Crick leaned back on the old wooden chair and placed his feet -boots on and all- on the sturdy wooden table. His dirty soles caused a dull thud against the wood.

He made sure his wine mug was within reach and sighed comfortably.

If he were to be judged by the standards of the Flower country, his behavior would have been the epitome of rudeness. But table manners were simpler in the Black Lands; one needed to avoid spilling the food and assassinating the co-diners. In that order of importance.

Crick scanned the dusty wooden bar around him and had to admit the effects of master Skullsong’s curfew were easy to spot; there were only four other people loitering around. This was a sorry number for a place where it was usually hard to squeeze through even early in the morning.

The other customers minded their own business; drinking and glaring suspiciously at each other. Crick vaguely recognized one that wasn’t wearing her hood as a subordinate of the captain with the crooked smile, but they weren’t close enough to greet and she hadn’t noticed him – lost in her thoughts.

Crick took a small sip out of his mug and clacked his tongue in appreciation. It wasn’t that good of a taste, but it reminded him of fun times spent with comrades in cheap breweries.

He needed the drink. Because his nerves had stretched to their limit from meeting one after the other master Skullsong and Sieg -the dragonslayer’s disciple. Honestly, he needed a lot more relaxing and a good night’s sleep. But he doubted he’d get that much free time.

True, he needn’t care anymore about the gate and the occasional fool that tried to break out ignoring master Skullsong’s orders… His thoughts went astray remembering the idiots sneaking out in the middle of the night.

Fools! Crick mumbled a couple more elaborate profanities under his breath.

His conscience felt heavy. His strategically positioned men sniffed out anyone entering their perimeter and they caught those trying to cross the walls – be it with ladders, ropes, digging, short flight spells and even enchanted camouflage cloaks.

The ones caught would surely be executed to make an example.

But he couldn’t just ignore his orders. Plus, he reasoned, those trading on people and Goat Poweder deserved it.

Crick gulped another mouthful of alcohol to lighten his mood. He leaned further back and made his chair balance only on its two hindlegs. Soon, it became a sort of game between himself and the creaking wood.

He returned to enjoying his limited free time.

Why was he certain it would be limited? But, of course, there was no way the self-organized mass-mobilization of the other guard captains wouldn’t drag him into trouble! Basically, he had briefed the tracking teams and they had briefed everyone else. And all were hellbent on trying to corner what they thought was a rat trapped in a maze.

Crick found their efforts futile. Forget about the possibility of having escaped master Skullsong. Pressuring someone that could deal with captain Nightcrusher one-on-one?

Better leave monsters to other monsters.

Crick chugged down the last of his mug. If there was real need, master Skullsong would issue orders.

Speaking of which, the master had probably sent search parties only for appearance’s sake. Or to instill a sense of urgency to his prey.

Though he understood the rationale, Crick felt like grumbling. He had exhausted his men for nothing it seemed. Although he wouldn’t tell them that. He resolved to avoid giving them sandworm hunting duty for a couple moon cycles to make up for it.

At least, he had somehow caught master Skullsong’s attention – although at an arguable price of somewhat offending Sieg.

Crick failed to maintain a good balance and all his chair’s legs returned to the slightly uneven cobblestone-ridden ground. Given his short stature, this meant that his legs resting on the table made his body bent a lot.

His folded stomach pressed on the alcohol inside and that made him nauseous.

He had perhaps drank a little too quickly. Thus, he circulated his martial aura to clear his clouding mind.

It’s insane something so outside the norm of the word is possible, he realized. Martial aura defied everything scholars could come up with. Magic could be explained to a reasonable extend as the manipulation of something that was already there. But extra energy coming out of nowhere?

Crick decided on not wasting time with this age-old conundrum. Especially given that men and women smarter than him had failed to tackle it.

Instead, he gestured in the air with his mug for the hooded bartender to bring him another one and, for the second time that day, pulled out the small booklet Sieg had gifted.

He opened the first page. Shadows played unevenly through the poorly aligned window shatters, but the black letters contrasted cleanly against the white pages and remained easy to read.

People call me Kamitaka.

I was born in the Kingdom of Sergh in its founding year CCCLXXII.

