Legend of the Wuxia Hero

They stood near the proverbial jewel of the palace, which was also unironically called the Jewel of the Palace (capitals, mind you). It was long, wide, and big enough for a few hundred. Connected to the palace’s grand entrance, the Jewel of the Palace was effectively an audience hall. Imbued with the proper decorations of massive arched windows, a painted ceiling (yes again—this time, illustrating even more wartime battles), and a variety of decorations.

Jenn walked in, gaze shooting from left to right. The room was largely empty. Guards lined the walls in formation, hoisting long, rifle-like guns in their grips. They were different to the White Hats. Wearing similar outfits, but with additional gold accents, and a posture that betrayed them as something better.

“Oh no, is our hag in heat again? Mhmm, watching these guards hold their long, thick barrels in check must be turning you on, huh?”

Jenn drove her knuckle into Sherica’s head, eliciting a high-pitched yelp.

“I’m not Filly, alright? If you talk shit, you’ll get hit. Period.”

“Period? Do you even have those anymore?”

Jenn said nothing. Cerica noted that nothingness and studied her expression.

“If you wanna blame someone, Hag-baba, blame your boyfriend here.”

“It's not his fault,” Jenn said.

“Mhm, then whose is it?”

Jenn did not deign to answer. Not for a while. “Whoever came up with the rules,” she grumbled.

A total of up to three ‘guests’, were allowed by the participants. On the condition that they act as observers and nothing more. It just so happened that soft heart Filly, feeling bad for shooting Cerica, made up for it through this.

Jenn had a hard look. She leaned down to Cerica and pulled her by the ear. “Filly and I are equals. He's cool, I'm cool. Therefore, any decision he makes is equally cool. Even if that means feeling bad for a twerp like yourself. Got that?”

The woman went ahead, Filly and girl coming in tow. They formed an impromptu line. Participants and would-be observers waiting for the ceremony to begin. The room was a quarter full at this point; but a quarter full it would begin.

All their eyes were on the far end of the hall. A raised platform with a tall, blue throne, carved in the loose image of a hydrangea. There were other platforms too, each spread across the hall.

But everyone knew the centre-most platform was the most important.

“When is he gonna come?” mumbled Jenn, raising her head and shuffling in place.

The air was full of promised anticipation.

None had seen the King yet. None, who had borne witness to the titular ‘Sword Saint’. While they had all come from stories: novels, movies, and games alike, few had seen each other's origin. Few save for the likes of Jenn, who believed herself to be real, and from the ‘real world’, where such laws as copyright stopped her not.

Trumpets blared from balconies above. A short sequence of noise, followed by a long procession of silence.

Clk. Clk. Clk.

The platform's double doors opened. Footsteps came from them, clack by dramatic clack. Someone emerged in the shadow, a man in deathly pale glamour. Tall and knife-thin, he wore a white fitted cuirass and flowing hakama pants. His bones were visible through them all: a protruding ribcage in the chest, and pronounced shoulders at the top. He was half-ghost, and half-model, beautiful as he was otherworldly.

More doors opened in subsequent succession. Each from a platform around the perimeter. Each, accompanied by a decorated figure, a masked man, a dog-girl, and quite a few more.

Come a half-minute, all were where they meant to be, and the man in the middle stepped forth at last.

With his arms spread wide—with a grin across his face—he approached the edge of the platform and spoke.

“Good people of this realm and all the ones beyond! For too long, Indaria has been shut to the outside! For too long, have we wallowed in our own shallow platitudes, content to be still forever more!”

He extended a gloved hand towards the audience. A bundle of thin, clustered bones.

“But no more—no more I say! Let the walls be brought down. Let the rivers of trade, blood and music course through these streets and go where they so please!”

He paused, looking down with his pallid, yellow eyes. He slammed his hand on his heart, and the gesture echoed between each White Hat guard.

“And of course… The King. Our radiant, enlightened Sword Saint—why, he is very well. And in a display of his supreme gratitude, shall manifest before the tournament of his namesake!” His tone deepened. “Walk among us, my King! Walk and let your claim be seen!”

Two women stepped out from the door behind him. Both masked and tall, wearing black and white kimonos, respectively. Between them rolled a chair, its wheels groaning against the stone, its chains rattling like the herald of something awful indeed.

“Behold Gijyou Soun, first of his name!”

“What?” Jenn breathed. “What the hell is going on here?”

Someone or rather something could be seen in the chair. Slack like a marionette with no strings. Thin as a sponge with no water. The ‘King’ looked like a man on his deathbed, with bands of iron across every hand and ankle, and tubes protruding from every vein.

That was not even the worst of it.

