Rebirth of the Sword Saint: A Reincarnation Epic Fantasy Saga

by DB King

  The message cut off there.

  Andy sighed and shook his head as he got up from the sofa. This was his third so-called “final” warning in as many months, but this time he suspected it really was the final one. Except he wouldn’t hesitate to do exactly the same thing if the situation repeated itself.

  Andy tossed the phone aside, and then dumped his cereal bowl into the sink. He chugged the rest of his instant coffee, and put on his convenience store shirt and some ripped jeans. Stepping over a stack of unpaid bills and late notices near the door, he slipped his feet into his comfy old sneakers, and grabbed his scuffed leather jacket, motorcycle gloves, and a helmet. After shoving his phone and empty wallet into his pockets, he locked up his apartment, jogged down the stairs, and finally started to feel somewhat alive now that the caffeine had kicked in.

  He got to his garage in the parking basement. The space was just as cluttered with stuff—mostly half-stripped motors, dirt bikes, and an old, beat-up Jeep in pieces. He pushed out his only working vehicle: a ’91 Suzuki GSXR1100 crotch rocket, a beast of a motorcycle that Andy had restored from scrap. He hopped onto the bike and started it up. The big motor let out a rumbling roar. He grinned and gave it a few seconds to warm up, then clicked it into gear, spinning the rear wheel with a shriek of skidding rubber and smoke as he sped out of the basement.

  Although he was doing his utmost to avoid thinking about being fired, for real this time, worry gnawed relentlessly at him. Even though he was working two jobs and being as frugal as humanly possible, the bills seemed to grow rather than shrink each month. On top of everything, he was behind on his rent too. It was an uphill battle, and he just didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. If Ted followed through on his threats to fire him, Andy would be sleeping on some cardboard in an alley in a week.

  He slowed down and stopped for a red light, muttering to himself inside his helmet about how he was probably going to catch every red light, even though there wasn’t a single other vehicle on the road. He almost felt like blasting through the reds, knowing it would be pretty safe to do so, but figured that with the way his luck usually went, there’d be a cop hiding at every set of traffic lights.

  As the light was about to turn green, a commotion to Andy’s right caught his attention. Half a block from the intersection, near an ATM, two young men were struggling with an elderly man. It took Andy all of two seconds to figure out what was going on: the two young men were mugging the old guy, who had just used the ATM.

  “Not on my watch,” Andy whispered as he kicked out the kickstand and jumped off the bike.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was telling him that this was going to make him late for work and probably cost him his job, but he didn’t care. Andy Knight was simply incapable of witnessing an act of injustice and looking the other way. As he sprinted toward the muggers, he tore off his helmet. It wasn’t ideal, but it was hard and heavy and could serve as a vaguely effective weapon.

  The muggers heard him coming and threw the old man to the ground. Both of them were big guys, around Andy’s size. The first turned to flee, but the other, brandishing a large hunting knife, stood his ground. “Turn around and run away, asshole!” the man snarled. “Run away, bitch, or you’re leaving this place in a body bag!”

  Andy didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. Instead, as he got within a couple yards of the mugger with the knife, he made as if to take a swing at the man with his helmet. As the man instinctively twisted to duck under the coming blow, Andy switched his grip on the helmet and threw it in a soft underhand toss to the guy. The mugger’s natural instincts to catch a pass kicked in before his brain could register that this was a trick. He fumbled with his hands, trying to catch the flying helmet as Andy bore down on him.

  While Andy had taken a handful of MMA classes, he was no professional fighter. He knew enough, though, to be able to throw a decent roundhouse kick, which he aimed at the mugger’s right hand, punting the hunting knife out of it. The knife went sailing through the air, and Andy ducked low and football-tackled the disarmed mugger, slamming him into the pavement.

  They struggled on the ground, and Andy managed to get the guy pinned down for some ground-n-pound, smashing his fists into the man’s face. Then, however, a hot slash of pain tore across his left forearm. He yelped and jumped up off the man, spinning around to see the other mugger lunging for him with his knife—with which he’d just slashed a cut across Andy’s arm. The sharp blade had sliced right through his leather jacket.

