Truth is in the Killing
1141, late fall
Orderly rows of students knelt in the Iron Mountain dojo; rows of green kimono and shaved heads looking calmly (but not very patiently) toward the front of the room. On a small dais sat Mirumoto Dosetsu, a young but accomplished member of the school, at the axis of a great fan of weapons, from a simple straight razor to a spear taller than two men. Though the blades were all sheathed, on stands, or carefully folded, each was placed so that it would be ready should Dosetu wish to use it.
They sat there for almost an hour. Many used the time to practice their meditation.
“Students.” Mirumoto Kissaki said, entering the room from the side and walking towards the dias with a long stride.
“Hai sensei!”
“Of the weapons here,” Kissaki asked, gesturing to the dais, “which is best?” The room was quiet as the students began to think. Kissaki stood patiently, waiting. The first answer did not take long.
“Sensei-dono, the best weapon is the daisho,” a young man bowed and answered, confident that he would not have to defend his decision. Many of the students nodded lightly in agreement.
Kissaki gave a thoughtful pause to the young man’s answer, but continued. “In what situations would a daisho not be the best choice?”
The students sat stone-faced and hesitant, almost embarrassed, as slow answers began to trickle forth.
“...against cavalry, sensei-dono.”
“...when greater range is needed, sensei-dono.”
“...against fortifications, sensei-dono.”
“...against certain Shadowlands monsters, sensei-dono.”
“...in the hands of a peasant, sensei-dono.”
After the answers seemed to stop, Kissaki turned to the first student. “Do you still stand by your answer?”
“Hai sensei!” The boy trembled, practically shouting. “The daisho is the soul of the samurai. It is the heart of the Mirumoto style. Each set represents our place in the celestial order, in this world and the next. The daisho is what it means to be samurai.”
Kissaki said nothing for a moment, letting the student’s answers sink in. He turned to the daisho itself.
“Kill him.”
Gasps escaped the seated students.
“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? KILL HIM!”
A gong rang through the crisp winter air, echoing a call for lunch through the mountains. Kissaki turned to face the class.
“Fortuitous timing, Houken-san. Class dismissed.”
The students stood and bowed in unison before exiting into the courtyard, burbling with talk of Mirumoto Kissaki’s… eccentricity, perhaps? Most were confused, but this was neither unsurprising nor new; typical behavior of Dragon sensei, actually.
The next day, the room was laid out just as it was before, except that Kissaki-sensei was waiting for the students as they arrived, standing patiently with his hands in his sleeves..
“Houken-san, do you wish to revisit your answer?”
Houken stood, bowing deeply. “Sensei-dono,” he began. “Of the weapons presented, it is my opinion that the best is Mirumoto Dosetsu.” He bowed again, and sat down.
“I see,” Kissaki said, “and when would Mirumoto Dosetsu not be the best weapon?”
The class thought for a moment.
“When he is not present, Sensei-dono.”
There was a small ripple of laughter through the room. Dosetsu bowed lightly at the compliment. Kissaki’s slight grin was only momentary as he gestured to the weapons on the mat. “What is the point of these, then?”
The answer came from somewhere within the room; the specifics did not matter. “Each weapon has a specific application and purpose, sensei-dono.”
“True, but why. What’s the point?”
“To kill, sensei-dono.”
“To cut, sensei-dono.”
There was a pause in the room. “To… enable, sensei-dono.”
“That is an odd answer, Harumi-san.” Kissaki asked, looking toward the small girl at the front of the room. Though it was widely known that she was his adopted daughter, rescued from gaijin devils, all knew she brooked no favor in the dojo except by what she earned. He pushed her hard, but he pushed all his students hard.
Harumi stood, bowed, and spoke with a heavy accent. “A katana need not be drawn to kill, sensei-dono.”
“Like with a saya strike?”
“No, sensei-dono. Defeating an enemy need not involve death, or even violence. Sometimes the... the mere threat is enough, and to a samurai, defeat is worse than death.”
“I see you’ve been spending time with the courtiers again.” There was again a light chuckle from the crowd. Harumi bowed and sat; jokes were often the sign to let someone else speak. “Any weapon can do that. What then, of all the things here, makes the katana special? Why is it the soul of the samurai, instead of, for example, the kama or tetsubo?”
The class was quiet for a long moment. Kissaki motioned for Dosetsu, and the class erupted in discussion and debate as the two men stepped from the room to get some tea.
