Well here you have it. My first long piece of fiction in a long while... Since my Beyblade fics? That was about 5 years ago! Anyway, I think my storytelling skills might have grown rusty, and so has my plotting. (Not that I could plot well to begin with.)
For those who are interested, this Power Stone fanfic can actually be treated like an original fic, because no prior knowledge of the characters nor anime is required. I'm explaining everything from scratch. :P
Main genres of this fic is as follows: erotica, romance, then adventure/action. However, due to FFN's ratings and stuff, I've cut the most explicit stuff out, so, too bad about that. :P Not that there's much erotica in the first chapter, it starts later on in the fic. :P
Edit: Great, huge, big THANKS to Silver Warrior for his help with the fight scene(s) in this fic!
Anyway, Power Stone does not belong to me. I think it belongs to Capcom, but I'm not sure.
Update (12th Jul 2010): This fic is discontinued on FFN due to the amount of effort I have to put in to censor it. The actual version can be found on my LiveJournal, the link to which can be found on my profile. Thanks for reading!
Feet and metal-cast wheels alike slowed to a drag on cobblestone streets as the sun inched towards the zenith, casting proud rays onto the peaceful town. Had it been earlier in the morning or later in the day, when the weather was slightly more agreeable, one would find a variety of little stalls peppering the roads, where the townsfolk hawked their wares in the shade of low-rise buildings. This Sunland town, in particular, sat at the edge of the sea, inhaling salty breezes with each gust of wind. Its location had led to prosperity; the port bustled, and visitors hailed from all corners of the world.
The municipality consisted of a town square, paved with cobblestones circling an exquisite fountain. In the middle of the fountain stood a sculpted angel, hands meeting in a cusp, reaching forward, slender wings unfurling from slits in her marble dress. Sunlight glinted off the water trickling from her fingers, glimmering along smooth ripples at her feet.
There was a large tent to a side of this fountain that had not been around the day before. It resembled a circus tent, but was perhaps the size of a large room or two, made entirely out of royal purple cloth. It drew stares from passers-by, and one who was inquisitive enough would discover a solitary young woman in the semi-darkness within, sitting patiently at the far end of a circular table, her gaze straight and patient.
Rouge sighed, staring at the slit of the tent's entrance. It was the brightest part of the enclosed space - the only other source of illumination was the flickering flame at the spout of an ancient lamp, placed off-centre on the clothed table. Right before her was a crystal ball, misty and distorting light, reflecting the shine of the fire.
She was tired. The tent had only been set up mere hours ago. She had arrived in town late the evening before, and by then, all that could be done was to rent a room to put up in for the night. It had cost a fair amount of gold, which was hardly made up for by the slow increase in fortune-seekers visiting her tent. It was, however, fortunate that the two young lads ambling around before sunrise had extended their help for nothing in return, if only to aid a "pretty Miss".
At three-and-twenty, Rouge was a beauty, and she drew advantage from it. Few men could resist her almond-shaped face and large, dark grey eyes. Coupled with the exoticness of her mocha-toned body and lush curves in all the right places, she had got by with generous donations on far more than one occasion since her journey began. Granted, it was no mean feat surviving on the streets, but she had managed it thus far.
From town to town, Rouge would bring her tent with her. She worked in it, she lived in it. Sometimes it was too bulky a luggage to carry, which forced her to save up for a carriage if she needed to move.
In the previous village, another in Sunland, the fact that she wasn't local seemed to be a point of contention with the womenfolk there. Nothing had been said to her person, but it was strikingly obvious from the way their haughty gazes cast at her, that the amount of skin her clothing revealed deviated from the society's standards. Business with the villagers had been bad, save for the menfolk, and those who truly were interested in her talent. In this new place, she could only hope that the residents were more tolerant than their counterparts, especially with the large numbers of nationalities from the other lands.
