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Chapter 658
🕑 Added 2020-11-25 02:30:55 +0000 UTChttps://docs.google.com/document/d/1vYoyCVkQuBi6fPXq9BQ7dBTEzvBMdd32DIsc_qqfBvs/edit?usp=sharing
Everybody lies.
That was the truth as Hideo saw it, the Right View, as it were. Father, Grand-Uncle Juichi, Monk Eyebrows, Wisdom Vyakhya, each and every one of them looked Hideo in the eyes and lied to him, lies he accepted without thinking. More fool him, but they had to bear some responsibility for their lies too. How different would Hideo’s life had been if he’d known the truth all along? As a child, he wanted nothing more than to follow in his Grand-Uncle’s footsteps, so he put all his efforts towards this silly goal. Even then, there was a time when he wondered if he was truly suited for the Martial Path. Noble families were superior for a reason, and though Grand-Uncle worked himself to the bone to establish the Mitsue Family as a power unto itself, there were always whispers about his weak blood being responsible for the lack of a proper Martial Heir.
It was difficult to argue against the facts, namely how there were no outstanding talents in the second or third generations of the Mitsue Family. In his youth, Hideo had been unremarkable at best, the most talented Mitsue of his generation to be sure, but far behind anyone of note. All his hard work and effort won him no praise or accolades from the family, and in fact earned him the ire of his cousins, who were not so far behind that they couldn’t team up to beat Hideo down. The other children also made fun of him too, the son of a paper-pushing nephew who was not worth getting to know. Life had been lonely and miserable back then, doubly so because Father was never around. Grand-Uncle was always warm and kind, but even busier than Father since he had yet to unofficially retire, and wouldn’t for another five years.
The timing was significant because that’d been around the same time Ryo Dae Jung was promoted to Colonel General. Hideo remembered it well, because there were many who believed Grand-Uncle was stepping back to give room for the new generation to shine and devote all his attention to raising a promising Heir, with rumours of a possible alliance through marriage between one of Juichi’s grandsons and Ryo Da’in, but nothing ever came of it. They’d all been fed a pack of lies and falsehoods, some perhaps even fabricated by Father himself. Grand-Uncle stepped back because he finally had an heir to replace him as the pillar of the family, and wanted to enjoy his last two decades of life in relative peace.
At least, this was what Hideo believed now that he knew all the facts involved. Father was no Ryo Dae Jung, but he couldn’t have been too far behind, and even if he only recently became a Peak Expert in the weeks before he died, Mitsue Hiroshi would have still be considered a Rising Dragon of note. There might well have been other factors which affected Grand-Uncle’s decisions, but he never shared them with Hideo, so all he could do was guess. His Father and Mentor, the two people closest to his heart, and they refused to ever tell him the truth. Back then, he had been smitten with Da’in’s beauty, a woman five years older than he, and the crowning gem of Central’s young beauties. This was before she revealed her fangs and soundly trounced Ishin Ken-Shibu in public of course, but as the rising Sword King’s daughter, she would have been the most eligible young woman in all of Central even without her good looks. Hideo’s cousins had believed all the rumours and each fancied themselves the lucky husband-to-be, but he reckoned a union between Ryo and Mitsue would’ve been akin to planting a rose in a pile of shit.
Unless of course, he was the Mitsue in question.
He’d been fourteen years old then, and though he devoted almost all his waking hours to Martial Training, he was also utterly infatuated with Da’in, which his cousins soon discovered when they caught him writing her name with brush and parchment. Oh how they laughed and jeered, calling him a toad lusting after swans’ flesh and never once seeing the hypocrisy of their own statements. Back then, he still cared very much about his cousins’ opinions and wanted them to like him, so this left him in a dark mood for many days. Worse, he agreed with his cousin’s insults and truly believed he wasn’t good enough to match up with Da’in, that his talents were unworthy of her notice and that he was doomed to mediocrity. He was so disheartened, he even considered abandoning the Martial Path, though he refused to become a wastrel like his uncles. The next time Father returned home, Hideo inquired about his work and hinted that he would like to learn more so that he could help out more in the future.
