“The kami are restless.”

An itinerant monk stood in the middle of a remote mountain path, gazing up at the murky sky. He was attempting to perceive the glint of stars through the gathering clouds. Only a few of the celestial beacons could be seen, and even they would soon be blotted out by the approaching darkness.

“A storm is coming,” he murmured.

The itinerant was without a doubt an older man, well on in years, but he was not yet hunched or withered. He stood straight and was broad-shouldered, much like a man in his prime. He had long grey hair streaked with a pale white, but his taut limbs made him seem spry and useful.

On his shoulders, he wore the leather pack of a vagabond. On his side, there were two black swords tucked into his sash, much like a warrior, though he wore no armor or heraldry. In his right hand, there was a long ashen walking stick, and on his brow, there was an old straw-shade hat, much like a traveling monk would wear. Upon his back, there was a well-worn traveling cloak, which was torn and patched up in several places.

After a few moments of stern watchfulness, he began moving up the mountain as if the need pressed him, and it did, for a young girl was lying sick in a temple and she may not survive the night unless he was able to reach her in time.

It was a steamy evening, one of those rare nights where it did not seem as if the sun had ever set, though darkness had indeed fallen. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead and streaked down his taut cheeks. The chorus of insects, frogs, and other nocturnal creatures grew louder and more boisterous under the night sky, as the night world came alive. Bats flew back and forth overhead like shadows dancing aside a campfire. Behind him, he could hear the rustling of a fox or some other four-footed animal, as it bounded after its prey. He peered up once again, and this time saw no heavenly lights but felt the wet patter of rainfall upon his weathered face. He continued alone, digging his feet and walking stick into the dirt. The tall groves of bamboo seemed to rise above him like great shafts, separating him from the forest like bars of iron.

The winding path finally came to a fork, and he paused only momentarily before taking the left way. He had come this way before, many long years ago. He was old, but his memory had not completely forsaken him. He could remember the days, long ago, when villages like the one he was searching for did not exist. These lands were once ruled by dark and mysterious powers, and people dared not penetrate these ancient forests.

“Some things should be left alone,” he muttered to himself.

Not long afterward he finally found the outskirts of the small mountain village. By that time, it was raining heavily, making the path slick with mud. There was a frail wooden barrier at the entrance with the gate left open. Outside stood one solitary gatekeeper, a stern man who appeared too old for such a task and probably should have retired from his position long ago. In one hand he held a scarcely lit torch, and in the other, he held a dull spear. He gathered his strength to lift the torch, beckoning the itinerant to hurry as he approached.

“By the kami, you made it!” the gatekeeper stammered, clearly astonished.

“I did,” the itinerant acknowledged, his voice low and gravely. “But not by the kami. The All-kami foresaw this meeting within the void. If I am on time, it is because he ordained it.”

The gatekeeper hurriedly took him up through the mountain village towards the temple. Although it was nighttime, word of his coming must have reached many ears, as quite a few villagers stood outside of their homes, inspecting him as he passed. Their mouths were silent, but in some, there was a glint of hope in their watchful eyes. In others, there was nothing to hide their bitter distrust.

The itinerant could see that this was a village that specialized in the making of steel, which was used in the forging of blades and other weapons. He knew this because he could see the great furnace beside the array of small huts and hovels. It was there where many of the villagers would work to melt the coal dust that they gathered from mines in the mountain and turn it into steel under intense heat. Such villages were extremely valuable during the war, and thus they were often subject to hostile takeovers. By the looks on their grim faces, it was likely that they had seen their fair share of blood over the years.

As he passed through the village, the itinerant could just barely see another large building in the distance, this one set up upon a mountain knoll. Surely this was the village temple, as its impressive wooden roof and the outer gate were unmistakable, even in the downpour. They proceeded up the winding stone stairway and through the ornate gate and towards the temple grounds. Under the gateway sat a beggar hunched against the wall and buried in a heap of thin rags, which were soaked all the way through. At seeing the two men approach he stretched out his arm.

“Alms…” he said in a weak voice.

The gatekeeper ignored him, but without pausing to lose his stride, the itinerant flipped the beggar a silver piece and proceeded onwards.

“Bless you, master!” the beggar coughed in return.

Inside the temple grounds, there was often an impressive garden and pond, but they were obscured by the heavy rainfall. Two braziers were lit at the main entrance, shielded by the overhang of the splayed roof. Between the two stood a temple monk, who was clearly distressed. He had a shaved head and wore the modest robes of an acolyte.

