Wow. Two chapters in as many days. Must be on a roll. The last chapter just got up, so I haven't seen any reviews, but I forgot someone last time (sorry!) So here's a big kudos to Mal, who also reviewed "Falling Through Nightmare". Thanks for reviewing.

With that mistake remedied, it's now...

"SHOWTIME!"

Chapter Nine

Fall of the House of Lions

Town of the Wind God, somewhere south of present-day Tajikistan, Asia. Noon.

Yunsung walked onward, his shoes making their rhythm on the dirt road, completely unaware that he was about to find his destiny (as all of us, when the time comes, are). The White Storm safely buckled behind his back, he walked ever onwards, ever east and north, heading for Europe. Towards the Hero's Sword, where he would find salvation... or damnation.

The area he walked through was a grassy plain much like those of Western Europe. It was a rarity in this area, where most of the landscape consisted of great mountains and valleys. As he walked, he noted with no small surprise the beauty of the wind blowing across his face, the grass swaying about him, the sun shining above him. Yunsung had driven everything out of him that was not needed to be a warrior, but he had not been prepared for this. Traveling was bringing something out in him, this journey making him feel things he'd tried to remove so long ago. He was enjoying himself, for the first time in years. Ever since he had been thirteen, and his mother had left him...

Usually that thought brought up all the old resentment and anger, but here, walking through a grass field with all the open road before him, he found acceptance, not anger, rising up within him. He didn't know why she'd left. For all he knew, she had left because of circumstances beyond her control. Giving him up may have been all she could do. So why hate her? She was one person out of the millions in the world. Why focus so much on her?

Gazing into the sky, feeling at peace with himself, Yunsung felt his anger begin to ebb. Anger had been the sole focus of his life, the driving force behind everything he did. The days spent walking the open roads, breathing in the scent of life itself, the nights around a solitary campfire looking into the sky (where, for the first time, he saw the wonder hidden in the stars he had always regarded as nothing more than compass points), had made his anger begin to seem small, unimportant. He'd guarded it so fiercely, he hadn't realized how pitiful his treasure really was.

For the first time in many long years, Yunsung was happy. Or, maybe, not happy, but content. Content to have an open sky and road before him, all the possibility of life his to grasp, and a destination to walk to.

A yell broke through his almost Zen-like state.

" Let go of me!"

Instantly alert, Yunsung grabbed the White Storm from it's position at his back. The scream had come from over a small hill in the area. He started running up it, but stopped when a small figure flew over the top of the hill and landed in the grass at his feet. It was a small girl, her hair a strange color that shifted from black to blue as he watched. Her right eye had a fist shaped imprint (a large fist, too, from the look of it), and her left arm had bruises where an equally large hand had grabbed her. The girl moaned, dazed from her landing.

Yunsung looked down at her, rather amazed at her abrupt flight over the hill, and was about to bend over to help her up when a shadow crossed over the sun. Looking up, he saw a huge man, equally enormous battle axe at his side, look down at him. The man's face was hidden by a stone mask, the only form of armor or clothing he wore with the exception of a loin cloth and two belts over his huge frame. The man's enormous muscles flexed as he stared down at Yunsung and the fallen girl.

" You better leave, kid," the giant before Yunsung said, " I want to have some fun with this girl, and no wanna-be hero is gonna get in my way."

The greatest moments in our lives are always the ones we are not prepared for. And in that very suddenness, in the very immediacy of their happening, lies their great value. It is only in those moments when we are forced to act on instinct, when no one but ourselves and God can see to judge our actions, that we can find out the truth about ourselves.

In that moment, one he had not guarded against or rehearsed, Yunsung made his transition from a boy to a man.

" Quit now," Yunsung said, kicking the air with his sword behind his back (a stance he'd made to taunt foes), " if you want to live."

The monster before him snarled. " Damn it, kid. I didn't want no trouble, but if you insist, I'll gladly kill you."

Yunsung grinned at the monster, already planning his attack. " It isn't me who needs to be afraid of death, giant."

" Well said!" A voice called from behind him.