Hideo remembered the look on Father’s face, a strange, almost unreadable expression, but now he knew it for chagrin. Father didn’t want to lie to him, so instead, he asked why Hideo was showing interest, to which he candidly replied, “I have no talent, and thus no future as a Martial Warrior, so I thought it time to explore other options.”
At the time, he thought he’d been ready to handily admit it, but even saying as much brought tears to his eyes. He loved the Martial Path, but it did not love him, nor had the Mother seen fit to smile down upon him. There, at the dinner table, Father had taken Hideo aside and talked to him like a man grown, and he remembered it well. “Regardless of the path you choose,” Father had said, patting Hideo’s back with a smile, “There will be trials and tribulations to overcome. Some lives are easier than others, but we all have our burdens to bear. There are only a few blessed individuals each generation talented enough to excel without effort, but for the rest of us mere mortals, we will have to rely solely on persistence and hard work. I understand this is not what you wish to hear, however, and know that you are frustrated, so take a few days, think your decision through, and I, your Father, will support you, no matter what path you wish to pursue.”
That was one of the few times Father hugged Hideo, and he cherished the memory to this very day. There would be no more hugs though, not anymore, for he had thrown that life away...
Back then, Hideo thought Father was speaking about the difficulties of a clerical job, but now he knew differently. Regardless, going on his advice, Hideo took a short break from Martial Training and immersed himself in study and calligraphy. Three days later, he went right back to Demonstrating the Forms, if only to get away from his overbearing economics teacher who’d learned Hideo had more time in the morning for ‘much-needed’ lessons. Balance in all things, that was the lesson Father shared, and it was one which stuck with Hideo for years to come. Training like a man possessed did him no favours, and as time wore on, he found Insight from calligraphy or cloud-gazing almost as often as he did when training or sparring.
Father had all the answers Hideo ever needed, but he was always too busy to share them. In contrast, even though Grand-Uncle had already retired, he had no time whatsoever for his Terminal Disciple, save to criticize and assign more lessons. Perhaps the old man was truly trying to avoid spoiling Hideo as he’d spoiled his sons, but that was still no excuse. Spare the rod and spoil the child, but where was the love and affection Hideo so desperately yearned for? Family above all else, but what reason did Hideo have to defend a family who only barely accepted him? After emerging as a rising talent, so many hopes and expectations were piled upon his shoulders, a young man not even twenty-four years of age who was supposed to follow in the footsteps of Living Legend Mitsue Juichi and ensure the survival of his legacy, a hefty burden which was almost too much for Hideo to bear.
Correction. No almost about it, it had been too much. A single defeat was all it took to shatter his fragile ego, a defeat dealt to him by the hands of an ignoble, base-born traitor slave.
If Dastan Zhandos is a traitor, then what does that make Mitsue Hideo?
An inhuman roar emerged from Hideo’s throat as he surged to his feet, or at least he tried to while his bonds held him in place. Steel chains affixed to stone walls were not enough to hold him, and his anger took hold of him as he channelled Chi into his Domain. Seizing authority from the Heavens, he exerted his will and Honed his Domain –
His roar turned into a shriek as pain lanced through his body, pain emanating from across his back. Barbed wires raked across his naked skin as the monks took up a booming chant, their low, resonating voices shaking Hideo to his Core. Bereft of his Intent, his Domain retracted beneath the pressure of pain and foreign incantations, his authority slipping away and leaving him bound, tethered, and bleeding in the dark, underground cellar. “Release me,” he groaned, the pain robbing his voice of fire. “I’ll kill you! Release me!”
“This monk cannot do as you ask, Junior Brother.” Sending rather than speaking so as not to interrupt his droning chant, Monk Eyebrows applied the metal lash again. “The Razor’s edge, Junior Brother. Keep to it. You are dangerously close to losing yourself, and this monk is not yet ready to give up.”
