[Exalted] Ain’t No Devil

You were never going to win, were you? Even if Hayate hadn't turned up there would've been something. Some Tamura shithead, some well-behaved golden boy. The prize money's just to draw in people like you, or Bull, or the demonblood who barely even got a chance. The freaks and the undesirables who lurk at the edges, coming into the light so they can be stomped into the sand just so the crowd can clap and cheer and stamp their feet and shout for blood. You hate Hayate. You hate him so much you want to see him on his back, choking on blood with your sword through his throat, but right now you hate his family even more. It's a hate that runs so deep it's scorching your bones, but it's burning slowly. Controlled, for now. You can still think.

You stride toward Hayate as if you were ten feet tall and swing.

You have more reach. You have more strength. You're swinging more raw mass at him. And with it completely blunted, you've lost all reason not to use your sword like a club. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG, the sound of your blade on his fills the ring, piercing through even the rising roar of the crowd. White jade heals and no way you're strong enough to slice through in one swing, but it's not the sword you're trying to wear down. You feel the jolt of recoil up your arms in every clash but you know he's feeling it worse. Each parry sends shooting pains up his arms, sends his arms jerking off-course, forcing him to correct just in time to receive your next blow. His first instinct is to back up, make space to recover and think. You give him none.

His second is to go forward, try to break through the assault and cut you from inside your swing. You've had more people try that than years either of you have been alive. He tries to disengage the parry but you step into it, steel ringing on jadesteel as you switch grips. Your left hand closes around the grip under the hilt and your right sends the pommel scything up into the side of his helmet. CLANNNG. It rings like a bell and he staggers a step. Just a step, but it's all you need. You flip your sword upright again and whack him right across the exact same place. The same sound, higher-pitched this time. If it weren't strapped down tight you would've spun his helmet around three times. You hear a sound from the prince at last and it's an all-too-common snarl of fury.

Now he's angry too. Good.

He lunges, but in his anger he overextends. You reverse your sword again and divert it, the elegantly curved edge of his white-bladed sword singing across the flat of your crude hunk of iron, as he carries himself right into your outstretched leg. You sweep it through, ignoring the sting as it collides with hard armour, and he's left at an angle he just can't correct. The prince goes down hard on his face with a jangle of jadesteel and squeak of sand.

"Are we all having fun today!?" you shout to be heard over the booing crowd, striding away from your fallen enemy with your arms spread wide. You point up at the VIP box, at the Dragonblooded seated within that glare down at you with naked antipathy. "What about you lot? Everything you hoped it'd be? Feeling pleased?"

Sand crunches beneath armoured boots behind you. You whirl around and there he is, sprinting straight at you with a raised sword and murder in his eyes. You can't help but grin. His strike's too telegraphed, hoping anger will give him the speed and strength to overcome you, but if he thinks he's got enough of that to beat yours he's sorely mistaken. You meet his descending blow with an ascending one, forcing his arms to recoil as if he struck a stone slab. He switches it up, coming low from the right with that quick little sword of his. Your arms flex and bulge as you haul back against your blade's momentum, forcing it to reverse course and slam into Hayate's again so hard it almost goes spiralling out of his hands. You draw back and lunge, aiming to put a nice big dent in that pretty breastplate.

He does the first surprising thing all bout. He jinks to the side, lifts his foot and drives it down on the flat of your sword, half-burying it in the sand. He shifts his weight forward, forcing it deeper and lunging for your unprotected head. You duck beneath the pommel as his sword flashes overhead, set your left hand below the hilt and shove. Your sword rises from the sand and Hayate goes staggering back, arms all but windmilling in a desperate attempt to stay upright. You step forward, spinning with the movement, and slam your sword into his side with all your might.

You think you hear something crunch. What buckled, the armour or his ribs? Either way the prince goes sprawling again, rolling twice across the soft peaks and valleys of the pure white sand. He comes to a stop and doesn't rise, not yet. Can't. That swing drove all the air out of his lungs and now he's wheezing, all but retching, trying to force even a scrap of it back in. The booing is even louder now, marred only by the few people shouting encouragement to the prince, begging him to get up. You shoulder your sword and stalk towards him.

"This is embarrassing. Have you ever even been in a real fight?" You have to shout just to hear yourself over this crowd, but you're sure the five divinely-appointed leaders and dignitaries up in the box can hear you just fine. You look back at your shoulder and there they are - with your blood singing in your ears like this you can even stand to look them in the eye, meet their naked antipathy head-on.

