sword inside verseXcoyotl

[Verse]

The age was one of dragons.

Not the kind that slept in the mountain and coiled around its cold peaks, or rested in furnaces underneath the earth. But of iron, imbued with the soul of its giver. Swords, because countries could fall and rise on their edge and zenith. Kept inside a body, maturing into something grand. The Spire Form, were an innate magic to humans that awoke in an age when swordsmanship was godhood. After all, great heroes must have great weapons, and only great masters could produce them.

Alive came schools of different disciplines. Unbelievable Spire Form were drawn out of the bodies of these bloodsmiths that were masters of swords themselves. And age of elegant violence, balanced sometimes on a single blade and its opponent.

But, as it is with politics, with legends come pageantry. It was more important to make heroes than vanquish villains; it's own echonomy, it's own idol factory. Every hut in the villages claimed to have a secret art, the very key to swordsmanship. So, when not everyone could get their hands on a Spire Form, they could enlist to get the skill for one, at least. Boys and girls dreamed, and feeding those dreams became its own industry, removed from the real power of the swords that were birthed by exceptional human emotions. Every wealthy household wanted a warrior of some regard. If you were weak, as a house, you were laughingstock.

Out of the hypocrisy and roundabout conversations and bile, as is custom when old men speak about the fate of young men, Kabata Hiroshi was born. With the fate of his family on his shoulders, and all of its resources, he hoped to be part of the madness in search for his own strength. Tall like most weren't. Spoiled bones and pretty skin, but some of it was marred from excruciating training. Beautiful, untouched face and long hair, hidden under a hat and the mask of jawless rat.

He found himself on the dirtied side of the spectrum, where he didn't belong. His robes were simple, but perhaps his shape betrayed him through it, with such regal, efficient build. He did the best he could to blend in here, in an old dojo between two cities, where elicit tournaments were held for those who were tired of just talking about drawing blood. When the great schools held competitions they were clean, they were even somewhat safe. But here, you had to fight for your life, and win honor to your mask. Some fighters relied entirely on these brawls for their income. But tonight he wasn't here for any life. Tonight he'd set into motion something that may end him with his own Spire Form.

Great masters were rumored to haunt the roster of these shadowy competitions, surrounded by tall forest and hosted in old locales. To keep their wit sharp and to engage in real battle. Another romantic thing that could kill you. On the last tournament like this, he'd seen a hare's mask and smelled a certain breed of hyacinth that only grew in the garden of the Shi estate. And the hare fought well. And Kabata knew. A master at the school he would attend at the end of the summer. An elusive and prejudice bloodsmith. At the height of cicada song, Kabata had concocted a plan and set it in motion with all the influence the Hiroshi name gave him. But the next step was his own. They were already paired up. But he may not do well enough in a viewed match, and even if he did, he wouldn't be able to humiliate the hare as he wanted, as he needed to dominate his heart.

So Kabata found the flowery scent upon the otherwise impressive disguise outside, in the forest, by the clearing where a well was hidden. Maybe the hare went there to find its center before the fight. Maybe the hare knew Kabata was formidable on his own, despite being a master at a prestigious school. Kabata had been acting all day. He'd walked on his heels and dragged the sword after himself, unsheathed. Like a brute, like someone who may trust in the strength of the swing like an axe rather than a sword. He abandoned his posture too. It was quite freeing, playing at being a simple hooligan rather than the learned swordsman he'd been raised as.

"Oi," he started at the hare, who had probably heard his lurching gait for quite some time. Kabata wore a blue kimono, and no hakama, playing poor, and the dirt up his legs helped a lot. He missed his silk wardrobe. "You gon' fight me? You think you can take me!?" he shouted with a practiced yokel accent from the slums of one of the neighboring settlements. His hunch cost him almost a foot of height. Good. That foot would come in handy if the hare bought it. He punched his poorly oiled sword in the hare's direction, abandoning his usual precise form. The blade was fine but he'd had it rehilted with a run of the mill handle. Hopefully the hare wouldn't see. "Then let's do it right here! I want to eat rabbit for dinner." perhaps the slobbering speech was too much, but Kabata was excited.

 

[coyotl]

Somewhere among the swordsmen of Dì Qī Peak, another master had joined the tournament. Shi Qiu discovered his mask by pure chance, and he had replaced it with his own to send a subtle message: I know you're out there.