  Andy dodged a clumsy blow and tried to kick the knife out of the mugger’s hand, but this guy was faster than his friend and managed to dodge the kick. He was about to charge in and stab Andy when the wail of police sirens pierced the chilly morning silence.

  “Damn it,” the mugger muttered. He helped his friend to his feet, and then, with Andy running after them for a few yards, both of the muggers hastily fled.

  Andy didn’t bother to chase them down. He watched them go, then turned and jogged back to the old man to make sure he was okay. The old guy was bruised and shaken but not seriously injured, and he thanked Andy profusely.

  “Thank you, son,” he said. “In this rotten world, few people would have done what you just did. Looks like one of those bastards got you on your arm there.”

  Riding the buzz of adrenalin, Andy hadn’t noticed just how bad the cut on his forearm was. Now that the old guy had pointed it out, though, he saw that blood was trickling down his arm and dripping off his wrist, where his skin was exposed between his motorcycle gloves and his jacket. The cut was starting to hurt, but he shrugged off the pain.

  “I’m more pissed about my jacket,” Andy said. And he was – this jacket had come from a thrift store, but even so, it had cost him twenty bucks. Right now, he couldn’t even shell out an extra twenty cents for unforeseen expenses.

  “You’re lucky you had that jacket on,” the old man said. “That guy would have taken your arm off without it. I saw him, he really was hoping to slice your arm off. You’d better get that cut checked out. Go on, get outta here, the cops are pulling up, I’ll be okay. You need to take care of that wound.”

  “You sure you’re okay?” Andy asked.

  “A little shaken is all,” the old guy said, beaming out a grateful smile as the police approached them. “Hey, this kid saved me!” he said to the cops. “He’s a hero, you guys should give him a medal or something.”

  “I’m no hero,” Andy said. “I just did what any decent person would do.”

  The cops took a brief statement from Andy, which caused him far more anxiety than it should have—there was no way in hell he wouldn’t be late now. And the cops seemed entirely blasé about Andy’s wound, as the red liquid continued to drip off his wrist and pool in the fingers of his left glove. After what seemed like an eternity, they let him go.

  He wasn’t about to head to hospital, even though the cut was a bad one. He couldn’t afford medical debt. No, some superglue would be his surgeon and the convenience store bathroom his operating theater.

  As he expected, a familiar figure was standing outside the convenience store, tapping his right foot and scowling. Ted Danzig, Andy had always said, was what you’d find if you opened a dictionary and searched for “jerk boss”. Ted was in his fifties but looked a decade older. His poor attempt at a combover did little to disguise his baldness. If his downturned mouth, twisted into a permanent glower, had ever smiled, it had to have been decades ago. His teeth and fingers were yellow from the cigarettes he chain-smoked. His clothes—cheap suits in shades of pastel blue and gray, usually—reeked of tobacco.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the little boy on the big bike,” Ted sneered. “What time do you call this, Knight? You should have started working that cash register fifteen minutes ago! Because of your lazy slob ass, I’ve had to do it, looking like a chump in front of the customers! Dammit, Knight, get your ass off that bike and behind the cash register, now! Move it!”

  Andy parked his
bike and took off his helmet. He half-opened his mouth to begin telling Ted about the mugging, but the look on his manager’s face told him that it would just fall on deaf ears.

  “Sorry Ted,” he mumbled, and then headed into the store.

  When he got his jacket off behind the cash register, he was able to finally get a good look at the cut on his arm. It was deep, but not too bad, and thankfully no tendons had been severed. There weren’t any customers in the store, and Andy saw Ted lighting up a cigarette outside, so he had a couple minutes to take care of the wound. He grabbed a tube of superglue and ran to the employee’s bathroom, where he hastily washed the cut with soap and water, dried it off with paper towels, and then closed it up with superglue. It wasn’t exactly a professional surgical stitch-up, but it would at least keep the wound closed and stop the bleeding.

