Of All Those Countless Stars
It's hot. No—it burns. All I want is to collapse right where I stand and rest. But I shake off every one of those temptations. Only moments ago, I had begged—protect the village, and I will gladly throw away even my life for it. Wasn't that how I prayed, desperate and yearning, inside my own heart? Did my heart truly change in the span of a few seconds?
"——!!"
Someone shouts from a distance, but the words don't reach me. A savage warrior comes closing in, axe raised. Then—not rushing in right away—he stops and hollers right in front of me for a long moment before finally lunging. I meet him with both hands on my sword. I take his blow, and in the same breath, answer with a counterstroke that fells him in a single exchange.
Long ago, my master once said this to me. 'You were born lacking in raw strength, I see. Your frame is not sturdy either. No matter how you train, no matter how you suffer for it, what you gain will be pitifully little. And yet you must not give up. If you do, you won't even be able to protect your own body. The mercy in all this is that your lungs are sound—cultivate that trait well, and you will tire less readily than any man alive.'
Train for the sake of survival itself. Strength would come later. …And so, merely enduring the training my master demanded of me. Was itself an ordeal for me. He said it was near impossible. Hearing those words, I set my course by them. If something was near impossible, didn't that mean my effort could carry me away from the impossible itself? I made even the work that fed me a part of my training. Even my private leisure and rest I measured with ruthless efficiency. Rest is what allows growth. Eat well, move well, rest well. Never measure yourself against others. There wasn't even time enough to envy. Even grieving over misfortune felt like a waste. And once I came to regard even loneliness as a luxury and stopped minding it, I found I could endure well enough. Even when she watched me and, in the end, fell into despair. The reason I could not comfort her with a pure heart was. …In the end, my own weakness.
We stand upon this earth—upon hell. On desolate, wretched ground with nowhere left to go. Like fallen leaves that could be swept away at any moment. Left alone, we simply rot and vanish into the soil. Even being swept away lies beyond our own will. What a lamentable life it is. Even if, by some means, one managed to grasp happiness. …The cruel reality that even that happiness could shatter at any moment. I could not, quietly, accept it.
…Another warrior comes charging. A hulking man with shield and club in either hand. He looks a full size larger than me. Come to think of it, the one who ran at me earlier had been absurdly built as well. And as if to prove his worth, a few clashing blows alone were enough to chip my blade—and then bend it outright. Meeting brute force with brute force was, it seemed, madness after all. But it is too early to give up. My hand goes to my waist. I draw a new sword, one that seems to cling to my palm. Only one sword has been ruined. As long as it isn't my limbs that are broken, my life that is severed. There is nothing wrong at all. And above all. The stronger the enemy, the stronger we become. Because. We have always brought our enemies down by turning their own strength—yes, even their own mistakes—against them.
Where does water go? My master once asked me that. I answered naturally—that it flows forward, toward the openings. But my master declared that wrong. "Water flows from above to below." "……?" Hearing it, it was plainly true. "That is why the sea is the king of all rivers—the father, and the mother." The reason the sea can embrace all water is. "Because it rests lower than anything else." The sword we wield must be the same. "But that is not the end of it. Falling and falling still, water rises once more. Thus it climbs to the heavens, becomes cloud, becomes rain, becomes snow, and falls again." "Eh? Then rain was originally river water? Sea water?" "…It is so." I didn't quite understand. But my master insisted again and again that wielding a sword must be like this. That even the exertion of strength must follow the same law. "And like the wind—woven nowhere, bound by nothing—seek the path that lies open, turn naturally against what entangles you, and pass it by as though grazing it." When moving the body, it must be so. "Master only this, and few on this earth will treat you carelessly. Because of your body's nature, you will never be able to handle mana in intricate ways or turn it to your use. For me, there is no other answer I can offer you but this method."
My master. Even now, I do not know. …What it was you told me to awaken to. And yet I have somehow overcome those who wield sword-aura, who pour out light, who command impossible strength of body. And I feel, modestly, a flicker of pride in it. It was never my own defeat that I feared. It was disgracing your teachings. Defiling your name—that was what frightened me most. And that is why I could never bring myself to proudly declare who my master was. …That, too, was one face of my own cowardice and frailty.