The interior of the tent grew increasingly stuffy as it drew closer to noon. Rouge shifted in her high-backed seat, brushing at the droplets of sweat clinging to the nape of her neck. The heat was making her drowsy, and for a moment, as she stared at her crystal ball, it glowed.
Whatever life there was in her eyes fled. Her lids drooped, and her heart slowed. Images played out within the orb. She read them aloud to herself, not thinking.
"Someone you meet at midday will change your life."
As soon as they occurred, the images vanished into the murky light of the crystal ball. She blinked, mulling over the prediction. The readings she had done on herself were rare. Never had she initiated them on purpose, because it felt wrong abusing her power that way. Spontaneous foreshadows in her dreams, though, had occurred in the past. What did this indicate, and was she in danger?
Rouge took a deep breath and leaned back. Regardless of what it was, this was fated to occur. She would not be able to prevent the inevitable from happening.
For now, though, she wanted some ice cream. The persistent tinkle of an ice cream man's bell had started up, and was enticing in this weather. Her stomach was already working on the flavours she could have. Mm, ice cream.
Business never did seem to cease on a certain street in the Sunland town. While many shops were stored away come the heat of noon, the most tenacious of vendors reaped their profits beneath large umbrellas and roofs built of wooden planks. Amongst these were food stalls, and a decent crowd thronged the cobblestone road every mealtime, adding to the noise and colour of the busy street.
With each passing moment, more civilians and foreigners trailed into the thriving marketplace. One person, in particular, did not quite fit into the slow river of people he had joined, of pastel-coloured country dresses and pressed English suits.
He was a stocky man, tanned and solemn. Unkempt black hair was secured tightly at the back of his head with a length of cloth, angled upwards, leaving the very end bushy. Raven eyes darted around the crowd, wary and searching for danger. He had a stubby nose, that was maybe mismatched with a set jaw and an oval-shaped countenance. At times, it would surprise a stranger to know that he was only nineteen.
Where in another land, his dressing might have been a common sight, the dull navy suit consisting of a kimono top and baggy trousers, or hakama, as well as a sand-coloured vest, open at the chest and frayed at the armholes, hardly melded into the crowd. A white spiral adorned either sleeve, striking against dark blue. It was representative of his dojo, where he had apprenticed for many years prior.
Upon closer inspection, one would notice the greyed bands wound around his wrists, extending up his strong forearms and beneath his sleeves, each holding down a metal plate to protect the backs of his hands. As with his arms, his calves had been bound with the same greyish cloth, from the hems of his hakama to just above his ankles. Dull navy socks covered his feet, toes divided for ease of fitting into his straw slippers.
What was equally as striking, however, might have been the pair of swords he carried on his person - the longer one, a katana, sheathed in a deep red scabbard, slung horizontally behind his abdomen, and the shorter, a a wakizashi, black-sheathed, hanging from a sash by his waist. At times, it would surprise a stranger to know that he was only at the age of nineteen.
Ryoma followed the stream of townsfolk, taking languid steps after a satisfying meal of noodles and meat. It was his personal quote, that "an empty stomach was a warrior's worst enemy". There had been times when food had been at a shortage; he had not relished them.
He ran errands on his travels, in part for his training, and in part for his sustenance. As a samurai, he travelled light - all his possessions fitted into a forest green cloth, tied snugly across his back. Most times, he had even forgotten about its presence, only remembering when he needed a bath.
There had been little choice but to leave the small town in Moonland, which had been his home for years. His sensei, Akudo Kanema, was a great man - strong, wise, and a true master of the sword. It was his sensei who brought him up as a man and a samurai, instilling the code of ethics in him that he was so proud of now. It was also Akudo Kanema who had bestowed upon him the two swords in his possession, and taught him to become one with them.
Sensei's wisdom had likened the town to a flowerpot. He had told Ryoma that if he wanted to grow as a warrior, there was no way he could continue to stay in Moonland. Instead, he would have to journey far and wide, fighting people stronger than himself and learning from them.