  He got back to the cash register just as Ted stepped back into the store. The manager glowered at him, but then trudged off to his office and slammed the door, leaving Andy alone.

  A couple customers came in, but it was mostly a quiet morning. It was so quiet, in fact, that his phone’s piercing tring tring almost made him jump. Geez, Andy thought. I get it, Mr. Stavros, I owe you god knows how many months’ rent…

  But it wasn’t Mr. Stavros. Andy took his phone out of his pocket and saw it was his godmother, Mrs. Tanaka, calling. He glanced at Ted’s office door before answering..

  “Hi Mayumi,” he said. The Tanakas had always insisted that he refer to them by their first names. “It’s great to hear from you, but I can’t really talk now—”

  “It’s Haruki!” she said, referring to her husband. From the urgency in her voice, this was something serious. “He’s… Andy, I think he’s dying. He wants you here before he… before he goes.”

  “I’m coming,” Andy said, his heart racing. “I’ll be there right away.”

  He shoved his phone in his pocket and started sprinting. He snatched his helmet, gloves, and jacket from inside the store and dashed back out to his bike.

  “What the hell are you doing, Knight?” Ted yelled as Andy hopped onto the bike and started it up. “You leave now, you don’t ever come back here, you hear me!”

  Andy ignored him and sped away.

  Ted’s hoarse shouts of “you’re fired, Andy Knight!” were quickly drowned out by the potent roar of the motor as Andy raced against the clock to get to his dying godfather.

  The world was a blur of speed as Andy carved through the winding mountain roads that led to the Tanaka’s residence and wildlife sanctuary. On the straights he took the bike up to 160 miles an hour, and through the curves he hung off the machine at extreme angles of lean. All he could think about was getting to Mr. Tanaka before it was too late.

  He got to the familiar old wooden gates in record time, and left his bike there, tossing away his helmet and gloves before scrambling over the gate – he didn’t have time to fumble with the rusty combination lock.

  Whenever he came here, he would usually go see the animal residents first—they all knew him well, and all of them had been here for many years. Now, however, he sprinted straight for the front door of the rickety wooden house he’d called home for a few years. “Mayumi! Haruki!” he yelled hoarsely as he barged into the house. “I’m here!”

  “Hurry!” Mayumi called out from somewhere inside. “He’s here, in our bedroom!”

  Andy raced through the house, a modest but tastefully minimalist space, decorated with traditional Japanese watercolor scrolls, ornamental fans, wooden sculptures, and bonsai trees. Both of the Tanakas were first generation immigrants, although they had been in America since their respective childhoods, and they wore their Japanese heritage proudly.

  Andy, breathless, charged into the bedroom at the end of the hallway. There he saw Mr. Tanaka laying in bed, with his tearful wife sitting next to him, holding his hand. Mr. Tanaka looked older and frailer than Andy could have imagined, and the sight of this once proud and strong man like this broke his heart. He knew how much Mr. Tanaka valued stoicism and strength in the face of adversity, though, so he put on a brave face.

  “Andy,” Mr. Tanaka croaked. “I’m glad you’re here. Please, Mayumi, leave Andy and I alone for a few minutes. There is something I must discuss with him.”

  Mrs. Tanaka nodded, sniffing as she wiped away her tears, and got up and left the room. Mr. Tanaka patted the bed next to him, and Andy sat down. Andy took Mr. Tanaka’s hand, which felt cold and clammy. He gave it a gentle squeeze, and Mr. Tanaka squeezed back with what little strength remained in him.

  “Haruki, I—” Andy began, but Mr. Tanaka held up a finger to silence him.

  “Let me talk, Andy,” he rasped. “I have much to say… but so little time to say it.”

  Andy nodded.

  “I have no sons, no daughters,” Mr. Tanaka said. “The doctors said it was because of the aftereffects of radiation at Hiroshima, which is where I was born, a few years after the atomic bomb. It is one of my greatest regrets… but one which I could do nothing about, of course.”