“...But I am.” Too weak to struggle against his bonds, all Hideo could do was lie there and weep, wishing for an end which would not come as Monk Eyebrows dealt him blow after painful blow while chanting in an unknown language. It was not so painful as to unman him, not like the first strike had been, one delivered using some form of Defiled sorcery that sent agony coursing throughout his body. In contrast, these subsequent blows were mundane and only mildly irritating, blunted by his calloused skin and perhaps even an unconscious use of internalized Domain. The reasons mattered not, or rather, Hideo cared not, because there was no point caring anymore.
His entire life was a lie. Why persist in this meaningless struggle?
Your father’s love was not a lie.
Then the droning chant filled his mind and he found himself chanting along, his mind emptied of all doubts and uncertainties. The lash had long since stopped striking him, and his body was Healing even as he noticed it. The chanting had ended too, leaving Hideo empty and unfulfilled, but Monk Eyebrows was still there, lurking in the shadows behind him. “You claimed you were ready to give up, and yet here you still are. Such ignorance, such sin. This does not adhere to Right Speech, Junior Brother, to speak lies which might twist into truths, and thus will become your undoing. The mind affects the body just as the soul affects the mind, and the soul is affected by all we experience for it is the source of our being. Thus, the wrong Speech poisons the mind, which poisons the body, an experience which in turns poisons the soul. Watch your words and amend your thoughts, Junior Brother, for only you can lift yourself from this pit of your own undoing. Eh-Mi-Tuo-Fuo.”
“You are a liar.” Hideo’s voice broke mid-sentence as tears spilled from his eyes, still unable to bear the pain of this betrayal. “I thought you were different. I thought you could be trusted. I thought you had the answers I needed, but no. You are just like everyone else, and I will no longer believe your lies.”
“This monk does not deny he has not always been open and honest,” Monk Eyebrows began, moving around into Hideo’s line of sight. “However, this monk has never outright lied, only left out whole truths, truths you must find unaided. The Noble Eight-fold is the Path to salvation, Junior Brother, and this monk hopes you will join him in the journey. You only need find the will within.”
“There is no salvation, not for me. Not after what I’ve done.”
“There is no human being so stained by sin as to be beyond redemption, and true redemption is when guilt leads to good.” Despite his kind words, the shadows cast Monk Eyebrows in an ominous light. “You still hold to hope, Junior Brother, and hope can lead to salvation.”
Turning his head away, Hideo closed his eyes. “Leave me alone.”
“Very well, Junior Brother. Rest, but not for long. Now that you know true suffering, you are ready to let go without losing yourself to the red dust of the mortal world. The memories are vivid and the pain fresh, but they will not have the same impact after a hundred days, and next to none after a thousand. If even this is not enough, then we will persevere until we discover what is, but worry not, for this monk will watch over your continued recovery, and together, we will see you through this tribulation.”
Time passed. Days, weeks, months, Hideo could not say. Every day, Monk Eyebrows would come down to check on him and Hideo would remember the betrayal. Worse, he would remember his own betrayal and relive them all in vivid detail. Day after day, he saw the joy turn to confusion and panic in Eri-Hime’s eyes, or the love and affection bleed out of his father’s dying gaze, or the distraught, defeated look in Grand-Uncle Juichi’s expression. Hideo betrayed each and every one of them, and he deserved to suffer for his sins, not to mention all the countless horrors he’d inflicted on so many nameless victims since.
“The Razor’s edge,” Monk Eyebrows would whisper, day after day and night after night while beating him with the barbed lash. “The Eight-fold Path.”
Somewhere between the chanting, the beatings, the forced reminiscence, and inundation of misery, Hideo’s mind found clarity and understood what the Brotherhood was doing. By forcing Hideo to confront the sins of his past and all the pain and anguish which went with it, the monks were helping him strengthen his will the same way his skin toughened beneath the lash. A curious combination, but there was some sense in pairing physical suffering with mental, for as the Energy of the Heavens naturally healed his physical wounds, it simultaneously healed his mental ones as well. What reason did the Heavens have to differentiate between injuries of the mind and body? Pain was pain, and the Heavens soothed them all regardless of source or type.