When I was V, my parents took me to the annual test of the Sword’s Path school.

I have a very special skill. The elders called it the “Heaven’s Gaze”. They made me the branch’s inheriting disciple.

I led a sheltered life. When I was XVI took my first training mission. There, I witnessed the cruelty of the world for the first time.

Unfortunately, I also came to realize that I see too deep.

With a look, I can discern the brilliance of each life. Once I do, I cannot bear to snuff it out, no matter how vile its actions. Till now I have never killed; I leave the judging part to others.

I was made fun of for my lack of killing intent, but no challenger could defeat me, so it quickly stopped.

Thanks to these eyes, by the time I was XX I had fixed all my flaws.

By the time I was XXV, I would occasionally defeat the branch head in a spar. By the time I was XXVIII he could never break through my defenses.

When I was LI, I came across the school’s founder. It was my first time meeting someone else devoid of weakness.

When I was LXIII, my mother died. It was a rare disease that came from her own cells. Not a spring later, the same cause took my father. Seeing their lives flash out was painful. In their memory, I vowed to never kill – as an obligation this time.

When I was CII, Esmeralda von Shahrinia Fiandecros IV absolved me from any responsibility towards her kingdom. Still, I vowed to protect it for tri-bravais-on-itself (translator’s note: CXCVI winters in the old system) winters.

A spring later, Shalaenor’s troops assaulted Sergh on its founding year CDLXXIV. I fought to a standstill with a nymph that controlled nature. They eventually retreated because their front had spread too thin. A half-tri-bravais (translator’s note: VII winters in the old system) later Sergh signed a peace treaty in exchange for fixed springtime tribute and I could rest easy.

By the time I was CCC, even the children of my childhood acquaintances were no more. With no more attachment to that land, I left to travel.

In my CXL-ies, I fought for the third crusade. Demons are simply a scourge that needs be purged.

When I was CDXXVII, a strange creature sought my help; together we suppressed Asyarvago of the forgotten calamities.

When I was DXX, I sparred with a very strange swordsmaster; we were evenly matched and she introduced me to a nice group of friends. Surprisingly, I found my school’s founder there; he had become even more formidable than I remembered.

When I was DCLIX, I came across an incredible person. A mere mortal, but perhaps the greatest thinker I’ve known. In our conversation, he happened upon the thought that nothing is expected to remain forever.

Self-evident perhaps, but I was stuck with anxiety when someone phrased it out; my non-killing techniques sum up my lifelong path and beliefs and I don’t want them to be lost alongside me.

Hence, I write down their principles for the later generations that inherit my will.

Crick remained silent for a while, digesting the new information and holding his sleep-deprived concentration from wandering off again.

Eventually, he finished gathering his thoughts and exhaled in admiration.

Kamitaka.

It was his first time hearing the name. But judging from the short -albeit a little clumsy in his opinion- autobiography, they should have been an ancient expert. Crick could not read the numbers, but he was sure he’d seen that numeric system before.

More interesting than the numbers though, were the names he hadn’t heard of before. This meant they were old enough to be lost in history. Old masters liked to record their experiences and their lives tended to span several centuries. So, it was rare for past accounts to be missing, even if the stories had grown into legends or forgotten by ordinary people.

How long ago are we talking about? An eon’s worth of eons? No, more than a dozen times this? Crick tried to recall how long the age of written civilization had been lasting for.

With a mixture of amazement and anticipation, Crick picked up the page to turn it over when he noticed a tiny script on the bottom.

Alas, Kamitaka is no more. I hope copies of this work can reach as many as possible. - The translator.

If one were to wander the town, away from the walls and their nearby pubs -so favored by the guards- but at the same time steered clear of the wide central road, they would discover that the mud huts and rundown buildings of the town were split by numerous alleyways. These created an invisible web-like pattern that reached not towards the proud watchtower serving as the town master’s residence but a little further away, to small clearing, where the only tree growing in the town occasionally swayed gently with the wind.

Why were the winding paths of age-worn cobblestone arranged this way?

The question had been poking at the man’s curiosity ever since he had first arrived. However, he suspected the answer could no longer be traced among the living.