Thus, Ryoma had found himself travelling in Goldland and Silverland these past two years. He had lost battles there, learnt, and fought them again to win. As far as possible, Ryoma kept strictly to his training. Not once had he stopped to admire a pretty girl, nor lose himself in alcohol after a loss. Failure was an opportunity to learn, and he seized every chance available.
So focused was he on his teacher and training that his ears perked at the loud mention of "Akudo Dojo".
"The old man there is pathetic. He thinks he's so good, hiding in that dojo of his all day long." The drawl was callous and tinted with a Moonland accent.
Ryoma's eyes widened, then narrowed, indignance rumbling in his chest. There was no way Akudo Kanema was pathetic! He did not hide, and he most certainly did not think he was good. He knew he was a master, but that never did prevent him from being humble. And no one dared to underestimate his sensei! Coils of anger were swirling around his middle. His heart thumped at him to make that man swallow his words, and clear his mentor's name.
He tiptoed and peered over the crowd, eyes scanning over bare heads and bonnets, left hand instinctively tightening around the ebony sheath of his wakizashi.
Not too far away, with about six people between them, was a tall man, black hair done up like Ryoma's. He had a few thin locks of chin-length bangs curving over his face, with the rest tied up into a long brush at the back of his head. Contrary to the samurai, he was far paler, and wore a simple red kimono. From Ryoma's position, the man looked to have an eagle-like face, with beady black eyes and a hooked nose. No weapons could be seen from his vantage point. He was positive, however, that they were similar to his, slung low at the waist.
"Tsurugi Akira, you're going to have something coming to you, with all that slander you throw around," his companion chuckled audibly, a vague shape hidden by the growing crowd.
"Damn right you are," Ryoma wanted to snarl, but the flow of people was thickening, and they were starting to shove. There appeared to be a crowd gathering on the street a little distance away, around a group of performers garbed in bright costumes.
"Bring 'em! Are you saying I can't handle them?" the red-clothed man retorted in mockery. "I'll bet that Akudo guy is just a fraud!"
The restraint in Ryoma snapped. His brows drew into a frown.
No one - absolutely no one - tainted the reputation of the great man his sensei was, and got away with it. He would face the man off and bring him to his knees in defeat. Restless heat thrummed through his veins, and he pushed through the crowd, trying to reach that disrespectful Moonlander, shouting, "Hey, you!"
At that moment, the group to the side started to play, a cacophony of loud bugles and string instruments that easily drowned out his yell. Growling in frustration, he tried again, this time as loudly as he could muster. "Hey you, man-in-red! I challenge you to a fight, and I'll show you how good the Akudo Dojo really is!"
Those around him turned and glared, shushing him. A knobbly finger prodded his back roughly, accompanied by a strained, impatient voice that undeniably belonged to an old lady. "Keep your voice down, young man! There are those of us here who are trying to enjoy good music!"
Good music? Anger and manners waged a quick war within him. The latter won, and he turned, highly unwillingly, bowing quickly to the elderly female. "I'm sorry."
"That's more like it," she cackled, and he whipped back to locate the Moonland fighter, the thudding in his chest protesting at every wasted second. His eyes flitted over the bobbing heads. The man had disappeared.
Ryoma cursed, clenching his fists. The crowd started to thin towards the end of the street, which he was thankful for. Not only had that red-dressed man insulted his mentor, he had vanished from beneath his nose! Taking deep breaths to calm himself, the samurai stalked away from the market place, realising that he had stepped into the town square. The area was large and open, but again, a quick survey of the landscape told him that his quarry had slipped away.
With how new he was to the town, it might take days to hunt the man down and clear his sensei's name. But no matter how long it entailed, his loyalty to the Akudo Dojo never wavered, and he swore that he would see it to the end.
"Where could that guy have gone?" he muttered to himself.
It was a while before his hackles settled, and another while before he realised that there was a purple tent in the square that had not been there the day before. Chances of the man being inside were low, but for some reason, he found his feet stepping towards the marquee. Perhaps it was the lulling rhythm of the ice cream bell in the heat of the day.
