SHING! So we the dead sing now, through steel by our memories possessed,

This duet of warriors dauntless, their daring sword-sung contest.

Wail we the metal’s music, the myriad clashes to come

Between the Orphan-Eating King and our All-Learned, All-Wielding Son.

The crowd’s rageful ravings had risen to a fevered pitch.

The spectacle on the temple stage shifted, moved.

The venous dance of these veterans, which’d conveyed them from point to point,

Had been closing their bodily boundaries, their bloodied limbs approaching, merging.

One half was our tyrannical teenager, with his techniques, his spells, his cheats:

His whirlwind of wood, which war-like Ramiro was cleaving.

The form of our Flower was leaner, his flesh not yet by adulthood completed;

But, though a kid, his mind was calm, accustomed and numbed to culling freaks.

The foe was a King, with common might,

The People’s bulwark, plate-encased and righteous.

His sword-arm was sown with the strength of life,

With the proteins of kids, whom he preyed on in the stench of nighttime.

SHING! Rings their swords! The Saviour’s was alone no longer,

Their joust abruptly jarred by the joining of one stronger! A rapier!

From witchcraft to weapon, our wicked teen had swapped.

Now, steel to steel, they stood, their strife-dealing blades interlocked!

The Orphan-Eater’s inner monster had predicted clawing our son in half.

It had expected to sate its piggish thirst,

To lap our child’s life-blood. But alas, a sword had barred him!

Reverberating up his vibrating weapon,

Through the stopped blade, into the stiff handle, into his fingers,

Was transmitted a dark sensation, a soul-molesting jolt,

Like a bite to a brave stallion for brushing the electric fence of its pen.

The parried lord was alarmed by this alien sting.

His feral instincts flared. “Fuck!” he raged,

And, dashing closer, he drew his weapon,

Slipped it off the obstructing saber, and sliced through HF’s tender belly’s

Former location. Our Flower had sprung back!

The dash-to-cut, predicted, disembowelled the worthless wind.

But as The Orphan-Eater through the open air was stumbling,

His bestial claw abruptly reversed its aim,

His offal-fondler flicked back to finger our child’s pelvis,

And this gory grope was granted a generous feel of steel.

SHING! THE SABERS SING! The sabers clash.

Our child, his weapon waiting, welcomed the pervert’s touch.

Engaging forte to foible, he forced the thrust off line

And sent its point to sink into a smiling sculpture of the Queen behind him.

SHING! CLANG! ka-CHING! cried their meeting swords,

In a vein-vain melody advancing across the arena,

As the bloodthirsty beast-king barged on with his flurry of claws,

And our delicate Flower dexterously countered with his iron-petal.

So Ramiro maintained his murderous assault.

His fighting was crude but fast, to the confined Slums adapted.

In its boxed-in alleys, his blows had butchered gangsters and thieves.

In its boxed-in alleys, his blows had butchered the carcasses of strangled preteens.

But—SHING! Swish! — his swift chops here missed.

For in this open, spotlit space, our spritely teen could spring.

While tracking the killer’s cuts, off-coursing each attempt,

Our neophyte, with steps so nimble, navigated the obstacles of statues and gore.

Through the litter of contestant’s limbs, he levitated, he flew,

Our buoyant Flower’s feet infused with expert fencing technique.

Like a ballerina, his weight balance — from ball, to toes, to the heels

Of his skittering feet — was shifting, sliding him with minimal vertical lift.

In this sword technique, in the medley of steps,

In the poses and parries, a portrait might be glimpsed

Of its eclectic origin, the ancient faces of us who sing:

The dead, the slain, the done, the dwellers of pasts of pasts forgotten;

The gone, the cloud-claimed, the quiet who scream unheard;

The ghosts of studied swords, who our scion’s rapier haunted, also.

SEE US IN THE MOUNTAIN! ADMIRE OUR BONES AND OUR BLOOD!

OUR VOICES ECHO IN HIS ACTIONS! THESE EPITAPHS TO A THOUSAND SOLDIERS!

In his unbreakable guards and binds, from our Iron Defence were these yielded,

We the suicidal battle-assassins, who snuck into formations with no shields but our rapiers.

And in his honing of the distance from harm, in his hidden magecraft, is I,

The Fencer, Laxte The Flightless, a Wingless Dragon who defied the clouds.

