The temple grounds were rather deceptive in their structure. Of course, the tallest building was something you could see for miles off, but you would assume that was it. The mountain was only small, after all. But under the cover of trees, centuries of monks had cultivated quite the environment for training.
And with training as their objective, one of the most important things for them to measure was progress. And the best way to do that, was through rigorous testings in the form of combat. One found out very early on which of their peers they were most similar to in terms of ability, and they would spar endlessly, until one left the other behind.
As the monks grew older, the duels grew more and more complicated, with the new techniques that each had learned. It was more akin to a chess match when the opponents were evenly matched. Thus, the younger monks often gathered, so that they might learn from their elders, and improve their own training.
It was of such regular occurrence that an arena had been constructed. A sandy circular pit, dug into the earth, with rows of stone seating spiralling around. It was large. Space would certainly not limit you. But there were no safety mechanisms in place. Down there, it was as close to a battlefield as you were likely to get without stepping on one.
With such thoughts in mind, one might wonder whether that orange sand had always been that colour.
The elders had the respect of the younger monks, no doubt. Every single one of them was stronger – it was as simple as that. Some of the young a.d.u.l.ts might be able to cause their superiors to sweat, but that was as close as they might get. To be classed as an elder monk, you had to have lived in their ranks since birth, and be over the age of forty. In between thirty and forty the monks were referred to as initiates, and they went through a lengthy process of being primed to assume their senior position.
And so, you might be able to imagine what kind of stir was caused when Gengyo – who could barely be classed as an a.d.u.l.t – was pitted against one of the most experienced of the elders. There had been a veritable uproar. Because of the Soroko and Momochi's lack of presence after the duel had been declared, they had thought it to be an error in communication.
That outsider, and his youthful comrade – they were rather well known on the temple grounds. Very little out of the norm happened, and so when news of that sort struck, it was spread rather quickly. Whispers had been heard of his performance against Tsuchi, but without a large gathering to witness the fight, many had put it down to dumb luck, though those that had seen it insisted that was not the case – it had been complete dominance.
As he descended down the hill, with Momochi at one side, and Kitajo at the other, he did so under the gaze of all the monks of that temple of theirs. With vigour, they spoke, and not a single man remained unseated. They were ready to witness what most thought would be a slaughter. There was no way Nakama-san – who was well respected even amongst his fellow seniors – would fall to the likes of him.
His ears felt so sensitive now, after all the changes he had experienced, and their rapid words combined reached an almost painful volume. On his face, he maintained a small smile. It was not an arrogant smile – he merely did not want to seem afraid.
It was indeed nerve-racking as their feet crunched down of the stone, and they reached the bottom of the hill. They were the last to arrive, and no pathway was clear down into the fighting pit. Soroko had already returned, and was standing in the centre of that sandy ring, with a middle-aged man by his side.
Nakama displayed no emotion on his face, but with his arms folded he radiated an aura of absolute confidence. More than that, he seemed disgusted by the fact that he had been called to fight someone so young. There was a gap caused by age that was simply unbreachable. But out of respect for Soroko, he had not made a scene, and accepted, believing the older man to be wiser than he.
As they neared, Momochi raised two fingers, and motioned sideways, and as though they were controlled by strings, the crowd parted together. He was forced to walk through like that, with only a few centimetres of room between him and the other monks.
They were a mixture of young and old, and they stared at him unblinkingly. In their eyes, he did not find even a single trace of respect. But why should they? The majority had never seen him fight. Nor had they even interacted with them. He took no offence at their expressions, or their jeering looks. Nor did he claim that in his mind he would exact revenge for being taken lightly. He was the exception rather than the norm. It was not folly to believe him incapable.
'Though I would like to give you something of a show…'
He decided. He felt he owed that much to Momochi and Soroko. They had put their names on the line for this, and in reality, it was a mere stepping stone, before his fight against Kuraka.