When he saw the itinerant approach, he raced forward into the rain to greet him.

“Sensei! You’ve come!”

The itinerant merely nodded, and kept walking, leaving the monk to catch up. “She's inside?” he asked, proceeding up the staircase.

“Yes, but she is not well. It was beyond our power to heal her.”

“You said it looked to be an evil wound?” the itinerant asked, pausing for the first time since he arrived in the village.

The monk looked frightened and nodded his head.

“I’ll stay here at the entrance,” the old gatekeeper said nervously, “Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll see to it right away.”

The itinerant nodded again and then proceeded inside the temple through the heavy wooden storm doors. This led him into the main hall, a large room with a high ceiling, floored with tatami and illuminated by several tall lamps. There was also a strong smell of incense in the air, and the room was clouded with smoke. In the very center of the room was a young woman lying supine upon a mat, and beside her knelt two other acolytes, a male villager, and the temple elder in more sophisticated robes.

“At last!” the temple elder cried, rising to his feet. He was an ancient-looking man who had a bald head with several brown spots upon it. “We were afraid she would pass on before you arrived. Perhaps now she stands a chance.”

The itinerant did not respond but hurriedly put aside his wet outer cloak, sandals, and his walking stick, and knelt beside the girl to examine her. She was young, no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age. She was lying peacefully, but still – utterly still.

“Where is the wound?” he asked.

The acolytes reluctantly removed the outer blanket to reveal the left side of her body. Upon the upper arm near the shoulder, there was a deep puncture wound. From it, a black infection seemed to spread outwards like a tortuous web. Wherever the infection went, her skin had split open, but it had not bled, at least not in the ordinary sense. There was a substance that resembled pitch or tar and it was slowly oozing from the openings in her flesh. By this time, the infection had traveled up and down her entire left arm and was nearing the left side of her neck. From where the itinerant knelt, the putrid smell of her wound surpassed the burning incense.

The itinerant sat back and paused for a moment. “You are right, this is no ordinary wound.” He then began to rummage through his pack. “When did it happen? Where? Tell me everything you know.”

The monks hesitated and looked at each other with concern. They appeared too horrified to relay the details.

“Speak!” the itinerant commanded angrily, his voice echoing in the vast hall.

The three cast their faces down, but the villager beside him answered the call. He had been weeping since the itinerant had arrived and had his face buried in his hands. But at this moment he fought through his emotion and choked out a few words.

“It happened two days ago. She was deep in the forest north of the mountain.”

“Why was she there, so far from home?” The itinerant continued to rifle through his bag but was awaiting an answer.

The villager stared at him. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was moist with tears. “I…I had too much sake…she ran away. I…” he trailed off. “Will she live, Sensei?”

“This is her father,” the elder explained. “When he sobered up, he went out to find her.”

“How was she when she was found?” the itinerant asked, ignoring the father’s final question, and pulling out what looked like a silver knife and a small package wrapped in linen.

“Like this,” the elder said, looking down at the girl. “It seems as if she was envenomated by some kind of yomi.”

“Did you see the yomi?” This time the itinerant paused and asked the girl’s father intensely.

“I was not the one to find her. It was the beggar outside. He was up at the stream trying to catch some fish. She had stumbled down the mountain and fell near to where he was. He swears that he saw some kind of beast up there chasing her.” At this, his voice broke. “Please tell me, will she live?”

The itinerant exhaled and looked grave. “I do not know.”

The girl’s father groaned, and his face fell once again into his hands, and he sobbed uncontrollably.

The itinerant then went to work tending the wound, deftly cutting around the borders of the puncture wound with the silver knife, then spreading the white ointment from the linen package on top of it. Black, coagulated blood seeped out from the cut, and the ointment seemed to simmer on the skin. All the while the young girl did not move, nor flinch from the pain. It was as if she was already gone.

“We did what we could, and said many prayers,” one of the acolytes said to break the tense silence.

Without looking up, the itinerant took out a canteen of what looked and smelled like sake and carefully poured it up and down her arm. “Prayers are indeed helpful,” he said after a few moments. “But the All-kami gave us minds and the power to use them. You were late in sending for me.”

The monks all glanced at one another once again, this time more distressed than before. “We…we thought we could take care of it,” the temple elder confessed.

