While walking the path in search of my brother Takeda,
a man revealed himself like light upon moving water,
present, yet difficult to grasp.
He named himself Krow-Ser.
A place called Darkhold is where he lingers.
There, he said, he would seek my brother’s trace.
Hope took root not in his promise, but in his words.
When he learned my blood hails from Wa,
his eyes sharpened, and he spoke of the Samurai
as one speaks of a blade both feared and revered.
Strange it was to hear him confess
that his dream as a swordsman
is to one day cross steel with a Bushi.
He believes himself strong enough to survive such meeting,
yet he does not understand
the Samurai’s blade does not test strength
but it decides fate.
Still, my thoughts linger on his name.
Krow-Ser.
It bends close to the sound of the black-winged one,
a bird long known as a divine messenger.
Perhaps this is no coincidence.
If so, then perhaps at last
the Heavenly Deities have turned their gaze toward my path,
and found it worthy of guidance.
The path to Soubar bent in uneasy ways
Even beneath the shelter of the caravan
the andeddo were avoided like stagnant water.
This village gathers would should not gather.
Gajin of many winds and layers,
many born where they should not walk.
My Hannya mask would not be an ornament.
But if so many shapes exist in one place,
strong human emotion had hardened
and danger lingers.
Peope kept behind iron, cages without voices,
and then an Oni named Gu-ro crossed my path.
Offering aid in my search for my brother,
but not as charity.
He demanded proof I could help him first.
Nothing was asked about my blood or Wa,
only what my hands could accomplish.
Strange to watch him practice yūdō since
in Wa the bow often rests in female hands.
Whilst kendo was mostly walked by men.
Perhaps here customs turn like leaves in the wind.
When my task was done,
I sensed Gu-ro’s taste for gold.
Yet within hair-rising eyes,
honor had not departed.
In Soubar, Krow-ser stood before me again.
Surprise, if only briefly broke his facade.
Walking at his arm came a woman of few words.
They guided me to a Vale that echoed faintly of home.
Farms resting between patient hills,
watchful guards standing like rooted pines.
As Krow-ser aided me at a messageboard,
light around me dimmed.
A shadow fell not from cloud,
but from presence.
A massive Oni more nearby then I have ever known.
My breath was silenced with the curved horns,
and skin the color of stone.
Yet it were the crimson eyes that stirred
the fear that my search for Takeda had ended.
Krow-ser however knew him,
and introduced him as Ze-roz.
Much was then spoken beyond my understanding,
but one word pierced through.
To Krow-ser Ze-roz was Shogun.
Sceptic I tried to comprehend their words.
In Wa, the Shogun is the axis of power,
yet here stood such man without escort or bushi.
Before a commoner’s inn.
This land distorts the shape of certainty.
I was not commanded nor threatened however.
Instead, invited to a circle which claimed knowledge.
Only if I bind myself to their cause,
until steel finds rest and blood grows cold.
I sit with unanswered thoughts.
A promise glimmering as polished steel
might reflect lies nevertheless.
Is the only path truly a road
that leads further away from home?
