By Rich Wulf

Some Time Ago, Otosan Uchi…

The Imperial Palace was a place where one could easily become lost, full of twisting passageways and the circuitous, often inexplicable architecture that only results from centuries of modification. Visitors were well advised to remain in well known hallways and let Imperial Guardsmen guide their paths. Even those who dwelled here never mastered every secret corridor and hidden chamber. For those few with free reign to travel the palace at will, it was thus a simple matter to find solitude. A soul could retreat to a dusty hidden room and sit in silence with only the ghosts of the Seppun and Hantei to keep him company.

In the more well-known and illuminated passages of the palace, the nobility of the Empire gathered in celebration. On this day, the Emperor’s youngest son had become a true samurai and sworn fealty to the Otomo name. It was a fine excuse for socializing, gossiping, and political maneuvering. So intent were the flowers of the court on their pastimes that few noticed that Prince Jama himself was nowhere to be seen.

In a forgotten chamber of the Palace, Otomo Jama slumped against the wall in bitter silence. The young man buried his face in his hands. Though he was too proud to cry, even here, the shame and sorrow threatened to overwhelm his resolve. Even at birth the midwives recognized that Jama was different. His ghostly white hair was a rarity, the sign of a child destined to wield great magical power. Such an ominous blessing did not come without cost. The other children avoided him, fearful of his strange gifts. Instead they spent their time courting the favor of his elder brother, the charismatic boy that would one day be Emperor.

“You were always stronger alone.”

He had always known that to be true. He told himself that independence offered him a strength his brother would never know. He mused that the time he did not waste at play was better used improving his mind, rededicating himself to the Fortunes. While his brother became beloved and worshipped by all, he would ultimately be the better man. He had few friends, Tsugiko, Yajinden, and Suru, but they were loyal to him. He told himself that he was lucky, that his brother’s friends were fickle, and that he would not wish such friends even if they were offered.

“But they had to intrude.”

“It is your fault, Arashige,” Jama whispered. He looked at the young Lion samurai sitting in the opposite corner of the room. Arashige only stared back blankly, and said nothing.

One month ago, Jama’s elder brother had fallen terribly ill. The same fever gripped him that had ravaged the Crane coastlands, an illness that had no cure and invariably killed those unfortunate enough to fall victim to it. Jama showed concern for his brother because such was expected, but had difficulty truly feeling anything. He did not hate his brother. He did not love his brother. His brother was a distant stranger in his life, and Jama preferred things that way.

“You were weak to trust them. But now you are strong.”

“You,” Jama said to Arashige. “You would not leave well enough alone!”

Arashige had been his brother’s closest friend, until the illness. Then he had come to Jama, along with many others. They invited Jama to their games. For a while, Jama knew what it was like to be his brother. He no longer met in the libraries with Yajinden or Jama, and only rarely saw Tsugiko. Though Tsugiko was a clever girl, she was neither pretty or charming. She was not well-liked by Arashige and the others, so each time she came to see him Jama had sent her away. He felt a certain regret for the pain he saw in her eyes each time he did so, but he convinced himself it was for the best. They would only mock and tease her. She wouldn’t want that. Each time he sent her away, it became easier to do.

“Or did you merely realize you did not need her?”

“You turned me against her, Arashige,” Jama said in a pained voice. He surged to his feet, hands balled tightly into fists. “You turned me against my friends!”

Arashige did not answer.

The Phoenix doctors found a cure, and his brother survived. The other children immediately turned away, dismissing Jama without a second thought. When he pleaded with them to stop, it was Matsu Arashige who had looked down at Jama with a mocking grin.

“You were supposed to be my friend,” Jama pleaded to Arashige again, as he had on that day.

Arashige said nothing, but Jama heard the Lion’s mocking reply again nonetheless.

“We thought you were going to be Emperor.”

Jama bowed his head in helpless anger and sorrow. He had not truly realized how deeply he had envied his brother until he had a taste of the Emperor’s power, and now even that was forever denied him. On his gempukku he had abdicated the throne and abandoned the Hantei name. He would forever be of little consequence.

“You do not need any of them. If they will not bow to you, destroy them, as you did Arashige.”

