novel bin Chapter Fifty-Five: Interlude: The Monk
Chapter Fifty-Five: Interlude: The Monk
Chapter Fifty-Five: Interlude: The Monk
Year 687, Seukaia.
The Crime of Hwajing
The princess sent the man’s head rolling off his shoulders.
Mizukiya’s blade cut through flesh and bone with a song of sharpened air. She moved on to the next target without a moment’s hesitation, killing anothe monk before her previous target even hit the floor. Droplets of blood slipped past her lacquered armor to stain the skin beneath. Her pulse pounded like a drum in her head, the smoking flowing into her nostrils, the thrill of battle rushing to her skull.
She lived for this.
The men in front of her seemed like dancing shadows fading each time she swung her sword. A giant stops her blade in mid-air with hands clad in fire, his grip strong enough to immobilize it. Mizukiya hardly stopped long enough to break his knee with a well-placed kick. The giant released the sword as he fell to his knees, and Mizukiya beheaded him in one swift stroke. Droplets of blood flew around her like cherry petals in the wind.
That was why they called her the Blood Blossom.
Around her, her men acquaint themselves well despite the pitched resistance. They cut down the monks one after another with janggeom swords or shot those who tried to flee with arquebuses; the Firehand Sect’s resistance crumbled all around her as flames consumed their monastery.
“Preserve the relics,” Mizukiya ordered once the battle in the courtyard subsided. Her teacher had demanded that she salvage those for posterity. “Protect them from the flames.”
“The fire has already reached the western wing, Princess Mizukiya,” her aide-de-camp replied. “It may be too late to save anything.”
Mizukiya clenched her jaw, then nearly slipped on somebody’s guts. She caught herself and looked down at the corpses of the dead lying in puddles of their own blood. The monastery’s courtyard was littered with flesh and body parts. A few belonged to her men, and most to the Firehand Sect monks who had died nearly to a man to defend their temple.
The rush of battle had subsided enough for Mizukiya to assess the carnage around her without being blinded by the clash of steel. The courtyard’s walls and trees were paved with blood, and her soldiers finished off the wounded on the ground. Father had given the order to kill all captives to teach the Seukaian resistance a lesson, and they would follow it through.
Mizukiya crushed the doubt in her heart. Father had given plenty of opportunities for the city to surrender, and they rejected each of them. A sack had been inevitable.
This blood would be shed for a good cause.
The clean-up was swift and efficient, though flames unfortunately consumed the Firehand Sect’s archives and precious sets of scrolls. Knowledge of the techniques that gave them their name might have been lost forever that day. Mizukiya thought it might be for the best. Such talents should belong to the state alone, not to a foreign order holed up on a hill.
Her men did secure a few important relics otherwise. Gilded weapons, ancient paintings, and even an eerie, ancient adamantine mask crafted into the visage of an androgynous person with stitched lips and narrow slits for eyes. The latter bothered Soraseo for a reason she couldn’t quite explain, but she would let her father’s treasurers handle it.
Once she had confirmed the entire sect’s annihilation, Mizukiya walked past the monastery’s gate with half her soldiers and left the others to loot the place. The fortress’ hill oversaw the entire Hwajing Valley. The city which bore its name burned under the fading stars in the shadow of the mountains, while wyvern riders flew across the sky. The Shinkoku Empire’s banners and those of their allied Moonlight Riders mercenaries fluttered atop claimed watchtowers and fortresses, signaling the settlement’s fall; and by proxy that of all the Seukaian resistance in the west.
Stragglers might flee past the mountains into the Stonelands to continue their doomed fight, but with no large base of their own, their efforts would be irrelevant.
Father would be proud. His vision of a unified peninsula under Shinkokan rule had taken one more step towards completion.
A contingent awaited Princess Mizukiya down the monastery’s stairs, led by Lord Oboro. A middle-aged man with gray hair, a ponytail, and a well-trimmed beard, he looked quite fierce despite his old age, his armor was stained with less blood than his student and his sword was firmly sheathed. His blue eyes stared at the princess with clear frustration.
Mizukiya hid her worry and bowed in respect. “The monastery is ours, my teacher.”
