The war is not yet won.
Yes, we haven't triumphed yet over the enemies but here I am succumbing to the adversary's sword. I received at least fourteen slashes that drained my energy. The pain springing from the lacerations seem to shroud my memory. Ahhh… I do remember. We have penetrated through the armada protecting the shogun. We have set almost the whole prefecture in flames and signaled the start of the overthrow of the shogunate. I am proud to have been part of the sabotage and the fleet that would destroy the era of greed. I gaze at a darkness of the sky as I lay here on the earth at the orifice of the castle. Within a minute. The sun will weave its light into the loom of shadowy dawn and within this period of twilight, the future of this country will be hanging in the cliff, whether it will fall to the abyss of the rotten system or be delivered into salvation with our swords like the parting of luminescence and dusk.
An eddy seems to form from the wounds swallowing my strength and my life. Am I dying? So, this is how it feels to be lashed by death scythe. It feels heavy. My lungs breathe in air just to lengthen my agony and my brain remains functioning for me to witness each of my comrade fight to death while I can only lie together with the lifeless bodies of my fallen opponents. Blood surges from the arteries that tasted the anger of my enemy. It coalesces to the contrasting murkiness of the earth or should I say that the blood coalesces to the resembling impurity of the soil. I am much as unchaste as the dirt that shall be my grave.
I stare, with astonished eyes, the familiar fluid, which is the color of her lips. I close my eyes, avoiding the vision I am seeing. I must not be distracted by memories I swear to destroy. I must be lost in a trance where it shall undermine my concentration. These events, that I have no power or even I wield the finest sword there is with perfect technique, should be buried even before I die. As I open my eyes, cherry blossoms fall. I damn this sight for her eyes stares at me without contempt. She condemns without speaking. But her smile shall be the gem I shall keep in my memory. Though it is a constant reminder of the days before the ember of the revolution blast into raging flames, I will desire to loose except her smile, which seizes all hatred and holds all the calmness one can long for, oppose my principle. The scene seem to ambush me in manner I am completely defenseless. I snap out this reverie and her smile shatters. This cannot be possible. I have been concerned by a hundred swordsmen or more several times before and my adeptness proves that no one, even by ambuscade, can subdue my sword. But now the sight of blood seems to horrify me of rather the shade of her ruby lips haunts me. I blink and a warm hand touches my shoulder lightly. I raise my head to confirm that the touch, which is not a stranger to my skin, is from her she smiles.
I wipe my sweat and I tilt my head to the west. The sun diverges into the horizon. I placed the sword against my chest whether I eat or sleep. She does not speak much but her eyes are enough to tell her sadness over my desire to step into the revolution. Despite her protest, I shall continue my journey to the bosom of the prefecture to be part of the front line in the battle. My passion to posses power through the sword shrouds her smile. I hardly sleep. I keep on thinking that tomorrow I shall rise to power with my sword with the nation. After hours of restlessness, I can no longer lie in the futon. The burning zeal in me can no longer be contained. I stand and leave the house. My fervor completely clouded my thoughts about her. She wakes and calls me but her voice seems to fade as I whet the blade of my sword. The only sound that resonates across the room to my ears is the reverberation of the metal against the air as I slash into the emptiness. She clings to my shoulder but she does not speak. I can only promise I will return when the sun rises to our land after the victory is on our side.
"at sunrise" I can only say.
My sword sways by my waist and this reminds me of my comrades waiting in our underground rendezvous. But from a distance, I see the fleet of my comrades meeting me. Bullets are fired. Explosion occurs. I look back. I see my hometown set in fire. I hear screams and by the time our army arrive in town, I can only stare at the carnage left. The enemies doubled crossed us.
I blink and my chest aches. I clutched my chest. My palm feels the throbbing. But not the actual pounding organ that is. Something inside me is somehow revived at the moment my eyes witnesses the profuse scarlet substance that flows. What is this thing inside me that agitates timorously? I shriek as the spear of realization strikes my mind. No! I cannot have a heart. I vowed to heavens and to my sword that I shall eradicate my memory of her eyes and of her smile though falling in the dream a while ago purges not my guilt; for I am a warrior. My task is to destroy and having a heart shall forfeit my license to pull the sword from its sheath. Reminisce kindling emotion is a mortal sin. The penalty is destabilizing my concentration and the disgrace and dishonor of losing the battle. Emotions are not our code, a flaw to someone who can never be called a warrior. Regret is not part of our dogma. Sadness does not exist and fear antagonizes our creed to annihilate everyone in a wink of an eye without faltering. Therefore, this must not be a manifestation of any emotion, neither fear nor regret, for I have denounced my heart as I have disposed my enemies.
I am determined to finish our mission: to murder the shogun and win our flag. I grasp the handle of my rapier and regained my stance. As I kneel and stagger on the support of my sword, I see my face on the blade. I am certain it is I for I see the brunette hair majestically puffing at the slightest motion but the man that gazes back is unfamiliar to me. The blood of my enemy is the drenching the sharp edge of the rapier. The argents fade but the reflection remains vivid. His eyes has peculiar glint that u do not understand. The image is haunting. I do not want to believe that the fear creeps in me but as I examine my reflection, my chest seem to hollow out as I see myself, the one I recognize as the swordsman. The assassin in me lurks in the shadow of the calm stranger, who is also I. The warrior slashes the gentle fellow. I am horrified to see the warrior tasting the blood from fallen pacifist. The swordsman is delighted and he laughed diabolically. I shirk the image but as I glance away from my sword I behold the same image stitch into existence right in front of me. I pull my sword from the mire and advance to the warrior that resembles me. His head is staring the ground but when I leap to attack from above, he glared at me with the icy eyes of a true warrior, one that manifest no emotion at all but only the passion to comply with the mission to kill. I flinch upon being stared by those icy eyes. With one blow from his sword, once again my body plunges to the bog. Raindrops kiss my lips and wash my blood from the fresh laceration. My body is numb but I can feel something. Sadness damps my dormant heart. I remember the dawn I left her and I promised that I will embrace her smiles in my lips at the crack of dawn.
It rains. Darkness will not depart and the sun will not bind the sky with its light. I no longer abide to our dogma as I let go of my sword. I no longer care for the humiliation my reverie wreak upon me. I somehow feel happy to retrieve my heart and that the battle between my loyalty to the doctrine against insuppressible human nature is finally over. All I care for is her smile. The war is not yet won; the sun should have painted its rays into the canvas of the velvet black dawn. And within this period of twilight, the future of this country shall be foretold, whether it will be sentenced into the eternal torment of the corrupt government or be spared into the glory of light. But dawn will not break and this I do fear
The end
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