Jama drew strength from the words. At least now Arashige understood the truth. A man need not be an Emperor to have true power. Jama looked down at the Lion and his lips curled in a wicked grin. With a wrenching movement, Otomo Jama snatched his dagger from the Lion’s eye. Arashige slumped to one side, leaning against a column. Blood streamed over the dead man’s face and kimono.

The tread of a foot at the door behind him drew Jama’s attention. Doji Tsugiko stood in the threshold. She still wore the ceremonial robes of gempukku, her dark hair tied back in elaborate braids. Her plain face pale with horror.

“Jama what have you done?” she whispered.

“Lie.”

Jama looked at her with a mask of fear and confusion. “Arashige attacked me,” he said, tossing the dagger to the floor with disgust. “I did not mean to do this… I did not have the strength.”

Tsugiko looked at the savaged corpse, blue eyes clouding with doubt when she saw the Lion’s swords still in their saya.

“She wants to believe you. Let her.”

“I am sorry, Tsugiko,” Jama said, lowering his gaze in shame. “I understand if you flee from me, if you summon the Imperial Guard. My first day as a samurai and already I am a monster, but when he insulted your virtue I could not endure it.”

“I thought you said he attacked you.”

“Only to protect you from the truth, but you are too wise for that,” he said with wry sadness. “If only I had not pushed you away, perhaps I would have had the strength to find a better way.”

Tsugiko moved toward Jama quickly, grasping his hand with her slim white fingers. “I believe you,” she said. “Arashige was a wicked and arrogant man. Surely this was not unprovoked. But what must we do?”

“The priest will know where to hide a corpse. The idiot can carry it.”

“Fetch Yajinden and Suru,” Jama said. “They will what to do.”

Tsugiko nodded obediently and hurried to the door.

“Tsugiko,” Jama called out to her.

She looked back at him intently.

“Make certain you are not seen,” he said.

She nodded rapidly and hurried away, making no sound.

“Now do you see? You do not need friends. Only pawns. They are all puppets, once you find the strings.”

Jama sat back on the floor beside the corpse. The voice continued to speak in his mind, telling him what to do. After a while it grew softer and faded away.

Centuries Later…

There were many shrines in the Asahina lands, dedicated to a vast assortment of spirits, Fortunes, and kami. Each one had its purpose, and each was unique. The mild priests of the Crane Clan’s shugenja family tended these shrines. These holy men and women were so dedicated to the cause of peace that most walked the rough roads of the Empire carrying no weapons save the wakizashi that was a symbol of their station, and even that remained firmly tied and sealed within its saya.

Even bandits rarely interfered with a lone Asahina. It was well known that the spirits protected the priests, and though an Asahina might not move to defend himself, his prayers could call down the wrath of the Celestial Heavens. Among the peasants, some whispered that none threatened the Asahina for deeper reasons. The Asahina, much like their swords, were deadly steel bound only momentarily in fragile peace. A priest of their order pushed too far would surely become a beast too terrible to contemplate.

None knew any names of Asahina who had become so twisted, of course, but this did not wipe the legends away. After all, if an Asahina ever did cast his vows aside and became a villain, would not his family do everything within his power to see that he was forgotten?

These thoughts were far from Asahina Kikui’s mind as she knelt in one of the many roadside shrines. Her eyes were closed deeply in meditation. For a brief span of time, her tormented soul was at peace. She felt lifted beyond herself, separated from the mortal world. She was standing in a vast cavern opening onto an underground lake, deep within the embrace of the eternal earth. The throb and pulse of the spirits resonated in every fiber of her body. This was a place of power, and she exulted in it.

“I am here, Master,” she whispered.

“I know,” came the reply. The clear waters of the lake rippled and swirled. A dark cloud rose within them, befouling their clarity. A man, or the form of a man, rose from the depths. His body was formed of glistening red fluid, and his eyes blazed with mad intensity. His serpentine torso extended down into the now red waters as he towered above her, water streaming from his body. She had seen this in her dreams before. The others called it the Oracle of Blood, a shadow of her master that could escape his prison and speak to the most loyal servants of the Bloodspeakers. Kikuji prostrated herself before the apparition, scraping her hands and knees on the rough stone. She felt a wave of approval.