“You were too hasty, Princess,” Lord Oboro complained immediately. Of all the emperor’s generals, he alone had the clout to address a member of the imperial family without following the proper protocol. “I asked that you wait until we could assess the location of all of the Sect’s Elders. Master So Xian in particular remains unaccounted for according to our spies.”
“We will find his corpse among the others,” Mizukiya replied. “If not, what can he do? The monastery is taken and his students are decimated. He cannot do anything.”
Lord Oboro squinted at his student. “Have you ever heard of the Journey of Gojotaro?”
Mizukiya let out a sigh. Her lady mother had insisted that she learn those stories by heart. “Yes, I have.”
“Then clearly you haven’t paid attention,” her teacher complained. “When Gojotaro was caught by the demon, the demon asked him his name and he answered ‘nobody.’ So when Gojotaro blinded him in his sleep and his fellow monsters asked him who did it, all the demon could answer was ‘nobody.’ Do not underestimate anyone."
Mizukiya clenched her jaw, but accepted her mentor’s reproach nonetheless. He had taught her everything she valued, and while she knew she had long surpassed him in the art of the blade, she still envied his wisdom.
“No one can deny your talent, Princess, but you are rash,” Lord Oboro said. “The most powerful swordsman is not the one who can draw his blade the quickest, but who knows when it is best to draw at all. Remember that.”
“I will, my teacher,” Mizukiya replied respectfully. She did not wish to disappoint him, so she would endeavor to work on herself. “I will dispatch soldiers to find So Xian.”
“You would be wise to.” Lord Oboro looked up at the monastery and the flames consuming it with sorrow. “Could you save anything?”
Mizukiya clenched her jaw. “I am afraid the archives went up in smoke, my teacher, though my men are trying to find whatever they can. We have secured a few items of value otherwise.”
Her teacher let out a sigh. “Your father will at least be happy that the Sect’s techniques won’t be passed on to our enemies, Princess,” he said with a tone full of distaste. “I, however, weep over this senseless destruction. The monks refined their essence mastery over centuries. I would have preferred to preserve their teachings.”
Lord Oboro’s tone betrayed some resentment, though Mizukiya wisely didn’t confront him over it. She knew all too well that he had argued with her father over invading Seukaia’s west coast over a lack of manpower and only proceeded with the siege out of duty rather than enthusiasm.
Even this brilliant victory seemed to taste like ashes to him.
“Why do you look so forlorn, my teacher?” Mizukiya asked. “We have crushed the resistance. There is no one left to challenge the empire’s rule over these lands.”
“We have taken this region easily enough, I will give you that, but we will struggle keeping it,” her teacher replied. He waved a hand at their burning prize of a city. “These people hate us, Princess. Our soldiers will find blades hidden behind every patch of grass.”
“Let them bring their swords,” the princess replied with confidence, her hand on her pommel. “All of my father’s enemies will shatter against my steel.”
Lord Oboro gave her a strange look, then shook his head. “There will be no need for that. I promised your lady mother that I would send you back home once this campaign concluded. She languishes for your company.”
Mizukiya flinched. She missed her family too, but Father only cared for her military victories. “My place is with my men on the front.”
“I am not so sure,” Lord Oboro replied with a tone that broke no opposition. “You have said it yourself: there is no one left to challenge us.”
He does not want me here. Princess Mizukiya straightened in frustration. “Do you think I will be a burden for you, my teacher?”
“At this point, yes, you will be,” Lord Oboro stated bluntly. “Negotiating peace with Seukaia will require diplomacy and an open hand, not a closed fist. You would do well to learn from your mother on that front.”
Mizukiya’s tongue clicked between her teeth. “I do not like being dismissed.”
“Yet many soldiers would rejoice in your place, to have an opportunity to return home alive and well.” Lord Oboro’s expression morphed into a thin smile. “Consider this part of your training, Princess. There is more to life than shortening those of others.”
Year 689, Shinkoku Empire, Imperial Retreat near Mount Kazandu.
The day before the Crimson Moon Tragedy.
Princess Mizukiya strained her kimono as she poured her mother and brother tea.
