The way of ballance
[07:11:25] Crow had been setting his shield aside when the familiar rhythm of movement caught his attention. His gaze settled upon Edge, observing the measured motions with the quiet recognition of a man who had not forgotten everything his years had taught him. There was something unmistakable in the controlled transitions, the deliberate shifting of weight, the unhurried precision that made each movement appear effortless. Memories surfaced, not as words, but as the echo of lessons learned long ago, when patience and balance had been drilled into him alongside the more obvious arts of combat. He did not look to Edge for approval, nor did he attempt to take the lead. Instead, Crow matched the rhythm he recognized, allowing the old discipline to return through muscle and memory. For a time, the Killer who measured every shadow and weighed every word gave way to the student who understood that control was not always found in striking first. Sometimes it was found in knowing precisely how not to move.
[07:17:15] Edge had been at his meditations, the movements that had been developed ages ago and disseminated to those who had came to Mount Ordeals. Not necessarily as lads, even his brothers in caste who had came to train. To learn of his ways. Quiet. Deliberate. Balanced. Atop the world, above the clouds, harmony had been paramount. The inner struggle to find peace, to listen to the world, to find one’s place in it. The movements were slow, rhythmic, honing core musculature, controlling the center of one’s balance, to swim through the air with focused intent. By now, of course, the movements had been spread through the caste over the many long years. It was not overly surprising that Crow knew of them. Perhaps Sleen had even showed the man, or perhaps he had learned from another. The footsteps had not alerted him, but the texture in the air, and the sight as he pivoted. On his exhale, he allowed his breathy voice to fill the breeze along with birdsong and the rustle of leaves and needles, “I did not know you practiced.”
[07:26:28] Crow was, strangely enough, not lost in thought. The movements came without conscious effort, as though the passage of so many years had failed to erase what had once been etched into muscle and memory. Each motion flowed into the next with measured precision, his weight shifting almost imperceptibly, his hands tracing controlled arcs through the air. There was no haste, no wasted movement. Only balance, breath, and the quiet discipline of a lesson learned long ago.
“I have,” he replied simply, his voice calm, almost meditative. The rhythm seemed to offer him room to breathe, to set aside for a moment the constant calculations that so often occupied his mind. “I was taught these arts a very long time ago. Along with the rather unexpected experience of being dressed in silk and instructed in the proper tying of an obi.” A grin tugged at his lips, a rare glimmer of amusement breaking through his usual composure. He continued the movements, his gaze briefly turning toward Edge. “Much later, I discovered that my father had Pani ancestors. That came as something of a surprise.” His grin lingered, though there was a knowing quality to his expression now. “Perhaps you have heard the name Hosokawa.”
There were those who imagined that an Assassin had no family, no history beyond the Caste, no ties that could reach beyond the shadows. They were mistaken. Crow simply understood better than most that bloodlines could be liabilities, names could become targets, and kinship offered no guarantee of safety. He had once killed his own brother to prove precisely that point. The memory did not interrupt his movements; neither did it change the steady rhythm of his breathing. Some lessons, once learned, were never forgotten.
[07:36:14] Edge ‘pushed’ the air, guiding his internal forces, lifting from a squat, carrying by fingertips horiontally, a slow thrust of his hand in the same manner one my thrust a sword. The movements were slow, but they taught combat, for when one’s energies must burst like flames. The turning of a wrist, the same as the turning of a blade, the footsteps a pivot and defense to an oncoming strike. It seemed a dance… a dance of death; but, calm, at peace.
His own lips hinted at a smile at the words. “I would not know,” he admitted, “for I do not come from the Pani. I am what is known as an oriental. My family,” he explains openly, “were members of a tribe in the Tahari. It was there that I was brought screaming into the world, isolated by the vast desert, the shifting dunes, the freezing nights, the blazing days. It was there that I earned my name of the Black Wind, as I ended my tribe’s enemies in the blinding sandstorms. I have relatively little experience with the Pani, but it pleases me to know that you partly
[07:36:14] Edge: descend from their people.”
The words flowed with the ease of breath. The target of one’s bloodline, one’s lineage, was something he knew well. Something he had struck and beat and hammered into his students past. And the killing. So few knew the kill of one’s own brother nowadays.
“The Caste is not the same as it was when we were young,” he comments an observation.
[07:43:40] Crow continued the measured sequence, his movements flowing with Edge’s, though he made no attempt to imitate the other man’s every gesture. His own hands turned through the air with the precision of a swordsman accustomed to understanding the purpose behind each motion. At Edge’s account of the Tahari, a flicker of interest passed through his eyes. The Black Wind. A name earned in the midst of sandstorms and bloodshed was one he could appreciate without needing to know the man’s entire history.
“Then we share less ancestry than I first imagined, but perhaps more understanding than blood alone would offer.” A faint smile touched Crow’s lips as he completed a slow outward sweep of his hand, drawing it back toward his centre. “Although I lived mostly within Ar and was even born there. I have been one to travel. On one of them the Pani taught me that a blade is not always best served by haste. Sometimes the hand that waits, that yields, that allows an opponent to commit himself, has already decided the outcome.” His gaze briefly met Edge’s. “It seems the desert taught you a similar lesson, though I imagine the sand was less forgiving than a patient instructor.”
