[Exalted] Ain’t No Devil

You think about it sometimes. The Blessed Isle. The seat of power for the Realm, the shining spoke around which all of Creation turns. They say if you stand there at the highest peak, alongside the great dragon of Earth, you can see the whole thing. The entire horizon stretching out before you, edge to edge, in all its splendour. No wonder it got the Dragonbloods in a 'king of all they survey' mood. You think about passing off some of your prize money to a man down by the docks and sailing, first west, then south. Chill winds of the north seas slowly growing warmer as you round the bend and it comes into view. You imagine it looking like White Tower but even larger, grander, until even the Dragonbloods feel small and insignificant compared to what those that came before them built. You imagine climbing to the very top, alone at the roof of the world, and looking in every direction for the truth of it all.

You also imagine punching the Mouth of Peace in the mouth. Who says fantasies have to be realistic?

It's a pipe dream really. Anything you can think of to do with your prize money is. But it's a hell of a lot more than you've had for a good long while. You sink further back in your bath, the heat in the water finally reaching your head, and enjoy the thought. Jiro, lord of all he surveys, taking the Imperial City by storm. Oh what a stir you'd cause.

It can't last forever. Soon you get a knock on the sliding door, someone muttering the five-minute warning through the thin wood and opening it just a crack to fit your clean clothes through. Water slops and sloshes over the sides of the bath as you shift in your seat and finally drag yourself upright, so flushed you'd practically blend in with normal people by now. You dry off, get dressed, and bid farewell to those you pass. In and out, no fuss at all. A model customer.

You feel more refreshed than you've been in weeks, but you're still not relaxed. It just feels wrong to be walking around without your sword. You've carried that thing on your back so long that you feel too light without it, like you're liable to slip and start floating off. Your spine itches. You scratch your shoulder irritably, right where you should feel the hilt, and decide to take your mind off that. The arena's on your way back to the inn you've been rooming for the week, so you quicken pace and duck inside.

Perfect timing. The guard by the door barely gets halfway into telling you to buy a ticket before he recognises you and just lets you through. You're a little late for the afternoon bout but you're only looking for standing room and nobody wants to crowd you anyway. The arena is like an empty dish, the sides laddered with solid stone benches and finer-cut stairs, the uniformity marred only by the four shadowed arches through which the crowd are funnelled in and out. You stand at the threshold of one such arch, leaning against one shaded marble pillar, and crane your neck to see down into the sandy fighting pit. You didn't make it in time to catch more than the tail-end of the announcer's spiel about the combatants, but you can fill in the blanks just by looking.

On the left, another mercenary type. Bandit, more likely. Probably been a good boy staying away from Realm supply lines and trade routes, only raiding the kinds of people that can't bring the hammer down in retaliation. Maybe raiding outside the satrapy, a land-bound privateer. He looks like a demonblood, his tough, leathery skin the rust-red of day-old blood, black nails hardened and just a bit too pointed. He wears a haphazard mishmash of armour - some leather and fur here, a little chain there, a couple plates over the vitals - and his sword looks like shit. Even from here you can tell it's chipped and notched, worn down by dozens of battles. His long hair's tied back into a high ponytail, his lips drawn back in a snarl.

On the right, who can't tell who it is on sight? Dynast-Prince Hayate Tamura. The tournament was all abuzz with excitement when he joined the lists, and no matter how many lowlives and ne'er-do-wells beelined for him he just kept coming out spotless. He's been formally trained by the best tutors Realm money can buy and it shows, the difference like night and day. There's a crispness to how he fights, drilled to extreme competence where perfection is impossible, on a whole other level to the rough and improvised techniques people like you use to get by. Oh there's been a few close calls in the past few days, a couple dangerous moments when it looked like the prince might so much as get a boo-boo, but he's always pulled through. He cuts an impressive figure there, completely encased in armour of silver-white jadesteel, a white horsehair crest flowing down from his helm to the small of his back to meet the twin tails of the sash tied around his waist. His face is concealed by a solid white jade mask shaped like the snarling maw of a dragon, only his eyes left to betray the humanity - the mortality - still in there. He may not share the same blessing as his father but down there he looks every bit the part. Like a god come to visit. You look at him and you know for a fact who you'll face tomorrow.