The third master sat there amongst the crowd, though the chairs around him were empty within a metre radius - out of respect it seemed. He did not look to be happy with the state of affairs, and his forehead was wrinkled in concentration as he viciously tried to comprehend what on earth was going on. He could have sworn they had been about to take Gengyo's life at some point not too long ago. And now they were allowing him to fight against some of their best? And even training him at that? It was not just, he decided.
Noticing his furious glare, Gengyo nodded towards him. Against the silence of the crowd, and all that surrounded him, Kuraka's single "tsch" resounded out.
'Very different indeed…'
Gengyo murmured, as he recalled a passing comment Momochi had made about Kuraka. He certainly was rather different to his fellow masters.
He then took his time to turn, and run his gaze across the crowd. He wanted to take it all in, and remind himself of his goal. He recalled something he had read about the great Roman Emperor, Marcus Aurelius. The man had paid a servant to whisper constantly in his ear, to remind him that he was insignificant, despite the cheering of the crowd, and it was only in that moment that Gengyo truly understood his motivations in doing so.
He had a wooden spear clasped in his hand, and his body radiated more power than it ever had. He stood on a mountain that few would ever climb, both physically, and metaphorically. It was so easy to be arrogant. But he could not, for that would once more destabilize his tower.
And so, as he heard Soroko part his lips to speak, he reminded himself of something.
'You are nothing. As you fly past this world, your name will not be uttered. This is an honour, an opportunity, for you, a nobody, who dares to dream of great things.'
"This is quite the unusual circ.u.mstance, is it not?" Soroko spoke to the crowd, thoroughly understanding what was going through their minds.
"This pit was set to be empty until the eve of the solstice, but here we are, narrowing our eyes, and straightening our backs, as we watch with anticipation how these men in front of us will fair. This," he continued, motioning to Gengyo, "is Miura. A man of the outside world. In him, Momochi-sensei noticed a great talent, and we have set about cultivating such a talent. Today, this duel was arranged by I, Soroko. It would normally be considered inappropriate, but I hope that you can bear with me, and pass your judgement once the fight is over."
Of course, none would dare to criticize him. Not to his face, or even anywhere him. He was one of the three most powerful men on this mountain of theirs. Whatever whims he had, he was free to execute.
"Thank you for agreeing to this duel, Nakama." He continued, paying his respects to Gengyo's opponent.
Nakama inclined his head, and bowed lightly. "It is my honour to carry out your wisdom, Soroko-sensei." He replied, not allowing a hint of anything other than respect to seep into his voice.
"This fight will be carried out according to our normal rules. They will duel until first blood, or until it becomes obvious that one of them holds the advantage, or either of their lives are in danger. Kuraka-sensei, would you mind playing referee for this match?"
The man's lip twitched at the unexpected proposition, but with all eyes on him, he could not refuse, and so through clenched teeth, he hissed his response. "Very well." He quickly realized the significance of his own position – he was giving hold over Gengyo's life. A mere split-second hesitance from him, and the boy would have his skull caved in.
"Good. We will leave the duelists to prepare, then." Soroko said his final words, and exited the pit with a light jump, clearing the metre high wall with ease. Kitajo and Momochi followed along shortly after, and very soon, they disappeared into the crowd, and the gap closed up behind them.
With training spear in hand, Gengyo was left alone. The crowd remained quiet – at least for now. They had to give the two men time to prepare themselves mentally, as was tradition. When he judged the time to be right, Kuraka would give the order for the match to begin.
He slowly turned, and with a slow blink, he made eye contact with the man who was to be his opponent. Nakama flinched, but quickly hid his fear. Yet it was no quickly enough for Gengyo's heightened senses. Still, what mattered was whether the crowd had noticed or not, he decided.
'He's just a child, after all.'
He reassured himself, effortlessly twirling his spear, warming up the wood before he clamped down with firm hands, and assumed a casual ready stance. One might wish to enter into their form stance immediately, but part of the skill was being able to get into such a stance quickly, as there were many stances that took a while to set up, but were immensely powerful.
"…Begin!"
Kuraka called out, seeing that Nakama was ready. Gengyo had not yet assumed any ready stance himself, but it was clear who the master was favouring.