The smile faded gradually as Edge spoke of the Caste. Crow’s movements did not falter, but something in his expression grew more thoughtful. “No. It is not.” He let the words rest between them, his breathing still steady, his hands rising once more in a controlled arc. “Time changes the men who serve it, and the Caste is no exception. Some changes are necessary. Others are merely the old struggles wearing unfamiliar faces.” He pivoted smoothly, one palm extending while the other settled near his ribs, as though guarding a blade that was not there. “I sometimes wonder whether we have grown wiser with age, or simply more skilled at explaining why we do what we have always done.”
[07:59:51] Edge crouched smoothly and rose with a blocking arc of one hand, the visualization of stepping forward into the área of a strike and stopping the arm beneath the hilt that might end his life. The hand withdrawn as the other thrust. The battle in the mind was one that was often expressed by the body, and training was not always a sweat-soaked, bruised and bloodied ordeal.
“I, too, have traveled the length and breadth of our world,” he replied, “learning of its peoples, after my name had reached the ears of our elders and was extracted from the desert to the city of Tor for my induction into our caste. Haste, at times, is necessary, but to believe haste is the only way is a child’s mistake. The Pani who instructed you was correct – allow the enemy to commit. The conflict is won before it even begins.”
It was pleasing to know that there were others who followed a similar path, and it gave him a glimmer of hope against what he had believed almost a lost cause.
“Mmm. Old struggles with unfamiliar faces, the youth seeking to prove themselves, to change and make their mark. It is expected,” he considers a moment as he turned, his gaze catching Crow’s a moment, and he finally drew his movements to a close, bringing his feet together and allowing his hands to fall gracefully to his front in their steepled posture.
“When doubt rises that we have become skilled in explaining away the trappings of our lives, then it must be combated, questioned, challenged. The doubt must be brushed away with the winds of awareness, of surity, of having met each inner confrontation. That is the objective, but it is not the lesson. The lesson is in the journey.”
[08:06:01] Crow brought the sequence to its conclusion with a final, measured turn of his wrist, allowing his hands to settle before him. For a moment, he remained still, his breathing even, his eyes resting on Edge. There was no immediate reply, only the quiet consideration of a man who had learned to weigh words as carefully as he weighed the movements of an opponent. At last, a faint smile touched his features.
“The journey,” he repeated, as though testing the words against his own experience. “A lesson that is considerably easier to understand than to practice, I suspect.” He inclined his head towards Edge. “It is one thing to question oneself when alone, with no eyes upon you and no consequence beyond your own pride. It is quite another to od so when the Caste is watching, when a decision must be made, and when every choice carries a cost.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward the shield he had set aside, then returned to Edge. “I have seen men mistake certainty for wisdom, and doubt for weakness. Both can be dangerous. Certainty may blind a man to what stands before him; doubt may leave him standing still when action is required.” His expression grew thoughtful, but it remained void when one would read his mood or feelings of it. “Perhaps the task is not to brush doubt away, but to learn what it has come to tell us. Sometimes it warns us that we have overlooked something. Sometimes it is merely the fear of being wrong.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “The difficulty, of course, is knowing which one is speaking.”
HE offered Edge a small nod of respect, his stance relaxed but attentive. “I would welcome a Caste with more men willing to ask those questions, and fewer who believe that having survived the journey means they have reached its end.” His dry humor returned in a subtle glint of his eyes.
[08:18:32] Edge listened as the breeze of the camp caught wisps of his jet mane, a flutter of a lock across his face. He was as calm as he might be in a winter’s snow or the desert sands, and he seemed at peace with the world around him, as if he were meant to be exactly where he was at precisely the time he was there.
“That is why the journey is the lesson,” he replied to the pensive words. “Certainty hardened by pride…” he gave a shake of his head, “…often expresses defensively upon questioning. A rigid spine, the flexion of muscles, the intensifying of the gaze. Such a man is not ready for the world. And petrifying doubt, hesitating, means the mind is also not ready for the world. I, too, welcome a caste with more men willing to ask the questions.”
Mirth reached the corners of his eyes, a smile that crinkled at their corners.
“There is no end to the journey until the end has come. Therein is the lesson. Lifelong learning. I have spent too long atop the mountain, and is why I am satisfied to return to my brothers. I am no sage, nor am I any authority. I am but one with my ways and I seek to know those of others.”
Three steps forward, closing the distance, at a casual pace. There is no threat. Eyes of starlight gaze into Crow’s as that smile persisted.
“I will remain, if you will have me, young Crow.”
Another extension of his hand, this time for the reason of solidarity.
[08:25:32] Crow regarded the extended hand for a moment, his expression remaining measured as he considered the man’s words. It had been a long time since he was called young. There was something to be said for a man who did not claim authority simply because he had once stood above others, and less still for one who understood that the journey did not end with rank or reputation. He finally reached out, clasping Edge’s forearm in a firm, deliberate grip. “Then remain, Killer. A caste has little use for men who believe they have learned all there is to know. I would rather stand beside one who continues to question himself than one who believes he can never be wrong. Now understand that some believe I have become to rigid. That I strive to for a degree of perfection that I do not own.” His gaze was steady and thoughtful. “You will find your brothers here. And I expect you to challenge us as readily as you allow us to challenge you.” A faint, restrained smile touched his mouth. “Welcome. Speak to Arsus if there is no tent I will assure there comes one.”
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