The prince draws his sword smoothly from the glossy lacquered sheath at his hip, grasping it tightly in both hands. The way it gleams in the sun it's got to be white jadesteel too. The bandit edges closer, his own sword a dull metal pole by comparison.

The prince edges closer. The bandit edges closer. The whole crowd holds its breath in anticipation.

Closer, closer. Close enough that a simple dip of their wrists and their swords would touch, the blades cross. They hold there for long seconds, eyes locked together, watching and waiting for the slightest twitch or tell.

Their swords ring only thrice. Once when the demonblood attacks, the prince parrying the sudden lunge. Once more when he retaliates, driving forward, forcing the bandit on the defensive. One last time as the prince draws back and slices, the brilliant arc his blade traced seeming to linger in the air. The bandit's blade lands in the sand, the sound of its impact completely swallowed up by the deafening roar of the crowd. He can only stare down in mute disbelief at the clean-cut stump of a sword he's holding.

The prince presses the tip of his sword to the man's chest and presses forward, driving the demonblood back and back until he trips over his own feet and goes spawling in the sand. He tosses away the useless hilt and presses his empty hands together, silently begging the man for mercy even as half the crowd raise their voices in unison for the reverse. The prince only raises his head, horsehair crest and sash flickering in an errant breeze as he turns to his father for the final verdict. Shuzen Tamura does not so much as lean forward in his chair - a single, almost imperceptible nod is his only answer.

The prince draws back one step, giving himself plenty of room to... drag his blade through the crook of his elbow, cleaning it of non-existent blood and grime, before delicately returning it to its sheath. No boos and jeers this time - the crowd only seem to grow more energised by the noble act of mercy, chanting the Tamura name to the high heavens. They're practically jumping up and down in their seats as the white-armoured figure far below bows to his father, turns, and strides back inside. The bandit lying in the sand is all but forgotten even by his opponent. Only you watch him as he pushes himself up on one hand, clutching his chest, and mouths 'fuck me'. You've got no sympathy for him. If he was going to keep his sword in that shitty of a state, he's got nobody to blame but himself. Even on a good day he was probably just going to snap it off swinging at the prince's armour.

You don't stick around for the after-party. You've seen all you need to see.

Night finds you lying awake in bed, flat on your back with your hands behind your head. It's a cramped attic room and you can hear every word said and every bottle clinked downstairs straight through the floor, but that's not why you're awake. You've slept in literal holes in the ground. You're awake because you're thinking about Dynast-Prince Hayate Tamura and the fact you'll have to fight him tomorrow. Are you even allowed to hurt him? You can only assume so. He knew what he was getting into, there had to be a discussion with his dad about all this. You know for damn sure his family won't be happy if you kill him, but it's not like that's completely up to you. Heat of battle, swords flying, complications with seemingly minor injuries, there's no guarantees on the battlefield. So... what?

You know what the smart thing to do would be. You know what the safe thing to do would be. But you can't let that, any of it, distract you. Distraction is how you get dead. You need to stay focused, eyes on the prize, no silly fantasies in your head but the view of all Creation and the prince in white jadesteel standing between you and it. Besides, little pissant was already born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He can handle being roughed up in the ring a little.

You close your eyes and take a long, deep breath. You're going to win. You will win. You've fought with your life on the line before more times than you can count, against worse odds too. Either you'll pull through tomorrow or you won't have to worry about anything any more. Win-win.

Next morning you find your sword waiting for you just like the apprentice kid said it would be. It slides into the sheath on your back like a key in a lock, turning with a decisive click that finally makes the shackles of doubt and worry wrapped all around you fall free. People recognise you in the street as you walk to the arena, rolling back from your path like the sea before a wave and talking about you in hushed whispers when you've passed. You pick up a light breakfast on the way there, awkwardly crammed into a stool beneath a short awning to slurp up some noodles and rice, and even then you can hear people talking about it.

'What kind of fool wouldn't have already forfeit? Does he want to die?' 'What move do you think the prince will use? Did you hear what happened in the last bout? He cut his opponent's sword clean in half!' 'That's nothing, have you heard what they say about his father? He once cut a lightning bolt in half!' 'Oooh! Why?' 'Nobody knows, but if he could do that then who knows what his son can do?' 'Do you think he'll kill the mercenary?' 'He's spared all his other opponents hasn't he?' 'They all had the good sense to beg for it. I don't know, this one just has that look about him. I think he'll have to.' 'I can't wait!'