“The time has come, Kikui-chan,” the Oracle said. “The walls of my prison have been shattered and I walk the Empire once again. Our day is swiftly coming, and you must do your part.”

“It brings me joy to hear,” she replied. “I am prepared to serve, yet I fear I must ask a boon of you.”
The Oracle’s eyes blazed at her impertinence, but it seemed impressed as well. “Speak,” it replied.

“I ask only that when your armies march, that you spare the life of Matsu Atasuke,” she said, looking up at the Oracle with a steely gaze.

“Atasuke?” the Oracle asked, his voice amused. “What is this man to you? Are you not betrothed to another?”

“A man of no consequence,” she said. “I do not love him.”

“Love,” the Oracle said with a dark laugh. “Love is not the way of a Bloodspeaker. To love a thing is to give it power. We do not give power. We take it.”

“Nonetheless,” she said. “This is what I ask. Give me this one thing and I will serve you loyally.”

“Very well,” the Oracle said. “What you ask is a simple thing, but I do not grant it without cost. You must do something for me, Kikui-chan, and it must remain secret.”

“Anything,” she replied.

“There is a castle, far from here,” he said. “It is named the Virtuous Keep.”
“I know of it,” she said. “It is the home of the Monkey Clan and the hero, Toku.”

“Go there,” the Oracle said. “Slay Toku, his wife, his sons, his daughters. None of his line must survive.”

Kikui looked up at the Oracle in shock. What it asked was monstrous, unthinkable. She wondered what Toku could have done to anger her master so. To enter the Virtuous Keep and kill Toku’s family would not be easy. It seemed unfair that the Oracle asked so much for so little.

But what choice did she have? If her master was truly free, a wave of blood would soon wash over the Empire. Atasuke was a noble and honorable man. He knew nothing of Kikui’s secret alliances or practices. He would stand against Iuchiban, and he would inevitably be destroyed – unless she saved him.

“I will do as you ask,” Kikui said.

“Have a care, Kikui-chan,” the Oracle warned. “Toku is a weak and foolish man, and his family follow his example. They cling too fiercely to the cause of virtue, never recognizing the evil that mounts against them, ignoring the true power that lies ever at their fingertips.”

“If they are weak, why must I be cautious?” she asked.

“Because those who know they are weak become desperate,” the Oracle answered. “And the desperation often grants undeserved opportunity.”

Weeks Later…

In the darkened stables of the Virtuous Keep, a wounded boy stood alone. He held his katana in one hand and clutched his stomach in the other, blood spilling over his fingers from the knife buried in his belly. The idiot refused to fall. How difficult would it be to just die? He had lived a good life, an innocent life. His soul would join his ancestors in the Blesssed Realm. Such a thing would be a far more merciful fate than Iuchiban would offer the boy.

Was this the weakness the Oracle had warned her of?

“Stay away from my family,” Koto warned, blood trickling from between his lips.

Kikui paused, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. She saw no weakness here, only a determination born of love. She thought of Atasuke then, and when she might have killed the boy, doubt stayed her hand. She wondered if she had made a mistake in coming here.

Then a peal of thunder shook the stables. A fierce wind blew the doors open with a crash. Kikui felt her limbs stiffen with fear, as she recognized the one that now appeared before her. Naka Tokei, Grand Master of the Elements, stood revealed in an aura of fiery magic. One fist held an unfurled scroll, covered with sacred kanji. The other was pointed toward Kikui, two fingers aimed outward in a sign against evil.

“I give you one chance to surrender,” Tokei said. The shugenja glided across the stable toward the assassin, his feet never touching the ground.

Kikui knew she could not surrender or escape. If her identity were revealed, Atasuke would be shattered. She reached for her own scroll pouch, though she already knew what the outcome of this duel would be. Tokei spoke a single word and a bolt of pure red fire erupted from his fingertips. It consumed her in an instant, not even leaving ash behind.