The itinerant said nothing but continued to treat the wound. Minutes went by, and the rainfall upon the roof began to drown out the crackle of the fire in the lamps. Suddenly, the itinerant made a deep incision directly into the puncture with a wrenching motion, as if trying to pry something from the girl’s flesh that was stuck inside. The girl jerked up unexpectedly and started to convulse.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Hold her!” the itinerant cried, as he had missed the mark and needed another try. The monks all jumped forward to constrain her, while the father did nothing, but continued to sob with his head in his hands. The itinerant’s face went hard as flint, and he whispered something under his breath. This time he dug even deeper, so deep that they thought he had cut through to the other side. But, with careful and steady hands, he managed to remove what had been lodged in her arm. It was covered in black, coagulated blood and flesh.

“Clean this and bring it back to me. But be careful!” he instructed one acolyte, who ran off to find some water. “Now...” he said quietly, pulling one of his swords from his sash and glancing at the remaining monks. “You know what to do from here.”

They nodded, still pale with fright, but gathered their belongings and readied themselves.

“The arm is lost, but, if she is strong, she may live,” the itinerant said to no one in particular. He looked over at the young girl's father, who was still unable to lift his head. That was well, for he was not going to want to see what would come next. The itinerant nodded, and then with a smooth and fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword and removed the girl’s arm from her body. There was hardly even a sound.

The monks went to work on the rest, while the itinerant cleaned the blood from his sword with a cloth he produced from his sleeve. Within several minutes the procedure was finished, and though her mat was a bloody mess, the girl’s residual limb was properly bandaged and was being tended to. At last, the itinerant could breathe freely again.

“Here it is, Sensei,” one of the acolytes said, shuffling over with a linen cloth and the perilous object that had formerly been lodged inside the girl’s arm.

The itinerant eyed the object carefully. It seemed to be like a shard of glass, only the glass had a pale green tint to it. It seemed to pulsate like there was a miniature heartbeat within. The itinerant, refusing to handle the thing directly, lifted it closer to the light of the flame and squinted his eyes. The pulsating seemed to increase the closer he drew to the fire.

“I have seen such a thing before…” he muttered to himself. “But where?” Slowly he fingered the glass through the cloth. Then, he tossed it into the fire of the nearby lamp. With a crack, it made the fire shine a wicked green, and it burned violently hot for a few moments before returning to normal. The itinerant, who had shielded his eyes from the intense light, opened them again.

“That came not from any yomi. That is a device crafted by alchemy – by man.” With that, he spun around as fast as he could. “You must all leave this place!” he suddenly cried; his eyes wide in fear.

“How can we?” one of the acolytes asked, for they were still tending to the young woman.

“Now!” the itinerant insisted, with a look of frenzy on his old face. “You must go now!”

But it was too late. From the entrance of the temple, a shrill cry was heard, and then a great spray of blood spattered across the doors. All could hear the gatekeeper’s body fall into the adjacent pond with a loud splash. The acolytes stood up instantly and shook with fear. Only the temple elder was able to move, and he strode towards one of the walls and attempted to wrest old spears from them, though they were too heavy for his feeble arms.

For a moment or two, nothing happened. Then, the doors slid open, slowly, very slowly, until they locked into their maximum position. None could see who was beyond those doors as they opened, for there was only a solid wall of rain. Only the old itinerant knew, but he was also transfixed. At last, a figure appeared on the threshold.

“You…!” one of the acolytes stammered as he recognized who came in. It was a familiar person, though the itinerant had not taken the time to study him, much to his dismay. It was the beggar from the temple gate, though he had cast aside his meager rags, and wore the sable uniform of one who practices the black arts of ninjutsu. He was tall, slender like a willow but seemed sharp as a knife. He carried one fierce sword upon his back and the other in his hand, which was now smeared with crimson blood. His posture was rigid, and his hair was pulled back into a tight knot, with the remaining hair extending down towards the middle of his shoulders. He wore a black mask that shielded his mouth and upon it was painted the blood-red emblem of the fierce undying centipede, the Mukade. He gazed darkly at all those in the room, though there were traces of a mocking pride in the creases of his face.

Upon seeing the man whom they had formerly known to be a simple beggar, the acolytes were emboldened and raced over to the wall and grabbed their weapons. They then turned and stood resolutely. “Begone wicked servant of darkness!” they cried.

“Stop!” the old itinerant warned. “He is beyond you!” The young acolytes, however, were insulted by the scorn in the beggar’s eyes and enraged by the blood upon the temple doors, so they charged forward with a harrowing cry.

The beggar laughed, and he too rushed forward, hewing each of them apart as if he were cutting through singular chaffs of rice. Blood spattered across the room, and by the time he had reached the temple elder, the man merely collapsed on the floor with a whimper. The attacker wasted no time in removing his head with one baleful slice. Then, he turned to face the old itinerant. His eyes were now fixed upon him, and they were completely and utterly black.