The smooth silk felt more uncomfortable to her than heavy armor. It constrained her like snakes coiling around her limbs. More than that, she felt naked and weak without her sword by her side.
Her younger brother Doggotaro covered a smile with his hand, which only caused Mizukiya to blush in shame. She struggled to keep a steady hand and complete the tea ceremony.
“You did well, Mizukiya,” her mother congratulated her once she sat down again. “You grow more graceful with each passing day.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Mizukiya replied with sheepish embarrassment.
“As for you, Doggotaro, you should not rejoice over your sister’s struggle,” Mother said as she gently chided the little prince. “You would not appreciate her mocking you when it is your time to serve.”
“I am sorry, Mother,” the little runt apologized while straightening on his cushion. While Mizukiya took more from her mother, Kurare, to the point some said the princess looked identical to the empress at her age, her brother Doggotaro inherited their father’s aquiline face and deep black eyes.
However, the resemblance stopped there. While the emperor had been a fierce warrior since his youth, Mizukiya’s brother was born weak of body though somewhat bright of mind for his young age. He was quick to wheeze, tight in the chest, and struggled to breathe after any form of exercise. His poor health was half the reason their mother insisted on bringing him to the Imperial Retreat whenever possible. The mountain’s pure air helped him greatly, and his family hoped that the warm baths would eventually cure him of his affliction.
Mizukiya loved her brother as much as she pitied him. The poor child might never know the joy of wielding a sword nor the glory of battle.
Mizukiya figured that she would give him an imperial scholar’s post once she ascended to the throne. Lord Oboro used to say that there was a man for every task. Her brother would make for a fine regent while she completed their family’s conquest.
Her mother sighed. “Do you not enjoy this peaceful place, daughter?”
“I do,” Mizukiya replied, though she was only half-sincere.
Located on the base of Mount Kazandu, the Imperial Retreat was a well-protected and elegant wooden mansion with its own expensive graveled garden located behind tall and fortified walls. The plot of land boasted cherry trees, bonsai, stone lanterns, and a pond filled with koi fish. The empress admired its serenity and delighted in spending time there with her family, drinking tea near the veranda so they could enjoy a splendid view of the mountain. Even Mizukiya, who preferred military marches and tents to the steady quietness of the Shinkokan countryside, couldn’t deny its appeal.
But she felt like a blade gathering rust.
“It has been two years of calm, Mother,” Mizukiya said. “I cannot sit and serve tea for the rest of my life.”
“If your father requires you on the frontlines, I am sure he will send for you,” her mother replied while sipping her tea. “I suspect that our teapot would serve you better than your sword if you were sent abroad again.”
Mizukiya bit her lip. Unfortunately, her mother was right. With Hwajing taken and resistance against the Shinoku’s western occupation having collapsed, Princess Mizukiya had returned home and never been sent back to the front again; a fact that she regretted more with each passing day. She always slept with her trusted sword at her side, praying for a messenger from her kingly father to wake her up at night.
She had heard that her father was considering an embargo on Seukaian goods to economically choke what remained of that nation into submission; a plan that likely came from Lord Oboro, who had vocally opposed any new armed incursion due to lack of good soldiers to maintain their existing territory. The Shinkoku Empire had a much lower population than Seukaia and thus did not have enough men to occupy the latter.
Moreover, another attack might invite a military response from the Erebian League. The western nations were too distracted with their own troubles to pay attention to Seukaia so long as the flow of goods continued through the Shinkokan colonies. Another war might provoke an intervention from Irem or the Everbright Empire.
Though she knew it would spell disaster for the empire, a part of Mizukiya longed for this outcome; which her mother could tell.
“A ruler requires grace and wisdom as much as they require a sword and a steady hand,” her mother said with a hint of reproach in her voice. “Once you inherit the throne after your father, then you will need to host noble houses, court diplomats, and curry favor with our people.”
“I would rather leave poetry to Doggotaro,” the princess replied. While she enjoyed her biwa lessons, the arts of the quill remained foreign to her.
“Words stumble and fall,” her brother mocked her gently, “Lines tangle in knots unread, poems hide from you...”