Perhaps the General could easily find out if he was here…

But he was not. And the man didn’t have the resources to investigate. Well, it was fine, because little mysteries like this could be said to be the spice of life.

The man passed by the old tree – the subject of his musings.

And something unrelated to his thoughts caught his attention.

A couple of fallen leaves had been crunched under someone’s boots. Although leaves didn’t fall off that tree often, this was by no means an important finding. Also, fallen leaves were bound to be stepped on. Rather, the direction they were stepped on it was of interest; it hinted a movement towards the west gate – the same way as him.

But common folk would not dare trespass in that area. For it had been rather brazenly declared as the Vizier’s territory a couple of moons ago.

Curious, the man crouched within his face-concealing cloak to closely examine the leaves. He urged martial aura outside his body and dragged some magical energy of the nature’s element to coat it. Careful not to lose control, he swirled the two together and willed the resulting pale green mixture to rest on one of the brownish leaves.

Triggered by the nature’s element, the leaf assumed a wet texture, as its not-fully-decomposed faculties reactivated for a short moment. The end-result looked like paint splashed on a wall.

However, looking closely, thin dry lines remained on the surface of the -now greener- leaf, intertwining like an uneven net. The meant that something of that shape had repelled his own martial aura – and hence the mixed nature’s element had not settled there.

Ifsomeone involuntarily leaked a strong aura, it would stick to their surroundings for at least the time needed to boil tea. But if the aura was too weak, its effects would vanish almost immediately. On the other hand, masters had too fine a control to waste their energy while walking and there weren’t signs of conflict to warrant needless use.

All things considered, only one answer remained:

A strong disciple just passed through here.

The man was tempted to investigate. But delaying his current actions further would have been suspicious.

Therefore, he reluctantly directed heat from the environment on the leaves. With a small crackling sound, they assumed a red hue and then crumbled to ash – he wouldn’t want his own aura getting analyzed by accident.

The man stood up and detoured around the tree.

He took the same direction as the tracks. But this was because only a single alleyway led from his point to the north. It was seldom used by others, for it passed through an area where the ruins of old forming the backbone of the town had turned to mere piles of rubble, forming a structureless maze of blocked alleyways.

There were other areas like this in the town. All sparsely inhabited, if at all. Because people, even residents of the Black Lands, would never dare build their mud-walled dwellings inside the territories of true underworld bosses.

Of course, there was no such thing as this town’s underworld; master Skullsong was strong enough to deter violations of his decrees. However, the type of organizations laying low, seeking protection, anonymity or to spread their webs, were nothing to be trifled with once one left the safety of the walls.

Thinking that far, the man realized that very few people could have made that track; someone visiting the Vizier, a member of the Vizier’s retinue, master Skullsong’s male disciple, who was normally stationed on the north gate, or the swordsman wreaking havoc in the town.

Given the lockdown, nobody would be foolish enough to become a target for master Skullsong and come visit. The Vizier also wouldn’t let someone strong leave his side. Then, that only left master Skullsong’s male disciple and the swordsman. The swordsman wasn’t out of the question, but the surroundings were too quiet for him to have come here with half or more the town’s guards on his heels.

Then, that left only master Skullsong’s male disciple. Having made an educated guess, the man quickly lost interest.

Eventually, he stepped into the less thick cobblestone marking the decline of this particular area into ruin.

The instant he did, he could feel countless prying eyes, hidden amidst corners even the midday sun failed to reach.

“Wihaihai!” the man laughed softly under his breath. With his abilities, he’d need less than tea-boiling time to eliminate the lookouts without a drop of sound or smell leaking out. But they were supposed to be allies.

Ignoring the gazes, the man walked deeper inside the maze of blocked baths and uneven rubble.

At some point, he purposefully strode to collide with one of the few still-standing pillars.

Instead of hitting the cold marble, his senses distorted and he found himself kneeling on a soft velvety carpet. He knew a hidden short-distance teleportation formation had pulled him deep underground.

Two cold lines of metal were waiting for him, pressed on the sides of his neck. They were attached on two thin blades taller than himself attached to wooden poles. In turn, the poles were wielded by two men of loose white robes and bronze-tinted skin, standing at the very edges of his vision.