"How can he…?" "A monster…?" I had felled perhaps five. By then, even they seemed to have abandoned any pretense of honorable single combat, shifting their aim to simply bringing me down. 'If they had hurled arrows or stones, it would have been rather troublesome.' This—coming at me face to face—was far easier. I no longer had the strength to dash forward, nor even to advance properly toward them. Standing was all I could manage. Strength would not come into my body. All I could do was clutch my own legs to keep from swaying. And yet. "Kkeurgh!" Why. "Ugh, uaaaaah!" ……Why is it. "Da-damn… you. G-God… please." That I will not fall?
Suddenly, I remember—I must not fall. If I fall here, if I crumple here. Who will stop them? In truth, even if a few of them turned toward the village right now. I no longer had the stamina, the strength to hold them back. So why. Why do all of them keep their eyes fixed on me, wary and alert? 'Why?' Casually, amid their rolling assaults. How am I still instilling wariness—fear—in them? 'Did he tell me to release my strength?' Nature's workings admit no artifice. Deliberately forcing strength, squeezing it out, pouring it in. All of it is meaningless, irrelevant. It is true that the human structure ought not work that way. …And yet, unless that principle is inscribed into the body itself. To enact nature's workings through the flesh is impossible. Forcing a replication of it through mana is artifice at its extreme. But even if it is a lie—if it can be done, then it becomes plain reality. Therefore that, too, is a path, if a path it can be. Would the road to one's desired answer truly run in only a single direction? That, too, is an expression of will—and its fulfillment. …But still. A man without legs cannot climb stairs with legs he does not have. A beast without wings cannot fly as birds do. '…I see.' I had been mistaken all this time. Even now, there was something left for me to learn. No. Rather, I understand now, boundlessly, how much I lack. Rather—I understand why it is only now that I've grasped this. But it could not have been otherwise. Even my most exhausting, most punishing moments. Were never once as grueling as this.
The strength drains from my whole body, naturally. Yet the enemy is mighty, and above all, overwhelming. And so, a path opens. Just as a river narrowing through a gorge gathers its waters into a single current. No—perhaps it is something a little different from that? My mind cannot comprehend it. But somehow, I feel I understand. This is exactly what my master spoke of….
====
I chase the phantom. I thought I had let go of consciousness, just for an instant. But in that moment, everything he had felt—bearing some unknowable current—flowed backward. And drifted into my awareness. 'When taking a stance—be as rock and tree.' And. 'When carrying the movement onward—be as water and wind.' Simple words, nothing remarkable in them. But one thing was certain. 'This is….' The wind blows. Every direction is sealed shut. But if there is an exit—however narrow a gap it may be. The wind throws itself toward it of its own accord. That is what I am now. I guide my body along the phantom's trail. And raise my sword. —!!
The instant I collide with the greatsword, my body is flung to one side. But I do not lose my center. The stance carries on—rather, my body flows, slides, glides exactly in the direction I intended. And from there, again. I let the axe slicing in from my flank slide off my blade as if paring it away. Then, using that force as recoil, I lead my body sliding toward the opposite side this time. In a breath, I have reached the chest of one warrior. I sink low and slide between his legs. And seize his ankle. He holds firm as a planted pillar. So I use that—twisting my body around it as I swing my sword through his ankle. "Kuaaaaagh!"
Not too shallow, not too deep. As he doubles over with a scream soaked in pain and bewilderment. I roll across his back and carry myself to the far side. The encirclement has loosened somewhat. However tightly they seal me in on all sides, keep moving, and gaps are born. 'Water and wind.' So long as a path exists, they never halt, never pool. I do more than evade the kick of a lunging man—I catch his foot outright. He instinctively yanks his leg back, and I ride that force to hurl myself straight at his chest—up over his shoulder, and seize the knot of his hair.
"What are you all doing?!" "No more games!"
