The Sword of Kaigen

by M.L. Wang

mountain.” “We can’t just call an ambulance?” Kwang asked. The question actually made Mamoru laugh aloud. “Takayubi doesn’t have an ambulance. We don’t even have a paved road.”

It didn’t seem to matter whether the skeleton belonged to a man or a woman, a Kaigenese pilot or a Yammanka one. A warrior had died here, and Hibiki Sensei had lied about it. The whole village had lied about it. Mamoru’s nyama seethed with something different from anger, different from hurt. It was utter disorientation. The force of his world falling apart churned the mist. Condensation writhed and slithered over the rocks.

Waking up from the lies of his reality

Rooted in the depths, he felt the moon rise. Drawn to the irresistible lure of Nami’s mirror, he rose too, lifting fishing boats at their moorings. Tide pools filled up all the way down the coast, silver as dragon scales under the full moon, little mirrors to answer her brightness.

People whispered that the moonlit curls of mist on the lake were ghosts from the next world, striding their silvery way over the water’s surface. Mamoru had never feared them. The people who had lived and died here in times past were Matsudas and Yukinos. They were family. Tonight, for the first time, they seemed like strangers.

Let me wash up, and I’ll have a look at your friend. In the meantime, you two can have a seat in the kitchen. My wife will have tea and food ready for you in a moment.” “Kotetsu Kama, please, that isn’t necessary,” Mamoru protested. “We don’t want to impose—” “Nonsense, Mamoru-dono. You’re not imposing. This is your house, as it is ours.” “We don’t need to eat your food—” “And what will I tell Matsuda Takeru-dono? That I sent his injured son away with an empty stomach? You’ll stay for dinner,” Kotetsu said with a note of finality that shut Mamoru up.

Asian "humility"

Takeru just smiled. ‘You may have given Yukino-dono a great sword, but the weapon you have given me is greater than metal. You have given me knowledge of the blade itself.’

knowledge is far superior than physicality

“Do you think a Zilazen glass katana would be even stronger than your magical Whispering Blade?”

Foreshadowing? Maybe?

Mamoru had no way of knowing that he had lived his whole life within an arm’s reach of a Zilazen glass sword. The black blade had been bundled away under the floorboards of the Matsudas’ kitchen shortly before he was born and had stayed there, untouched, ever since. It was a slight weapon, barely bigger than a traditional wakizashi, but it had seen more combat than any katana in the Matsuda dojo. Of course, Mamoru had no way of knowing any of that. His mother, after all, did not talk about her past.

WOW

Instead, she lay into a full sprint toward them, turning at the last moment to run up the concrete wall. On her fifth step up, she pushed off with both legs. Water molecules rushed to her hands and feet. She hit the opposite wall, ice forming, and stuck there. The adyns exclaimed to one another in shock. It probably wasn’t often they saw a tiny foreign girl stick to a wall like a lizard. As they gaped in amazement, Misaki climbed. She kept the water tight to her hands and the balls of her feet, melting it each time she needed to lift a hand or foot, and then refreezing it back to the building.

Very nice

Stepping back from the man was a relief, as his unwashed smell was honestly more offensive than the knuckles she had taken to the face.

Long legs and determination seemed to make up for her soft muscles as the two sprinted the last block toward the smoke.

Mental fortitude goes a long way

a great fighter could capitalize on the smallest advantage.

An arm wrapped around her shoulders, jerking her back. Her ice clipped Texca’s neck but didn’t penetrate as she was hauled off her prey. She fought, but Robin held on with infuriating determination, putting himself between her and Texca. “Don’t!” Robin gripped her shoulders—and gods damn it, he was strong when he was desperate. “Please, don’t!” “What are you doing?” Misaki demanded in frustration. “He’s down. You don’t need to do that.”

Like mother like son

In elementary school, Misaki had been told that Hadeans’ light colored hair and eyes were signs that they were a more primitive variety of human, closely related to dogs and monkeys who shared their coloring. She was realizing that she had been told a lot of ridiculous things.

Racist

“Have you noticed,” she said, “that every bloody crime-fighter of my complexion has to have the word ‘white’ in their alias. Like they need to qualify—not a real crime-fighter, a white one.” “I didn’t notice that,” Misaki said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. The reporter who named me Whitewing is the same piece of xuro who decided I was Firebird’s sidekick.”

Apparently, it was a creature of empowerment to Hadeans and Native Baxarians. Depending on the bird species and the tribe, it could stand for wisdom, freedom, or rebirth.

“Who cares if they’re okay?” Misaki said impatiently. “They were terrible.” “They were just Texca’s hired security. As far as we know, they haven’t done anything except accept a job from the wrong guy.”

Empathy

You realize that’s the idea, don’t you? Not to destroy the people of this city but to make them better.”

“Those men haven’t even lived in this city for a week. They’re foreigners.” “So are you,” Robin said. “So was I, when I first came here. We can’t claim to be crime-fighters if we disrespect life just as much as the criminals we fight.”

“They’re not my enemies,” Robin said, “and it had nothing to do with your abilities.” “Then why?” Misaki pressed. “I picked you because of this… because you’ll fight me on things like this. You see the world in a way I just don’t, and that…” He glanced away from her curious gaze, seemingly not wanting to meet her eyes. “That’s important to me.” “Really?” Misaki tilted her head. “I would have thought you’d want to work with people who see the world the same way you do.” Wasn’t that what everyone wanted? A community of like minds? “I think that would be a mistake,” Robin said. “Then who would tell me when I was being stupid?”