And in his precaution for the single stab, this is the sword-sense of Wenshun,

My One Touch One, the wisdom to become the thrust that gored me.

And this king's novice knifecraft, the knowledge to read it, from where?

This is our Sword and Shield, we soldiers honoured by our cairns in Manger.

And in his weapon’s waltzing webwork is The Will of Faceless me,

Unukujateem, The Tolerant, who by a trusted comrade’s scheme was poisoned.

And in his lithe leaps and licks, there is my Lightning Sword’s prowess.

Remember me as Amagwu, who in Himatsu’s waters fell and rest.

OUR VOICES ECHO IN HIS ACTIONS! THESE EPITAPHS TO A THOUSAND SWORDSMEN!

IN HIS ARMS, OUR WILLS AND ANGUISH! THESE EPITAPHS TO OUR THOUSAND CORPSES!

Yet our scion is so unfamiliar, since conceived from a thousand parents,

From a thousand cuts, at a thousand angles received and shared.

A synthesis of a thousand swords, this is our son, an impious chimaera.

Though born from our thousands’ blood, the boy has left us. He climbs the mountain.

SHING! WE SABERS SING! We sabers clash. TING!

Our Flower and his petal fenced, with the footsteps laid out by us phantoms.

His refined rapier in rhapsody, he revelled around the beast-king,

Whose primitive violence couldn’t vanquish the advanced, avant-garde guards.

A sword-sensed eye could sight in the haste,

In the teen’s flashing foil, his fertile chances:

Numerous sprang up, spawned by Henry’s expertise,

His art at crafting angles, these openings to seize a strike.

Alas, each kill was lost, left untaken due to Mischief,

The superior duellist’s saber too soft to pierce his foe.

Thus passed by the bladed bounties, briefer lasting than a flickering spark

Ignited by the nemeses’ gnashing, clashing weapons.

One such window was a wide-arced swing by the king.

With too much muscle committed, he’d marauded past his shield-guard.

While the attacking Saviour was trapped in this motion,

In sync with this hefty sword-swing, our student had ducked and advanced to his side.

Thereby, for a moment, briefly, our boy had the cleanest of shots,

His enemy’s armpit on offer, an armourless path to the callous heart.

In a typical fight, this timing, however short,

Would signal the fatal surcease, signed quick by the writ of the rapier.

A bite to the side, an abrupt pain, then goodbye -

That was some of ours honourable end, and this Orphan-Eater no better had earned.

Alas, due to Mischievous luck, the lord would have to accept

A dozen or more deaths, indifferent and endless as The Cycle’s oscillations.

By the side of the Saviour, the seed of our swords

Paused with his petal and dropped it.

From his Flowery fingers fell the rapier,

And he stole a two-charge .

“Nam! IN!” He aimed the spell

Into the enemy’s armpit,

Reaping the ripest of bounties,

A hearty 4% harvest.

But mule-hearted Ramiro, the murder-lusting saint,

With his pervert’s endowments, was unimpeded, the paltry sting unfelt.

While swinging, he’d locked his sight on our side-stepping teen,

And he’d reversed his gut-gouger to gore our youth’s mouth.

Its roof, at the brain’s base, was bared open to chant,

To stab undefended by a sword – so The Saviour thought.

sh-PING! His blade’s point punctured a moon in the sky,

The stab brushed aside and sailing harmlessly off line.

MUSES! BY WHAT MARVELLOUS MECHANISM HAD RAMIRO BEEN TRICK—

Stop. It was simply the rapier, which to our student’s fist had returned for a parry.

Countless were the topical teachers our tyke might’ve picked here.

We Eternal Brothers had our brilliant dual-wielding tactics.

Laxte was a dodging legend, as was Lali of the Jingzi Doublers.

Not to speak of those other souls (the non-sword phantoms about to emerge).

But for this lecher, he chose a low-tech solution:

A simple piece of string.

It’d been tied from his wrist to the rapier’s handle,

The sword swinging in reach.

And after hurling the , his hand’d snapped

Down for the dangling piece.

While these duels from the future could be frustratingly complex

Sometimes, they were stupidly simple.

Like this unsophisticated instance of a simple string

And the simplest six-point switch,

From a simple sword-drop,

To a simple spell-grab,

To a second simple spell-grab,

To a simple -shot,

To a simple sword-retrieval,

To a sword simply parried,

Stuffed within two seconds – simple.