Glancing backwards, wary of another possible threat, Yunsung saw a samurai approaching him. The Japanese man had a strange hairdo Yunsung had seen only a few times before, a style that made one's head look like a tree with all the leaves on top. Yunsung, as a Korean, did not like the Japanese (the feeling was mutual), and knew how dangerous their fabled samurai were.

" Friend or foe?" Yunsung asked, glancing between the approaching samurai and the giant, who seemed dumbfounded at the samurai's appearance. The stone mask was cocked to the side, and though Yunsung hadn't thought it possible for a mask of stone to express bewilderment, that was exactly what it was doing. That was good, at least. Maybe the two didn't know each other.

" Friend," the samurai replied, continuing to walk up the road. " I heard the conversation between you two. Seems this man doesn't know how to treat a lady!" As the samurai walked up to Yunsung, he looked down at the girl, who was still mostly unconscious. " By the gods, she's just a girl!" Actual anger blazing in the samurai's eyes, he looked up at the giant. " You child rapist! We'll end your cursed life right here!" Drawing his katana and cricking his neck, the samurai took up a classic Oriental fighting position, sword to the front, ready to strike or parry at a moment's instance. " My name's Mitsurugi," the samurai said out the side of his mouth to Yunsung. " May I have the honor of knowing yours?"

" Yunsung," Yunsung said, aiming the White Storm at the giant, who had assumed his own battle position.

" Well then, Yunsung," Mitsurugi said calmly, as if discussing this over tea, " good to meet you. Are you Korean, perchance?"

" Yes," Yunsung said, his years of being emotionless allowing him to avoid showing the confusion he felt. A giant who easily stood at seven foot was about to try his best to kill them, and this man was calmly asking him if he was Korean?

" As I thought. We'll talk about that later," Mitsurugi said, " but for now, don't worry about it. I won't run you through after we're done with this monster. Shall we go?"

Still slightly bewildered at the man's calmness, Yunsung said, " Yes."

" I'll try to tie him up. Move in and stab him in the meantime, would you?" So saying, the samurai charged up the hill. Yunsung followed behind him, remembering his sensei's words about axes. The old man's voice, cracked and slow, belied his incredible strength. Even at fifty-six, the old man could win almost every fight he entered.

" Axes are powerful weapons, my students. A single blow is enough to rend a man apart. But there is always a balance. A master of the axe is a powerful opponent, but even the mightiest cannot conquer one great weakness of the weapon: range. At long distances, no weapon can match the axe for power. But, if you get close to them, the blade is useless. Stand there and strike, and you may yet live to see another sunrise!"

As Yunsung and Mitsurugi ran forward, the berserker swung his great axe horizontally. Yunsung dodged left, rolling under the passing blade. The noise of it's passage over his head was like hearing a falling tree pass by. On his feet almost instantly, Yunsung saw that the samurai had leaped into the air (completely clearing the axe) and struck at the berserker's face. The stone mask repelled his sword edge, but the force of the blow rattled the berserker. Mitsurugi landed and stabbed his katana forward, slicing into the creature's meaty stomach. Blood spurted from the wound, and the monster roared it's pain. A giant fist sailed out, backhanding Mitsurugi and knocking the samurai down. As the creature prepared to lop the offending samurai's head off, Yunsung stabbed three times in a rapid up-and-down motion, his arm like a firing piston, into the berserker's back. The powerful muscles split under the keen edge of the White Storm, slicing the nerves as easily as though they were paper. The monster roared and fell down to his suddenly nerveless knees, the spinal cord cut apart. Swinging his axe clumsily, the berserker tried to slash Yunsung, but he was too close to the giant and easily dodged. Coming up, he slashed the monster's wrist, causing a gout of blood to spray out and the axe to drop from the hand. The berserker bellowed again, the sound of a great bull in pain, before it's bellows were reduced to a loud gurgling by Mitsurugi. The samurai had gotten up and driven Shishi-Oh right through the berserker's throat, stabbing the esophagus and voice box, cutting off the air of the giant. Blood gushing out of the stab wound in it's throat, the berserker fell forward, dead, hitting the ground with a dull boom. Panting hard, Mitsurugi turned to Yunsung.

" My thanks to you. He died hard, didn't he?"

Yunsung nodded, panting. From behind them, farther down the slope of the hill, the forgotten girl mumbled, " Who's there?..."