Sho Tamura, head banker and treasurer of the satrapy, flicking his gaze between you and his brother and back again in a mix of anger and disbelief. General Hideyoshi, hair as white as his father's, cutting a strong military figure even out of his armour, hissing through gritted teeth for his brother to get up. Ayano, sticking out like a sore thumb in her shapeless grey Immaculate robes, yet as the Abbess of the largest temple in the region she wields as much power as the rest of them - and oh you can only imagine how she feels about a ghostblood brutalising her little brother then. The only odd one out is a woman you don't recognise, slouching in her chair in a pool of loose-fitting silks, sapphire-blue lips quirked up in something like amusement.

And then there's Shuzen Tamura. Still sitting back in his chair, not a hair out of place, but from the way he grips the armrests and the way his eyes seem to bore through you, his displeasure couldn't be more clear. It only makes you smile wider.

"Is this really it?" you call out to everyone watching, turning in place. "Is this the best the Tamura Clan has? You stack the deck with his fancy tutors and his fancy sword and his fancy armour-" you drive your boot into the side of his head and he rolls over, crying out as his brain rattles in his skull once more "-and he still can't beat some mercenary with a blunt sword."

The crowd keeps booing, keeps jeering, but you don't care any more. Now it's just energising you, filling you up with a righteous anger that sizzles in your blood. You feel unstoppable, invincible. All you can think about is the helpless fury that must be bubbling in the pits of their stomachs, those Dragonblood prophets powerless to do anything but watch.

"You're cheats," you spit up at the VIP box, "and liars, and cowards! Too scared I'd draw blood from your precious little prince to let it be a fair fight!"

Hayate staggers to his feet behind you again, breathing hard and heavy through his mask. You slowly slide your sword off your shoulder again.

"Let's see what colour he bleeds."

You whirl to face him. Your swords clash again and again, and the difference now is like night and day. He's punch-drunk, disoriented - you wonder if he can even see you properly. Whatever he's feeling you make it worse, again and again and again every time you make an opening and ring his head like a gong. His slashes grow wilder, his parries sloppy. He can't find the space to clear his head and you give him none.

He thrusts and you divert it right, pinning his sword away from your body as you step in and drive your elbow into his mouth. The mask absorbs part of the impact, but not all. You smash that elegantly-carved piece of white jade into his nose, into his mouth, hidden lips mashed against his teeth, and he cries out again. Staggering, swaying, instinctively clutching at his face to try and dull the pain. The perfect opening to half-sword and lunge for one of the small, oval slots just above the mask.

They blunted the tip too, but it's still sharp enough for this. Hayate screams, bright scarlet stark against the silver and white all around as blood gushes down his face. His free hand rises to cover what's left of his eye, to desperately staunch the flow, but you're not done. The crowd screams in your ear, crying out fit to drown out even the prince's agony. You flip your sword around, grasp it tight by the blade, and drive the crossguard into the side of his helm like a pickaxe.

His eye opens wide, glassy and unfocused. His hand slowly drops from the bloody socket beside it. His breath comes in shallow sips, all but retching. Gurgling. Choking. You wrench your improvised pick free with a sickening, wet sucking sound to find it soaked in scarlet. Hayate sways dangerously, swinging his hands all around for some kind of handhold, something to steady himself and make the spinning stop. You take one step back, two, three. The prince all dressed up in silver and white slowly crumples, falling to his knees in the sand. His sword slips from nerveless fingers.

You look up and you're not alone any more. Soldiers are streaming in from both ends of the ring and all four spectator entrances. At least a dozen armoured infantry encircle you with bared swords, another dozen take up positions in the front row and level crossbows at you. Two more dart forward and seize the unresponsive prince, hauling him up by his arms and dragging him away. Leaving a trail of bright red blood in the sand, and his sword where it fell. The crowd is going mad, surging up from their seats as if they intend to leap down with the soldiers and swarm you - even more guards are pouring in just to hold them back. It's utter chaos, the din of it all absolutely deafening. All around you a dozen voices join as one, barking in unison for you to throw down your weapon. You turn this way and that, sword half-raised to defend yourself if they rush you, shouting at the top of your lungs that you won fair and square for all the good it will do.

"ENOUGH," a voice commands, and the whole world goes quiet.

All eyes turn to the VIP box. All eyes turn to Shuzen Tamura, rising from his seat and striding forward to the railing. Every soul in the arena watches with bated breath, hearts in their mouths, as the satrap vaults the railing in a smooth, almost lazy hop and drops into the ring. He lands flat-footed, light as air.