As time passed, the pain of his memories faded away, replaced by the pain of his physical body. It was just like Monk Eyebrows said, the mind, body, and soul were all linked. Injure one, and injure them all, but the goal of this ‘treatment’ was not to Heal him, but rather break him down enough so the Energy of the Heavens could mend him anew and make him stronger than ever before. This wasn’t directly manipulating Heavenly Energy, but using it in a clever, indirect manner, which explained much of the Brotherhood’s practices. Inundated with physical pain and mental misery, this forced Hideo to adjust his mindset and adapt to a new, more stable state of Balance, one in which emotion had a lessened effect and therefore making it easier to traverse the Razor’s edge.
This is not the Eight-fold Path. The monk tells no falsehoods, but that is not the same as speaking the truth. His View, is not the Right View, and you know it.
No, it had to be the Right View. Yes, he wished to repent, but what of everyone else? Why should they escape without punishment while he was crushed beneath the weight of his sins? Father, Grand-Uncle, his cousins, even the people of the Empire itself, they all shared some blame for what happened to Hideo. These monks were the true Brotherhood, the only ones brave enough to speak up, and for this, they were cast out. Still, Hideo held onto this nugget of wisdom provided by the Heaven’s above, for he saw sense in the logic. Monk Eyebrows could tell no lies and still share mistaken views, so Hideo would have to judge the Brotherhood’s advice with open eyes and find the Right View for him.
The truth is what you make it.
The Mother have mercy on your soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Awash in the blood of his enemies, Vithar stood upon the battlefield and watched the cowards flee, yet there was no thrill or excitement to be had.
Today had been a good day, full of carnage and death, with lives sacrificed and many a powerful tribesmen joining their ranks, but still the Ancestors stayed silent and refused to grace Vithar or his clansmen with their wisdom. Glancing about, he saw his own doubts and reservations mirrored in the expressions of his tribesmen, all of whom relied on him for guidance even more in the Ancestors’ absence. Despite having just emerged victorious in a glorious struggle for survival, none of his tribesmen made ready to celebrate. Instead, they stood idle with weapons in hand while the dead lay where they fell and the dying accepted their inevitable fate, victor and defeated sharing the same slack, hollow expressions. There was no glory to be had today, no pleasure or accomplishment to be found, only empty uncertainty and vexing ignorance to reward them after a hard fought battle.
Though he would never show or admit it, he found the Ancestors’ absence terrifying in a way he never thought possible. All his life, they’d been there at his side, guiding him to power and glory, yet now that their whispers could no longer be heard, the silence was deafening. The only solace to be found was that it was not just him and his tribesmen, for Vithar had recognized the same hesitant uncertainty reflected in his enemies as they traded blows, both sides desperate to spill blood in hopes of garnering the Ancestors’ affections once more. It all started after the Uniter’s forces were handed a disgraceful defeat upon the fields of Central, which resulted in the Ancestors falling into disharmony with one another, but today was the first day they’d gone entirely silent. Vithar was not the only one to wonder if this was in part thanks to his faulty leadership, that the Ancestors spurned them because he led them away from battle, a question he saw reflected in every gaze he met. They remembered that it was his voice which gave the order to withdraw, against the wishes of many of the Ancestors, yet they forgot that his commands were wholly in concert with others.
Now, they wondered if they had misheard or misremembered the disharmony in the Ancestors’ whispers, or if they had lost the Ancestors’ favour because they followed a Chieftain who led them astray. Their hesitance pained him so, more than their misplaced condemnation. If Vithar’s tribesmen even suspected he was the sole reason for the tribe’s apparent fall from grace, they should have banded together to subdue and sacrifice him in hopes of regaining the Ancestors’ approval, and he would have fought them off as a Chieftain should. Might makes right, as the southlanders would say, despite only rarely adhering to the principle, but for the people of the outer lands, it was a way of life. Now, Vithar’s tribesmen, warriors and hunters all, stood and stared like children bereft of guidance and direction, wholly lost without the whispers they’d become so reliant upon.