" We'd better tend to her," Mitsurugi said, wiping off the blade of his katana with a small silk cloth he pulled from the side of the sword's scabbard. The blood cleaned off, he put the sword away and started walking down the hill. Yunsung, lacking a silk cloth, wiped his sword off in the grass, dried it as best he could on the giant's loin cloth (taking care to use the hip side of the loincloth; he didn't want to think of what might be on the front of it), and followed the samurai down the hill.

The black-haired girl rose up slightly, holding the back of her head. She looked up, fear bright in her eyes, then saw that the giant was dead. She looked up at Mitsurugi, squinting as she tried to clear her head.

" Did you... save me?" she asked, her voice dull with pain (the back of her head had set up a steady throb that went with her heartbeat).

" No," Mitsurugi said, " that particular honor goes to this young man. If he had not challenged the giant, I do not know if I would have heard anything at all."

" Thank you," the girl said. " What's your name?" She looked at him with her head cocked to one side, studying him.

" Yunsung," he said, feeling something in him raise it's head for the first time, something that spoke of a job well done, of an innocent protected. It was the first time Yunsung had felt the pull of justice, and he never forgot it for the rest of his life. It was never greater, never purer, than it was that first time. " Are you okay?"

" Thank you." The girl rose up, still a little wobbly. Yunsung reached out a hand to steady her. She grabbed it thankfully. " My name's Talim. I come from a village near here," she almost fell, weakness taking her for a moment. Mitsurugi and Yunsung caught her before she hit the ground, and she continued, " and I was out for training... then that thing came out of nowhere, starting grabbing at me... tried to fight him... Uhh." She wobbled unsteadily on her feet.

" Where's your village at?" Yunsung asked.

" That way," she said, pointing with one unsteady finger. " Can you take me there?" She had pointed to a path off the main road, going towards the south.

" 'Twould be my pleasure," Mitsurugi said, putting her arm over his shoulder. " I think me and this young man here can carry you a ways, until you're able to walk on your own again." Mitsurugi looked at Yunsung. " Coming?" he asked him.

Yunsung stopped for a moment, thinking. The Sword of Salvation was northeast of here; this was off his course. He didn't know how long he could afford to delay. Someone from Seung Mina's family would be following him by now, wanting the White Storm back.

Then the new thing in him, the sense of justice that had just rose up within him, spoke.

[ This girl can barely walk,] the voice said, speaking in tones deeper than any well or valley, quieter than the low sound of wind through trees, [ and the samurai cannot do all this himself. Will you leave a job half done, just to pursue a dream of darkness? It is your choice.]

That last was not particularly true, Yunsung thought; his choice had been made when he chose to stand and fight the giant. He couldn't leave the girl and the samurai just yet. He still had a job to do.

Slipping Talim's right hand over his shoulders, Yunsung said, " Let's go, then."

They headed off to the south, where the village of the Wind God lay. Where a great tragedy was about to begin, a play which had only one ending...

************************************************************************



Mansion of the Lions, Valencia, Spain. Same time.

At the same time Yunsung, far away, faced a monster and chose his destiny, Ivy was walking into the room where she would find hers. She was slightly more prepared then Yunsung had been, but that counted for little. Against the shock she was about to receive, there was no guard.

The feeling of happiness, of homecoming, she'd felt in the city of Valencia had ebbed when she'd seen the house, and the river of happiness had completely dried up when she stepped into the ruins of the house. What replaced the joy was a feeling of great sadness and pity. This had been a good place, once. A place of light and laughter. Now, it was a dark pit, a fallen place. She stepped over the pieces of fallen plaster, of stone, of wood, tears springing unbidden to her eyes. This had been her home, once. For two years, this had been home. She knew nothing about it, but it still felt familiar to her.

She walked through the main room, looking at the walls where only dust kept residence now. Glancing at the lighter spots on the soot-stained walls where pictures once stood. She wondered if a family portrait had once hung upon these walls, with her being held by a loving mother, while a proud father stood behind them both. She wondered if she had any brothers or sisters, and if so, where they lived now, if any still walked this earth. She walked through the ruins of this place, and the contrast between it and the ruined mansion of her adopted father, Lord Valentine, struck her so forcefully that her breath caught. Was this her fate? To always end up walking alone through the ruins of her home? To never really have a place to call home, save old and tired ruins?