But—SHING! The caesura was snuffed, the Saviour’s rebellion resumed,

His desperate assault. TING! Swish! CLANG!

Another jolt of nerves was gnawing at Ramiro’s heart,

Inflicted by the parry and the fissuring inside of his chest.

A sinisterness, as of the woodswarm, he’d sensed in that rapid set of gestures.

His mind, though blood-mad, had the mark of something vile perceived.

As much as his enemy, it was this aspect that he yearned to strangle, to mutilate, to devour.

SHING! WANG! Their weapons sang,

Then familiar friends joined in.

“TU!” TING! Had returned the chants,

For the anthem of steel AND sorcery.

SHING! CLANG! “KAT!” TANG!

“TIK!” TING! SHING!

In a colourful fusion fought the pair,

Trading thrusts and curses.

Risking the sword, our son endured,

Firing as fast as before.

And the unfettered beast, the feasting saint,

Was cleaned by the baptismal rain.

So our student and King, their choirs battle!

Metal clashed with metal!

Metal clashed with magic!

Hits and hail entangle!

Bashes, blasts colliding!

Strokes and witch-storm merging!

Lung-jabs joining gestures!

Limbs and lights a-blurring!

Mystic-chatter married

To torso-tearing sunders!

SEE US IN THE MOUNTAIN! ADMIRE OUR BONES AND OUR BLOOD!

OUR VOICES ECHO IN HIS ACTIONS! THESE EPITAPHS TO A THOUSAND SAGES!

Hear Luxte’s harm-hums! My hybrid magic sings!

This craft I gifted to Caineal, then the Cosmos engulfed my Wingless soul.

But he hovers in the range of Humans, whose hazards would Luxte harm.

Where sweat and breath do blend, we boys of The Empty Palm are entombed.

And in his spellcast’s discourse with the king’s bodily exhabitations

Is The Shadow Silhouette, a souvenir from The Borrower, Vaif. He killed me.

And though his chosen weapon’s changed, in our child’s cautious mind,

That’s our spectre, we Loving Spearmen; it spared for a time us soldier-priests.

Don’t forget we Medrishan mages! Marvel at our Twinned Spears!

In his arms is part of us, who also died in the fearsome melee!

Ours? You know our art…we’ve been on his chest forever…

The Eastern Temple’s Scholars…sentenced to death for our parents’ errors…

OUR VOICES ECHO IN HIS ACTIONS! THESE EPITAPHS TO A THOUSAND MAGES!

IN HIS UTTERING, OUR WILLS AND ANGUISH! THESE EPITAPHS TO OUR THOUSAND GRAVES!

Yet our scion is so unfamiliar, since conceived from a thousand gestures,

From a thousand shouts, of a thousand syllables weaved while pressured.

A synthesis of a thousand spells, this is our son, an impious chimaera.

Though born from our thousands’ blood, the boy has left us. He climbs the mountain.

The Child-Eater was forced to chop, while enchanted by our kid’s barrage.

But Ramiro, immured in magic, made out a way to snatch him.

Behind our sorcerous son, he sighted a sculpture of the Queen.

Though it approached fast, his feral mind seized the chance.

Activating , a burst of speed he received,

And his body propelled, he pincered the teen in between the statue and he.

But when the sprinting King closed in, from a cluster of glowing spheres

By The All-Wielder’s waist, a wicked shape appeared:

A different device, one dense, pointed, and long;

The base of its shaft was stationed against the sculptured Queen’s breast,

And its razor tip rammed the rushing King’s schlong;

A spear! Which buffeted his body to an abrupt, degrading rest.

Though his member were unmaimed, due to Mischief’s ,

Once more he was made to endure

Karnon’s punny cockblock.

But the God’s protégé, not practising his humour,

Caught two constellations—

“To! TAN!”—and ,

For purely practical reasons,

The cockblocked cock.

Yet this comedy incited from the crowd not a cackle, nor smirk, nor prattle.

They watched in an asphyxiated stupor, spellbound by the spear’s companions.

Condensing with this one weapon was a worrying choice of fellows:

A twosome of stalwart shields, a second sword, and a hefty halberd.

Though these others had always been loitering, they’d largely evaded the spotlight.

But now, these muted memories were emerging from the woodswarm, rapier, and shotfire.