“Doggotaro, stop teasing your sister,” their mother said, though she couldn’t contain her smile. “Do not be so hard on yourself, Mizukiya. Master Fuma speaks well of your progress and says your mind will one day be as sharp as your sword.”
“How will poetry sharpen my mind?” the princess asked, dubious.
“People will always respect a witty soul over a brute,” her mother replied serenely. “A ruler must embody all of their nation, its culture included.”
“I have never seen Father practice poetry,” Mizukiya countered. “Yet he has expanded our borders beyond any other emperor.”
It had been nearly thirty years since the Shinkoku Empire began its expansion into Seukaia under Mizukiya’s grandfather, all in an effort to expand their nation’s prosperity and progress across the world; a policy which her father pursued with more vigor by occupying the entire western coast.
The Shinkoku was still reeling from the humiliating ‘eternal peace of six-hundred twenty-five’ when the Erebian League stripped the empire of all of its colonies and forced it to retreat from the west at cannon point. Mizukiya’s father saw that conquering Seukaia would bolster the nation’s wounded spirit and put them back on the path to greatness.
It had been why he had put his daughter through grueling training the moment she showed any aptitude with the sword. The emperor’s children had to lead by example and take arms to protect their great country.
Mizukiya first fought to earn her father’s praise, and then because she had grown to enjoy it over time. She was good at swordplay. Many had called her a prodigy, but it was simply the result of hard work, training, and perfectionism.
“Conquering a country is not the same as holding it,” her mother replied. “I have read Lord Oboro’s reports. Not a day passes by without a revolt popping up in our colonies.”
“No, you bloodthirsty beast; I shall not die on your fangs, nor give you the courtesy of indulging your appetite for death,” he said, his burning hands pressed against his chest. “I am a petal blossom too, short of life.”
His teeth stretched into a ghastly, skeletal smile.
“I know how to fly.”
He jumped out into the void, head-first.
Mizukiya rushed to the roof’s edge in panic, but though she crossed the gap between them in an instant, it was already too late. She heard a crunch as the old demon’s skull shattered against the garden’s stones below, his neck bent and broken. His corpse soon turned into red mist before Mizukiya even had time to blink, alongside his clothes and flute.
He had denied the princess the pleasure of killing him, and left no evidence of his treachery.
He had condemned Mizukiya to live with her sins.
The throne room was silent.
Two soldiers escorted her past the golden dragon gates adorning it. Hardly a few years ago, she had passed them with her sword and her head held high with pride to receive her father’s praise for her actions during the Seukaian Conquest.
Now, she did so with her hands bound by a rope, stripped of her sword and imperial armor. She could have broken free easily enough, if she had enough willpower left to do so. The depths of her shame had suffocated any will to resist.
The imperial council sat on the floor under the shadow of six columns of solid and chiseled wood. Banners hung along the walls showcased tales of the Shinkoku Empire’s glorious unification and mythical scenes of warriors and artists that brought glory to their nation. Mizukiya’s father alone was afforded a seat worthy of him: a mighty jade throne adorned by two dragons, which she thought she would one day inherit.
The emperor’s dark glare shattered these hopes.
Mizukiya hardly dared to get a glimpse of her father’s face before lowering her own in shame. His usually stern expression had twisted into a ferocious scowl without any trace of love or forgiveness.
Her mother had been the love of his life, and she had robbed him of it.
He wasn’t the only one she had disappointed. Lord Oboro sat at her father’s right side, as he always did; though he had been allowed to retain his sword. His face might as well have been made of stone.
Mizukiya bit her lip in shame and began to whisper an apology, “My teacher–”
“I am no teacher,” he interrupted her, his voice colder than ice and filled with bitter disappointment. “You’ve learned nothing.”
Those words cut sharper than any blade, because they were true. Lord Oboro had taught her to draw her blade only when she had to, and disregarding his advice had cost her everything.
Mizukiya would have cried if she had any tears left. She had spent them all over her mother’s corpse.
The guards had her kneel in front of the Jade Throne like the condemned prisoner she was, her forehead pressing against the wooden floor. The soldiers’ hands pressing on her back felt lighter than the emperor’s gaze. A tense silence hung in the air for what seemed like forever.
