sword for some time, but when the sword is within striking distance, the mind matters not. The only thing that can stay the sword then is another sword.
And authority? What does the sword care if one is a peasant or lord? Every person has the same flesh which the sword could easily rend asunder. The insides of a man are all the same, whether they be low or highborn.
“The sword has no weakness,” Kondo thought to himself and smiled. It was a cruel smile, one that would have disgusted him having seen it on another.
Then he thought of Yukiana, and his grim smile faded.
He spent a long time thinking about his next mission. Usually, he would approach it with cold, calculating steps, creating a list in his mind that would culminate in the completion of the task. He had done it dozens, perhaps a hundred times, and had never failed. But this time he could not even begin. The face of the girl was seared into his mind. Her words seemed to echo in his ears and even the memory of her scent intoxicated him.
He rubbed his eyes vigorously, hoping that it would help him concentrate, but it only made it worse.
“Why should I be the one to kill her?” he wondered aloud. “Am I not the Master of the Shin-Shadowhand now? I could send someone else to do it.”
He knew in his heart the answers to these objections, though he tried to suppress them. Firstly, he was not yet the Master of the Shin-Shadowhand, Henji had made it clear what he was to do before he could claim that title. Secondly, he knew that he could not send another to do this thing, not because they would not heed him, but because of the tremendous guilt he would feel.
“No, it must be me,” he resolved. “She must die by my hands.”
But as he imagined his hands, with the cruel ring upon his finger, clasped around her delicate neck and her dark eyes staring back at him, he was repulsed and horrified at the idea. This was a new and unnerving sensation to him. It was like a shock to his system.
“What is wrong with me?” he whispered.
There was no one to answer him but himself, and even he could not peer that deeply into the clouds of his soul at that moment. Suddenly, a subtle thought came into his mind.
“What if I did not kill her? What if I kept her alive? I could do it. No one would know. If anyone could pull it off it would be me. If Henji demanded proof, who better than I to cover it all up?”
This led to another strange sensation, to one who prided himself on carrying out his missions with utter exactitude.
“No, Henji would know. He can see right through me and always has. I could not keep it from him, even if I never spoke a word, he could read it on my face. And what would I do with her? Set her free? No, she would eventually be found. And if she were to stay with me it would be trading one prison for another. She would despise me for it. She already despises me...”
This was a puzzle that he considered for a great deal of time. The sun was partly through its downward trek in the sky before he stirred once again.
“Am I not one of the most skilled swordsmen alive?” he finally asked of himself. “I could use the power of the sword to destroy nearly anyone on the Islands. How is it that I cannot do the opposite?”
The image of Yuki’s face kept rising in his mind’s eye, and as much as he tried to suppress it, the stronger it returned. It was then that he realized the glaring flaw in the power of the sword, and his world began to crumble around him.
“Even with the power of the sword, I could not save her,” he lamented. “Even with all the Shin-Shadowhand at my disposal, it would mean nothing. For they are instruments of death, not life.”
His face contorted with rage. “I am truly pathetic!” he cried aloud. “All these years I have failed to see the truth!” His voice seemed to echo off the trees and was swept up into the wind.
“I must kill her…” he resolved after several moments of silence. “I must…” But as he said the words, he knew deep down in his heart that he could not do it.
“Then I am defeated!” he realized, slamming his fists down into the soft earth next to him. “Before I could even draw this blade, I would be undone!”
A protracted silence followed, and how long it lasted, he could not ever recall. When his stupor finally left him, he took the rubied ring from his finger and put it in the inside pocket of his shirt. “So be it…” he whispered. “Yukiana, you have defeated me.”