Chapter I: The calm that precedes the storm.

The elderly man groaned a little as he felt a sudden sharp pain. He let his eyes wander around in the scenery. Not a single cloud blemished the horizon, the dry air was still, and not even a breeze caused the flowers around him to move. He looked again at his bony fingers as they traveled in the canvas painting the magnificent spring view of the village. It all felt like spring was here to stay, banishing the harsh winter away, preparing them for a blazing summer. And yet, his pains have never failed him. His aching bones were telling him that a storm was brewing.

The colorful scene was pale in comparison to the subject he was drawing. A beautiful geisha was posing silently for him, her back facing the northern entrance of the village. The wooden entrance arch was like a frame for the brilliant palette of colors that were her clothes. Small but vivid flowers were dotting the calm landscape, climbing up the simple structures of the village, like they were trying to reach up to the burning sun. Behind her, the mighty mountain top that protected the village from the coldest winds had lost almost all of its snow. Only in the very top, a little white showed, like it was screaming, that it too, had a place in this banquet of hues.

He looked over his shoulder. Away from the village, at the endless green and yellow grain fields that surrounded the village. As far as his eyes could reach, there was not a blemishing mark to break the unity of the vast fields, of their source of life that was also the cause of their pain.

“So many mouths feed from those fields; so much blood has been shed for them…” He muttered. His mind briefly wandered on the countless slaughters of the past, on the tortured villagers that were left as signs for their cooperation. But all those are long gone now, ghosts of the past that can harm them no more.

When he looked back at the arch, the scenery had changed. His perfect painting was being invaded by an unknown man. His drab clothes, stained with grease were like a disgrace to the colors that danced around him. Heavy, woolen, winter clothes, that were as dark as the night sky, were cloaking the man in an air full of malice. Yet, even they, seemed like light compared to the man’s face. His black eyes were slightly closed, as if he was in the brink of collapsing from his tiredness, but also giving him the looks of a thug that is afraid to reveal his soul to his victim. From his sturdy jaw, a jaw set there as if by force, a scar raced up, until it reached his dark hair. Raven black hair, cut by a knife probably, that was so full of grease that seemed like it was all just one mass of filth that covered his head.

The man stood still for a second and it was if nature itself was giving him enough space and peace so as not to disrupt him. As his head moved from side to side, taking in the entire village, a thought passed through the old man’s mind ‘Like a vulture scanning for prey’. And then he started to walk.

His bulk seemed impossible to move as lithe as the man was walking. Like a storm that comes from the mountaintops, huge but fast. All this flashed in the painter’s eyes, a scary image, of the mountain god descending to them to crush them for some incomprehensible reason. And a mountain god he may have been, rage was emerging out of him, soaked clothes were whipping around like a hurricane was hitting them, and underneath them, a katana flashed for just an instant, like a lighting reflecting the light of the bright sun.

His aged fingers ached again as the man passed next to him, the remembrance of a storm that was brewing. And panicky he made a quick prayer to the mountain gods to not rain destruction on their small village.

Kenzo was tired. It was a huge deed that he had managed to cross the mountains in the wild spring weather. Storms were being interchanged by fierce sun, and always that cursed snow kept melting, making the temperatures reach freezing degrees. His clothes were torn, wet, and filthy. But in the end it didn’t matter. All that mattered was in this hole that those ignorant fools called a village.

As he scanned the surrounding fields, he felt as he was trespassing on something he shouldn’t. The peaceful feelings that the village colors were emitting, made him feel sick. He braced himself against them. It was like a trap, laid there for him to dull his senses and make him weak.

He had been called a thug on the past, a brute, a bloodthirsty beast sent from the heavens to punish them, some even thought of him as a demon sent to torment them. But he knew better than the mindless masses. He was a man robbed of his destiny, a struggler that learned how to survive in the harsh mountains and the blazing wastes, someone who knew that, ultimately, all things end up either in life or death. And he wasn’t ready to die yet…

It was an arduous route that he had followed. A road that was dangerous not only for his life and his body, but also for his mind and his soul. And now he stood here, ready, to extract revenge on the man that had robbed him of his life, of his purpose, on the devil that had set him forth to this journey.

As he passed towards the small tavern he saw a geisha and an old artist. The geisha meant nothing for him, it was an entity to provide pleasure and happiness, both of which were things untouched by him, forbidden to an outcast like himself, lest it would lull him to a place to forget why he had done all his acts in the past. But he sensed the eyes of the artist focus on him. He felt a little successful, like he had achieved something. Regardless of today’s outcome, he would leave his mark here; on that innocent stare of the old man he would leave a minor legend, a rock to disturb the calm surface of the still pond that was this place.

His hands slowly made the tavern door slide. It was still early in the morning and most farmers were already in their fields. Only a few patrons were inside. One of whom he recognized on the spot. At his sight, he felt his rage build up.

“Takashaki-sama” He howled. The irony on the title he gave to the man evident to all who had ears. “This is where you hide now?”

He looked as the man slowly turned his head to face him. Kenzo was a large man, bigger than most people, yet Ryu seemed taller. As the slender figure stood up, Kenzo saw that regardless the obvious lack of training in this place, the figure retained the grace that always accompanied it.