In years past, Shi Qiu participated with the mask of a spotted cat. Last year, he donned that of a white hare, and he stood silent amongst spectators while his emerald mask danced behind another oiled blade. Try as he might, he could not fathom whose style he watched. The only thing clear to him was that the master had been educated at Dì Qī Peak; the fundamentals matched, and combined with the mask Shi Qiu had imparted him, he was certain the master was one among his own colleagues. When the time came, the two crossed swords, and it was Shi Qiu who prevailed. Something told him his opponent had held back; more logically, the master was so shocked to face a fellow of the same sect that he could not help the way his blade fumbled. Shi Qiu noted that he had never seen the master's style before, and he had never seen it since. The mask, too, made no more appearances on Dì Qī Peak, so it seemed his unknown compatriot had heeded his message and taken care to conceal his identity.

This year, the Second Leopard entered the lists once again. The Emerald Leopard was well-known to this tournament; a new bearer warranted a new name, thus the Second Leopard was born. Shi Qiu found some relief in that. Audiences and participants alike understood the change as a sign that the Emerald Leopard had either died or retired, thus it came as a welcome reprieve to no longer be recognized. He weaved easily through the crowd and kept his own company once again, just like he had in the days when he was yet unknown to these lists. It gave him time to continue his cultivation outside of matches, as Shi Qiu was hardly one to miss even a day's worth of training.

Despite the change, however, Shi Qiu once again found himself the subject of another's envy. No one recognized him as the Emerald Leopard, but all the same, he called attention. His prowess was undeniable; the first time spectators saw him fight, the parlays came flooding in. Excitement heightened in anticipation of another duel between hare and leopard. The two were due to fight again the following day, and as the Second Leopard had won his match only by default, audiences were eager to see how the fight played out this time. Perhaps the Second Leopard would prove himself worthy of the mask after all. Perhaps the White Hare had only subdued the Leopard because of some underhanded trick that threw the latter off kilter. Only another match would tell, and that match awaited Shi Qiu the following day.

Shi Qiu wore his mask even beyond the tourney grounds, refusing to gamble with his identity lest the Shi estate learn of their one-time ward's betrayal. He did not belong to the clan per se; they had chosen to sponsor him, and they could just as easily rescind their support if Shi Qiu was discovered among the outlaws killing each other for coin. The Second Leopard had unconsciously done him a kindness by leaving his mask where Shi Qiu could find it. Taking it allowed Shi Qiu to participate once more, though he remained undecided as to whether or not to retire from this particular tournament. The fact that he was still drawing attention made him think twice of this year's participation.

Some fool swordsman had been watching him all day. Lurking, creeping. Shi Qiu noticed his gaze right away but never gave the impression that he had, preferring to observe with all his other senses rather than meet the man's eye and give him cause to confront him. It seemed to him that the fool had a grudge against him, like many did when he defaulted on his victory and left them penniless after a parlay. He listened all day to the drag of this man's sword, to the lurching steps that followed him every which way, to the thick village accent that roared above the milder tongues of proper swordsmen. As soon as Shi Qiu made to slip away, the man followed him. Shi Qiu had to make an effort to shake him off.

It wasn't enough. He found Shi Qiu in the midst of meditation, seated within the tall grass of a forgotten meadow. The grind of his sword loosed a wail so terrible that Shi Qiu heard it all the way from the road. As soon as he did, Shi Qiu grew irate. How dare this silly disciple disturb a master?

Shi Qiu was no fool. No matter how thorough the disguise, a master sensed the skill of a learned swordsman at once. He could do little to hide his skill; it was clear to Shi Qiu that the man was not yet far removed from the teachings of his masters, a mere novice to the likes of a Dì Qī master. It annoyed him to be pursued. Just when he thought he was free of his nagging reputation, here came a boyish disciple thinking himself the next great swordsman. He approached Shi Qiu on staggering feet in hopes of being underestimated. Of course, only a boy would stoop to such tricks.

Even his accent had the ring of a practiced drawl. Shi Qiu felt his lip threaten to curl, but he only opened his green eyes to glimpse the boy come all this way.

He saw him from the edge of his cheekbone. They cut proud and tall, severe on an otherwise lovely face. As the White Hare, Shi Qiu wore simple hemp clothes that washed his skin pale, but only slivers of it were visible behind his gifted mask. The mask hid everything but the contempt with which he regarded his persecutor.

A rat.

A rat wearing a kimono.

This was the first time he laid eyes on the boy. He nearly rolled them, so loathe was he to acknowledge the stupid runt who thought a cotton kimono would fool any worldly master. Unlike the boy born swaddled in silk, Shi Qiu had known hardship long before he knew his name. And when he started training, he quickly realized the divide between he and his fellow students. Shi Qiu was an entirely different breed compared to them. Indeed, they made sure he never forgot it. So rich were the sons of great families that they could never understand how the impoverished lived, and they would never deign to observe them either, even if it was for the sake of some clandestine activity. That was how they ended up with a disguise so foolish as a kimono, because even if the boy understood he could not wear silk, he could never forsake the garb of his class. It would never even occur to him to wear the type of rags Shi Qiu had adopted once more, all for the purpose of attending this tournament.