For years, Vithar had known he was different, if only for his ability to surrender to the Ancestors without losing himself in the process. The Ancestors’ then guided his actions while his mind retained control of his thoughts, and it was this singular ability which allowed him to become Chieftain at so young an age, while most of the tribesmen he’d grown up with became little more than crazed fodder. What’s more, his analytical mind allowed him to better uncover the secrets the Ancestors left ingrained within his body, improving his personal strengths and abilities so that he came to rely upon them less and less. In recent years, their voices only offered guidance while Vithar took care of most issues by himself, but he could feel their hunger every time he went too long without surrender. They ached to fill and become him, to take hold of his body, to feel the warm blood coursing through his veins and the heady rush of emotion it brought with it. They yearned to live again, even if only through him, but he resisted their efforts to claim and mould him into a Transcendent, for he still had a life yet to live.
But now, they’d abandoned him, all because he heeded the wrong side’s advice.
And you are better off for it. Their advice was never given with your well-being in mind, or that of your tribesmen. You know this for truth, because you have long suspected as much.
The whisper shook Vithar to the core and he struggled not to show it, but as he cast a wary gaze to his surroundings, he saw that his tribesmen were every bit as shook as he, if not more. They too had heard the Ancestors just now, and Vithar was unsure what game the spirits were playing now, advising him and his people not to heed their advice. Three of his tribesmen broke down then and there, two going blank and falling to their knees weeping while a third screamed at the Heavens in wordless denial. All were soon put out of their misery, action taken by the other tribesmen not out of mercy, but unwillingness to see their own thoughts made manifest in another.
The Ancestors’ had gone mad and forsaken their people. Vithar’s people. “Gather the prisoners and the dead,” he ordered, out of need to do something, anything, to keep himself from dwelling upon this most frustrating mystery. “Let us return.”
There was no need to bring the dead back, not here in the fertile southlands, where there was food and water aplenty. Or at least there should be, but it’d been many nights since his tribe had stumbled across an oasis, and truth be told, Vithar no longer knew the way back. Unwilling to return to the city, he’d kept the rising sun to his right and headed south for many days, but there was no end to these sandy dunes in sight. No matter. His people could subsist on the blood of their enemies, drained from their corpses into waiting buckets to fill their empty waterskins. Alas, even if every member of his tribe worked day and night, the meat still turned before they could finish it all, or even cure it as the locals had taught them, smoked over fire and left to dry out beneath the harsh desert sun. It was supposedly the cold season now, but the heat was still almost unbearable, not to mention the bright sun beating down from above for most of the day. There was a time when he cursed the cold and darkness of his frozen homeland, but at least the former kept meat fresh for many moons without effort. As an added bonus, the frozen remains of his foes brought hungry scavengers to his doorstep, which was just more meat to consume for sustenance.
You don’t need to eat human flesh anymore. Even the Arid Wastes has treasures hidden everywhere.
Against his better judgment, he followed the guidance of this lone Ancestor, more out of desperation than anything else. Upon returning to camp, he ordered his tribe to pack up and move, an order they obeyed without enthusiasm, though a silent glare from his woman warned him of a blood-debt yet to be paid. Asmani was her name, one of the few surviving tribesmen he’d grown up with, and if he were to fall, she would most likely emerge as the new Chieftain. “Too many days of blood and meat,” she Sent, the words laced with both caution and threat. “It leaves us parched and sluggish.”
Vithar shrugged. “Our enemies carried no water. We will endure. The Ancestors still guide us.”
Asmani did not respond, but he saw the doubt in her eyes. Perhaps tonight would be the night when she claimed leadership for himself, but come morning, he awoke with life in him still yet, so she had yet to lose faith in his ability. As for Vithar, he had faith in the Ancestors and followed their instructions, believing there was no way they would lead him and his tribesmen astray again. Though no one spoke, as their journey progressed, he sensed an uplift in his tribesmens’ moods as they also came to hear the Ancestors’ guidance urging them towards succour and salvation, especially Asmani who heard more than she let on, yet never confided in Vithar about what they said.
Theirs was a partnership of mutual benefit, but there would come a time when that would no longer be enough. Not a day he looked forward to, but not out of fear, for she had been by his side for as long as he could remember, and he worried her absence would be as unnerving as the Ancestors’.