Patiently, the man took to staring at how the blades crossed each other before his neck. After letting the correct number of breaths pass by, he finally spoke.

“May the Last Sultan’s will guide us.”

The blades receded from his neck and the two men stood in attention. They motioned that he could pass and made strange gurgling noises of affirmation; one of the few sounds they could produce with their cut tongues.

The man breathed a deep sigh and passed by, moving from the undecorated bare room into the next one.

Here, dozens of granite doors greeted him, a worn-out triangle with a circle on top carved on each. The man did not hesitate and walked to their middle, where pushed the rightmost of the two. It gave way for him to pass.

The man stepped through a thin but visible due to its quantity membrane of martial aura someone had deployed just behind the door and down a smooth-walled corridor, illuminated by a couple of magical artifacts.

Then, he removed his hood and pushed aside the velvet curtain at the end to enter the Vizier’s audience chamber.

“…”

Cat ears. A furry head. Purple silk robes. A wide toothy smile. Vertical slits for pupils. Plump, with an easy-going demeanor and an ever-present jovial expression.

If one wanted to summarize the Vizier half-laying on the pillows stuffed inside his comfy chair, at the very back of the dimly-lit chamber, this was a rather accurate description.

But there was always more to a person.

Cunning. Ruthless. Depraved.

“…”

The man realized he had accidentally used the thought process of the Shadow and tried to fix that.

Wise. Caring. Our master.

That was better.

This happened sometimes in complicated missions. When he needed to switch between several roles within the day, he sometimes mixed up the mnemonics. He masked the fleetingly wrong expression by kneeling in Lifidich’s pose of subservience, his spine arching and forehead touching the carpeted floor.

The man cast away the first set of emotions and buried his ego deep inside his mind. He observed the actions and thoughts of an emerging personality that wasn’t himself.

With his self-deluding preparations finished, he looked up from the deep blue carpet to meet the Vizier’s yellow eyes.

The vertical slits locked his gaze.

It was well known that the Vizier trusted nothing but his own ability to distinguish deception. But, at present, the man was using a wholly different person as a front. The admiration sparkling in his gaze was true - the same kind he usually directed to his general.

The man waited for the object of the switched personality’s reverence to speak.

After a probing look, the Vizier moved his gaze away and onto the half-dozen women standing in attention behind his chair. Their skin colors varied from the faint bronze of the south to the dark of the people of Black Lands and the pale white of the north. But they were all human - and tall, strongly-build ones at that. They wore armor made of sturdy black-painted leather and similarly colored chokers, which the man knew had enchanted fragments of Lonsdaleite weaved inside.

The Vizier gestured to one of the women – one so tall and stocky-built she probably heralded from a line of Berserkers – to move a step forward.

From within the fake persona, the man felt the woman’s immense and well-polished martial aura. Or, as per the general’s characterization of martial warriors, ready to take the next step. And this woman wasn’t even the most troublesome of the bunch.

The woman stood next to the Vizier and guided martial aura outside her body. Although most disciples would have considered the task strenuous, she didn’t look discomforted. Instead, she started rocking he aura back and forth. It created a steady cool drought of the air towards the Vizier, who sank more comfortable in the depths of his throne-like chair.

“Ssiooow? Wat did Skiullsing siaay?” The Vizier eventually spoke.

His stretched mouth never left its perpetual grin, distorting his accent. But his face looked so much like a human-sized brown cat’s, it was strange hearing him speak in the first place.

“Oh, benevolent Vizier, blessed and everlasting be your days, under the care of the Last Sultan!” The fake personality hit its head on the carpet with enough force to hurt before raising it again. “The vile heathen refused to listen to reason. That detestable and unpardonable Costella even hinted they would move against us if we tried to quell the unrest.”

“Tzat oogly wretch!” The Vizier seemed to have a strong impression. “If niet fer tzat Nightcrisher, I’d ha’e her atoine withh deiath!”

He growled. A low, threatening sound despite his harmless exterior.

He had enough manpower at hand to threaten even Skullsong in a head-on fight. But he probably knew that only another master could command full respect from a master. For example, if Skullsong really wanted to, he could use a hit-and-run tactic and wipe out his forces within the day.