“Elleen would,” Misaki said. “She loves telling you you’re wrong, and she’s got a completely different personality from yours.” “Sure, but we still come from the same place. We’re like siblings that way. There are a lot of things neither of us would think to question that maybe should be questioned. That’s a kind of blindness we can’t afford.”

The exposure of maby different perspectives, he's smart

“Yes, but… not someone like you. A lot of people would argue with me just to make themselves feel better, or smarter, or nobler. You don’t do that. You’re a good person.”

It’s easy to judge when you inherit property, and an important name, and amazing powers from your parents.” Robin’s voice had grown heated. “How easy do you think it is to build a life out of nothing?”

Her father always said there were things you couldn’t train into a fighter—spirit, courage, the ability to be something bigger than oneself.

She felt sick, standing there, thinking about all the ways the monsters of these alleys could take advantage of Robin’s kindness, all the things they could do to him… It wasn’t a question of whether or not he was going to die. It was a question of whether he would die quickly, with all his spirit intact, or slowly, after the evils of the world had ripped and beaten every shred of optimism out of him.

The con of a kind heart

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Misaki snapped, “and you’ve already said a lot of dumb things today.” She didn’t know how it worked with Livingston street fighters, but every swordsman knew that landing the first strike was crucial. “I’m just trying to make things better.” “You’re an idiot.” Robin shrugged. “My brother’s been saying exactly that since we were little. It’s never changed my mind.”

“Why are you so mad at me?” “Because I like you!” Misaki shouted the words without thinking. As Robin’s eyes widened, she felt her blush intensify, undoubtedly turning her whole face a blazing shade of pink.

“I know you important koronu always think numuwu need to be protected and patronized, but I don’t work for money.”

“Understand, Misaki, I supply you, Robin, and Elleen because I want to. Respect that, and don’t offer me money again. If you need more daggers, they’re yours.”

Unlike some koronu, Azar’s knee-jerk reaction to Misaki’s skill was not to get defensive and competitive. She seemed excited.

Tajakalu really seemed to like miserable, protracted struggles that pushed both fighters to their physical limits and provided a lot of opportunity for creativity and showing off. In sword matches, this manifested in a ridiculous points system that allowed combatants with practice swords to fight far past the point they would both have died in a fight with real weapons.

Misaki had never understood how a song was supposed to make a person strong. Power was born into a person and lived in the wordless depths of their soul. The strength of a bloodline wasn’t something you sang about; it was something the holder knew and others witnessed. Kaigenese koronu rarely had jaseliwu follow them around. Real power needed no words. It spoke for itself.

“You did well,” he said, his black eyes soft with a sympathy Misaki didn’t need. “You have my respect.” I don’t want your respect, she thought bitterly. I want to be better than this!

“If you had stepped into that ring to sate your ego, your attitude would be uglier right now,” Wangara said confidently. “There are few things uglier than a wounded ego. You honestly wanted to see how you measured up, and you honestly wanted to do better.”

Genuine need to improve, not out of ego

She might never be able to destroy the part of her that was aggressive and willful, but she could bury it. That was what she had thought at the time.

“Most strong things are rigid. If you are water, you can shift to fit any mold and freeze yourself strong. You can be strong in any shape. You can be anything.”

Be water my friend

And Misaki had believed them. Not because it made any sense. Because she had to. Because if she didn’t believe it was worth it, then what had she done?

She did not fear physical intimacy, but she liked to melt into the sweet sting of heat, not grate and buckle under ice colder than her own. She needed warmth to soften her jagged edges, and Takeru’s nyama was as far from warmth as a distant planet.

Find the fire to your water

There were a few times, she couldn’t help it; she recoiled, her arms moving automatically to shield herself.

Though their skin was touching, they might as well have been a galaxy away from one another.

Takeru had no interest in his child’s parenting and even less interest in his wife’s opinions on it.

“I’ll train him once he’s worthy of what I have to teach. Now, bring me more tea.”

Condescending teachers

A reasonable man couldn’t possibly be angry with a mother for teaching her child to control his power. Of course, Matsuda Susumu was not a reasonable man.

Every time Misaki’s sense of duty failed her and she had the urge to lash out at her father-in-law, she stopped her tongue through sheer vindictive cruelty, reminding herself that her sharpest barbs couldn’t inflict worse than what this man had already suffered. He had spent his whole life a disappointment—an heir to the Matsuda name too weak to produce a Whispering Blade, despised by his parents, surpassed by his sons.

In desperation, his aging father taught the technique to Susumu’s sons as soon as they were old enough. Both Takashi and Takeru proved superior jijakalu to their father, mastering the Whispering Blade in their teenage years.

And what happened to a man who devoted his entire life and soul to a single pursuit only to fail entirely? Misaki supposed, after so many years of disappointment, he turned into a wrinkled husk of a human who could only find solace in tormenting those younger and better than himself.

The cruelest thing she could do was serve her purpose—like he never could.

Takeru, as always, handled her as if she were a particularly fragile doll. Maybe he could feel how rigid she grew under his hands and didn’t want to scare her.

After the second miscarriage, she began to think that she really was a doll—stiff, unfeeling, incapable of producing life because she was not really alive. There were horror stories of Tsusano puppet masters, manipulating the blood in the bodies of others—dead and living—making them dance like dolls. Sometimes Misaki wondered if she had subconsciously become one of them, puppeting her own gutted body through each day.

That is dark

Misaki couldn’t even remember what she had said to set her sister-in-law off—some innocuous thing about being stupid or useless—and Setsuko had slammed her spatula down on the stovetop. “Stop that!”

Real