NIGGAS GOT ME F’D UP
I trudged up the trail. All I had to do was crest this hill, cross the valley, climb one more hill, and then a steep mountain hike left to go.
And then, finally, I would be home.
I reached the hill’s apex, stopped on that height, and scraped a resigned sigh from the depths of my soul. Of course, there would be a massive army just hanging out in the valley waiting for me. Atop the next hill I needed to hurdle, beyond a defensive line of heavily armored soldiers, stood a figure standing beneath a lone flowering cherry blossom tree. I squinted, unable to tell if the figure’s blurriness was because of distance or a lack of glasses. Whatever. I’ve never needed glasses to behead fuckbois with a katana, nor did I need them to see that this all looked suspiciously like an ambush.
Right. The culprits who destroyed the bridge. Probably buying time to get this all set up.
Would nothing go right today? I blame myself for all of this, really. If I had just let that stupid insult slide, I never would have gotten distracted, and I never would have gotten caught up in this mess. I’d probably be home by now eating onigiri and sipping on green tea lemonade. But nooo. My pride had to be more important.
I scanned over the teeming throng of people, conflicted about what to do. I was low on ink and didn’t dare use any more of it, but Find-Out’s edge would dull before I could cut through all those bodies, and then their numbers could overwhelm me.
Did I risk dying, or did I use the last of the ink I promised myself I’d never use? In all my years, this was the first time I’ve confronted such a dilemma. Never before have I returned home without enough ink for the protection talismans. Without them, I’d have to stay up all night guarding the house against an endless assault of demons.
But when push comes to shove . . . You do what you gotta do.
I plopped down cross-legged atop the hill. I couldn’t tell if the grass was wet or if the damp scrunch was because my pants had not yet dried from the river. The faces of the nearest bandits turned down in confusion. They probably anticipated that I would either attack or wait for them to attack me. I did have the high ground after all, but I also needed to get home before the sun set, before the night teemed with demons stronger than those I had already faced in the sun.
All those concerns and small annoyances drifted away as I folded up the sleeves of my haori and retrieved the last of the ink, my calligraphy brush, and the last stack of paper as slowly as if I were savoring the time at my favorite ramen restaurant.
I lifted the brush with the concentration of a bowman lining her sights. And then with the speed of a student taking a timed test, I wrote as many three-stroke kanji as I could. Not all had offensive properties, but I raced to write the ones that did. Each line was a confident streak of black. No wobbles or stray splatters of ink.
Once the enemy realized what I was about, that uppity warlord on the hill shouted for his army to attack. The ground trembled as the sprawling mass of bodies raced up the hill toward me, screaming and yelling with their katanas and naginatas. Still, I calmly continued my business. Nine talismans. Twenty-seven strokes. I ran out of ink and paper at the same time.
Finished, I stood and because my obi was still too damp, I tucked eight of the talismans underneath a hairband around my wrist. The ninth, I kept in my hand. I unsheathed my katana, slow and deliberate, as the waning sun glanced off the blade.
The bandits were close enough now that I could see their faces as clear as spring water.
With both hands, I raised my katana overhead and then, with all the intention I could muster, stabbed the blade into the ground. The EARTH rumbled and folded. The rupture sprinted downhill, and the ground crumbled underneath the feet of the incoming enemy. Their war cries morphed into screams as the resulting trench swallowed the front line whole.
I jumped UP and soared over their heads. The wind cut at my face, fluttered through the ends of my headband, and billowed the loose fabric of my hakama pants (hopefully drying them). It would have been nice to leap across the entire length of the valley, but the ink faded halfway there. The talisman peeled and fluttered off my blade like an origami crane.
I landed atop a soldier’s face. The sound of their nose bridge crunched underneath my reinforced getas, snapping it like a pocky stick. At a shocked gasp of pain, I stomped a final time on their throat to put them out of their misery.