--
The air in the main hall of the Iron Mountain Dojo trembled with the clack clack CLACK of free sparring period as students of all ages clashed against each other in mock combat. Sensei roamed the room, looking for weaknesses of form and points in technique that could be refined; there was no order to it at all, just as there was no true order in battle. To any other observer, one who would be used to order and perfection and repetition in a dojo, it was no more than a maddening free-for-all (especially since there were a few Togashi monks and Agasha shugenja in the melee, too). But like all things Dragon, there was a method to the madness. This chaotic environment meant that situational awareness was of paramount importance, especially since the Mirumoto style of single combat was fluid and would at times drift around the room. More than one student found himself thrust in the middle of another pair’s sparring and would thus have to adjust his tactics accordingly to not be struck by his classmates or his enemy. It forced every participant to maintain awareness and control; to be a calm center amidst a whirlwind of fury.
Mirumoto Kissaki stood carefully in the center of the fracas, observing two overly-enthusiastic youths pounding on each other with their bokken; younger students were prone to this sometimes, overcome by the energy in the room, and Kissaki-sensei’s mere presence was enough to ensure they maintained focus… or at least tried to. It was obvious they both wished to impress him with their skill, and at the height of their furious combat, Kissaki crisply turned on his heel and walked away, leaving them out of breath, hearts thundering in their chests, and bewildered.
He would check on them in a week to see if they understood.
In the mean time, the beginnings of a duel between two older bushi caught his attention: Mirumoto Okita, a magistrate from Heibeisu, and Kissaki’s own protege (and his great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandson), Dosetsu. While Dosetsu’s own skill in iai was… less than ideal due to his focus on ken, he was no slouch, and Okita held a 4th dan rank in the Mirumoto school. It would be a good display, and with a quick gesture, a few of his nearby students stopped to watch also.
The two men were calm, standing about three feet away from each other in the traditional Mirumoto stance- bokken drawn, held loosely at the sides in a seemingly uncaring posture.
Kissaki’s eyes went wide as Okita’s bokken rammed Dosetsu squarely in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from him; he’d have been skewered if it were a live blade.
The two men bowed and began to speak quietly, reviewing what had happened. Normally Okita would have corrected Dosetsu’s form somehow or given him pointers, but there was no need: he was just flatly out-classed. He did congratulate him regarding taking such a solid hit and staying upright, but the two soon split into opposite directions. Kissaki watched the magistrate leave before returning to his students.
--
“Okita-san?” Kissaki said, politely announcing himself as the man he sought after was meditating in the garden. Okita’s eyes refocused, bringing him back to the present.
“Hai, Kissaki-sama?” Okita was one of those traditionalists that used ‘sama’ for all returned spirits, even when his status as a magistrate was equal to Kissaki’s status as a sensei.
“If you are not busy, may I talk to you about your sparring duel with Mirumoto Dosetsu? I have some questions.”
“Certainly, Kissaki-sama. It is my honor to answer any questions you might have” Okita bowed and stood, stretching his legs slightly to shake out the stillness. They began walking, because some conversations were best held with motion. The mountain’s gentle winds stirred the remnants of autumn as they began climbing a small trail, one of many that criss-crossed the grounds, up and away from the dojo’s shadow. “You studied under Hojatsu-dono in your previous life, yes?”
“Hai, Okita-san, and that is what I would like to speak to you about.” Kissaki’s voice was curious, querying. “Can you tell me about that thing you did, with the eyes?”
Okita, to his credit, did not stop nor betray any sign of shock. Instead, he laughed, slightly guiltily. “I suppose you would notice that. Not many do.”
“So it was on purpose, then. I only ask because that was something Hojatsu-dono himself used to throw off his opponents; like many of the things he and his father did, it was something that his other students and I were never able to really get the hang of.” Kissaki admitted, stepping over a log. “Even though there was never really a name for that it, I am glad to see it was not lost.”
“No, it was not lost, but as you can see it’s not something that we talk about.”
“As it should be. Secret techniques must stay hidden, after all.”
“True. if I may ask, Kissaki-sama, can you tell me more of Hojatsu himself? All I have is Niten and other writings, and it would be my great honor to hear of him first-hand.”
Kissaki nodded, and began to tell stories of the man as they walked. How he carried himself, how he spoke, the gentleness in his manner and the lightning in his eyes. He spoke of how he was almost the polar opposite of Mirumoto, but in some ways, very much the same. “There was a poem that he once wrote that captures his essence fairly well, Okita-san. Would you like to hear it?”