"Looking for somebody?"
This new voice was low and sultry, and he turned to face its owner, in the hopes of receiving information about the Moonlander. The sight that met his eyes, however, was nothing he was prepared for.
A tall woman, mocha-skinned and barely shorter than him, stood three yards away. The first thing he noticed was how pretty she was - a single, large grey eye stared straight at him, its counterpart hidden beneath a shiny lock of hair that covered half her almond-shaped face. She wore a deep pink lipstick that would seem garish on a paler woman, but fitted her perfectly fine. A white sash of cloth held her hair back, fastened together by a gold-rimmed amethyst. More chocolate-brown hair was coiled neatly on her head, bound by a large golden band, while the rest wove into a long braid that fell past her hips, attached to a golden bangle right at the end.
He could not help but allow his eyes to coast down her body, barely noting the purple collar-like garment that begun at her throat and swept down the upper portion of her chest, with a slit down the middle for removal, edged with gold, its base hovering inches above her cleavage, sweeping in arcs down to either sides of her breasts.
Her breasts... The two gold-embroidered crescent moons on each side of the collar-garment were lost to him as he stared at her perfect twin globes, barely covered in a white strapless bra that functioned as a top, and left little to his imagination. A spark of heat started to grow and pool in his middle, as his eyes continued down her bare midriff, lingering at the depression of her navel, and then further to the downward-curving hem of her baggy purple pants, fuchsia-hemmed, starting high on her hips and dipping all the way down, to where he was almost too embarrassed to look at. The material ended where her crotch probably was, masked by a gold metal heart.
His loincloth was suddenly too tight; he could feel the fullness at his groin, and he remembered his manners, tearing his eyes down the rest of her pants, where the bottom hems drew together at her ankles, to create puffy pant legs. Heat rose to his cheeks. It was no surprise that her slippers were purple, either.
Sunlight glinted off her triangular gold earrings, and he parted his lips to apologise, but no words emerged. He was also vaguely aware of the thick white bands of cloth around her slim forearms, lined with gold at the edges as well. In one hand, she held an ice cream cone, heaped with four different flavours of the sticky treat.
"You're looking for someone, aren't you?" she continued in that sensuous tone, which only seemed to aggravate the heat swirling in his loins.
It took seconds for him to process her speech, so that curiosity arose at her knowledge. "Yeah, but how did you know that?"
She took a long lick of her ice cream, eyelids hooded, pressing the tip of her tongue against the side of her dessert and lapping it all the way up to the top, slurping audibly. For all the years that he had suppressed any carnal thoughts, this action of hers broke his fences. He could almost imagine her right before him, with that expression on her countenance, noisily slurping at...
"It's my business to know. I tell fortunes, I know where the man you seek is, and how you can find him." She appeared nonchalant, or at the very most, enjoying his attention, flushed and hard as he was.
Some semblance of coherence returned. Through the lusty fog in his mind, he remembered the man in red, and how there seemed to be no easy way to locate him. "D-do you really know?"
The woman took another languid slurp of her dessert, gathering coloured cream on her tongue and swallowing it in obvious enjoyment, licking her lips. He wished she would stop. At least she couldn't see the extent to which he was affected, baggy as his trousers were. Her pink lips twitched upwards in a saucy grin as she looked him over. "There's a price to be paid for finding the man. It's quite a high price - it's anything I want."
There seemed to be an obvious risk he was missing, but he was too keen on shrugging away his arousal and finding the man who tarnished his mentor's reputation to care. If this fortune teller could point him in the right direction, he would be grateful to her. Besides, something told him that she wasn't quite after his gold. He nodded. "Sure, I'll take the offer."
"Would you like to wait inside while I finish this?" The woman gestured at her melting ice cream, and he nodded, glancing over the tent for an opening, until she pulled some purple cloth aside, watching him with her single eye. He squirmed in his step.
