Now, in my age, I often wonder what would have happened if I had simply kept walking that night. How would history have written itself had I not followed my conscious and rose to the aid of that small group one fateful evening? I do not know. All I can do is tell my tale that history might see what fate had in store for Seijuro, master of Hiten Mitsurugi.
It was long ago. A pale moon shown down on a dying and sickened world, and the scream of fear on the cool evening breeze was only one of thousands heard around the world that night. Another murder, rape, kidnapping, assault. What mattered it? Death was the end of all men, sooner or later. But the screams kept coming, the shrill, high-pitched squeals of women, and duty compelled my feet forward.
I arrived at a dark clearing, and the unmistakable scent of blood and violence rose to greet me. Bodies lay everywhere, dripping wetly, and the harsh laughter of bandits hung in the air. Several were clustered around a sobbing woman, tearing at her clothes with animal-like grunts of excitement. I stepped into the clearing and said calmly, "Stop this at once if you wish to keep your lives."
The would-be rapists dropped the woman and turned to face me while the other bandits spun around. Six of them, I counted silently. Reaching out inwardly, I touched the air. No other human chi was present save what was surrounding me, and I knew there were no more attackers lurking in the shadow.
"Who are you?" bellowed one of the attackers, boring in on me with one hand working his katana loose.
"You won't be alive long enough to remember," I responded before slashing him from shoulder to hip. The other bandits gave a scream of rage and raced forward, but Hiten Mitsurugi is a fearsome style and no match for untrained bandits with more brawn than sword technique. All of them died under my sword, leaving their corpses behind.
I stood for a moment, gazing at them with regret. I loathed killing and the necessities that required it even if it was to save innocent lives. Turning around, my eyes fell upon the woman who had been molested by the bandits: to my surprise, I saw that she had stabbed herself while I was fighting and now lay on her back, her life's blood dripping out of her. No doubt she had decided that death was preferable to loss of honor, but I was grieved and angered to have killed so many in her defense only to find her dead at my feet.
Is there no one left alive that my killings have saved? I raged to myself when a slight movement caught my eye. Buried in the shadows of some bushes, a small boy stood, tiny hands gripping a sword that he barely could hold aloft. He was panting and blood-splattered, but courage and anger shown in his eyes. Behind him were the corpses of other women, and by the looks of things, he was the sole survivor.
At least I saved one, I thought bitterly. Fishing a cloth from beneath my cloak, I began wiping my sword clean. To him, I said, "Drop the sword, boy, it's too heavy for you and all the bandits are dead."
He did not respond at first, and I could see in his eyes that he was going into shock. The bodies scattered around him were no doubt his family, and the grief he felt was evident on his face. Trying to soften my voice, I tried again, "I am sorry I could not save the lives of your family. But the bandits are dead; they will not trouble you anymore."
There was no sign that the boy had understood what I said or even registered that I had spoken. He was alone, scared, and likely hungry and cold, but it was not my place to nurture children. As a roving swordsman, I had no home to offer him if for some reason I have been inclined to take him into my care. Thinking it over, I sheathed my sword and finally said, "There is a village not far from here. I will tell them that you are here, and they will send someone to care for you." Moving over to the dead bandits, I searched through their pockets for their money pouches. There wasn't much, but it was better than nothing; I thought I would bring the money to the village to help cover the cost of the boy's care. Most of the villages in the area were quite poor, and even a small boy eats a lot of rice.
When I straighted up, I saw that the boy still had not moved, and his hands had not unclenched themselves around the sword. Picking up the jug of sake I had put down before the fight, I turned to go, leaving him behind. He made no noise as I left, and his tiny frame was soon swallowed up in the dark night.
At the village, I spoke to the village elder and pressed the money into his hands; he accepted it and promised to care for the boy. In return, he offered me a night's hospitality. I though of accepting since it had been some time since I had slept indoors, but the stark poverty of the village was evident and I did not wish to tax their already-stretched resources. Instead, I slept under the stars as my normal custom. In the morning, I stopped in at the village to see how the boy was doing; why I cared so much, I could not say, but something pressed me forward.