An aura of serenity and calm engulfed Ryu. The sky-blue simple robes only served to enhance his clear eyes. He slowly moved his hands on the robes as if to straighten up the, obviously neat, clean fabric. A few grey patches on his hair was the only thing that betrayed the man’s age, hair that was tied up in the traditional knot of the samurai, a breed that seemed rare those days. Only a few, stray, facial hairs seemed to blemish the perfect appearance of his. Only the huge nodachi, nearly as tall as the man who carried it, that was resting on the back of the man, betrayed the fact that behind the peaceful mirage was something else.

“Do I know you?” A calm voice answered Kenzo.

Kenzo lost all sense; he was sailing in a sea full of turmoil now. Ryu had destroyed his life, and yet he didn’t even remember him. Something snapped on him as he felt the last vestige of his humanity fade in the back of mind.

“Ryu Takashaki, Master samurai of the, now deceased, Akihiko-sama, don’t you remember me? Have you forsaken all those that asked from you, to let them protect your Lord? Those who asked to join as faithful soldiers, for the man that you failed to follow in death? Ronin garbage, do you now drown you miserable life in sake to forget your failed duties and the code that you have pissed and trampled upon?”

Kenzo knew that only survival mattered. It wasn’t below him to use anything if it would give him the advantage in a battle. And he knew that samurai were weak. They followed their little code, their blind devotion to their Lord, and that their might in battle was unleashed only on a clear head. He knew all of their weak spots; he could smell them from any distance. He was better than them now, anger was his might, the raging mind his sword. He knew were to hit them so as to lose their fabled concentration.

He felt weak now that he saw his attempt had no effect on Ryu.

Ryu memories started to place some pieces together. That voice, that hatred and those eyes… suddenly they all became clear.

“Kenzo Kanemura right?” Ryu said. “You look like shit…” He spat the insult almost indifferently, as if it was a well know fact that was obvious to all. “You have said that I’m a samurai no longer yourself, so why should I care about my dead Lord? Shut your blubbering mouth and just say why you are here.”

“I’m here for a rematch old man. I’m here to reclaim the honor you robbed from me, when you sliced my shoulder.”

Ryu sat down again. “I fight no more idiotic battles now. If it pleases you, you have your honor back.” Ryu remembered the young Kenzo. A boy that was really mighty with the sword. There was no chance to lose to a trainee, but always there was a battle. In combat, they say, one shows his true self. And what he had seen that day in the eyes of the boy that stood before him, had frightened him. The boy had faired really well in battle, unknowingly to him, he had dueled so well that it showed that in the future, he would surpass his masters. But the fierce eyes, the battle hunger that was engulfing him, the rage that was boiling in the thrusts that should have only be a friendly duel, have betrayed the thirst for blood. Something that shouldn’t be there to a man that lived only to die for his Lord, something that made the boy really dangerous with a blade. That was the real reason Ryu couldn’t accept him and why he warned the other Lords against the training of the little boy. Luckily for them, they respected him enough to listen.

“You won’t get off that hook that easily Ryu. Fight me one more time. See how wrong you were to toss me away as you lose to my blade. You injured my shoulder just a bit, just enough to show me that you could easily kill me if that was a real battle. Let me show to you that all that I needed was a little more training, by humiliating you now that I know how to handle a blade.” Little by little he felt like he was starting to grovel. Like the piercing eyes of his former trainer were reducing him to the state of the little student he was so long ago. He knew that this should end quickly; else he would lose the rage that was burning him and fueled him with strength.

“…So be it. But I warn you, it would be just a training match like the old days.” Ryu resigned, he could clearly see that the stupid man in front of him wouldn’t rest until all this was resolved. “Tomorrow then?” He asked.

Kenzo knew that he needed rest. But he also felt that if he stayed a day, his resolve would crumble under the stare of his old Master. After all, Ryu was aging, and the peaceful village would have only weakened him. On the other hand, he had lived a life full of butchering and blood, a life that if his sword failed him, then he would end up dead. The harsh environment had only served to harden his body. He was fully aware that he was more than competent at dueling, even more than those half-hearted men that passed as samurai those days…

“So much you have failed in life Ryu that you want to delay such a match for as long as it takes? I guarantee to you, that in one day you can’t possibly get back into shape.”

Ryu was baffled. Had Kenzo gone mad? His days here were not even approaching the peaceful time that he had spent under his Lord. Each day here was a battle, a battle for lives worthy to be protected by his blood. He had given him a day because it was obvious that Kenzo was in a really bad shape. He looked like he had walked all the way through the mountains. A day to rest and eat some real food would be necessary if he ever wished to start gaining back some strength.

His thoughts were interrupted by Kenzo.

“I will be waiting outside old man, come and face me.”

Ryu was thoughtful for a few minutes. He kept reminding to himself that it was just a training match. That he would only injure the fool and let him go on his way. It was spring now, and the village really needed him at this season. After all it was usually at spring when the assaults were getting worse. He bitterly laughed at his early thoughts, when he first arrived here, at his birthplace, to find some rest. He had found his peace in the end, but not in the way he thought that he would. The bushido code was nice and all, but it failed to grasp the simple problems that the peasant life went through, and how a masterful used blade could solve some of them, even if it wasn’t used to kill. And it was through this marriage of common hearth wisdom and bushido that he had become, now, in the sunset of his life, the man he was. He slowly rose from his seat. He unhooked the huge sword from his back, maybe a katana would be better for a duel, but through the years he had used this sword he knew that, the first surprise of how fast he could swing it, was usually enough to guarantee him a victory. And that the frightful metal mass was, usually, enough to end the battles without even spilling blood, much less killing.

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