[@Reflection] [@ReallyDumb] [@Scallop] [@Argonaut] [center][h1]The Sensei[/H1][/center] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Flfan1p.png[/img][/center] [center][h1]Miyama - Man-made Disaster [/h1][/center] [center][h1]New Verse[/h1][/center] A gasp for breath, a slight pause as he took a sip of rice wine. A small luxury to ease his aches. His heart itself burned and he felt his gut twist, as though voicing the complaints of his body now when it could be heard during this small break. He had been sitting in an alleyway, taking refuge himself from the violence of the crowds. The rivers of blood spilled on the streets grew a contribution spilled from him, and spilled by him at this point, his hand forced further as it became even more violent and he more tired and worn down from fight after fight. He was reminded of a man he encountered one, a sage that he once crossed fists with. One of the few to defeat him in his short life. Yes indeed. His life was short. To a normal person one may say that the age of 35 was more than ripe, that in a sense it was a full life combined with the many sights he had seen and the experiences he had come to partake in, culminating with this war of wonders and horrors. But in comparison to that man it was nothing. A man who lived beyond normal men, who was an existence that even he could feel was different. A completed man, a driven man. A man who was beyond his abilities. The weight that he carried with his age, and with the experiences of his age were far too much for his years that were measured in the span of mere decades. Bu to simply live long was not enough. That man was unbelievably sad. Was he a monk because of that sorrow, or did he become a monk as a result of that sorrow? He was a man he did not tell his apprentice about. It was not because of the fact that he did not wish to share his defeats with his pupil. No, that was not it at all. It was a tale that he did not think was good for the youth who was growing into his responsibilities, not at the time. That man must have seen many things like this horror of Fuyuki. Again, and again and again. What meaning did it have? What could be said about those that could not be saved? That it just couldn’t be done? That they died for no reason, that they died because no hero was able to help them? Compared to that man who saw such suffering he was nothing grand. He was in a sense cruel. He felt a sorrow, he would grieve over this conflict. Yet he would not say to them that their lives and deaths held no meaning. To say that they were slaughtered for a purpose, or rather that there was meaning in their deaths. It was unbelievably cruel. It was tantamount to saying that it was okay that they died. It was like the excuse of a powerless bystander, a word to assuage one’s guilt that more people were unable to be saved. Yet he shamelessly held onto that thought and declaration. Tragedy after tragedy that this was simply a small shade of. All of those had some meaning, forming kindling and nourishment for the future. To accept that which came from those slaughters was to validate them. But it was ok. He got back up onto his feet. He was a man of the selfish present who would accept the fruits that grew now as a result of the blood of yesterday. But today was an age that did not need the nourishment of such slaughter anymore. They could grow, they could progress without such cruelty. Humanity was growing into its adolescence, and so it could surely mature into a new path. He believed in such, but also simply it was a somewhat crooked justification. He simply could not bare to see the people of such a wonderful western and golden age suffer so when they could live a life of peace. He could not stand the butchering of those who were before him. Like a girl who embodied consumption and the future he would, if given the choice, throw away the past for the now and future. But there was no need for that. After all even now the past was claiming its own new future, right? [color=ed1c24][b]“Roland!-”[/b][/color] he cried out as he charged into his own fray. Their relation could not be called that of a master and servant anymore. Nor of magus and familiar. Even as he ripped through group after group, forcing himself into the thickest of the frays to quell the worst of it, to save those who were the most troubled he kept an eye on the activities of his friend. The thief was found. There was only one thing he had to say to Roland now. He felt a thrown brick strike his back. He staggered slightly, leading him into a volley of fists and pipes. Even then his fists and palms redirected, punished and parried. A fist met a fist, his greater power and robust nature ending with a clash that left a shattered hand pushed away from him. Yet it was too much in that position. They fell upon him, and he felt a strike upon his shoulder. Ah, something broke. The pain was blinding, a sensation so real and raw compared to the dull aches and the void of sensation that his body felt with its fatigue induced numbness. Yet even as his body stumbled, unable to keep up with his mind and even dragging his thoughts down with it he continued his words. Jack began to run. So he made himself into the one to give the answer to the legendary hero-thief’s flight. The mark upon his right hand flared with its obscene magical energy. A shapeless curse that took on the form of a command, a wish. [color=ed1c24][b]"-Show me your journey to the west!”[/b][/color] His command seal surged. It was a command filled by a sentence that was nonsensical to anyone listening. Yet the curse that was the command seal was one governed by a number of factors. How simple and clear a command was. How long-term its command was. A command like fly, or put all your power into your next blow would hold much greater power than a command to “Win this battle”, “Fight with all your might” or “Obey my orders.” Of course it held greater power when master and servant agreed upon the command. Yet there was a important factor that matched all of those factors that came into play with the words spoken to Roland. Intent. The meaning of that phrase was an encapsulation of the guiding principles of the man who paradoxically left the west to explore it. Who arrived in the east to go west. A servant was a fixed existence, the culmination and representation of a finished story. But to Tlilpojuan, Roland was no such thing. He ate, he drank, he fought, he survived dire straits and rose from despair. He reached for peace and love, and he sought to grow beyond what he was. A hero of the west was not a hero who came from the old world, or the new world. But a hero who encapsulated the reaching towards the beauties of the world, the hero whose world expanded. To reclaim his blade was not a matter of regaining a noble phantasm for the war for either of them. To reclaim his honor, to be a reforged blade himself. His first command seal had been used to save Roland from his second death- He swung his head like a mace, a move that was unrefined compared to his strange elegance that filled his own personal martial arts style. Battering down a man to the streets, he then kicked him up into his fellows to topple them before diving after them as they scattered like bowling pins across the ground. -But to simply keep someone alive was not enough. It was what he strived for with the people caught in the riot. It was only natural then that his second command seal would go towards Roland’s dignity and his life as a hero. It was only the fourth day since they met, but freely Tlilpojuan offered the heart of his thirty-five years to Roland in this phrase. The power of that intent was then the core that shaped an absolute command. No catalyst was used to bring the two together. The Horse of Fuyuki himself was the connection that brought forth the bravest of Paladins. Similar souls who could reach an understanding. To grasp the full meaning of the command was something that was only possible to Roland. An absolute command, and a vessel that was the perfect shape. In truth it was simply the master giving his blessing and hopes. Because if Roland could manage to complete this journey- He blacked out for a moment, only to find himself staring up into the sky, surrounded by men who could no longer walk. Still save for shallow pained breaths. Didn’t he just take a break a few moments ago?... He really was starting to slack off. What would Hideyoshi say to him if he saw this? Well, it would be okay if he used his magecraft for himself this one time, right? Groaning as he pushed himself to a sitting position he began the work to mend his wounds. -If even a timeless story could write a new chapter for itself. Then there was indeed nothing to stop a normal man from walking the paths that allowed them to witness all that was new and good. Most of all he wished to see his friend succeed in overcoming himself and attain his new glory, his new happiness. There was nothing more to say. So he returned to his work. Rejuvenated, and driven beyond his own limits by the new story that was now unfolding and closing.