[center][b][h1]Minamoto-no-Yoshitsune[/h1][/b][/center]

[h2]The Core District[/h2]

The ancestor of the Minamoto was Emperor Ōjin, son of the Emperor Chūai and the Empress-Consort Jingū. He, whose divine birth was signified by Eight Heavenly Banners. He, who became Hachiman, the deity of agriculture, of archery, of [i]war[/i].

A tutelary [i]kami [/i]of warriors, he was protector of the Minamoto samurai in particular. And as such, his divine greatness lay within those who carried his blood.

The ichor may have lay latent in many, who stayed merely within the bounds of humanity. Yet, for better or worse, Minamoto-no-Yoshitsune was never destined to be an ordinary human. Taught and raised by the Great King of the Tengu Sōjōbō on Mount Kurama, her mind was open to knowledge that would utterly be disastrous for any other to hold.

All this had come together, in the end, to form a “path” within her mind to an aspect of the war god. Indeed, it was exhausting to “use, and it warped her away from humanity or tengu.

Some say, when a man eliminates their doubts and desires, when they utterly resolve themselves onto a path, their minds turn into “steel,” and become at the same time something more and less than human.

Minamoto-no-Yoshitsune, in turn, approached divinity. The divinity of warfare, of combat, for that was all she had learned and experienced throughout her life. For that was the fate of the girl who was not quite human yet lived among them, for the warrior who slew their brother’s enemies beyond counting, led his forces to victory, and yet, at the end, was betrayed by the one she held most high.

Her mind could turn into “war,” and it did so immediately as soon as she resolved to end the fight. And so, when the Archer of the Harp ceased targeting her with his bow, and sought to resolve the conflict with his cutting words, he found that he spoke to a god of war instead of a mere warrior.

And alas, what do mere words about regrets and sorrow matter to a being who found such things irrelevant? The words slid off the mind of War as easily as arrows would clatter off a castle’s wall. There was no use for them, after all.

Minamoto-no-Yoshitsune, whose mastery of the arts of War broached divinity, swung her sword for the final time in this duel. The movement was more than perfection, for this technique was not taught by the great King, nor by her own clan. The cut was borne from her childhood, of remembering the nostalgia of childhood games and teachings, refined into something more by the endless years of war.

And lo, the Heavenly Blade of the Minamoto sang a dirge of its own.

[@KoL]