Sword Saint

A fragment of his attention noticed that the sun had come up, that the tides were flowing, and that the heat warmed the sand between his toes. The rest of his focus rested on his opponent, while his hand rested on his pommel. The sun fortunately did not blind him; perhaps his opponent would have been too honourable to attack while he was blinded. He did not wish to find out.


The rising of the sun meant two things however: that he and his opponent had focused all night and that the peasants would soon be coming down to witness the contest between them. He remained perfectly still, as did his opponent. Others who had witnessed the fatal dance between swordsmen often complained of the waiting, but both warriors knew that the battle was often decided here. His spirit was being tempered, folded, shaped, and forged as he stood motionless. He must anticipate and decide, the action was of little consequence.


He had taken tea with his opponent yesterday, speaking little. His opponent was the same as himself, a rolling wave, a spirit in flesh, a weapon in human form. He had served lords, fought in their squabbles, but it all seemed so pointless now. Masterless but now a master.



He had defeated thirty three opponents, never losing. No one lost a second time, the battle of spirits demanded the utmost from its supplicants. The breeze stirred his robes, the sand lay beneath his sandals, the sea rolled beside him. They focused.


Time passed and they danced motionless, while the peasants made their way down to see them. He gave them no attention, their excited jabbering of no interest to him. Both swords remained, waiting for the right moment. The peasants grew restless, but neither warrior would acquiesce to the braying demands of the crowd, not until perfection was attained.


The spirit was fire encased in darkness, contained and singular, not passionate and chaotic. It would draw, strike left, draw back, and return to focus, strike right, the right again, then left, and finally striking up from below. It was decided, it was determined, His opponent decided, his opponent determined.
The flame soared, the swords were drawn.


They met together, the spirits closing together, the sound and motion startling the onlookers who cried out and yelled in excitement as he drew his spirit back, his will in steel form drawn up next to his eye, his opponent having determined the same. Chaos threatened to spill the flame recklessly, but his will endured and he focused.



His will struck right, met his opponent once more and then again. The peasants hooted and placed bets, but their crass actions could not penetrate his persistence, the darkness remained tight around the fire within. The steel in his hands descended effortlessly low then soared ferociously up, and his spirit anticipated victory, it determined victory.
An error in pride was made.
His opponent had stepped back at the final moment, and his steel met air. Panic danced along the edges of his dark focus, fraying the enveloping concentration, disturbing the flame. His opponents will drew forward, victory urging its spirit forward but he managed to counter just barely.


The pressures of chaos descended, running rampant within the flame and threatening to consume everything as he desperately tried to master his will, the flame surging and growing with each counter. The spirit of death waited smiling behind the flames, and he felt his grip deteriorate, his will fade, surrendering as his opponents will drew back for the killing blow. He closed his eyes. He drew breath one last time. The flame was one.
They met for the final time.


Life-force became untethered from the body and the will was silent. Furious motion ceased around him. The sound of life persisted. He opened his eyes. Blood stained the sand and the vessel of a spirit’s will lay separated from its master. He stood, rising from one knee to regard his opponent, whose eyes shone with surprise at the crimson mark across his belly. Without words, his opponent fell hard into the sand. The peasants were silent, but the waves rolled ever onwards. They moved to congratulate him but he silenced them and knelt beside his opponent, muttering a simple prayer.


An eternity seemed to pass until he stood, cleaning his blade with a cloth and returning the blade to his side. “Attend to his spirit, old man,” he commanded the village elder before turning to leave. The peasants burst into frantic jabbering once again but once again, he did not listen.


He had won. He knew still that chaos ruled his spirit, that he had conquered another but still had not mastered himself entirely. These thoughts troubled him as he left the village, his sandals filled with foam and sand. Thirty four men he had defeated, yet still the heavens did not rest in his heart. Perhaps he would attention a greater perfection against his next foe.
The waves continued to crash.