How long they travelled, Vithar could not say, but he lost no more tribesmen to bleak madness or exhaustion. One moment, the endless sands stretched out in all directions, and then he crested a dune and found a blessed oasis waiting in welcome just over the lip. The sight of so much water reminded him of his great thirst, but rather than rushing forward to slake it, he stopped and stared at the beauty laid out before him, and for the first time, envied the locals for having been born in these lush, green lands of plenty.
There is no need to kill and fight to survive. The world provides.
Making his way to the oasis’ edge, Vithar knelt in the sandy, wet soil and lowered his lips to the water. The first sip soothed his aching thirst and filled his heart with joy, but he stopped himself short and rose up to gesture for his tribesmen partake as well. Normally, Asmani and his most loyal Champions would keep all others back while he remained vulnerable, but there was no sense in guarding against his own people, not today. “Drink,” he bellowed, and his tribesmen cheered, following his example and taking care not to taint this gift with their filthy boots and skin. When his thirst was quenched, he set out to scout the perimeter and found plants thriving on the shores, bushes bearing round, green fruits no bigger than his thumb. They were tart and left his tongue with a strange, tingling sensation, but there were enough to fill the bellies of every last tribesman and more, even without needing to catch any of the other animals who also relied on this oasis to drink.
Sated and full for the first time in recent memory, Vithar’s tribe settled in next to the oasis, close enough to partake of its bounty, but not so close as to scare off all other wildlife. It only seemed right, and he likened it to leaving meat out in the cold to draw in predators, a lure to bring wildlife in to kill. What’s more, he did something he’d seen the Chosen do every night, and set his people to dig a pit downhill from the oasis where the tribe could excrete their waste. Finding this jewel in the wild had been difficult enough, and he saw no sense in ruining it with careless actions.
As the days wore on, his tribesmen ranged outwards and found even more locations of interest, places Vithar kept in mind if this oasis should ever dry out, but each night, he marked the water’s high point with a cast off twig, and every morning, he found his marker immersed in water yet again. Water welling up from an underground source, the Ancestors explained, along with a detailed description of how it worked, but it was too complex for Vithar to grasp. Instead, he joined his tribesmen in setting up shelters from the sun, using what materials he had available, namely human bone and leather. The Ancestors were displeased, but only in an abstract manner, never once bringing the subject up or castigating Vithar for his actions, but he sensed their feelings all the same.
Strange. The Ancestors had changed so much and no longer pestered him to fight and kill, but instead urged him to build and create. In theory, Vithar wasn’t entirely opposed, as he was exhausted from so many weeks of travel and fighting, made weak by his long respite in the strange city of Shi Bei. As he reflected on his time there and all the luxuries he missed, the Ancestors taught him how to enjoy them anew, guiding him to the ingredients needed to make wine and spiced meat. The moon came and went before the fruits of his labour were good enough to enjoy, and he celebrated this minor success by sharing tart wine and grilled skewers with all of his tribesmen, and he found much gratification in their enjoyment. The wine was weak and the meat from a herd of four legged beasts his tribesmen had hunted the day before, but with a little bit of effort on his part, he made the berries more palatable to eat and the meat a feast for the senses. The sense of accomplishment he gained from watching his tribesmen partake of his efforts rivalled the joy he found beneath the sheets with Asmani each and every night, and he wondered what else the Ancestors might guide him towards, here in these wonderful lands.
Then, one morning, he woke in his tent and found young Gen sitting in wait, legs crossed in the dirt and arms posted behind him while watching Vithar and Asmani sleep. “Oh good,” he began, a beat late as Vithar was already reaching for his axe. “You are awake. And here this Sovereign thought you might sleep until midday.” Pain lanced through Vithar’s fingers. Drawing his hand back with a hiss, he found his skin welting from Gen’s admonishing flame. “Reach for it again, and I will burn you hand to a crisp.”
Unlike his flames, there was no heat in young Gen’s voice, no emotion at all, merely a warning given without any vested interest if Vithar would obey. “My tribesmen?” he asked, wordlessly cautioning Asmani to do nothing as Gen cocked his head in genuine confusion. “They still yet live?”
