Mask of the Fallen: A Cultivation/Progression Fantasy Series: (War Priest Book One)

by Harmon Cooper

  “It is that kind of dedication that separates someone who dabbles in the illusionist skills and runs around calling themselves the shinobi, and someone who is actually a shinobi, or for that matter, a Hidden Warrior. This goes without saying, but I will say it anyway: there are too many lessons for us to cover in such a short amount of time. Some of these include strategies for joining a household, from showing them your gratitude by giving them gifts to setting up scenarios in which you can gain favor with their servants, which is always a quick way to a master’s ear. Gleaning information, using this information, holding power—the ways of a true illusionist are numerous. There’s an old saying I’m fond of that goes ‘you should test metal with fire and humans with words,’ and that is exactly what the training of an illusionist entails.” A crooked smile appeared on Hojo’s face. “Hirata Masuhiro said that, actually.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Meosa chimed in.

  “You did really well today,” Hojo told Arik. “I didn’t have to break you out of jail, nor did you end up getting yourself killed. You have excelled faster than many of the students at the School of Illusion, but I expected as much, not because you are more talented than any of them—always consider yourself the least talented person in the room—but because we are actually in the field, whereas the first year of instruction at the School of Illusion was done at the school. All theory. But I am quite excited for where you will go next, and how you will use these skills once you have come to understand them better and how they work with your natural tendencies.”

  “Thank you,” Arik said, Hojo’s praise taking him off guard. He bowed his head slightly, and as he did, Hojo continued, the master illusionist not yet touching his dumplings.

  “You did good as well, kami. I had high hopes that the two of you would form a very symbiotic relationship, and this appears to be the case.”

  “I’m just doing what I can…” said Meosa, a rare hint of fondness in his voice for also receiving some praise.

  “Your impressions are outstanding. Now, I wanted to ask you more about what you studied,” Hojo said, returning his focus to Arik. “Explain your path and the options that were presented to you before the events of that terrible night.”

  Arik swallowed another dumpling. “I spent the first five years at the Academy studying the Faithful Branch of Common Restoration. During this time, I also read deeply about Revivaura and past priests who were experts in chi healing. My first hands-on lessons revolved around taking care of minor wounds such as cuts and light burns, bruises as well. It grew to recovery from moderate blood loss, then an emphasis on critical wounds, which would be the focus of the next branch I studied, the Devout Branch of Regrowth.”

  “Yes, tell me about that,” Hojo said as he finally went for a dumpling. “It sounds very interesting.”

  “I studied the Devout Branch of Regrowth from the ages of ten to fifteen, which helped me better understand using Revivaura to heal internal organs, some of which can take quite some time to repair, as well as more serious wounds. The hardest part for me at the time was repairing nerve damage, because…” Arik bit his lip as he thought about the best way to describe what Revivaura looked like. “When a person is injured, there is a chink in their aura that I’m able to sense. External injuries are the most visible, obviously, but this holds true with their chi aura as well. For internal organ damage and nerves, it takes much more focus for me to mend, at least at first,” Arik said, wishing he could explain it as well as Master Guri Yarna had.

  “I don’t quite know what you see when you call upon your power, but it makes sense,” Hojo told him.

  “In studying the Devout Branch of Regrowth, I learned more about doing things like growing an actual limb and all that entails.”

  “So it isn’t magic, then.”

  “Yes and no, but it looks like magic.”

  “Yes, that makes sense. And after that?” Hojo asked. “You studied wound transfer?”

  “Yes, I studied the Divine Branch of Wound Transfer, which I’m able to use in other ways now,” Arik said.

  “What do you mean?”

  It was at this question that Arik paused. Hojo already knew what he was capable of. Why is he asking me these things? he thought, but the master illusionist had an encouraging look on his face, so he continued: “The Divine Branch of Wound Transfer teaches you how to bring someone’s injury into yourself through chi. If…” Arik felt his throat constrict. “If I had continued on to the mastery school, I would have studied the Sacred Branch of Chi Healing, which would allow me to go even further, and I also would have likely focused on remote healing.”