Ivy was a strong person, someone who had suffered much but still held their head high. But no human, man or woman, can walk through the ruins of a place they had loved once (or might have loved, if time had been different) and walk with eyes clear. Ivy's eyes misted over with unspilled tears, and she blinked twice, trying to clear them. Two tears fell, twin spots of moisture appearing on the ancient dust of the floor. She walked onwards, through the main hall, gazing at the ruined fireplace (it's mantle, a lion's head, formerly majestic, now staring at the world through one eye; one half of it's face had fallen to the floor, as other pieces of the marble fireplace had already done) around which her family may have set on cold nights, talking, maybe rocking her to sleep, maybe watching her play with her mother's hair. An ancient sofa, covered in a film of dust so thick it was almost buried in it, sat near the broken fireplace, and she could almost see the scene in her mind. She walked on, trying not to cry. She was vaguely aware, behind her, of Siegfried and Kilik stepping into the house, trying to avoid being stabbed through the foot on the fallen boards and nails, but they were so far away it might have been miles and not feet that separated them. She was walking in the past now, and the events of the present were not her concern.

She drifted past the main room, into the great hall, where a spiraling, grand staircase kept it's majestic form aloft on crumbling, gray pillars of marble. It's bannister was torn in several places, the pieces on the floor below, the stairs broken and cracked. Dust lay over everything, the house smelling faintly of rot and mold. The carpet of the great hall was once orange and gaudy; now it was gray with dust and tired, so tired. Mold and slimes grew on it, thick and whitish, sickening to glance at. Yet even these things, feeders on decay that they were, seemed old and tired, tired as the carpet they grew upon. The way further into the house was blocked by a pile of fallen rubble, wooden timbers sticking out at dangerous angles, the edges sharp enough to form spikes, stone piled over it like the form of a titan. On her sides, she saw two shelves of books, most of them festering and as rotten as the carpet she now stood on. She closed her eyes, and two more tears leaked out, trailing down her face like dark lines etched in the pale marble of her skin by some grieving sculptor.

[ This is my home,] Ivy thought. [ This is my birthright.]

She turned to tell the others to go back, that there was nothing here- and stopped dead. Her mind froze, her heartbeat stopped, and her muscles tensed. She knew that face. There was not a person alive who did not.

Before her, hanging over the doorway like a malevolent echo, Cervantes de Leon's face grinned at her, long mustache drooping down, pirate's hat sitting jauntily on his head, his grin having a "come on" effect to it, one that would appear right before a fight started. Attempting a dramatic pose, his two weapons were crossed under his chin, a long sword and a pistol sword, weapons feared the world over. His attitude was one of daring, a cavalier of a man who would fight anyone, anytime, brave the greatest odds, fight the fiercest battles, and enjoy the hell out of all of it. This was Cervantes de Leon in his living days, in the days when he was a feared pirate renowned for his attacks on even armed convoys, almost equally renowned for the display of honor he showed to any ship that put up a fight with him, for the respect he gave his enemies.

As Ivy dropped to her knees, stunned by what she saw, it suddenly occurred to her that she and the Cervantes in the picture had the exact same hair color. It occurred to her that she was very tall, as Cervantes himself had been said to be tall. It occurred to her that only a pirate would think of making the key to his home an anchor. That a man with a long sword and pistol sword had given her to Lord Valentine. That her father had never made the connection between the man who gave him his daughter and the pirate who had terrorized the world. That the Latin word for lion was Leon.

It occurred to her that this was her father.

Siegfried had ran up to her, asking her what was wrong. That Kilik had walked up to her, the monk looking around for something suspicious. If he wanted suspicious, look at this woman in front of him. Look at the daughter of Cervantes, the monstrous pirate.

Look upon a demon's spawn.

Kilik saw the portrait and said something in his native tongue, something like a curse. Siegfried turned and saw it as well, shouting in his native tongue as well. And then, dropping from the ceiling of the main room, standing up with his fabled weapons in his hands, her father grinned at her.

Ivy screamed.

- Next chapter: Sins of the Father, and the battle for the Town of the Winds!