Okita bowed lightly. “Of course.”
Kissaki began, speaking in a calm, measured cadence:
I have no parents: I make the heavens and the earth my parents. I have no home: I make awareness my home. I have no life or death: I make the tides of breathing my life and death. I have no divine power I make honesty my divine power: I have no means: I make understanding my means. I have no magic secrets: I make character my magic secret. I have no body: I make endurance my body. I have no eyes: I make the flash of lightning my eyes. I have no ears: I make sensibility my ears. I have no limbs: I make promptness my limbs. I have no strategy: I make “unshadowed by thought” my strategy. I have no designs: I make seizing opportunity by the forelock my design. I have no miracles: I make right action my miracles. I have no principles: I make adaptability to all circumstances my principles. I have no tactics: I make emptiness and fullness my tactics. I have no talents: I make ready with my talent. I have no friends: I make my mind my friend. I have no enemy: I make carelessness my enemy. I have no armour: I make benevolence and righteousness my armour. I have no castle:I make immovable mind my castle. I have no sword:I make absence of self my sword.
“I… I have not heard that. You honor me, Kissaki-sama; thank you.”
“He was a good man. I am proud to have been his student, but even more so… proud that he was my friend.” Kissaki said, turning for a moment to look back over the dojo as they crested a ridge. His voice was… distant. “It is very strange, how much things have changed… but then, perhaps it is stranger how much things have not changed. I see him in every student now, just as I see some him in you. You are a credit to his legacy.”
Okita bowed deeply.
“You know, Hojatsu’s house once stood around here somewhere. It would have been...” Kissaki tried to get his bearings between the mountains, which were eternal and unchanging, and the dojo, once the foundations of Shiro Mirumoto, a few miles away, sitting on a pass between two insurmountable ridges. “just over there, in a little valley behind that ridge. My house would not have been too far from it. I tried to find the road to the old village when I returned, but I could not, and there was no recollection or record of anything there; the mountains must have swallowed it long ago, I suppose.”
Okita was silent as they continued walking.
“If you would indulge me, Okita-san; perhaps we can go look? I think we can get there from here before lunch.”
“Lead the way.” There was a small smile to Okita’s voice as the two men turned north.
--
Kissaki stood at the top of the hill, looking downward and slightly dumbfounded. Below him stood a small handful of thatched-roof cottages; cottages that should not exist, in a style long since abandoned. He cast a quick glance to Okita, but Okita said nothing. Kissaki began walking down the path. There were a few people here; men and women in Mirumoto green, busy with all manner of things: sweeping, replacing thatch on a roof, sparring. All who saw him stopped and bowed deeply.
Memories flooded in as his hands touched the unpolished frame of his old house. He tried to speak, but could not. His memories were often just dreams; dreams of dinner with Akemi, dreams of cutting the thatch with a sickle and unrolling it, dreams of carrying water from the nearby stream, of his wife’s servant girl who always bowed to the chickens before taking their eggs. Of warm hearths in the frigid winters, of cool summer breezes; dreams of sparring with his sensei in the small grain field, and evening sof laughter over sake.
Dreams of kissing his pregnant wife goodbye one last time.
Dreams of dying.
He remembered the house being much larger.
Many hours later, Okita entered to find Kissaki still sitting on the floor, inspecting a small ikebana vase in a lingering sunbeam. He looked up, not bothering to hide his shock behind a mask. He started to speak, but no words could come out. Okita took some wood from stack and put it into the fire, poking it before also sitting down.
“You’re probably wondering why this is still here.”
Kissaki nodded.
“Earlier you had mentioned that I was a credit to Hojatsu-dono’s legacy; that is a surprisingly true statement, even though you did not know at the time. After his death, many years after you yourself had passed into Yomi, his students had kept up his home to function as… reminder of their beloved sensei. They were only a handful of students, who themselves brought only their most promising students; over the years, Hojatsu-dono’s home became a shrine, a retreat, a place to reflect upon his teachings in solitude. This home has honored many, many students since then, protecting them from the elements while they studied, and we in turn have kept it in tact. I myself have been honored to stay in this very house.”
Okita stood, pressed his kimono smooth with his hands, and bowed very deeply.
“It is my honor, Kissaki-sensei, to welcome you to the Soul of the Dragon dojo.”