  Mr. Tanaka paused to breathe. “But even though I could not have children of my own, the universe sent me a son anyway, for a few wonderful years.” He smiled and gave Andy’s hand a squeeze. “Your father, he was a good man, Andy, even though he had his vices. His heart was good—as is yours. Mayumi and I… we were happy to take you in after the accident. You became, to us, like the child we could never have. You always thanked us so sincerely for what we did for you, but we never thanked you enough for what you gave us.”

  A tight sob was forming a knot in Andy’s throat, and tears burned at the edges of his eyes. “Haruki, I—” he began, but again Mr. Tanaka cut him off.

  “You don’t need to say anything, Andy,” he said softly. “I know what is in your heart. And that’s what counts. I… I wish I could leave you something of monetary value, now that I’m departing this world. Of course, you know you are always welcome here. But for now, I must leave the house and land to my wife; she still has many years of life left to live, unlike me.”

  Andy looked down, barely stifling tears.

  “I don’t have any money,” Mr. Tanaka continued. “We’ve poured everything we’ve made into this sanctuary, and I have no regrets about doing that. You know our residents well, and I’m sure you agree. Our lives are so much richer for what they’ve brought to us – and it’s something that no amount of money could have bought me. I will die with no regrets in my heart.”

  He paused here, and a fit of coughing came on. He covered his mouth with a white handkerchief, and when he drew it away, it was red with blood, as were his lips. He was looking more pallid with every passing second.

  “Even though I have no money to leave you, Andy,” Mr. Tanaka said when he’d recovered, “I do have something of immense value that I must pass on to you. Please, go to my wooden chest in the corner over there, and look for a white silk bag inside it. Get it and bring it here.”

  Everything seemed surreal. Andy felt as if he was moving through a dream. A thousand different clashing thoughts careened around the inside his skull. He paused in front of the old wooden chest and turned around to face Mr. Tanaka.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Andy asked softly. “Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong? I saw you only a month ago, and you were fine…”

  Mr. Tanaka smiled sadly. “I didn’t know anything was wrong then, Andy. It’s that back pain I’ve had for years. I always thought it was just a bad back, from hauling heavy bags of animal feed around. And I thought the feelings of weakness and extreme lethargy I’ve been having the last few months were just old age catching up with me. Last week I went to get some blood tests done for something else entirely… and they discovered I’ve got stage four pancreatic cancer. It’s gone far beyond the stage where they can do anything about it. The doctor suggested I go on a course of extreme chemotherapy, but even then it would only have had a one in fifty shot of working. I made peace with the hand the universe has dealt m
e, and decided I’d rather pass at home in my own bed. I’m sorry… I should have told you last week when I found out, but I didn’t think I’d go downhill this fast. I thought I’d have a few more weeks left, not days.”

  Andy didn’t know what to say. “I’m … sorry,” was all he could murmur.

  “It is what it is, Andy,” Mr. Tanaka said with a smile, stoic until the end. “I’ve lived a long, fulfilling life, and that’s more than any man can ask for. Now please, get the silk bag out of the chest. I don’t—” He stopped here as another fit of coughing racked his body.

  Andy dug around in the chest and found the silk bag right at the bottom. There was something solid and fairly weighty in it. He carried it over to Mr. Tanaka, who took it from him with a smile. With trembling fingers, Mr. Tanaka opened the silk bag and removed the object.

  “It’s beautiful,” Andy murmured, staring in awe at the item. He immediately felt entranced by the sight of it—this ornate hardwood box, its surface covered by intricate relief carvings of wild animals of all kinds. “It’s a true work of art…”

  Mr. Tanaka chuckled, and then coughed some more. “Yes, yes it is quite beautiful, isn’t it? But this is no more ornament, Andy.” His tone became grave. “This is possibly the most valuable thing you will ever own. It took me a long time to decide that you would be the right person to pass this on to—your whole life, in fact. But when you came and lived here, and I really got to know you, I knew without a doubt that you were the right person to inherit this.”