Seven: The Dark Blade

[Tainted Bushido]

No worries…

This fight was pure, it was clean, and while the wistful smile never left his face, he fought against the upward tide of Shiryko Benimaru’s relentless assault. Steel clashed with steel, in a symphony that spoke volumes of those fighting. Each note rang out with determination, each refrain a mere return to the pure clean feeling this fight brought in the samurai. There was no hostility on either side; there was no anger or hatred, only a muted feeling of sadness and resolve. Neither hated the other, and even when it became apparent Taka was out of his league, he fought harder. Shiryko sent a kick that sent the man sprawling back on the ground, and a hiss of pain echoed through the area.

While they had remained close to the middle of their so called arena, he had slid to the edges, where the fangs of the Lion’s Mouth waited to catch anyone off guard. Taka slowly stood up and looked at his shoulder, sliced deeply but not in such a way that he couldn’t fight. However, as the first deep wound the Samurai had suffered it also showed the ugly truth to all who witnessed it, his blood while red on the edges, held within it a foul black ichor. Any who saw it could tell something was wrong with the Ronin, who until now had only the odd dark patch of skin to hide. Oni blood was dripping out of the wound with his blood, and now his secret was laid bare to all who could see.

Reversing the grip on his Katana it stabbed deeply into the ground, before he used it as a crutch to reach a standing position. Shiryko was unfazed by the display of Taka returning to his feet. Even then the Ronin carefully peeled back his Kimono, revealing his chest, and the dark patches of skin that streaked down his back on either side of his spine. He then carefully gripped Rengoku bringing it about in a stance that was far too wide to be used double handed. Taka then spoke his voice unwavering, <“I suppose I’ll have to go all out on this one, I only hope I don’t embarrass my Sensei too much in attempting this…”>

Reaching down to his hip, he gripped the handle of his Wakizashi, the sword that represented his honor. While most would never use this blade in battle, every samurai understood what it meant. This was the blade they would fall upon if they failed; this was their last line of defense against the stains of Dishonor. Carefully he pulled it from its sheath, a crystal clear ring echoing through the room as he did so. The wakizashi with a casual flick of Taka’s wrist soon mirrored the pose of the Katana, and Taka finished his stance, set in the ritual kata Hoturi had spent many days beating into the Ronin’s head.

Shiryko came at the ronin again, only to find Taka’s entire fighting style had changed. While he was attacking with a relentless fury he found himself buffeted as if undergoing the attacks of a steel hurricane. Every attack was met either in kind with an attack from the Katana, or deflected by a blow from his Wakizashi, and while he could tie up two of the three blades, he was moving with a fluid grace that saw the third blade only shave more from the samurai. Taka was in an almost faultless defense, but unable to press any advantage. Even as the blood ran down his shoulder, he continued to push himself further and further.

<“I will not lie Benimaru-sama, I am the inferior today. I could have avoided confronting you, and I could have suggested to my charge we never come after last night. However, you have given me the one gift I could thank no one else for…”> Taka manged, before with a shove he sent Benimaru back to the center of the room. The two sized each other up, as Taka returned to stance one of the kata.

<”What is that?”> The Hopeless Saumrai returned his words partially garbled by the hilt of the Katana in his mouth, but no less clear to the Ronin he faced.

<“You reminded me who I was; when I became so embittered by my failures I was lost to the waves of fate. I may no longer bear the Benjiro name, but I was once, and I know what I must do now…”> Taka replied before he rushed the Samurai, his assault beginning. Shiryko fought back his own blades clashing as the fight began to reach a crescendo of violence that threatened to deafen all who stood nearby. Taka continued the assault, before a sandaled foot hit his opponent in the stomach, hunching over the Hopeless Samurai. He took the opportunity to bring the Katana down hoping to decapitate his opponent in one blow, before his body lurched.

Shiryko had buried Shiraki to the hilt in the Ronin’s stomach before he spoke softly, only for Taka, <“You did well, and I know you would not have lasted much longer under the strain you had put yourself under. Go to your ancestors Benjiro Taka, and tell them the name of your killer.”>

A savage kick saw Taka to the ground, before Shiryko wiped the blood from his Katana. He had begun the processing of cleaning his other blades, waiting for Taka to finish dying, even as he let go a wistful sigh. He was about to talk with Anita, before letting the girl go when he felt it, almost a wave of purity that flooded the area, before he heard it, impossibly. A slight groan filtered through the air, the scratch of metal upon stone, all coming from the dead body of Taka. He turned around Shiraki still in hand before he saw it; the Ronin was on his knees, Rengoku stabbed into the ground much as when he had been kicked away before.

There was a dazed look in Taka’s eyes, even as he unsteadily got to his feet, his body hunched, and Rengoku grasped clumsily in his hands. It seemed as if the body had acted purely on instinct alone, though what instinct had been ingrained that the body risked itself again was to be determined. He was beyond the point of saving himself. Had he have stayed down he could have played dead, and possibly escaped this encounter with his life. A survivor of the dreaded three blade style, yet the Ronin stood, and with a shake of his head, the life returned to his eyes. A sad smile lifted to his lips before he spoke his voice strained, <“Though my blood be stained upon these very stones…”>

Taka would die, a prayer on his lips, and on his feet.