  “And your power, you use it for combat, yes? You seem to understand your ability in a remarkable way.”

  Again, Arik wondered why Hojo was asking him something he already knew. He was also surprised that Meosa hadn’t commented yet, the kami generally one to get disgruntled at things like this.

  “Yes, I can transfer the chi from a wound I’m holding back to someone, which has a way of stunning people. The only issue I found with this is I would either need to absorb some of their own wounds first, or someone else’s, or have to injure myself to be able to utilize this ability.”

  “I see, let our discussion here be your final lesson for the night.” Hojo ate another dumpling, and once he was finished chewing, he continued: “One way to get in the good graces of others is to praise them as much as possible, and as you do, get them talking about themselves or about a subject they are passionate about. This is an invaluable skill for an illusionist.”

  “I knew it!” Meosa said, roaring to life. “I knew you were leading him on in some way.”

  “Yes, but not exactly,” said Hojo. “It was good information to know. One thing you should consider is carrying a smaller blade with you, something that you can access quickly to injure yourself if need be. I believe I can help with that.”

  “I did something similar to what you’re saying today,” Arik told him, “to better sell my limp.”

  “This shows to me that you are slowly starting to think along the lines of an illusionist, whether you like this fact or not. Over the next week I am going to be teaching you some of the better sword techniques that are taught at the School of Illusion. We will leave for Iga early in the morning, and hopefully arrive by night if we’re lucky, if the weather is nice. The first technique I will teach you upon arriving in Iga is called the Autumn Leaves Strike, and hopefully you will find good usage of it later that day in a warrior pilgrimage.”

  “And you are sure that there will be these pilgrimages there?” Arik asked as he ate another dumpling. They really were good.

  “Iga is where people in the Jade Realm go for warrior pilgrimages,” Meosa said, answering for Hojo. “At least it was five hundred years ago.”

  “You are correct. And sadly, not much has changed since then. While we are in Iga, we will do what we can to hone your skills before returning here to embark upon the final step: retrieving the Mask of the Fallen. Eat, rest well, and prepare for the day to come and the lessons to follow. While the study of deception may have been hard for you to adjust to, I believe that the combat lessons will come to you more naturally. You are going to need them, disciple.”

  .Chapter Six.

  “Rhythm and cadence must never be contravened; rhythm is an invisible presence in all things.”

  –Combat Master Baldree Yamanouchi, as told to his biographer for the Crimson-Onyx Shroud War memoir A Year of Slaughter, Year 1087.

  A cold breeze made Arik Dacre glad that he was wearing his haori cape, the pathway to the ancient city of Iga unclear. As usual, Hojo was keen to avoid the main thoroughfares used to traverse the Jade Realm.

  The morning sun had barely risen, the wooded landscape still bathed in dark-blue hues, moisture in the air from a late-night shower. A cold wind had blown in from the north, from Arik’s home, and it brought with it a sense of melancholy for the disciple, who had experienced these bone-chilling breezes routine
ly over the course of his life.

  It made him feel so close to home yet so far.

  But he would persevere, regardless of Meosa’s prediction of becoming the next incarnation of the War Priest or anything like that, Arik would survive as he had done so up to this point.

  From what he’d read in the book of legends given to him by Master Altai, Arik had little in common with Coro Pache. Coro had grown up in a killing environment, rather than a healing one; Arik hadn’t been forced to become the champion of his people, nor did he feel that the world he lived in now was similar to the one five hundred years ago, much of the mysticism and wonder seeming hollow to some degree now as compared to then. Even his ultimate task of obtaining the Mask of the Fallen left him feeling uncertain: would it really help him in any way? Was the item really cursed?

  And for that matter, did it even exist?