He's tall, taller than you, built lean and quick but you don't mistake his uniform as concealing a lack of muscle for a second. His charcoal-grey jacket gleams, silver for the buttons, gold for the many commendations he's won over a very long military career. His belt, the sheath hanging from it, his gloves, and the band around his sword-arm are all white as snow. His sandals make no noise at all as he strides through the sand. His long, stark-white hair is tied back in a knot, his full beard well-trimmed, eyes the colour of ice all but glittering as they bore through you. He looks fifty but you know he's older, far older.

An ice-cold hand grips your heart. You shrink back and you don't even realise. Spring seems to turn back into winter around him, the temperature plummeting, chill fingers of wind ghosting mockingly across your cheeks and your arms. It's all you can do to keep the fear from showing. All you can do to stand your ground.

"Have you finished brutalising my son?" he asks.

You swallow, hard, and force some strength into your voice. "It's a tournament," you reply, holding on to the bright star of indigation in your gut to keep your voice from shaking. "People get hurt. He knew what he signed up for."

"You accuse my family of being liars, cheats and cowards," he says, his tone even and calm yet dripping with derision. "You mock the Tournament of Ten Winds, the cornerstone of a tradition that has brought joy and pride to this region since before you were born. You torture and humiliate my child with the dark arts and you have the gall to face me with indignation?"

" 'Dark arts'!? What are you-?"

"You were a fool to think I would be as blind as the rabble you are accustomed to slaughtering," he cuts you off as harshly as a blade. "The powers of the dead flow through your veins thanks to your corrupted heritage. If you wish to speak of fairness, it will not be you looked upon favourably."

"You're lying!" you shout. "I don't have any 'dark powers', I'm fucking human!"

"No," he says. "Far less. This farce is over. You will throw down your weapon and submit-"

You don't hear anything else. You can't. Blinding, white-hot fury drowns your senses and soaks the world in red. Your sword feels as light as air as you charge forward with an unearthly howl of rage, bringing it down on his head like a falling mountain-

A flicker of movement, a gentle sigh of displaced air. Shuzen's gone. Your sword slices through nothing, a puff of white sand rising around the point of impact as it hits the ground. You freeze. You can't even breathe. All you can do is stare, eyes wide, cold sweat rolling down your temples as the silence is broken by just one sound. A sword slowly, serenely, sliding back into its sheath.

The hilt clicks against the throat.

Your right arm comes undone.

You scream.

You're on the ground, your howls of agony scouring your throat raw. All you can do is clutch uselessly at the sucking emptiness where your shoulder used to be, fingers slick and soaked in gore as bright crimson pumps through them too fast to be staunched. You can see your sword. You can see it lying right there, almost within reach. Your severed arm still gripping it, a smaller pool of scarlet slowly growing around it. Your heart beats faster and faster, treacherously forcing the flow. Draining you dry.

This is it.

You can't see right. The colours are rippling, smearing, draining out of the world. The sky looks almost grey. Only red remains, bright and vibrant, garish against the white sand. You're numb. You're weak. You can't feel it or fight back as soldiers lift you and carry you away.

This is it.

This is... finally it.












It's a cold autumn day, the river below thick with dry red-orange leaves of every shade as you cross the bridge. The house looms over you atop an escarpment, bigger than any of the others in the village. The long, winding path up is flanked by more trees, tall and ancient and almost bowing beneath the heavy burden of dying leaves. Soon to shake themselves clean, to endure the winter naked and half-dead. You climb and you climb and you climb, here and there steps cut into the path, everywhere else it just slopes endlessly up. When you finally reach the doors they're unlocked. You push through.

The table is set for four but there's only one here. One man rises from his seat at the head of the table and he towers over you, dwarfs you. You have to crane your neck to look him in the eye. He's ever-shifting, ever-changing, two men sharing a place in memory.

"You're a born killer, Jiro." His old captain meant it as a compliment. His father didn't. "What happened to you?"

You can't hold his gaze any longer. You stare down at his feet, shaking your head slighty. You're... confused. It's hard to think. Hard to speak. The thoughts are sluggish. You just want to sleep. You feel...

[ ] Regret. You didn't mean it. You said it again and again but you'll say it a hundred times more, you're sorry you did what you did and you wish you could fix it.
[ ] Sadess. Despite everything that happened, you were going to come back. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next year, but you wanted to. Just one more time.
[ ] Anger. You hate him. You hate everyone here. You hate them and you'll always hate them and they don't deserve your remorse. If this is it, and you're never going home again, good.