Mizukiya gulped. “Father–”
“Do not call me that, kinslayer.”
Mizukiya closed her eyes in guilt, the word knitting her stomach. “I... I am so sorry...”
“Are you?” She could feel her father’s teeth clenching in icy rage. “You come to me with your hands stained with your mother’s blood, and your brother is so frightened that he won’t even leave his room, yet you dare to ask me for forgiveness?”
“I was...” Mizukiya repressed her tears of shame and guilt. “I was tricked...”
“So you say. A pity there’s no one left alive to confirm your tale, besides your brother of course.” She heard his nails screeching against his throne’s armrests. “He said you were smiling when you cut your mother down.”
“I...” Did she? She had always enjoyed the thrill of battle and bloodlust, but she... she couldn’t remember. Had it been another of So Xian’s tricks? Had he warped her brother’s mind too? No one had heard his music besides herself, so it could have been an illusion.
What would it change anyway?
“Were you not my blood, I would have spilled yours over the floor by now,” Father declared sternly. “But I will grant you a chance to live, maybe even to atone.”
Mizukiya’s heart skipped a beat in her chest. For the first time since that awful night, she dared to hope.
“I will do anything,” she begged her father, her voice so low and weak she wondered if he could even hear her. “Please... please forgive me.”
“You wish for forgiveness?” Father snorted in disdain. “Then bring back your mother from the dead.”
Her body went cold with despair, doubly so when she noticed a few advisors smiling around her. Lord Oboro did not, but he turned his head away nonetheless. All of them could see the emperor’s judgment for what it was: a cruel punishment at her expense.
Everyone knew the dead lingered beyond the living’s reach.
“I...” Mizukiya cleared her throat. “I cannot... I don’t think that’s even possible...”
“Then redemption shall forever be beyond your reach,” Father replied harshly. “Until that day comes, you shall be exiled from our beloved nation and stripped of your honor. You are no daughter of mine anymore, let alone the crown princess to the imperial throne. From now on, you are nothing.”
Mizukiya flinched, her hands clenching in humiliation. Her father had never been known for his mercy, but now that she was on the receiving end of his judgment she realized he truly had none. All of her achievements, all of these years of loyalty, and her blood ties hadn’t earned his daughter any extenuating circumstances.
She had been given an impossible task to atone for an unforgivable crime.
And even that meager hope of salvation might have been too good for her.
“I... understand,” Mizukiya replied without argument.
“Should you return to us without your mother, then your head shall roll on my floor; daughter or not,” the emperor declared with spite. “Now, begone from my sight.”
The guards dragged her out, and the throne room’s gates closed behind her forever.
It was the last time Mizukiya ever saw her family. She boarded a ship on a one-way trip, and never returned.
She hadn’t even been given time to pray at her mother’s tomb.
Present Day
Soraseo looked at the shores of her homeland from the deck.
It had been a long year and a half since she had left it on a ship bound for foreign lands, a scorned exile stripped of everything. The steep cliffs and rocks rising out of the sea had looked so grim back then, and the greenery of her homeland so distant, like a dream fading away as she awoke into a new and harsher reality. Even her true name had been stained with the shame of matricide.
She thought that happiness would overwhelm her upon seeing her nation again. Instead, she felt a deep sense of unease, tension, and melancholia. The morning mist enveloping the Shinkoku Empire and blanketing its horizon had never felt more unwelcoming.
Evil was already afoot there. She could feel it in her bones.
A year ago, she thought that So Xian’s revenge had been a mere case of demonic cruelty; now she wondered if this had all been the Devil of Greed’s plan from the start. So Xian had mentioned selling his soul to a Golden Hell and casting the Shinkoku Empire into turmoil, which implied that the foul Demon Ancestor at least approved and exploited his quest for revenge for her own gain.
Had wicked Daltia seen an opportunity to destabilize the country that she hoped to exploit for her mad ascension to godhood? Soraseo had grown convinced of it since they set sail for her homeland. Circumstances simply aligned too perfectly.