"Coward." Shi Qiu had not intended to speak a word to the boy. But the insult slipped his teeth before he could swallow it, so incensed was the master with the boy who had pursued him all the way to this tranquil meadow. He had disturbed the master's peace, and the master had forgotten to hold his tongue when faced with the arrogance of rich little boys. He saw the face of every antagonist he'd ever known in that rat's mask and blue kimono, and he had never, ever let them get away with bullying him.

Still, the master quickly recovered himself. "Leave me now. If fate wills it, we shall cross swords upon the tourney grounds."

 

[Verse]

The meditative pose said a lot about what Shi Qiu expected of this encounter. Kabata the rat wondered shortly about the dismissal of such casual behavior, even before their match. Qiu had no natural enemies here, despite his rodent likeness. He should be taking his time to enjoy the calm forest. Kabata himself did not put much stock in meditation, he found that a lot of old men trusted to it, when young men did not. It was a good way to waste time not carving out your own technique. Maybe he was grateful for the opportunity to get ahead.

It was impossible that Shi hadn't heard him. Even though the master wouldn't lose himself too deeply to his introspection and tranquility, Kabata had been purposefully loud. The way Shi announced it though, almost suggested something else, knowing ahead of time. This made things a bit more dangerous. But it was obvious Shi could not know exactly who had come to test his sword against him, or the conversation would be going differently. It wasn't the first time the Hiroshi son had approached a master with ill intent in his blade - they usually tried to impart wisdom and avoided any true innuendo of a real battle.

"You're the coward." he said, keeping to his drawl. Because he believed the statement, his acting became better. It was not unthinkable that a boy, overly confident on some back-alley victories, would think poorly of a master if he did not immediately pick up his weapon. "I don't care about the tournament. I just want to bring them your corpse with your dick cut off and your mask removed." he muttered. He ran at the hare but slid to a stop before either of them could reach the other with a strike. The meadow filled up with their spirit, but Kabata held his back as much as he could. He needed the advantage of surprise if he was to win this.

"You prims are always playing at the same shit." now this even the rich boy could get behind. "Acting like not fighting is a way to learn it." the head under the rat mask nodded at all of Shi Qiu, to make the point of his meditating. "But the men with real power are the ones who hone that power directly, not the ones who make up dreams while they sit and breathe." And then Kabata kicked. Because the surface was mostly grass, a lot of green blades came with the lump of earth that he hurtled Shi Qiu's way. He was sure to plant his foot back down. No doubt Shi Qiu would be fast when he decided teaching this whelp a lesson was actually worth his time. The thought bittered Kabata a little. If Shi Qiu had been available to him as a teacher, this may not have happened.

He chose a broad stance, but didn't keep to good form. The kimono did hike up to reveal pearly white skin beyond the rising dirt on his shins. Kabata had taken pride in getting a win when he needed one. As in most sword arts, they forgot the element of kempo. Because the boy had excellent reach in his extremities, a theme continued it that hidden, manly, part, it lent itself well to other martial arts. His incorporating that into his sword skill always got him further than he would have. If Shi came at him with a strike to warn, Kabata would meet him but parrying his blade to get close, and send a horrible knee into Shi's side.

 

[coyotl]

With that said, Shi Qiu straightened his clothes and shut his eyes again. He expected, though not anticipated, that the boy would scurry back whence he had come, but instead the boy took his words and hurled them back without any added elegance. Shi Qiu didn’t dare open his eyes. Acknowledging the boy would only serve to embolden him, and the master was in no mood to put any sorry boy in his place even if he did deserve it. So, the master let him make his threats, trying to focus on the flow of energy throughout of his body rather than the volleyed absurdities of the blue rat.

Yet the boy continued. Men with real power are those who hone that power directly, he said, Not the ones who make up dreams while they sit and breathe. The ravings of a fool, Shi Qiu decided. There was no chance any boy so disrespectful would ever find worm his way into the tutelage of a master like Shi Qiu himself, and perhaps that was the very reason he'd come dragging his sword all the way here. Any master worth his salt would immediately sense the aura of skill coming from this rich blue rat, but the rat would open his mouth and instantly sour their impression of him. It was one thing to undertake a student who did not yet recognize the value of cultivating; it was another to suffer his vile personality, and few masters were keen on such students.