  Up until his lessons with Hojo, Arik somehow believed in the legend that he’d read, that the Mask of the Fallen truly would aid him in what he hoped to do. But now, after spending some time with the master illusionist, he was starting to question everything. How much of what he had been told in his life was some form of deception? What was actually real, and what was actually an illusion?

  As if he had been reading his mind, Hojo turned to him just about the time noon rolled around, after the pair had traveled for six hours nonstop, the chill never leaving the air.

  “I was thinking of something just now,” Hojo said as Meosa’s form took shape. The kami separated from Arik’s body and dipped into a running brook just a few feet away, his physical form growing larger.

  “What’s that?” Arik asked.

  “Are you familiar with the Hidden Warrior Sickness? Have you ever heard of such a thing?” Hojo asked, his back to the disciple, his head dipped slightly as he stared down at the ground.

  “Everything I know about Hidden Warriors and the School of Illusion, I pretty much learned from you.”

  Hojo slowly nodded his head. “One thing I remember from my early years in the school was this sense that nothing was real, that there was a hidden nature to everything. This got my mind spiraling at one point about what it meant to be an illusionist. Was that itself an illusion? Was studying Chimaura and learning the advanced techniques of deception only polluting my own concept of reality? Master illusionists speak of a province that they have never been to, a place that they do not know, where they can buy things with gold they do not have and eat food nobody has given them; a place where they can go on a drinking spree without taking a sip of alcohol, where they can study every art that has ever existed and exist outside of the illusion. This is what is known as the Hidden Warrior Sickness.”

  “I don’t understand,” Arik told him.

  “I have dealt with it multiple times in my life now, and oddly enough, my obsession with it has contributed to my longevity, leaving when I have, avoiding situations that would have exploited my abilities to a point that I would never be able to forgive myself. Does this place exist?” Hojo turned to Arik, his eyes on the verge of tears. “Where does the illusion stop and where does it start, and is there a place to disappear from it all? I’m sorry for mentioning this, but it is something that you should be aware of if you somehow survive the tournament in a few weeks and you desire to continue studying the techniques I’ve shown you. There may come a point when you feel the same way as I do, not quite confusion, not quite remorse, not quite wonder, and not quite fear. I’m sorry for voicing my feelings in this way. We should keep moving.”

  Hojo turned away and continued on.

  “What was that all about?” Meosa asked Arik as they started up again, the kami once again joining him at his side, seemingly attached to Arik’s chi aura.

  “I really don’t know,” Arik said under his breath.

  Hojo didn’t elaborate on what he called the Hidden Warrior Sickness throughout the rest of the journey, which saw them shifting altitude several times as they climbed steep inclines and navigated their way down various fog-covered escarpments as they neared the valley of the Jade Realm’s former capital city.

  Unlike some of the other places Arik had visited recently, Iga was visible from a distance, the sun setting just about the time Arik got his first glimpse of one of the Jade Realm’s earliest human establishments. It had similarities to Avarga in the way that it was built into the environment, but there was more stone usage here, much of the city’s wealth coming from quarries that surrounded it.

  There was a time when Iga had supplied marble, sandstone, and other desired materials to all three realms, making it a commercial hub. But this had changed over the last several hundred years as the three realms shifted toward nationalistic policies. There was still plenty of trade of certain goods, as well as the illegal slave trade heading down to the Crimson Realm, but the days of shipping enormous stone slabs overland, or through the sea, paled in comparison to the previous century.

  Arik didn’t know what kind of effect this would have on Iga long-term, which had famed itself on being a center for these kinds of products, but he had a feeling that it would be visible there to some degree.

  “We will find room and board first,” Hojo announced as they started toward the city. “And from there we can take a tour and perhaps have a hot meal. Yes, a good meal will be in order, and it will give us a chance to go over some strategies for selecting the most lucrative warrior pilgrimages, and by lucrative I don’t mean money, I mean the ones that you can either win or learn from. Do you drink, disciple?”