The village elder met me, bowing and cringing, and said "The boy would not leave, sir! He threatened me off with a sword! I didn't know what to do!" He took my frowns as anger directed at him and dropped to the ground in supplication.
Waving him off, I said, "Never mind. I shall find him myself," and left the elder with his face pressed into the dirt. As I moved towards the place I had left the boy, my thoughts swirled around in my head, Why is it you care so much, Seijuro? You have no patience for children and there is nothing you have to offer a child. As a roving sword master without a roof to call your own, would you train this boy in the way of the sword and give him a home of earth and sky? Are you going soft in your age? These thoughts continued until I reached a small clearing and stopped in amazement. There were several graves gouged into the earth and rocks piled up as if in a monument. Kneeling in front of the rocks was the one I sought.
He turned around and stood up as I came forward, looking at me with oddly calm eyes. Although there were dried tear stains on his cheeks and he was smeared with dirt and blood and wavering on his feet from fatigue, there was a strange strength about him and a maturity that was far beyond his years. His hair, what could be seen from the mats and dirt, was oddly red, a strange color for a Japanese child. He was slight and delicate-looking, and I put his age at seven or eight, amazed that this frail-looking child could have dug all those graves by himself.
Looking at the crude graveyard, I said, "You buried all these people, even the men who attacked you and your family?"
"They weren't my family," the boy stated, a quaver in his voice that he determinedly held back. "They were slave traders that bought me after my mother and father died."
"Then why did you bury them and their attackers too?" I questioned.
The boy sniffed, but his voice held firm. "Because they were all people and all deserved a grave. And the women helped me. They took care of me and were my friends." He gestured at the rock pile. "I wanted to decorate their graves with flowers but I could only find these rocks." His voice began to break and I could see new tears welling in his eyes, "I wanted to make their graves beautiful but..." he fell silent, choking back the tears.
I stood for a moment, then uncorked my sake bottle. "Then I will offer this sake in their memory to bless their spirits on the way to nirvana," I said, pouring a generous measure onto each rock.
"Thank you," the boy quavered, then looked at me in confusion, "Mr......?"
"Seijuro. Seijuro Hiko." I looked down on him sternly. "Learn the name of your new master, young one."
"Master?" the boy said confusedly.
"Yes," I responded, surprising him as much as myself. A pupil? I had never considered taking a student before now, thinking myself much too young to acquire an apprentice and settle down to a life of training him. Yet I knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the wheels of fate had brought this boy to me for that purpose alone.
"And your name?" I questioned.
"Shinta," the boy said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. I frowned. A vulgar peasant habit I shall have to break him of, I thought to myself. With this child, nothing he did would escape my scrutiny and criticism.
Aloud, I said, "That name will not do. It is a child's name, too soft for a swordsman. I give you the name of Kenshin."
"Ken-shin," the boy repeated. "Heart of the sword," he said, looking at me with a confused expression.
"And you will be, deshii, you will be," I responded, ignoring the puzzled look on the boy's face. Myself, I was somewhat puzzled over my own confidence that this scrawny child rubbing his nose was worthy of being instructed in the way of Hiten Mitsurugi. Yet there was not the slightest doubt in my mind that this little one was a pupil worthy of my full attention. Fate had deemed it, had brought him to me, and here was the one who would one day kill me to take my place.
Setting my sake bottle on the ground with a thump, I said gruffly, "Let's go. Take the sake bottle. A pupil of Hiten Mitsurugi must make himself useful." The boy awkwardly hoisted it aloft although it was clearly too heavy for him and his small strength already taxed. Yet, he set his teeth grimly in a stubborn cast which secretly delighted me.
Turning, I let my weighted coat sweep behind me and marched off into the day, the boy dragging behind me, staggering under the weight of the sake bottle. Conscious that he was reaching the end of his strength, I slowed my feet to an unhurried pace. He made no complaint, and it was clear from the look on his face that he would carry that bottle until he dropped dead from exhaustion. I had no doubt that he would apply that same grim determination and stubborn spirit to his sword training. Hiding a smile, I thought to myself, So now, Kenshin,we begin.