“Good evening, Sensei. It's been some time,” said the ninja, with eerie tranquility in his voice.

“Boy…” the itinerant replied, eyeing him cautiously.

“Ah, now it has been a long time indeed since I went by that name,” the dark ninja said with a twisted smile.

“And it's been a long time since you have called me sensei,” the itinerant returned.

“I've had other teachers since we last met, ones far greater than you.”

“And yet you seem less than when we parted.”

At this, the edges of derision on the ninja’s face faded slightly, and his black eyes seemed to flicker in the light of the lamps. “I suppose I could say the same. You know why I am here. So, since we are well enough acquainted, let us move past the introductions, shall we?”

“I could not possibly know your mind. It is void of all humanity now.”

“You mean weakness?” the ninja shot back. “Now, I want what belongs to me, and I know that you possess it.”

After a few tense moments, the itinerant reached for the hempen necklace he wore under his kimono and pulled it out, revealing the small, black, comma-shaped stone at the end.

The ninja’s eyes seemed to glitter despite their darkness. “The magatama…”

“It does not belong to me, but I was chosen to bear it for a while,” the itinerant stated.

“Then I shall ease your burden,” the ninja said darkly, unsheathing the second sword from his back.

The itinerant stepped forward and removed one of his own swords from its lacquered sheath. He glanced down at the girl’s father, who was staring up at the two men in abject shock. “If you have any love for your daughter at all, get her out of here now!” the itinerant commanded, as he stepped over the girl’s body. He took up a fencing stance, pointing the tip of his sword directly at the ninja in black. For a moment, the father seemed to remain in the same state of paralysis that he had been in up to that point. But after surveying the carnage across the room, and sensing that a great duel was about to take place, his hands trembled and he pushed off from the mat and fled, leaving his daughter behind.

“Ah yes, that humanity you so love,” the ninja mocked. “Now, Sensei, let me show you my kind of power.”

Like a flash of lightning, the ninja charged forward, and his speed was such that the torches in the room flickered and nearly went out. The old wanderer was startled by his quickness and was nearly cut in half. He was only able to parry at the last fraction of a second. The ninja did not relent, and continued his assault, hammering away with his two swords, while the itinerant did his best to stop them with one. All the while the ninja laughed wildly, and his black eyes grew wider as the onslaught continued.

“Too slow!” the ninja cried, slashing horizontally with his left sword, catching his foe above the right knee with a deep, penetrating cut. A small amount of blood was wicked across the room as the slash was so fast that the sword remained clean.

The old itinerant jumped back using his good leg. He retreated to buy himself some time and to create space. He was clearly losing. He slowly stepped back until his spine brushed the far wall of the temple.

“You know,” the ninja said quietly, as he gradually advanced, “It took me quite some time to realize that you were the one who had it. Many, many people had to die before I discovered its whereabouts. But once I did, it made all the sense in the world. The Traveling Swordsman. The Vagabond. The Ken-tenshi. The man who is here one day and gone the next. What a perfect hiding spot. After I found out that you were the one who had it, all I had to do was to find you.”

“I’m surprised you took that on yourself,” the itinerant retorted, removing his second sword from his waist. “Don’t you have puppets to do that kind of thing for you now?”

“You insult me. You were once my teacher after all. It is only fitting that I finish what you started. Is not a part of you pleased to see how strong I have become?”

The itinerant glared back ruefully.

“Finding you was not as difficult. You see, your greatest weakness has always been your ideals. Humanity, magnanimity, wisdom, all of which fall short of the raw power that is needed to effect change. For what can the sparrow teach the eagle who soars? You see only a small fragment of the greater picture, Sensei. And so, you walked blindly into my trap, just as you blindly flipped me the silver at the gate. Your compassion is a weakness, and so you will die, and no one will remember your name.”

“Your power comes from within you,” the itinerant returned, suddenly stepping forward, raising his second sword aloft. When he put weight onto his injured leg, it did not buckle or give way. It was as if it had not been cut at all. “My power comes from beyond me.”

This time the itinerant shot forward and both warriors met in the center of the room. The sound of clashing blades echoed throughout the hall, as both men stood their ground, pounding each other with attacks that the average man could hardly see with his eyes. Spinning, whirling, dodging, jumping, both continued for what seemed like hours that were condensed into mere moments.

