Whoosh

  Whoosh

  My blade was slicing the silent air.

  My body ached in pain from being beaten by a sword sheath.

  Miyamoto was not here.

  He left a bit earlier for a local town for supplies.

  But I was still getting my ass kicked.

  Miyamoto got Celeste to create a clone of himself to continue beating the shit out of me.

  I am starting to feel more comfortable with the blades.

  Miyamoto told me to start with just the katana.

  He got me to deflect his blows and told me to hit twice as hard back.

  All with a bandanna blinding me.

  I don’t know why he made me cover my eye unless it was for comedic effect.

  One weird six-foot-two maniac trying to beat another thirty-two-year-old man.

  It would be funny if I weren’t in a mass amount of pain.

  Then he told me to use a wakizashi with the katana.

  Miyamoto and his clone only used a katana.

  Cling.

  Cling.

  “I never saw someone kick your ass this much, and I saw Keyser almost gut you.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Ha ha ha.”

  The Miyamoto clone gave me a swift kick in the stomach.

  Son of a bitch.

  “What with the bandana?”

  “I—

  Bang

  Can’t—

  Bang

  Tell.”

  The clone whacks my back.

  Fuck.

  Am I fighting a clone of a man or a damn beast

  “I think it is to better my spatial awareness.”

  I realize if I had another eye, then I wouldn’t have needed this training.

  I guess this is as good a time as any to tell Celeste about my eye.

  Why am I making this such a big thing?

  It's only an eye.

  “Celeste, I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “When Miyamoto and I stayed behind during the battle. I, uh, met a man I knew from another town beforehand.

  We had a skirmish in the sky, and, uh, in said skirmish, I lost my left eye.”

  The sound of a sozu broke through the air of the quiet little town that reminded Miyamoto of his hometown.

  A dojo sat in the back of the town, a tavern was on the left side of the road, and a brothel sat next to the tavern. And what Miyamoto was here for—the food market lay on the right.

  Miyamoto walked a few steps to the right and then changed direction and walked straight to the tavern for a drink.

  The tavern wasn’t full of young, drunk fools yelling at each other and the looming possibility of someone starting a full-blown bar fight.

  It was filled with middle-aged men and some old men, either talking to each other in somber tones or just staring into the silent abyss.

  Miyamoto was there for a single beer, and then he’ll leave.

  The air wasn’t any less thick when Miyamoto walked in, maybe even cutting through it.

  “A bar full of the dead—maybe V would get a kick out of it.”

  Miyamoto knocks on the desk.

  “One beer.”

  “Coming up.”

  Miyamoto kept remembering different scenes from his past.

  Remembering his childhood and his life back in his homeland.

  Memories—what bittersweet things.

  The only things that truly make a person their self.

  The air was cut through once more when another man, the same age as Miyamoto, walked through the door.

  “Beer.”

  “Sure.”

  Miyamoto sat there drinking on a stool.

  A man entered.

  The sound of blades rattling against each other floated through the air.

  “Miyamoto?”

  Miyamoto turned around.

  “Sasaki.”

  The two men stared at each other.

  Miyamoto reached for his blade.

  Sasaki started to unsheathe his blade.

  “Hey, no fighting in here!”

  The two men released the blades from their grips.

  “There’s a clearing behind the dojo. Meet me there in three hours.” Sasaki said.

  Miyamoto took one long gulp from his mug.

  “Okay.”

  He then slammed the finished mug onto the counter.

  “Three hours.” Miyamoto mumbled while walking out.

  What a bitter thing memories are.