While those corpses had lead the choir, since culled by apropos lessons,

In reserve were a million more, we minor ghosts for accompanying weapons.

As our first, the spectres of spears, had spoken their point to The Saviour,

The crowd’s hurting hearts heard the verses that might’ve been played:

By our Flower’s waist, by his shoulder, we shields held guard if the cannibal’d

Side-stepped the spear, spoiling his charge with a blocking ballad.

Above his head was hanging, the hefty and brunty halberd,

To heave the requiem hammering, if this homicidal wretch had into its hazard hurled.

By his hand on his Tomes, there hovered, if a hastening of the tempo were attempted,

A backup sword for a swift ambidextrous switch.

SEE US IN THE MOUNTAIN! ADMIRE OUR BONES AND OUR BLOOD!

OUR VOICES ECHO IN HIS ACTIONS! THESE EPITAPHS TO THOUSANDS CONSUMED!

OUR VOICES ECHO IN HIS ACTIONS! THESE EPITAPHS TO A THOUSAND FUNERALS!

IN HIS EVERYTHING, OUR WILLS AND ANGUISH! THESE EPITAPHS TO THOUSANDS EXHUMED!

Yet our scion is so unfamiliar, since conceived from a thousand lives,

From a thousand deaths, from thousands of thousands retrieved by the sky,

A synthesis of a thousand souls, this is our son, an impious chimaera.

Though born from our thousands’ blood, the boy has left us. He climbs the mountain.

And as his outpouring armament did ossify, each was to gravity subjected.

Like our bodies at our final facts, they fell with death’s heaviness.

For a moment, by his helping hand, halted he could’ve their fall.

But most were unchosen by our child. Their chances aborted, they were dissolved and recalled.

Yet, as from fields by blood fertilised, the fullest flowers sprout,

So the departing generations were replaced by the next; so they Cycled from the mountain.

Now, by our All-Wielding offspring, we ancestors march.

In his pain-dealing weapons, which our palms had once grasped.

Organic and fluid, we flowed out of his Bracelet,

Like the blood in his brain, like the blood that pulsed in his veins.

And at our armament’s core, connecting the rest,

Finding the place of his foe, feeding the mind to digest,

Identifying the dangers, the distance to constellations,

Spotting chances for the Spelltomes’ configuration to change,

Staring ahead to the steps in a thousand yards promised,

Twitching, twisting - these were MY two eyes stolen from their sockets.

SEE ME IN THE MOUNTAIN! ADMIRE MY BONES AND MY BLOOD!

MY VOICE, IT ECHOES IN HIS ACTIONS! THESE EPITAPHS TO MY THOUSAND TRAVAILS!

...this rat’s arsehole’s orbits, in essence, are mine, Tael,

The 'foul-mouthed’ monk, murdered, eye-raped, entrail-raped.

But that’s not the lone loot purloined by my crippled trainee.

Those sluggish reflexes - my fingers were likewise fatally heavy.

And the mind that’s shifty and sharp, I shared that, too.

But, in my dismal case, that didn’t negate this ruthless universe.

The madness... .........

......... .........

And on the mountain slope, my mangled body slumbers,

At the height I fell, frozen firm and crimson-crusted forever.

From my unrotting carcass, he’s ransacked the art I cherished,

My ambitious Twenty Tools. He’s turned it into whatever this monstrosity is...

...'A Thousand Tools'…Takezo, you insolent pest...

you piss-soaked parrot...this plagiarism spits on my reputation…

......... .........

......... .........

....don't bother…leave me alone…life was enough torment…

...let me lie in oblivion…lounge in death’s torpor...go...

......... .........

......... .........

MY VOICE, IT ECHOES IN HIS ACTIONS! THESE EPITAPHS TO MY THOUSAND LABOURS!

IN HIS EYES, MY WILL AND ANGUISH! THESE EPITAPHS TO MY THOUSAND FAILURES!

Yet my scion is so unfamiliar, since conceived from a thousand schools,

From a thousand teachers, the thousand ghosts who leave you these thousand tools.

A synthesis of a thousand souls, this is our son, an impious chimaera.

Though born from our thousands blood, the boy has left us. He climbs the mountain.

......... .........

......... .........

...though born from my weeping blood....the boy has left me, too...

...he climbs the mountain...he climbs the mountain now.