The interior of the tent was a welcome shade from the overhead sun. He paused right after entering, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. A single flame flickered on the table, which seemed to be draped with an intricately-patterned yellow cloth.
He took the seat closer to the door, looking up at the reddish cloth decorating the upper circumference of the enclosed space. That girl spent the whole day in here? Well, aside from licking her ice cream, that was. Ryoma fidgeted as the memory of the fortune teller and her dessert played around in his mind, trying to force it out, while wondering at the same time if she was done. She was a hindrance to his training without even trying to be, and he would do well to steer clear of her in the future.
As if his thoughts had summoned her, she breezed in, slipping into her high-backed seat across the table.
The samurai blinked. She was even more beautiful up close. Her lips glistened in what little illumination there was. Before he could dwell any longer on her features, he forced his gaze away, craning his head up to examine the roof of the tent. The automatic chant started in his mind - he was a warrior in training, and he had absolutely no time for pretty girls.
She made no sound as she sat patiently and watched him, the sole visible eye unblinking. Discomfort crept into his nerves, and he brought his gaze back down to hers, albeit reluctantly, neck stiff. It was another awkward pause before he recalled his purpose here. "So, you mean to say, you can really sit there and tell me where that warrior is now?"
The woman drew a glass-like ball close to herself, that he had not noticed before. He stared at it, wondering how a stone like that could possibly have the answer to his question. In fact, this was starting to feel a little absurd.
"And now, my crystal ball will reveal all," she murmured in that silken voice, looking down into the misty depths of the ball, holding her palms at the sides of its curved surface.
"In that rock?" he let slip, following her gaze and waiting for pictures to form within.
"It is not a rock, it's a mystic crystal ball!" she snapped, looking sharply at him.
For a moment there, her gaze was so threatening that he drew back slightly, surprised. The manners his mother and sensei had ingrained into him rose to the surface then, and he bowed, looking down at the table. "If I have offended you, I'm sorry. Forgive me."
Rouge blinked, and blinked again, surprised. It was the first time anyone had apologised this formally to her, over such a small matter. The man still had his head inclined, awaiting her word. It made her feel important, and the fact that it resulted from such a trivial issue tickled her, drawing a low chuckle from her lips. "A rock, huh?"
Her mouth twitched in a smile, and she softened, watching as he lifted his gaze. So this was the man destined to change her life? She found herself rather pleased with him. "First, I must see what kind of man you are, and what lies deep within your heart."
"My heart?" He appeared a little confused, but shrugged it off. "Well, what do you see?"
Ryoma looked on when she dipped her head again, focusing on the crystal ball. The area around them seemed to darken, and the ball glowed a slight blue, that reflected off the smooth contours of her bra, deepened her cleavage. He forcibly ignored that.
"I see a white stream, a stream within a stream... And deep within your heart, you love... laundry?" Her voice rose at the last word, laced with incredulity.
"'Laundry'?" he echoed, peering at the glowing ball in an attempt to decipher her odd reading. Ryoma was never one for washing to that extent, though thinking back on his past, the times when there had been a lot of cloth and water was when he was back in Moonland, building up his endurance beneath a waterfall. And then it clicked. "Oh! That's part of my training!"
"Oh!" she uttered, transfixed by the image in her crystal ball. The white stream had turned out to be a length of white cloth extending downwards from his abdomen, tied to a string around his hips. Apart from the strange garment, he was otherwise standing naked beneath a waterfall, feet apart, hands clenched together in front of his face, eyes closed. "That's a weird way to train."
Rouge allowed herself to linger on the image of his semi-bare body, admiring the hard muscles, and almost venturing behind that exceedingly long piece of loincloth, before moving on to the next image, of the man making clean slices through a bamboo forest. It appeared that he was truly serious about his profession, working at building his skills, and finally setting sail away from his homeland. "I also see that you are a swordsman. When you finished your training, you left your sanctuary in pursuit of greater challenges."