Soraseo knew it didn’t absolve her of anything. It had taken her a year of wandering, but she now realized that her actions in Hwajing had been a crime rather than a glorious act worthy of celebration. She had been no better than Belgoroth to the people of Seukaia, setting their cities ablaze in the name of brutality veiled in high-minded ideals.
The Devil of Greed had simply watered and harvested the seeds of sorrow that Soraseo had planted, nothing more.
Her mother’s death was on her too, brought forth by her rashness and overconfidence. She didn’t think she would ever fully forgive herself for it, even after meeting her ghost at the Deadgate.
Robin stood next to her along the airship’s arm rail. He had joined Soraseo there soon after Marika informed them that she saw land. Her friend always seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to sensing others’ sorrow.
“Your country looks beautiful, Soraseo,” he said, his eyes gazing at the faint mist flowing between the rocks and foggy forests in the distance. “Almost ethereal.”
Soraseo...
How strange. She had come up with that name as an improvised lie to escape the shame she had brought on her true name, yet she had come to look at it with pride. Mizukiya the Blood Blossom had been a curse who inspired fear and loathing in others. The name of Soraseo the Exiled instead belonged to a Hero who had stood firm against the mighty Lord of Wrath himself. She had come to consider both of them part of herself.
Soraseo noticed that her friend had uttered those words in her native tongue, which she appreciated. She weaved words better in Shinkokan than in the Archfrostian tongue.
“It is,” Soraseo conceded with a nod. “Sometimes, lucky souls can see wisps in the fog.”
He raised an eyebrow, his eyes alight with curiosity. “Wisps?”
“Yes. The fire essence flowing from Mount Kazandu often ignites in the form of fireballs in the mist.” Soraseo used to think those wisps were the souls of the dead once. She remembered looking at them on the day of her departure, searching for her mother among them. “It is odd that we do not see any.”
Soraseo’s power allowed her to pick up on all the subtle changes and microexpressions on another’s face. Robin tried to hide his concern to avoid worrying her, but she knew exactly what thought had crossed his mind.
The wisps’ absence might imply that the flow of essence coming from Mount Kazandu had been interfered with.
Her country might already be undergoing a demonic siege with no one to protect it. The army was exhausted and stretched across its colonies, the people leaderless, and her brother... her brother was alone and frightened.
“Once, I mistook my father for being a strong and willful man,” Soraseo declared, a hand on her pommel. “Now I see that he was simply cruel and ambitious.”
Her father had loved her like a swordsman loved his weapon; cherished when sharp and easily discarded when it brought its wielder shame. He had ruled as a conqueror, taking what he wanted by force of arms without considering what would survive his reign. If Soraseo had inherited the throne after he perished...
No. Soraseo knew the truth deep within her heart. I would have brought war and shame to my homeland back then. The mark would not have chosen me either.
It must have been why it struck her the day after she landed in the Riverland Federation, a nameless exile who had lost everything. Earning a Class had taken Soraseo by surprise. After everything she had done, she couldn’t fathom why the Monk’s mark would choose her of all possible candidates. She remembered wondering why it didn't go to the likes of Lord Oboro.
It had given her hope that her quest might not be in vain though, that she could atone for her crimes by purging the world of demons. It gave her the strength to continue and meet friends who supported her through many ordeals.
Without her exile, Soraseo would have been unworthy of both the throne and her Class. She was certain of it. The Fatebinder had said as much; the marks only chose those who understood what it meant to be weak.
“My family has brought great shame to our nation and stained our throne with dishonor,” Soraseo told Robin, who listened with patience. “I see now that Mother would have wanted me to wash the filth away, and that I shall do. I will purge our demons, whether born from coins or our ambitions.”
She turned to her friend, who had stood with her through so many ordeals. He had helped her rise when she had fallen at her lowest, and for this, she felt she owed him both a debt and her respect. He, Marika, and the others had remained when many would have left.
“I cannot do this alone, Robin,” she said. “Will you fight by my side?”
“Do you even need to ask?” Robin smiled ear to ear. “I will always have your back.”
Soraseo guessed as much, but it warmed her heart nonetheless.
This time, she would prove worthy of her mark.