The young girl, who had previously been unconscious, cracked one of her eyes open, and what she saw seemed more improbable than the dreams of her delirium. The lamps blazed with an unearthly heat as the two men swirled and clashed without pause or respite. The room was growing hot, almost electric with energy.

“Yes!” the black ninja cried, as the intensity of the battle continued to escalate. “Finally! Show me your true power, Sensei! Don’t hold back!”

With one great heave, the itinerant swung both of his swords so hard that the concussive blast sent the black ninja tumbling backward across the hall with a crash. He lay still for several moments, unmoving.

The itinerant was breathing heavily and sweat poured from his skin. Though he was able to bear weight through it, his leg still bled from the wound and the blood leaked from his foot to the floor. However, he had won. It was over.

Then the ninja laughed. His laugh seemed to echo above them and surrounded them like a cloud. “So that is all you have to offer me?” the ninja taunted, pushing himself quickly to his feet. “Again, you disappoint me, Sensei. Indeed, your whole life has been a disappointment if you really consider it. If it were not for me, I would think it would have been a complete waste, but you did get me started, and for that, I and the world will be grateful. You could have been much more, you know, but you’ve dedicated your life to cutting weeds one by one when I have cleared entire fields.”

The old itinerant stood still, watching his former pupil carefully. “The reason to cut weeds is to save the flower. But I doubt you can now tell the difference.”

“I have surpassed you!” the ninja declared. “It’s a pity you won’t be able to see what I will do next.”

The itinerant said nothing but readied himself for the inevitable final bout.

“I’ve had enough, Sensei! It is time we finish this!” the ninja cried, twirling both of his swords. Once again, the younger man initiated the battle, but this time the power that he emitted extinguished all light from the room. In his black eyes, there was a rage that grew, and his strokes were more vicious and brutal than before. The itinerant did all he could to deflect the blows, but his wound and the prolonged battle had sapped him of his vitality, and it was all he could do to defend himself. This time the ninja did not relent, and pursued him back and forth across the hall, cutting him where he could, puncturing him in several places until finally, the older man dropped and knelt before him, unable to rise again.

“I hope you realize that you had no chance of victory,” the ninja stated, towering over his former master. “I hope you can see your futility now, clearly and without a doubt. Power is what matters in this world. And the greatest power of all is the power to kill. For few have the strength to face death, and even those who do cannot come back once they taste it.”

His former teacher looked up at him, and though he was bloodied and breathing heavily, a smile crept across his gentle face.

“Now…how shall you die?” The black ninja glanced over at the girl, still lying on her back in the very center of the hall. “Yes!” he exclaimed as if receiving an epiphany. “It is said that you pioneered the art of using two swords in combat. It is the famous ‘No Style’ which I have now perfected. Therefore, I will take from you the only real contribution you have given to this world.”

With that, he sunk both of his swords into teacher’s shoulders, cutting through the soft flesh and spewing blood across the floor so that there was hardly anything of tatami below him left uncovered.

The old man fell backward and cried out in bitter agony.

“At last, I the piece I have long sought!” cried the ninja in uninhibited ecstasy.

“But you will never get the other pieces…” the old itinerant interposed, his voice quivering as his life ebbed away.

“Is that so?” the cold ninja returned, glancing downwards with a frown.

“You know it to be true…you cannot do it,” the old man gasped. “There is only one person left… on these islands…who can.”

The ninja scoffed but seemed slightly unnerved. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Him…” the old man said, his mouth filling with blood. “Gintaro.”

The ninja glared down at his former teacher. “He is dead.”

The old itinerant could not verbalize an answer but in his eyes shone the truth.

The ninja stiffened. “Say your final prayers, Sensei. This is the end.”

“I shall pray…” the man breathed, “For you!” He then turned his head to look at the young girl he had just saved. She was now staring back at him, though the ninja did not seem to notice or care. They were both lying on the floor facing each other, covered in blood, though separated by the length of the hall. When the old man saw the dim light in her eyes, he whispered something inaudible.

At that moment, the ninja thrust both of his swords through his teacher’s heart and then retracted them with a quick jerk.

Bending over, he put his hand on the man’s bloodstained chest and then carefully grasped the curved black stone that hung around his neck. With a quick snap, he removed the necklace, held it aloft, and eyed it greedily.

It was the end indeed. The ninja had sundered one of the last remaining ties that could threaten his plans, and he had gained a prize of unparalleled importance. Yet despite all of this, he strode away with a scowl and doubt in his heart, while his former master rested with a peaceful and knowing smile upon his face.