Shi Qiu felt the boy raise his leg before he kicked it. He felt the tearing of grass, the smash of toe to earth, and the earth itself tumbling to the ground near his body. Still, the master did not move. In his mind's eye, he saw the boy take position, avoiding the practiced form that his masters had taught him in favor of keeping up his charade of an uneducated bumpkin come to pick a fight. Shi Qiu felt his jaw tighten. Faking, lying — these were surefire ways of getting under the master's skin. He felt his anger flare and forced it down again, keeping his eyes shut lest he inadvertently give up his meditation. If he opened his eyes again, the session would be lost.

"You realize I can sense your skill, do you not?" Shi Qiu thought he would. There were few secrets in the way a man carried himself, no matter how hard he tried to conceal them. Not to mention the boy had a formidable cultivation base he may not have even been aware of. For Shi Qiu, it was like being approached by a walking sword. "Leave now. I am not above reporting your behavior even if it reveals my participation in this tournament." For that, they would both face punishment, but Shi Qiu was accustomed to whippings. He would wager that this boy was not, being the heir of whatever rich clan had spawned such an ingrate. Powerful families if not honorable ones tended to produce sons such as this, the type who dared to disrespect his elders because he had never faced consequences before.

 

[Verse]

The master tried for tranquility, another spell. He should know someone who stayed away should be of that mind, but then, the recluse Shi Qiu played would not have entertained the shallow honor that this kind of tournament gave. It was enough to prove to Kabata there was red blood in the hare. And red blood can be spilled, and red blood can be stirred. It would seem the insults were not enough. Old men tried to seem wise, like they were gods, but they'd only taken more lessons, and earned more scars. They could still be victims of all things that less experienced men could, only in different amounts. This was a duel too, then, to make Qiu engaged at all. Here it was Kabata who was the master, and the meditating swordsman would have to study him for better knowledge on the matter.

When the fling of dirt and grass reached their target but got nothing out of it, the rat frowned behind his mask. A clucking of his tongue echoed beneath the donned likeness when Qiu referenced his skill and the nonchalance about being caught with him. While it served as a warning for the youth, and such initial startling, sensing his skill would mean identifying him. Qiu had not done so yet. And who would have thrown their rank away at such a prestigious school just to keep ignoring a brat, as Shi Qiu would persist? Of course there was an easy course for this. But simply cutting at the Hare was no longer an option. He wanted to see what else this Rat could be, so he'd take it as some kind of audition. This was never going to end well for Qiu's honor, anyhow, Kabata had decided this long ago.

He came closer to the meditating Hare. On his way he had to kick out what dirt had gathered between his foot and his sandal. His footfall was the same as before in original rhythm, he did not drop the act because something in it had made it so that his family secrets were still safe, at least for now. If only the shallowness of the act, something kept Qiu from sensing the blood that had been mixed up by many skilled bloodlines in the past. One in particular, Kabata had been told, had the power to disrupt exactly what Qiu was trying to soothe here. It was a theory that only worked on the skilled, and because reason and opportunity rarely presented itself, the technique was only theory even when it was at its height - something to accompany the philosophy of a certain school rather than being its main point. A pulse that could confuse your meridian flow. A devastating thing if realized, and that's why people sometimes shied away from this particular son of the Hiroshi house, at least for teaching.

At any point he'd take up a position to fight, if Shi Qiu would, but if the master didn't, the boy would come within striking range. The hyacinth was strong, this close. A moment of stillness as the beautiful, disguised hooligan reached into the split of his kimono. His hand fondled himself, of course sweaty underneath, and with traces of discharge from having visited the brothel on his way here. The tainted hand wrapped around the top part of his blade, careful not to cut, but still smear the intimate leavings on the metal. Kabata stood proudly when he then extended the rehilted sword and reoiled edge to touch but not cut the mask of the Hare, right where its nose was. With senses like Master Shi Qiu's, he'd be able to smell the youthful cock and day-old cum, and piss and sweat, upon the sharpened tip.

"What if I tell yer fancy school that you're a boy lover, then? You think they'd forgive ya? If they learned you go all whoozy for some eroge to sit on?" he said cockily. Sometimes suggestions this way hit harder with men of the sword. Since Shi Qiu was older and single, the prejudice would be harder against him. He would have heard this rumor before. "You ain't fightin' me because you want me ta stick ya, isn't that it, bunny-hare?" For good measure, he spit upon the seated man as well.

Though some might say a battle of blades would be won by Shi Qiu, the master had lost the moment he thought to engage with the youth in a duel of insults.