This comes before "Shadows in the Dark" on the timeline.
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I’d been wandering for months, ever since the razing of my home by land-hungry neighbors. I’d just sold my only change of clothes so I could buy a small sack of rice and a pair of chicken eggs. The clothes on my back were thin and torn, stained with sweat and road dust, hanging from my body by a few tenacious threads. My leather sandals had many miles of life left, and a straw farmer’s hat had blown to me upon a breeze, rolling down the road to protect me from the sun.
For these small things, I counted myself fortunate.
My katana, and deadly knowledge bound in my bones were the last remnants of a life that died in fire and siege. I always knew that the life of a warrior would end in battle, but I did not expect to go on living even after that life had ended.
Penniless, weary with month-old hunger, I came upon this: A city. I’d never seen such a thing, except in wood-block prints and the stories of travelers. Nothing I’d learned prepared me for the stink. A thick muck of filth, rotting garbage, horse shit and man shit lined the street. The stink clung greasily with the reek of sour bodies, unwashed since the last heavy rain. I was a stranger here, even among the filthy destitute. My clothes, though ragged and faded, were of a cut and color that marked me an outsider from far away.
I’d slurped down one of my eggs raw, hungry beyond care. I even tried eating the shell, and sucked the slimy skin from the inside. I carried the rice into the city, despite my immediate and growing hunger. In my bartering, I’d failed to consider the difficulty in cooking without a pot, or even a tin cup. So as I slugged into the northern district of this city, I was dazed and giddy with hunger.
I stumbled into a food shop, full of the smell of boiled beef bone, rice, and steaming garden vegetables. A pair of rough wooden tables with benches sat parallel in the square, splinter-slatted building. In front of me, an old man stood, sweeping the hard-packed dirt floor and glowering at me over his red, bulbous nose.
"Not the usual street trash," he spat grumpily, "but just as broke, I’ll wager."
His back was locked in a stoop. His hands were callous hardened claws
"Sir," I began, my voice quavering, my legs weak. The smell of food sank claws into my polite calmness.
"No," he interrupted. "I don’t need my floor swept, or my firewood chopped, or my roof patched." He eyed my sword. "And I don’t need anyone killed.
"What I need is coin, and soon. Those crooks will be through again to collect ‘dues’ soon. So go on, get out! Find some money, and come back!"
I might have broken down and cried, begged even, for him to just cook some of my rice. Suddenly, the old cook glared over my shoulder, then stepped around me, brandishing his broom like a club. I sank onto a bench and watched him viciously jab a bum with the handle, shouting curses and threats. The rice I carried would fill my stomach three times, if only I could eat it.
I put some of the dry grains in my mouth and sucked on them, hoping my saliva would soften the food. I couldn’t wait, and began chewing the hard rice. The crunching was probably audible, but the raw grains were sweet, and my bodily weakness diminished almost immediately after swallowing. I put another small portion in my mouth and held it in one cheek.
"You’re still here." The warty old man shrugged his rounded shoulders. "At least you don’t reek of shit. You know, I’d trade you a week’s feeding for that blade." He eyed my sword again.
The glare I gave him must have been deadly, because he threw his hands up, eyes wide, stammering that many katana were being bought and sold these days, and he thought he’d ask, and a thousand apologies, please rest here as long as you like.
He turned his back on me and hobbled back to one of the simmering pots to stir the contents. At the slap of sandals in the doorway, he snarled and whirled around, reaching for his broom and beginning to say something along the lines of "I told you to get lost!"
He froze, his gnarled hand dropped to his side, and his angry face fell slack. A pair of men swaggered in. They were dressed in cheap, coarse cotton, but the clothes were clean, and matching daggers hung sheathed at their thin leather belts.
"Hey there Roji. You’re looking uglier than ever. How’s your harpy of a wife doing?"
The old man frowned. "Better. You can hardly see the black eye anymore."
The first man laughed a viscous laugh. "Maybe she’ll be more polite next time. What was it she called us?"
"I can’t pay you today," the old man said, ignoring the question. "Your boss has turned this part of town into a slum. The whole north side is a gutter. I can’t make a living here anymore."
Both gangers frowned. The first said, "The Boss is going to be mad that you won’t pay him. But he’s going to be madder that you said that."
The second man said nothing, but moved his hand to his dagger.
"Now," said the first, "how about we just take the money? Or how about we burn your shop to the ground, then kill you and your horrible wife."
"I’ll starve to death anyway if you collect your fee."
At this point, still slightly woozy from hunger, I slammed my fists on the table and said loudly, "What IS that horrible smell."
I glared at the pair of men. "It can’t be the bums. The bums smell like flowers compared to this. It must be YOU."
I stood dizzily from my seat, the bench scraping behind my knees.
"I need some fresh air."
I shoved my way between the two glaring men, who stood for a moment stunned before puffing up their bravado and stomping after me into the street.
"Oy!" one shouted at me. I stopped and turned to face them. Their daggers were in their hands, but their eyes were on the sword tucked lazily at my hip.
"Careful kiddies," I goaded. "Those are big boy toys."
The first man snarled and lunged, right leg forward, blade forward in his right hand. Slow and sloppy. He is overextended.
I caught his hand from underneath with my right hand, my left hand steadying my sword. With my right foot, I quickly stomped on his forward knee, which crunched and bent entirely the wrong way. As he fell screaming, I twisted his wrist and yanked, and the weight of his body ripped his elbow out of place. I kicked the dagger away from his sprawled, wailing form.
The second man hesitated, and stepped cautiously forward, his eyes locked on my sword hand. He feigned a lunge but kept his distance, as though he feared the sudden swipe of my much longer blade.
There is no intent behind his strike. He is too afraid.
I let go of my scabbard and held my hands palms out close to my chest. Instantly, his eyes left my sword, and he leapt into a real attack, intending to drive the blade through my sternum.
So slow. Compared to a swinging katana, these men move like feathers fall.
I let my loose hand swing out and pop like a whip on the back of his attacking hand. The explosive force stungs my fingernails. I would have bruised fingertips that week. The dagger sprang free of his agonized hand, and with ferocious quickness I drew my blade and cast it down upon the nape of his neck, stopping at the skin.
The first man was struggling to his good leg, agony, tears and mud smeared across his face.
"I think its time for you to run away," I said, not moving my sword from his neck.
Carefully, cowering, the second man shrank away from my blade and gathered his companion. Together, they hobbled bent and three legged toward the heart of the city.
A small filthy crowd had gathered, murmuring. The daggers had been snatched quickly—they might be traded for coin. I walked back into the shop, parting the crowd without any pushing.
Roji looked stricken, but said nothing.
"Do you have any bandages?" I asked.
"Y...yes," he stammered. "Were you stabbed?"
"No, they’re for you. Put them on your head. Say I robbed you."
Roji ahhhed in sudden understanding, and tapped the side of his nose knowingly.
"Now could I please," I said, collapsing onto a bench, "have some food?"