“Oh, star that illuminates the path to our sky! With joy will I atone for this failure!” The man closely watched the fake personality unsheathe a ceremonial scimitar and bring it to its carotid, ready to intervene at the last moment if things went too far.

Feeling the fervent belief in the other’s thoughts, he wondered if perhaps he himself was just a puppet someone deeper inside had birthed. Was he also a fake?

I think, therefore I am. The man recalled the well-known line of reasoning to calm himself. It was funny how something so profound came not from someone like the Philosopher but a nameless soldier of some faraway land.

The vizier lifted a pawed hand to stop the ceremonial suicide.

“Niet!” His eyes shone with benevolence. “Thi faithful nieedn’t atoine! Wat iof tzat Miayers?”

The man watched the fake personality’s thoughts fill with gratitude.

“Blessed be the ones my lord bears his soul to!” it kneeled deeply again before continuing. “Markus Mayers seized the fragment without needing our help. Though there’s rumor he encountered trouble afterwards - trouble related to this inconvenience.”

“Miaters niet! Miayerses aire difficult toi kill. Hee will hionor tza deal.”

“How much foresight my lord has! Truly without equal!” tears of admiration clouded the fake personality’s sight.

The sentiment was more heartfelt than normal because the man was also impressed. The Vizier could somewhat understand the reclusive Mayers family through the handful of rumors circulating here and there! The man had also arrived at the same conclusion, but that was because the General had close ties with a master of the main branch.

Perhaps the Vizier’s capabilities are equal to the General’s. Not for the first time during this mission, this though popped into the man’s head and made him glad he had taken all those disguise precautions.

“Niow tzen… We cian’t reeally defiy Skiullsing.” The Vizier’s smile felt rather strained. As if a meticulous strategy had failed because the opponent had decided to smash the chessboard. “Biut we giot wat we wanted. We depiart in tiwo days. Dismis’d!“ He proclaimed.

“I hear and obey!” The fake personality bowed to the ground and walked backwards until it passed through the thick veil barring the entrance to the room.

While moving back up the corridor, the man watched it gather its thoughts about notifying other members of the retinue the Vizier had strategically scattered throughout the town. It would check their provisions and organizing the transport of any acquired slaves that hadn’t been freed. Since it would be bothersome to make the same calculations himself, the man decided to let it come to a decision before taking over his body again.

When the fake personality reached the room he had arrived in, it nodded to the watchmen and walked into one of the walls.

Then, their shared vision swam and they were in front of the pillar that served as an entrance.

Seeing the desolate surroundings, the fake personality grumbled that Skullsong should have accommodated someone of the Vizier’s stature in his own mansion – if that watchtower could be called such.

Its extreme emotions made the man uncomfortable. But, due to the unseen prying eyes of the surroundings, he waited after the personality put on their hood before pushing it back to sleep.

The man calculated that the Vizier’s preparations could wait for tomorrow and still be completed in time. Given that the Vizier didn’t bother with his men other than basking in the care of his personal guards, he judged he could relax for the rest of the day.

From somewhere inside his clothes, the man retrieved a small lollipop, which he had painstakingly hidden and preserved for times such as these.

Careful not to let such an extravagant good be seen by the watchful eyes in the surroundings, he quickly put it in his mouth, leaving only the light-colored wooden base outside his lips.

The man smiled a toothless smile under his hood's shade. Since he had some free time, he had a certain entertainment in mind. There was a rampaging swordsman playing cat and mouse with the town’s guards and master Skullsong.

It would be one hell of a show.

Step-step. Step

Johan stepped forward, taking care to maintain an even pace. His feet thudded softly on the rough cobblestone.

The four hoodless guards watched him strenuously. For every arm length he gained, they moved half the distance back.

Silence stretched between them. If this dragged long enough for the crowd he had left behind to catch up, things would get dangerous. But Johan didn’t want to be too careless either.

He pondered whether he should switch to deathmatch mode to quickly get over the fight but decided against it; he would expend too much aura and he still had a half day’s worth of fighting to do.

Step.

The four guards in front tensed when he stepped into their range, but kept retreating. They were observing his actions, probably to seek for an opening.

Step.