Same shit, different seasoning. You drop your bowl on the counter and head out.

The arena's more packed than ever, drawing in more spectators from all over the city like a swirling whirlpool of sweat and blood. You have to shoulder your way through the crowd just to get to the fighter's entrance, sidestepping a pair of Tamura soldiers fighting to maintain order in a crowd downright champing at the bit to see their prince fight. You can only imagine how the combatants in the second melee feel, fighting and bleeding out there in the sand as a pre-show warmup the crowd couldn't be less interested in. You hope whatever pittance they're paid is worth the scars. You, you're just glad it gives you more time to prepare. You hand your sword over to tournament officials so they can check you haven't poisoned it - either the elegant noble way or the cheap commoner way - and warm up.

Hah. You're trying to stay calm, but the sound of the crowd out there is so strong it's starting to make even your cold blood buzz. You can only imagine how someone like Hayate's preparing for this. Maybe he's being delicately fed peeled grapes by concubines while attendants oil his armour and sharpen his sword.

You wonder if you can get away with putting out his eye. It's probably your best bet of getting past all that armour.

At long last the horn sounds to signal the end of the melee, and the crowd can scarcely contain itself. You can faintly hear the announcer appealing to quiet through the layers of stone and steel as get in position, waiting for the noise to die down to a dull roar to launch into his routine. You don't pay much attention to it. You've heard your half plenty of times before, nobody will shut up about Hayate, and the embellishments will only distract you if you give them the time of day. You face forward, staring a hole in the gate before you, fighting to keep your breath even as your heart begins to race. Someone hands your sword back to you and you buckle it on. The gate crrreeeeeeaks to life, rising from the sand bit by bit, light and sand spilling into the tunnel. You step through the moment it rises over your head.

You've been here before but it's different this time. The sheer scale of it is like something else, like something out of a dream. Every last speck of free space in the stands is full, people jostling and pushing against each other for a chance to even stand somewhere decent. All of them shouting and cheering and pumping their fists, calling out the prince's name as he steps from the shadows on the other side of the ring - even the dignitaries in the VIP box seem marginally more invested. White sand squeaks beneath your boots, your blood sings in your ears. Your enemy is in front of you. You fight to close out the sight, the sound, the smell of so many sweaty people pressed together and desperate for a look at the action. You draw your sword.

It's blunt.

You freeze solid. Your neck all but creaks as you drop your gaze, tearing your eyes away from the armoured prince opposite you. You look down at your blade, prying one hand off the grip to thumb the top-facing edge just to be sure your eyes aren't decieving you. It's blunt. The tip and both edges have been ground down flat. There's still flakes and burrs of steel all over it. A rush job. A sloppy job. Or they just didn't care if you noticed now, when it's too late to do anything about it.

You look up and there he is. Dynast-Prince Hayate, drawing his own blade as he slowly stalks towards you. Sealed away in armour, face hidden but for the glint of dark eyes just above the snarling mask.

Your breathing quickens. Grows harsher. Your knuckles grow whiter than white as you grip your sword so tightly your hands quiver. You're like a spring winding tighter, tighter, tighter. You feel... you're absolutely...

[ ] Fucking livid. All this time, all this work, you've sweated and bled and now it gets yanked out from under you within reach of the goal. A big scary monster neutered at the last so the crowd can cheer and pat themselves on the back as they watch it get knocked down. Well then fine. You'll show them what a real fucking monster looks like.
[ ] Furious at Hayate. He planned this from the start, didn't he? Delicate little noble shithead. Wasn't enough to come in with equipment worth more than a lifetime's earnings and all the tutors he could want and the blessings of the dragons, he had to sabotage you like he sabotaged his opponent in the semis with that shitty sword. Well he's in for a big fucking surprise if he thinks you won't play dirty right back.
[ ] Seething at the entire setup. It's all fake, isn't it? All of it. It's just another piece of the posturing that is the Festival, a bloody honey trap, another way for the Tamura to show off. If wasn't the prince it'd be someone else in their pocket, someone with the tournament officials on their side, pairing people off to whittle down the real competition and fix who takes home the wreath. Well then fine. You're gonna ruin this for them too if it's the last thing you do.