Most, if not all of him was covered in chains. Leaving nothing but cold blue lips and dead black eyes for features.

“…” Movement passed through his jaw, accompanied by the loud jangle of metal. But no sound came.

None but the quiet hush of the man next to him.

— Wakisaka Aka’ichi: Lord Regent of Indaria

The King’s acting Lord Regent swooped in from behind, resting his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Smile, my King, smile. Don't you see, my King? Everyone's here to pay their respects to you.” His expression was solemn. He leaned in close and licked him down the cheek. “You will see caravans pour in, my King.” He whispered. “Strange ships of metal and lights. You will see foreign blood spilt, by sword, gun, and all manners of violence. Is that not what you desired? What you had waged your war for all this time?” He stroked the King’s cheek. “Is. It. Not?!”

The King was unresponsive. The pale man moaned, hand running down chest and thigh. Slithering to the edge of the platform, Wakisaka once again turned his attention to the crowd.

“This is soo gay,” whispered Cerica.

“Very BL,” agreed Jenn.

“The First Round…” Wakisaka managed to shout-whisper. “The First Round begins in an hour! My White Hats will lead you where you need to be, and the King… Yes the King will be watching!”

He smiled as he spoke those words and caressed the King as he smiled. The White Hats responded in turn. They formed a cohesive block and gently nudged the guests out of the audience hall. Jenn gave a final glance back, studying the man looming above, and the prisoner he held next to him.

“Is that really the King?” said Jenn, in a half-hurry.

Filly thought it over. “Seems so.”

More voices drew to the same conclusion. Incohesive mumbles and gossip as to the King’s current predicament.

That's when Jenn heard it. A violent distortion of sound—an explosion in vein of a whip times a hundred. As Jenn looked above, she saw the very air distort: waves of rolling pressure travelling across the hall.

It was a red tasselled spear. It was flying towards the King. It was fast beyond recognition.

The spear planted with a sudden thud, located just an arm's breadth above the throne. Atop its blade stood a man in perfect balance: arms crossed, and tied violet hair dancing in the wind.

A hemp sack dangled from one hand, and a sleek dao from the other.

The guards raised their guns in unison. Barrels clicked into place. But the man did not waver. He stood indomitable. Tall in his sleeveless Chinese garb, fastened with a lattice of crisscross cords. 

But that wasn't all.

Jenn saw it clearly. His body was a lean line of muscle, each sinew taut with the strength of a martial artist. Moreover, he stood in a perfect median, straight as an arrow, even amidst the edge of his spear's handle. 

“I was told,” he said, “that a Sword Saint of the Rising Sun awaited me here. That the victor of this land’s tourney would be granted the honour of duelling him.”

His eyes swept the platform, black beads dunked in challenge and disappointment.

“Am I to slay this elder in single combat? As he lies bound in chains and iron? If that is so…” His gaze shot towards the crowd. “Then I would sooner take you all right here and now.”

One rose to the challenge. A voice, deep and booming. “And what makes you think you have that right?” He raised his massive, lumbering weapon—a block of red wood inlaid with obsidian fangs.

“What right?” He smiled. “Tell me, Lord Regent. A total of how many tokens were distributed?”

“One hundred,” replied the pale man.

“Then ask yourself, how many are there in this hall?”

Jenn took in the hall, counted the heads one by one with her finger. “Uno, dos, tres…”

Seventy-three to be exact. Twenty-seven less than there could be.

The man sliced his bag open. There was a great spillage. Dozens of silver tokens poured out, in loud clinks and clangs.

“There are fifty-two tokens here. All claimed in honourable combat, as can be testified by the White Hats present.”

Murmurs spread amongst the crowd. Even Jenn looked impressed, scratching her chin and nodding her head in brisk, little jerks.

“What is your name?” said the Lord Regent, calm as ever.

“My name is Mo Xixi. Heaven's Twice Strong Butcher. And I speak for the people when I demand answer!”

He stood, caked in sun and glory, a shadow cast over the Lord Regent below.

“An answer,” said the Lord Regent. “Why, you'll get that in due time.” He turned and looked at Xixi, grey hair aflutter. “The King, you see, is tired. Come the week’s end. Come the final day of the tournament, you’ll find his vigour renewed.” Wakasaki was beaming. His sunken eyes turned towards the crowd. “He will meet you with a sword in hand. Count on it.”

Xixi bent down, remaining level with the Lord Regent. “Do you lie? Would you have me waste my edge on a cripple?”

“Not at all,” whispered Wakasaki. “...It would please me greatly to see my King scatter your entrails.”

The murmurs continued.

“Move along now!” ordered a White Hat. “There’ll be plenty of fighting once the mêlée starts!”