The interior of the tent brightened to what it was previously. Rouge looked up from her crystal ball, at the young man sitting across the table. "You see, the orb knows all."
He was solemn. A frown creased his forehead at her words. "And me, I know nothing at all. All I know is the sword."
The sword, hmm? On one hand, he could have referred to his single-minded determination to train and work that body of his. On the other hand, he could have meant the other sword, the one utilised in bed. It was unlikely, but far from repulsive. And both choices were very appealing. Rouge propped her elbows on the table, linking her fingers and resting her chin on them, laughing softly. "You know, that's very attractive."
"P-please, don't tease me like that!"
She watched as his eyes widened, cheeks colouring, doubting that he even realised he was leaning away. Her chest warmed. This coyness kindled her interest like foals prancing beneath a leopard's nose, and she leaned forward, decidedly interested in this samurai who was reluctant to commit.
"I love shyness in a strong man," she murmured, covering his large, warm hand with hers. The contact bred a light hunger in her that made her want to draw caresses up his arm.
"Don't! Stop! I-I'm in training, my sword's the only thing I'll ever hold!" He looked at her in panic, squirming, as if afraid that she might pin him to the ground and sully him. Which, all things considered, didn't sound like a bad idea. Rouge released his hand anyway, casting him a harmless smile. There would always be other chances to take this further. "Well, if I can help in any way..."
The samurai relaxed then, the flush across his cheeks fading as he looked down at the table, thinking back. "When I arrived here, I came across this fighter who called my sensei names that he didn't deserve... and it's the same guy that I'm looking for."
She rested her weight on her elbows, watching him, observing the set jaw and the tuft of black hair tied behind his head. "A fighter, huh?"
"Yeah. He's pretty tall, dressed in red, and his hair is kind of like mine." He tried to gesture with his hands, to estimate the man's height and appearance. "He dresses like me, and I think he might be a pretty good swordsman."
"Do you know his name?" she probed, glancing down into her crystal ball. "Any names, nicknames..."
He touched his chin with his hand, rubbing it, lost in thought for a while. "Hmm... oh! Yes, I think there was one. I overheard someone calling him 'Tsurugi Akira'."
She focused, thinking about the name, and concentrating on her crystal ball. It started to glow, and she saw an eagle-faced man, walking alone, armed with swords, crossing a large stone bridge. The light faded, and she looked up from her crystal ball, into the anxious eyes of the young samurai. "The man called Tsurugi Akira is walking along the stone bridge at the mouth of the river. If you go now, you might be able to catch him."
He was on his feet in seconds. One hand resting on his sword, he looked at her. "Thank you. What do I owe you for this?"
She blinked. It had cleanly slipped her mind that she was doing a business deal with him, so enjoyable had their time together been. Her lips curved in an alluring smile. "Just tell me your name, and drop by when you're free. This reading was on the house."
"My name is Ryoma." He bowed, cheeks colouring slightly. "It's been a pleasure meeting you."
Rouge propped her chin on her hands, watching as he sped out of her tent in search of his quarry, whoever that was. This man had turned out far more intriguing than her expectations had been, and she liked that he had tried to resist her charms. It was obvious that he had been very much affected, however, to the extent that he struggled to keep his interest under control. Part of her wanted to see how far she could wrestle that control from him.
Ryoma. She rolled that name on her tongue, smiling to herself. When would they next meet?
The tent entrance was swept aside suddenly, a blond head extending into the enclosed space.
Rouge looked up, interrupted from her thoughts. It looked to belong to a man, his sky-blue irises catching sunlight. From her seat, she could see flight goggles riding atop his thick straw-coloured hair, and a bulky suit covering the rest of his body. "Do you want to know the future? If so, step right in."
He squinted at her for a moment, recognition flashing across his eyes. "I know who you are! You're that fortune teller, Rouge, aren't you?"
