Hello all. Thus far I've typed three chapters and I hope you are enjoying reading as much as I'm enjoying writing. I think this is a fairly good chapter, at least, I'm happy with how it's turned out.
Please, read and review. =3

I must've been fourteen when it happened. Father decided I needed to learn how to wield a weapon, that's when I met Banryu.

It was a damp day in the middle of spring. Father had come home the night before, and hadn't said a word to me the whole night. Rather, he woke me up early the next morning and drug me roughly out of bed when I was still half asleep. "Wake up Bankotsu. It's time for you to start training."

"Training?" I questioned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "What training?"

My father's upper lip curled. "Your training to become a warrior."

I could feel the mist cling to my face as he practically carried me to what he claimed were the 'training grounds'. I wasn't really paying attention. In addition to the weather, my brain was also clouded with the fog of sleep.

When I did open my eyes I saw many weapons lain out in front of me. "Normally, the warrior would pick his own weapon. However, since you are my son, and therefore have standards to live up to, I have chosen for you. Your weapon shall be this halberd." he pointed to a... giant sword? It was huge. Two, maybe three times my fourteen-year-old size.

Before I could bite my tongue I was talking, "Father! There's no way I'll ever be able to lift that!"

Without looking I knew he turned towards me. I cringed, expecting a reprimand. Or maybe one of Father's rare cuffs. Neither came. I tentatively opened my eyes to see him towering in front of me. And he was lifting halberd banryu with both hands. "If I can, you can."

Father pushed banryu into my hands, which fell like a dead weight. "It's so... heavy," I grunted, attempting to lift the blade above my knees.

The halberd struggled above my feet, but I could feel the muscles in my back complaining with every half inch. "I can't!"

The weapon fell to the ground as I released it from my hands, which, upon closer inspection, were red from strain. "That thing is huge! How will I ever hope to wield it?" tears threatened my eyes. I had never let Father down before. Never this directly. I wiped them away, hoping he hadn't seen them.

No such luck.

"Bankotsu. What did I tell you about showing your emotions?"

"People will take advantage of my kindness." I said softly, almost too quietly. Father heard me, though. He always hears. And he never fails to tell you, whether it be through facial expressions or words.

This time he decided to shoot me a disappointed look. One I'd hoped never to have to see. Father's disappointment hurt more than his strikes.

I can't tell you exactly how long it took for me to master carrying banryu, let alone being able to use any battle attacks, but Father was there through the whole thing. Even when he was away. I could hear his voice and see his face. Especially when I trained. And when I wasn't training? I knew I should be.

Every time Father came back I would show him my progress with banryu. He seemed thoroughly impressed each time, and never failed to praise my efforts. We never spoke of anything other than training, and more often than not he'd cuff me for being smart. But he was my father, and I still wasn't ready for it.

One day, when I was fifteen, Father didn't come back. None of his band did.

There was a tale coming from almost all around that they had been battling a large demon, and they couldn't overcome him. The horror story of the battle that followed was not passed down to me, even though I was an adult.

My mother had sunk into a deep depression. Some people thought she was possessed, and they wanted to kill her. I refused. I couldn't let them. But with Mother not moving from that shredded, bloody piece of cloth...

I know. I get it. It was all that was left of Father. She needed to cling to it, as sick as it was. The blood that stained it was his. And it was all she had left. The only thing keeping her from complete and utter heartbreak.

The question was, what was keeping me?

Perhaps it was because I didn't often speak to my father. That could've been it. Or maybe he wasn't all I had in the world, like Mother. Mother would often talk to him. As though he were still alive. Her senseless babble filled every night in my house. It permeated every meal we had together. She'd be talking to this man who wasn't there. A ghost. I think maybe the worst part was that I was there, and she didn't notice.

I was just waiting for Mother to come back to me.

Suddenly I was doing the praying before every meal. Suddenly I was alone in finding all of the food. All too quickly I was caring for us both, yet I still had my own mourning to do. Mother, however, wasn't functioning. I was all too busy trying to bring us the neccessities of life.

I never did properly mourn the loss of my father. Perhaps I should have. The man did teach me how to fight, after all.

Well. Now is not a time for regrets.

I suppose you could say my initial sorrow at Father's death, having never properly been released, could have led to the festering anger that grew inside of me as I progressed as a warrior. My fighting became even better as I imagined fighting the only person who'd ever led me to believe they'd be there, only to find out they wouldn't.

I'd pretend I was fighting my father. And, every time, I'd win.