“Of course they do. What reason does this Sovereign have to kill them?” Studying Vithar as Asmani with a curious gaze, young Gen muttered, “And so the mystery grows. You both have transformed much in so short a time, from lacking prospects to a promising talent. So few of you outlanders are able to overcome a lifetime of indoctrination, so reliant upon your ‘Ancestors’ and unable to think for yourselves.” Shaking his head, he sighed and added, “But then, at least your flaws can be excused on account of circumstances beyond your control. In contrast, the people of the Empire celebrate their ignorance and brandish their chains proudly, slaves to a dog Emperor who cares only for what they can do for him, rather than the other way around.
“The Uniter is no different,” the Ancestors warned, and Vithar took this advice to heart.
“Why have you come?”
“Initially, to kill you and reclaim your tribesmen.” Again, the answer was delivered without emotion, as Gen continued to study Vithar like a curious beast. “But this Sovereign has changed his mind. Your warriors and the garos they ride are a most valuable resource, one this Sovereign is still yet unable to easily replace. You brought them away, and for this, you deserve death, but you are too promising a subject to waste.”
“And if I refuse?” A bad question to ask according to the Ancestors, who were already preparing Vithar to fight.
“Then you will die, and this Sovereign will install one of your Champions in your place.”
The boy was too calm and relaxed for Vithar’s liking, exuding confidence and competence far beyond his years, with none of the ragged edges he’d seen during the long trip south. The Ancestors warned him this was not the same Gen, but Vithar knew as much just by looking at him. A fair-featured young man, his fearsome metallic arms ended in razor-tipped claws, while his impenetrable armoured breastplate fit his body like a second skin, and in fact might well be one. Still, even with Blessed as he was with Earth’s Fire, as Gen so loved to brag, Vithar believed he could at least injure his foe before dying and buy enough time for Asmani to deal a killing blow. “I rode for the Uniter once before,” Vithar began, preparing to will his bone battle-axe to leap to his hand and ignoring Asmani’s silent plea to stay his hand. “And all my tribe came away with were broken promises of bounty and bloodshed. A ripe land for the taking, we were promised, and now we have taken what will be ours.” Meeting Gen’s gaze without fear, Vithar sneered and said, “We will not ride again, not without purpose.”
Purpose they’d found here, in this blissful oasis, where his people were happy and free from constant struggle.
“Purpose you say?” Sitting upright with a smile, Gen slowly extended his clawed hand, and Vithar felt power coalescing within, but before he could act, the boy’s armoured Transcendents appeared at his side and warned Vithar from acting. “You seek purpose?” Gen asked, as Vithar’s eyes locked on the invisible struggle within the palm of Gen’s hand. “What better purpose than power? A limited resource, your garo riders are, so in trade, this Sovereign will bestow upon you a limited resource of his own, one arduously claimed from one most curious of foes.” Without warning, the power surged into Vithar’s chest and filled him with the promise of strength and knowledge, the Ancestors returned in full force. Seeing his disbelief, Gen cackled and nodded. “Yes, yes, you feel it? Pure, unsullied Energy of the Heavens, severed and forfeited by the Devourer’s own hand. What you hold now is but a fraction of a fraction, taken by this Sovereign and bent to his will. Join me, and you will be rewarded with more to come, for our most problematic foe has now proven to be a treasure worth taking. With the Devourer broken and hiding, we will soon have him in hand, whereupon this Sovereign will unlock his secrets and discern his method of purifying Heavenly Energy, and in doing so, harness the power of the Heavens themselves. A secret,” Gen added, rather belatedly as the Ancestors pointed out, “This Sovereign will then share with you and yours.”
A lie, but Vithar didn’t need the Ancestors to say as much to him. Even then, he was sorely tempted. “I command the garos.”
“Yes, yes, the terms of our agreement still stand. The Commander directs your actions, but you are free to fight as you please if the mood so strikes you.”
“No.” Meeting Gen’s eyes, Vithar said, “I command all the garos. Not just my tribe, but all tribes. Chieftain of Chieftains, I will be, a commander of my people, as Gongsun Qi commands his.”