Otosan Uchi, the Present

A light rain fell over the ruins of Otosan Uchi. The Palace was not what it had once been, to say the least. The Dark Lord and his armies had done their job well. Much of the once grand Forbidden City now lay in ruins. Only sparse reminders of the place Otomo Jama had once called home remained. In the place where he now stood, a boy had once sought solace and solitude from his arrogant brother and his hurtful friends. In this place, a young man had murdered Matsu Arashige.

The man who had once been Otomo Jama and now was Iuchiban sat on an overturned column and scowled deeply at his folded hands. Beyond the shattered palace walls he could see the towering spires of his Iron Keep. Like the wills of those who served in his armies, he had wrenched the keeps power from another and chained it to his will. Like his servants, it meant nothing to him.

Iuchiban gazed into a nearby puddle. The face of a young man stared back, a face that was his own and yet was not. The features resembled those of Otomo Jama’s, but the hair was a lustrous black, as it had turned shortly after he underwent the rituals of the Khadi. His original body was long since destroyed, though his magics had allowed him to pass his spirit into others, never truly knowing death. Yet he found with each new body he was driven to alter it to resemble the original. Why? What attachment could he have for something as crude as flesh? That he might have some sentimental concern for the man he once was disturbed him greatly. Sentiment was for lesser men. It had been too long since he had blood on his hands. What he required was a distraction.

It was this place, he was sure of it. He was too close to his heart. His humanity was beginning to seep into his being; he sensed as much in the unwelcome memories of Arashige’s murder and the worthless Asahina. What did such memories hope to prove? He had thought he had dispelled the voice that drove him long ago, when he embarked on his quest for power and domination.

“Perhaps you are the voice now, and what you hear is what once was Jama.”

Iuchiban scowled. He was definitely too close to his heart, but it could not be helped. So long as his heart remained intact, he was immortal and free of the price his dark magics usually wrought. So long as the heart remained far from him, Iuchiban remained strong. He had given it unto Suru, his general, to protect, for Suru could be controlled and predicted. Suru was so loyal that even his soul was never far from reach; when he died Iuchiban could merely summon his wretched soul and bind it to a new body. But now the one called the Wolf had killed Suru, and Iuchiban could no longer find Suru’s soul. Now he was forced to seek his heart on his own, knowing only that Suru had hidden it somewhere in the catacombs of Otosan Uchi.

If only Kikui had not failed.

Years ago Naka Kuro, then Grand Master of the Elements, had discovered the heart. Fearing that if it were destroyed, Iuchiban would merely become a servant of Fu Leng, Kuro instead took only a piece. He thought the Bloodspeaker would not notice, but Iuchiban’s Oracle of Blood was watching. He now knew that the Monkey now possessed the missing piece, and with a piece he could find the rest. After Kikui failed, the children of Toku were scattered across the Empire. He knew not which, if any of them, held the missing piece. He could not pursue all of them himself, and he could not trust his agents to seek them on his behalf lest they try to claim his heart and control him through it. None of them could truly be controlled and trusted as Suru could.

“Perhaps Tsugiko could be, if you had not killed her…”

Iuchiban scowled and ignored the echo. He definitely needed a distraction.

It was no matter. Once found, the heart could be hidden again. His weakness would be removed beyond the reach of his enemies, taking these unwelcome memories with it. Iuchiban rose, sensing the approach of one of his followers. The man did not bow or salute; such gestures were unnecessary when his souls was already chained to Iuchiban’s will.

“Master, we have pressed deeper into the tunnels at your command, but have encountered difficulties,” the scarred monk said, looking at Iuchiban fearfully.

“Difficulties?” he asked.

“A Nezumi tribe,” the monk replied. “They have constructed their warrens in the abandoned tunnels.”

“Ratlings?” Iuchiban asked with a disgusted sneer. “How many?”

“Our scouting party lost count, master,” the monk said. “Only one man survived. We can make no further progress until the vermin are rooted out.”

Iuchiban’s sneer transformed into a pleased grin. “Excellent,” he said, striding past the monk. The man looked after his master with a confused but greatly relieved look.

And Iuchiban moved on toward the tunnels, seeking to wash away his sentiment in the blood of Nezumi.