When the head tips upward, the neck naturally bends back. The heaviest part of the human body is, surprisingly, the head. To control it, then, is to seize command of the body's center of weight by another's will. But it doesn't end there. Just before coming down, I swing my sword through the empty air and cut the nape. This, too—neither deep nor shallow. But it is, without question, a mortal wound. If anything, it is more agonizing and more lethal than a blade driven deep into the belly. Without even the time to clutch the back of his neck, the warrior staggers, reaching a hand toward the wound—and collapses where he stands.
"……."
The way the phantom fights is markedly different from this. He diverts his enemies' offenses with his sword much as I do, sometimes cutting them down, sometimes kicking out savagely, even driving his fist into their jaws. Amid the melee, alone, he flows like water—resisting, deflecting, countering his enemies' blows like the wind itself. And sweeps across the battlefield. But that is his way. His body, his circumstances. The environment he was given, the manner he was given. …They teach me that I cannot be the same as him. And yet. The root is the same. By what principle, toward what end, through what means and methods he presses them—drives them. I understand it now, perfectly.
"Aaaaaaah!"
A massive frame charges head lowered like a charging bison. I answer in kind—dropping my upper body nearly to the ground, body crouched low. Those brutish hands reach to seize me, descending like a wolf's gaping jaws. I slip my body through the gap instead, sliding free of his charge in the same motion. From there, sprawled and sliding, I twist myself around and—just as before—sweep my blade across the warrior's ankle. THUD!
Unable to overcome his own momentum, his ankle ruined, the warrior crumples face-first. I knock aside a spear haft driving in from my side, evade a sword falling again from above, barely deflect an axe arcing down in a diagonal cut. And drive in. When they reach for me with empty hands, I seize their fingers instead and roll their whole bodies with them. "Aaagh!"
Belatedly worrying over broken fingers, he rolls after me—but in that very instant I cut through his neck, roll over the top of him as though riding his fall, and strike down yet another warrior's ankle, toppling his stance. And cut.
"Are you playing games right now?! With a whelp who couldn't fill one fist?!" "Tackle him! Tackle him all at once! What are you good for if you can't even do that?!" "How long do you mean to wallow in disgrace?!"
The phantom neutralizes his enemies with minimal force, minimal response. He watches for openings—cutting an eye here, severing a wrist or an ankle there. Driving his fist into a jaw, kicking through the space between the legs. And still, those who cling to him he seizes with demonic skill—dragging, shoving, pulling them this way and that. Making them roll across the ground of their own accord, smash their own heads down, drop their own upper bodies. Felling them, spreading them flat. When weapons fail, grappling. When grappling fails, latching on to crush and smother and choke. Nothing works. Just as binding water with hands, arms, one's entire body means nothing at all. Or as if trying to embrace the wind. All of it is utterly futile. And the moment their attempts collapse, it becomes another chance for a counterstroke. This, too—turning the enemy's own strength against him. There is no need, as I once did, to drive a blade into an eye socket. A light slice across the eyeball alone leaves an enemy helpless at once. Even if they charge again, they are not hard to answer. Sever the tendon of the ankle, cut the neck, split the wrist, cleave the solar plexus, slice the thigh, gash the femur. Topple them. Spread them flat. So the weapons are not ruined—never letting the blade touch bone. However mighty the muscle, strike the one point hardest to protect—precisely, decisively. And split it apart.
Within the vision, he had. Before I knew it, left more than a dozen warriors helpless.
"……."
At some point. The number of hulking warriors sprawled by my own hand in my field of view had already passed a dozen as well.
"So that's… what it was."
Only then. The phantom came to a stop. And I saw that he was looking directly at me. I, too, turned my gaze toward him.
"In the end…."
The memories he showed me. Even that scene he revealed to me, if only in illusion. All of it. ……Was preparation—made for my sake. From this moment on. I understood all of it with unshakable certainty.
He. Was waiting for no one else—waiting for me.
Through long, long years. Through three hundred years of time. In that single place. He had kept that vigil alone. …For nothing else. Than this moment.