“More and more interesting, this puzzle grows.” Pausing to consider the offer, Gen’s eyes lost focus for a moment before regaining their clarity. “Very well, oh Chieftain of Chieftains,” he said, smiling as if laughing as some great joke. “Gather your people, and let us go.”
“Eh-Mi-Tuo-Fuo.”
Vithar and Gen both leapt to their feet, but the Transcendents instantly reacted, leaping at the hidden foe they only just discovered. It did them no good however, as a wide-eyed, scowling monk emerged from Concealment and dealt with both in a single blow. A gentle wave of the hand was all Vithar saw, as if the bald, robed monk was merely swatting a fly, but both Transcendents shattered at the touch before crumbling apart on the spot. Fearsome to the extreme, the scowling monk took a deep breath and transformed before Vithar’s eyes, his exaggerated facial features melting away as his fearsome grimace turned into a relaxed smile, one which almost hid his narrow eyes. “If you and yours seek to leave, then this monk will not stand in your way, but he will not allow you to bring those who wish to stay behind.”
Shooting Vithar an annoyed look, Gen sighed and said, “So, the Brotherhood has already begun recruitment, right underneath the Chieftain of Chieftains’ nose.”
“We only seek to answer questions for those who care to ask them.” Fixing his gaze on Vithar, the fearsome, smiling monk said, “You have not yet come to question, but this monk sees hope yet. Your wine and grilled meat; you enjoyed the act of making them, and moreso the act of sharing. Have you not thought to question why?”
Because for the first time in Vithar’s life, he was a provider for his people, rather than a harbinger of tribulation. And yet... good feelings were fleeting and uncertain, whereas power was absolute, power young Gen had given him. “Questions need no asking or answering,” Vithar replied. “Only silencing.”
“Such pride, such sin.” Shaking his head, the monk sighed and said, “Very well then. We all must tread our own paths, for better or for worse, but any who leave with you, do so of their own free will, and nothing you or the monster you’ve allied with will change this.” The smile still remained, yet the monk’s demeanour grew dark, a subtle threat Vithar could only sense and not see. “So get thee gone, creatures of sin and transgression, but know that if there should come a day when you truly yearn for redemption, the Brotherhood will welcome any and all with open arms.”
Most of Vithar’s tribesmen left with him, but a good number stayed behind. Lingering to study their faces so that he might know which ones to kill, he couldn’t help but envy these faithless deserters. The days of peace were restful and enjoyable, but Vithar knew such a life was not for him, else he would have been born here, in these safe, happy lands. Perhaps it was for the best. These runaways would only have weighed his tribe down with their weakness and doubts, so they were all better off parting ways here.
Forgoing all thoughts of vengeance, Vithar met Asmani’s gaze, and for once, the stubborn woman looked away, even going so far as to hide behind the smiling monk. Regret coursed through him as he grieved her loss, and he gazed one last time upon her protruding belly which grew with the first signs of new life. Nodding in farewell, he turned away and hid his smile, heartened to know at least some of his tribe might yet live on in these peaceful lands and try their hand at a life which he was not suited for. Vithar’s child might grow up weak and spoiled, but perhaps it would not be so bad, if they also learned to be happy and at peace as well.
“I will watch over them,” the Ancestors promised, only to be replaced by the more familiar Ancestors Vithar had grown up with, those pushing him to kill and slaughter. Whether this change was real or imagined, he still found solace in the promise and hoped for the best. Victory or death awaited him in the War against the Empire, but no matter the outcome, Vithar would never return here to intrude upon the quiet lives of his former tribesmen, nor would he allow anyone else to so long as he still drew breath.
This much, he would see done, for he was Vithar, Chieftain of Chieftains, Prime Champion of the outer lands.
Full chapter was here, but I initially released in 2 parts. Link to Pt 2 for those who want to read the comments: https://www.patreon.com/posts/chapter-658-p2-44345676
Comments
:P
Jabari Lambert
I really feel sorry for Hideo, is this the beginning of a redemption arc fo him?