Johan tried his best to minimize his blind spots. As far as he could tell, besides the back of his head, there was a big one in front of his body, in the space he’d need to draw his katana. But this left him the option of surpassing assailants in speed by using the unsheathing motion to accelerate his attack’s speed – the iai attack.

Were his opponents really waiting for him to show an opening? Was it a trap? He tried to read their expressions.

His gaze drifted past their eyes and focused on their center of gravity that could be better deduced from their mid-body’s posture.

Step. Step.

After the last two steps, Johan stopped moving.

“Ahahahahahaha!” He burst out laughing.

This was funny! So funny! He was being an absolute fool!

The guards redoubled their weariness, but Johan let most of his battle concentration relax. He even straightened his posture to a less threatening one.

“Hahaha! This is such a joke!” Johan hit his forehead with his palm as he laughed.

“Have you gone mad?” The guard in the back shouted. “What are we waiting for if he’s that defenseless?” He addressed the rest.

The others didn’t reply. They only glared at Johan, redoubling their vigilance.

“Rookies! To think I was on guard for this… Tell me, are you waiting to enter my range before attacking? To make sure whether I would avoid being the aggressor?”

They remained silent, but their deadpan expressions were eloquent enough.

Johan grinned “You’ve been within range from the start.” he explained.

They cannot tell? Ah, how can one properly gauge the strength of those stronger?

“Cut the nons-” One of the guards began.

Whoosh

Johan tilted his body forward and, using gravity to aid his acceleration, jumped. He covered the distance separating him and the guards with one fluid motion and landed in the opening between the two middle ones.

Previously, he had had trouble with the Mayers guy’s guards that boasted at most the same level of training. But, at that time, he had been lacking a weapon he could comfortably wield.

Before the guards could react to his speed, Johan used his left hand to release the katana’s sheath from his belt. Without revealing the weapon, he grabbed the point where the sheath met his katana’s hilt with his right hand and infused the metallic surface with martial aura.

Careful not to let his katana fly off, he swung the sheath in a semi-circular motion in the place he was going to break through.

“!!!!”

The guards' eyes opened wide when they realized he had predicted where and how they would hit. But it was too late to change their actions.

Clang-clang-clang-clang

Slow, just too slow! Johan only needed martial aura to boost his running strength and prevent the weaponized sheath from breaking. For his swing collided with the broadswords mid-motion and his momentum ricocheted the heavy weapons towards the air.

The guards’ sword arms were raised together with their broadswords and they faltered.

Yes, with a weapon at hand Johan's prowess was multiplied by several times.

Danger!

Johan's intuition had no problem detecting the arrow either.

Woosh-woosh

It ended up being two arrows, aiming to supplement the attacks. Perhaps the same archer as before, who tried to catch him off-guard again.

However, Johan simply let his body turn to the side and fell between the buzzing pieces of steel-ended wood without allowing them to touch him.

This maneuver left him rolling in the ground behind his two middle opponents.

By now, all guards had regained control of their weapon's momentum and were spinning to jump on top of him.

Johan remembered how some of his youngest martial brothers and sisters liked challenging him together as an excuse for playing a similar slam-into-Johan's stomach game. He did have trouble against the well-trained kids at first, but after grandmaster Kenji taught -or more accurately beat into- him how to follow the flow of battle, he had been avoiding them with increased efficiency.

Then, it was inevitable that after a decade of fighting in the plains of the central continent he would have no trouble against this crude type of attack.

Johan rolled on his feet and, from a crouching position, jumped upwards at the last moment.

Clang-clang.

He needed to parry only two of the broadswords and the four guard ended up entangled with each other.

Woosh-clang

Mid-jump, Johan swat away another arrow and landed even further away, in front of the guard sitting the engagement out.

For some reason this one wore a crooked smile.

“Gotcha!” he exclaimed.

Cough

Johan's head swam in unsteadiness.

“How do you like the drunkard’s poison? There's no way you'd sense danger from inhalable alcohol!” the last guard gloated.

Johan circulated his martial aura once to clear his head and punched the chin under the unpleasant smile, sending the man flying into the mud wall to his left.

“Not bad, but useless against proper disciples.” He answered.

Without waiting to see the outcome he resumed his steady run.