Surprise caught her for the second time in such a short span. It wasn't common for people to recognise her, especially when it was her first day in the town. Had he seen her elsewhere? Not missing a beat, she turned away, avoiding his gaze. "And what if I am?"
"I want you to look at something." He made his way in, heavy boots thumping on the ground. Thick leather gloves covered his hands and forearms, and various badges were sewn onto his red pilot's attire, complete with a white cloth extending from his neckline. On either side of his sleeves were blue flags, crossed with white.
"Oh?" Requests for her to examine objects were few and far between. Did he bring a treasure of some sort? She looked him over, wondering at the number of young men seeming to drop by her tent all at once. This one appeared to be a little more forward than the samurai, piquing her curiosity.
He took the seat where Ryoma had been, facing to a side, fishing around in his jacket to produce a rock. "What do you think of this stone? My father gave it to me."
She accepted it, twisting the heavy palm-sized object between her fingers. "This is a very interesting stone. Name?"
"You kiddin'? Stones don't have names," he answered, raising an eyebrow, as if she was asking the most obvious question in the world.
"What's your name?" she rephrased, inwardly sighing. It was starting to appear that neither of these men had any basic knowledge of fortune telling.
"Oh, I see. Edward Falcon."
Rouge drew the crystal ball to herself, hovering her hands above it. The crystal glowed again. She found herself sinking into the blurred images within. Each reading brought new challenges, and she looked forward to deciphering what she read. "I see your future in the heart of this stone..."
"Yeah, right, my future's inside a stone," he drawled, propping his cheek on a gloved hand.
The spark of irritation flared in her middle. "Keep silent!" He stared at her in shock, unknowingly calming her nerves. "That's better." In the silence he thankfully contributed to, she continued with the reading. "I see that you'll cross land, sea and air, and be transformed by the many challenges that await. And I also see danger, pursuit and defeat."
"'Defeat'? Don't say that!" he interjected, disbelieving. Then he leaned forward, almost conspiratorially, eyeing her. "Well, enough about that stone. Tell me, do you see any love in that crystal ball?"
She kept her distance, a laugh bubbling from her lips. It was starting to appear that he was yet another of those men she had come across when his attention slipped past her chin, to her chest. She cleared her throat, drawing his eyes back to her face. "I can't foretell that far into the future."
Falcon looked disgruntled at her response, his lips pulling to a side, but did not press the issue. At length, he finally stood, flashing her a friendly smile and a wave, seeming to fill the tent with his height. "Well, thanks for that anyway, Rouge. What do I owe you for this?"
"What about a meal of some sort in the future?" she offered, returning the smile. This would not be his only visit, she could guess, and it might as well be for something practical.
"You can count on it, Rouge!" Falcon responded brightly, whistling on his way out.
She watched the tent flaps swish back into place, before gazing back into her crystal ball, her mind drifting back to laundry and a samurai.
Sprinting at his fastest was something Ryoma did not usually do. He took a detour past the crowded street, dodging into alleyways and tearing down empty roads, heading for the wide stone bridge he remembered seeing two days ago. His feet scarcely felt the strain of travel - fifteen minutes of pure running was far from strenuous. By the time the bridge was within sight, he was only breathing hard, ready for more.
The stone bridge was wide and sturdy, large enough for three carriages to drive abreast. Like the town square, it was built of cobblestones, surface worn smooth by decades of pedestrians. Beyond the bridge were the glittering sea and the horizon. At this time of the day, people who made their way across the bridge were rare; most chose to do it when the sun was further down in the sky.
There was a lone figure slowly traversing the overpass. Ryoma swerved in that direction to meet the warrior head-on, running at full speed towards him, only halting when they were yards from each other. He drew a long piece of black string from the folds of his kimono, swiftly tying his sleeves up to prevent them from being a hindrance.
Tsurugi paused and merely looked at him, sizing up his ability from where he stood.
