Game of the Year: A Naruto Quest

"And finally, Satomura Daisuke. The Ninja who should have been a samurai, who tries to learn everything and masters nothing. A shallow, superficial man who has touched every surface, and fights without a thought in his head."

Despite their intent, you know enough of your heritage to know that—in another life—every word is be a compliment. And thus you are content with the enemies description of you. You never fought against the grant future in front of you, and never looked for an easy life. If this is where your life lead, you will ensure that it is remembered. You do not ready your sword, because it is already in your heart.

The enemy had sharpened their words like another would knives. "You really are the worst. You have no respect for tradition or taboos, you break everything you touch and move on. Flitting from house to house like a stray cat and eating whatever is offered. How many heirlooms have you tossed aside just because they weren't useful to you?"

His words do not demoralize you; only your thoughts could. But you have no thought for him aside from the Five. Others would be at a disadvantage here, in the open. Laughter bubbles to the surface, and you speak the only word you have for him. "Meow."

This, perhaps, was the right choice as in his rage the enemy closed. There is timing in all things, if you miss a beat you'll lose the rhythm, and nothing falls into place. But if you keep it, nothing can touch you. Your hand, and sword, are already in motion, striking to their throat. Neither you nor the enemy noticed when the motion started, nor do you care. When they block, and your sword grinds against their kunai, you step into it and push with your full body, to knock them down. When you bring up your knee, you expect them to pop like a soap bubble or burst into smoke.

There is are no clones, no substitutions. Just two bodies in motion and Ways in conflict. The enemy hisses. "No friends to save you now."

This brings another laugh. They have already saved you. Again, and again. When you know others, you know yourself. By knowing things that exist, you can know that which does not exist. And you, are something which does not exist. Neither Samurai nor Ninja; neither water nor earth. You let your chakra go and diffuse among the dirt and the plants. Another with your nature might be a puppeteer, or a leader. You are simply you.

He stumbles, and you pursue. At one point, his blows become frantic and you cannot deflect them all with just your blade. But this too is fine, and you simply draw the sheath, using it as another weapon. You block and counter, and in a way you dance. You stick as close to him as possible, as though your body were made of paste or lacquer. You press against him, not content to let your body hang back. His space belongs not to him alone, but to your both. This is not a tactic any academy teaches, but it is not yours alone.

Of course, his words before were not simply intended to take the wind out of your sails, oh no. They were his own anxieties. Reinforcements have arrived, and not for you. This is fine. One well studied can beat ten men as easily as one. What are two more? He disengages and you let him. You put away your sword. One should not become too reliant on any one weapon, or any one style. It would allow your enemies time to find weakness.

"It's three on one, oh revered Bastard Son. No one's coming to save you. It's time to see what you're made of." And they descend upon you, the large one with blows from his fists, another with fire from his lips, and your initial attacker with thrown steel. And you dance between them, learning the timing. They are well trained, and they know each other.

"I am made of Love." You say, and you embrace the way of Love, if only for the moment. You trust your enemy, and let them move around and through you. And when the big one brings their leg around, you have your moment. His momentum is trivial to manipulate. He is forceful, and you are yielding. You redirect it, and soon he is where you were, and the kunai, shuriken, and fire rain down upon him.

All is right with the world, the grass is growing, the sun is shining, and the trees are strong. They do not know what it means to be one with nature. But soon, you will show them. They do not notice that the grass does not singe when the fire misses you. They do not see the little things, and from each think know a hundred.

The craft of the Warrior is strategy, and they are poor craftsmen. They think of you as either a ninja or a samurai. They think of you as the bastard son. But they do not think of you, and that is why they will fall.

It's the little things, from the root that trips to the branch that gives way when it shouldn't, that really throw a person off. And when you disappear, they search. "I can't find him, he must be better than they said at masking himself."

It is that not that they cannot find you. It is that they are already inside you. You delayed not because you couldn't fight them and win. Any one of them would have been beneath you. You delayed to ensure it. They have lost, long since lost. You are one with nature now. As they search, you decide to let one find you, in a way. Your hand reaches out of the dirt and grasps the big one's ankle. And soon he is down here with you. Unlike you, he cannot move through the soft ground. Because you have made it part of you. Only his head remains above ground, but you tighten his prison to make it difficult to breath. "Damn you! He's under ground!" Says the man who you've trapped.

You don't mind. You've been damned so many times you've lost count. What is one more? You slip from the dirt, and spill more of your life into the grass. It whispers and hisses as it grows around the man, as it hardens into blades. The others are coming for you, and you're ready. You run up the tree, and feel it's wisdom beneath your feet. Take everything that is given to you, and grow stronger, it seems to say.

The tree-top battle on the edge of your body the clearing doesn't last long before you cast one of them down into the iron grass below. His equipment and flesh shreds, and the grass grows harder as his blood spills into it.

The man with the tongue of fire and words of steel is all that is left. "You... you're impossible. How could this be? Your constant flitting from discipline to discipline, your grass is always greener bullshit."

You speak, slowly, carefully. "No. I am possibility. I am my father's son and my own man. I am what could be, and what could not be. I live on both sides of the fence, both ninja and samurai, and the grass is always green."