  “I have once or twice, but not normally, no.”

  “You couldn’t tell?” Meosa asked with a snort.

  “Yes, I figured as much, but I had to check anyway.” Hojo tilted his head up, the shadow caused by his hat lifting just enough to reveal the bottom of his face, a crooked smile forming. “You will tonight. It is tradition when you visit Iga to enjoy their craft ales, at least it was for my students.”

  ****

  Hojo found an inn on the outskirts of town, one on the edge of a district that seemed to consist mainly of taverns, the master illusionist explaining that this was the area Sorgus had called home so many years ago as he waited for the perfect opportunity to avenge his brother Jiro’s death.

  “You will notice that there are also plenty of pilgrimage sites around here,” he told Arik once they reached the room that they would be staying in, which was a rather large space demarcated by a movable paper wall, allowing for privacy on either side of the room.

  There were no beds, but there were futons that could be placed on a wooden floor that was covered by a weave of soft rush. Arik had seen these kinds of mats before, yet they weren’t as common in the north, where wood flooring was prevalent, nor had he personally seen these kinds of mats in the south, which seemed to favor stone flooring.

  “What about those ales?” Meosa asked as he seemingly came to life, his form suddenly tangible as he floated next to Arik. “I have to see the disciple drunk.”

  “I don’t believe we will be getting drunk, as you say.” The master illusionist set his bag down on his bed, his conical hat remaining on his head, his sword sheathed at his side. “Our training starts in the morning, and I’m fairly certain that we will find a pilgrimage to attend by the afternoon.”

  “How do these pilgrimages work anyway?” Arik asked as he ignored Meosa’s almost playful groan. The kami clearly wanted to see the disciple drunk, and had not yet realized that Arik was able to prevent intoxication with his command over Revivaura. When he told them earlier that he had drunk once or twice before, he meant that he had consumed several bottles of some of the strongest hard liquor they had in the north, then used his power to heal himself from a potentially lethal intoxication.

  “You’ll see as we move about that there are numerous courtyards and grottoes around this part of the city, along the outer rim of Iga, and signs in front of them where traveling warriors post challenges. Because these courtyards are set up like mini amphitheaters, the more suc
cessful warriors generally draw a crowd, which leads to, as you can imagine, betting and other acts that are often monitored by city officials.”

  Arik placed his things down as well, including his waterskin, feeling much lighter in the process. He currently wore his haori cape on his shoulders, and had all the items that Hojo had given him in his bag, at least the larger ones, like the grappling hook that he had yet to learn how to use. “And these challenges, what kind of fights are we talking about here? To the death? I hope that isn’t the case…”

  “It depends on the warrior. Sometimes it is simply to submission, the challenge not involving weapons at all. Other times…” Hojo tilted his chin up, the light splashing across the bottom of his face. “Other times are other times.”

  “Always secretive about things,” Meosa lamented. “If there was anything I didn’t like about you, aside from your busted hat, it would be that aspect.”

  Hojo motioned toward the door. “I believe a meal and an ale are in order. Let’s head out.”

  They didn’t have to go very far from the inn to find their first warrior pilgrimage site, which was tucked between two buildings with stone façades, a set of stairs leading down, a post with an advertisement on it explaining that the warrior present, a man named Tatum from a southern Crimsonian city known as Jur, would be taking challenges beginning the next morning.

  “A good place to start,” Hojo said as he examined some of the marks beneath the posting. “This one is submission or death, which will be perfect for the technique I plan to show you in the morning, the Autumn Leaves Strike. It is quite common for Crimsonians to take these kinds of pilgrimages to Iga. They don’t generally wager anything, and if they survive, which many of them do, they are much stronger once they return to their various academies in the South, if that is where they intend to go.”

  “Why don’t they have them in their own country?” Arik asked as they moved on. “Why come all the way up here to Iga?”