He was taller than Ryoma by a full head, and slimmer. The blood-red kimono top he wore was neat and secured at the waist by a white sash, leading down to a similar-coloured hakama, and red socks in straw sandals. Like Ryoma, he carried two swords of differing lengths, both sheathed in reddish-brown scabbards. Black, beady eyes regarded the shorter man evenly.
Ryoma matched his stare, taking slow inhalations to regulate his breathing. Tsurugi had not moved, but his posture and confidence spoke volumes of his skill. This man was a master of the sword as well. Vaguely, he wondered which dojo the man had trained at, and whether he, himself, had fought anyone from the same school.
A light breeze caressed his cheek, and he remembered why he was here. His sensei had done too much for him to let an obvious insult slip. Righteous anger roiled in his middle, and he clenched his fists, breathing deeply.
"I am Ryoma, Akudo Kanema's pupil, and I challenge you to a fight, Tsurugi! I'll show you that the Akudo Dojo isn't a fraud!" Ryoma shouted, drawing his shorter sword, the wakizashi, gripping it with both hands. His eyes narrowed.
"Very well." Tsurugi smirked, unsheathing his own sword, holding it up before himself. "We'll see if a so-called pupil of that tired old man is any good."
Another swell of fury rushed into his chest. How dare the man speak of his sensei with such carelessness? Fingers tightening around the cloth-bound hilt, he sprang forward, straw slippers pressing into stone to propel himself further, aiming the tip of his sword at Tsurugi's heart. As he had expected, the taller swordsman parried the thrust easily with his own wakizashi, sidestepping to let Ryoma pass.
He skidded to a stop and turned, eyes widening when Tsurugi appeared behind him faster than he had predicted, barely bringing up his sword in time to block a downward chop from a streak of metal. The resounding clang rang in his ears. Tsurugi used his height to his benefit, adding great leverage to the downward pressure, forcing Ryoma to one knee. His muscles strained as he pushed his weapon up against that razor-sharp edge.
Grunting with exertion, he shifted his weight to the left, knocking Tsurugi aside and off-balance, to the ground. In the short lapse of time his action bought, Ryoma leaped to his feet, bringing his sword down at the red-dressed swordsman in vicious slashes, his blade whistling in the air, only for the latter to roll out of the way of each strike. His heart beat a quick staccato with the adrenaline in his veins.
Tsurugi rolled to his feet, eyeing the samurai. He repositioned his hands on the hilt of his wakizashi. The kid was good - that much was obvious. But he did also seem borderline crazed where it came to avenging his teacher for such mild insults. Parrying a blow, he stepped back, avoiding each slice as it came, moving down the bridge in skips and steps, and occasionally delivering a blow that was shielded against in return. This younger swordsman was skilled, dangerously so. Tsurugi was, however, lacking the mood to fight.
As they reached the edge of the bridge, Ryoma was still on the offense, snarling with each thwarted blow. Tsurugi performed a quick sidestep at the last moment. The shorter man was a blur as he sped forward and hit loose gravel where the bridge ended, momentarily freezing when he lost his footing. Tsurugi twisted and delivered a sharp kick to the back of his knee, sending him sprawling into the ground.
The next thing Ryoma knew, Tsurugi's wakizashi was gleaming next to his throat. His breath tore between his teeth as he turned, tracing the sword up its wielder's arm with his gaze, to the shadowed face against the too-bright sky. Shock and disappointment sealed his throat.
Tsurugi laughed, a cold dry laugh, lifting his sword and slowly sliding it back into its sheath with a metallic hiss. Ryoma clenched his jaw, bereft of words. He had naught to say; Tsurugi had no need to say anything, merely leaving the defeat hanging in the air as he turned and walked back where they came from, his footsteps fading in the zephyr.
Ryoma clenched his eyes shut, grinding his teeth as he hung his head, ignoring the sharp press of gravel edges into his palms and fingers. The loss had been a clear indication that his skill was inferior, and he had tarnished his sensei's name with it.
He cursed himself bitterly, not moving from his position as the sun shone down on him, breeding droplets of sweat on his skin.