I turned to parry an incoming attack, and the enemy’s katana shattered against my own. The tip of their blade tumbled into their comrade’s chest. I continued the follow-up and beheaded my opponent in one smooth sweep. With enhanced STRENGTH, I cut through the tangle of bodies like scissors through knotted yarn. Spears splintered underneath my blows. Crushed bodies bowled over allies in their immediate vicinities. Arrows were deflected by the sheer force of my attacks.
Heat licked my left cheek. I swiveled to face the sudden jet of fire, and the flames sputtered against my summoned SHIELD. Through the hazy blaze, I spotted my attacker—a lieutenant, I guessed, judging by the fact he was better dressed than the other plebes. The helmeted opponent wore iron-plated armor compared to the rags of the rest of the army. The lieutenant’s fire blasted against my summoned shield. The loser: whoever’s talisman ran out of ink first.
I sure as fuck knew it wasn’t going to be me.
As expected, the lieutenant’s flame began to sputter. I smirked and made a mental note not to tease the inksmith too much next time. I raced forward, both hands on the hilt, katana trailing behind me. The lieutenant’s eyes widened. Without stop, I rammed my still-intact shield straight into his armor. The lieutenant bounced into the air with a shout, blasting off like a rocket into the sky and disappearing with a twinkle.
The shield sputtered out, but I had conveniently positioned myself closer to the triple line of archers. Without missing a beat, I applied both hands behind the force of an upward slash. A RIVER burst forth from the blade, catching the descending miasma of arrows. One more slash and I swept all three lines of archers in a deluge that banked down the valley.
For a moment, I glanced at the warlord uphill, who was less blurry than he had been before. Protected by a thick wall of armored guards, he stood under that fully blossomed tree, shaded beneath a magnificent pink leafy afro. The elevation was higher and cooler here, and the tree hadn’t yet begun to shed like the ones in the village. I squinted at a sudden glint of light around the warlord’s head. What was that?
Okay. Fine. If I survived this, I promised to never leave the house without my glasses ever again.
I stepped forward, prepared to rush the warlord and end this infernal battle, but a telegraphed roar rushed me from behind. With a roll of the eyes, I turned and evaded the incoming attack with a slight lean. Another lieutenant. His blade swept past my face, close enough for me to read the kanji for ‘poison’ affixed to the steel. I punched a talisman into the lieutenant’s face.
The surprise ‘o’ of his mouth was the last thing I saw before he shrunk SMALL. I squinted, biting my tongue in concentration, and slapped both hands together. Flat palm against fist holding the katana. Then, I wiped the smeared guts of the dead lieutenant on my pants as if he were nothing but an annoying mosquito.
The unit the lieutenant had been leading came at my right. I scooped up the lieutenant’s poisoned katana and studied the waves on the steel. Chips decorated the edge. Poor craftsmanship and terrible neglect. I didn’t dare trust this sword with my life. I tossed it over my shoulder. Instead, I searched my inro for something a lot more reliable.
The unit of spearmen thundered closer, while I picked at my hair with the afro pick. A little closer more and with the sharp accuracy of a kunai, I flicked the pick through the air.
It grew BIG, to the size of a camphor tree, and skewered the lines of soldiers on its metal teeth. The raised fist at the end landed with a deafening thud. When the pick returned to its original size, the entire unit had either been bowled over or impaled. Good thing I had extra picks at home. If I made it home.
The rest of the disparate army that I had scattered earlier regrouped for one large assault. I reached under the hairband. Two talismans left. Instead of placing a talisman directly to the blade, this time, I knelt and pressed it directly to the bloody ground.
The earth shook. A couple of enemies tripped and fell.
Then a MOUNTAIN sprouted into existence in the middle of the valley. I rose atop the summit into the air, while the bandits rolled over one another, impaled on newborn trees and fallen from craggy heights. Most died from that initial plummet.
Ends of my headband fluttering, I looked down upon that great height, as the world bowed an apology at my feet. Then I placed the last talisman atop the previous, a rare combo attack, and the recently formed mountain came crumbling DOWN.
The last bandits were entombed in rock, swallowed whole by a grave of black andesite and basalt.
The valley was finally quiet.