His mother named him 一 In the bastardised tongue of Anguric, it would be written as ‘Hajime’. It meant ‘first’, and signified his status as the firstborn. It could also mean ‘one’, a fitting name for an only child. Hajime’s family name? 金子 Again, in Anguric, it would be written as ‘Kaneko’. It meant ‘golden child’ or ‘money child’ and for the better half of a century, his family lived up to the name. His father, whose name was Dai, was a businessman who always was clad in a black kimono with golden embroidery. Dai’s calloused fingers were often hidden by rings set with pristine jewels and his hair was neatly tied into a bun, held together by ornaments of expensive craftsmanship. Now, Dai never left his home without his cane, which he claimed was to help him walk. Nobody believed the man, of course. Dai appeared to be perfectly healthy. The gossips of Hajime’s hometown believed it was simply another show of wealth, as the cane, like his jewellery, was etched with gold and set with jewels. Hajime knew the truth about the matter. At a young age, he’d be instructed to wash the blood off his father’s sword. Sometimes Hajime would miss a speck or scratch the blade by accident, but that was resolved quickly with a blow to his head and an admonishment. Once that task was completed, his father would slide the sword back into his cane and nobody would know any better. His mother, unlike most in his hometown, never stepped outside the confines of their home. When Hajime was born, the war had just ended, and many people enjoyed their newfound freedom from martial law. Then there were those like his mother, who could not free herself from the horrors she had seen in warfare. As a result, she was happy to confine herself within the sprawling grounds of her family’s grand estate. Hajime grew up in affluence. Many envied his place. Many more watched the celebratory banquets of his birth from afar, their hunger replaced by numbness as they gradually drifted off into unending sleep. He had a fine education. Until he was about sixteen, he would spend ten hours every day being taught in what his father deemed ‘a basic education’. Hours were spent subjecting Hajime to copious amounts of reading and writing and not just in his native Hinohon. Through his years he had learnt Zhouwen, Ma’arafa, Sansu, and could even understand some Tamati’a. Never Anguric, though. Its reputation preceded itself, the language of barbarians, criminals, and thugs. It should never be spoken by anyone of his social standing. It was an irony that these past few years, he had barely spoken a lick of any other tongue but Anguric. For about two hours, Hajime practised swordsmanship. It was strenuous and often injury-ridden that, no matter how hard Hajime tried to like it, he despised. His mother would always tend to his wounds afterwards. ‘This reminds me of when I would be out patching up our soldiers in battle.’ she used to say, smiling softly. When he was young, it was comforting. Now, Hajime wondered if that smile was the same she would offer to her comrades before they died. Hajime would complain about the training, as any child would. His father always told him the same thing, ‘Your hard work will pay off one day.’, albeit not always kindly. If only his father could see him now, wielding what’s called a ‘flintlock’ in Anguric (‘a weapon for savages’ his father would call it). It was another irony that it was his father’s fault that Hajime could not wield a sword anymore. Hajime scoffed at himself, breaking his line of thought. It was banal to be thinking of his family on the cusp of death, as others in the cells beside him were probably doing the same. His execution was timed just after dawn and he had done nothing but sit around and reminisce about his past. Yet, all he had in this miserable cell was a pile of rotting food, heavy shackles on his feet, and a small, barred window for air. What else could he do but think? With a sigh, Hajime turned to the window. It looked over the sea, where the moon caressed the waves and illuminated them in silver. The sea was not usually this calm, and especially not here on the northern coast of Hinode. This was the farthest north his father ever permitted him to travel, as what awaited beyond were rough, murderous oceans and the desolate home of the barbaric and warmongering. Not even someone like Hajime could navigate those waters. The lands above Hinode’s northern waters were what his mother often called the home of the fair. Anguric was their primary language, fitting for their barbaric and murderous natures. Hajime never found out why the people of the far north were called ‘the fair’, as all the tales he’d heard of them claimed the opposite. Eventually, he would come to learn that not all things had to have reason. There was no use dwelling on the idea, such as there is no use dwelling on why the sun moves across the sky, it just does, or why the usually turbulent northern sea is eerily still, as it just is. The moon dipped faintly over the horizon and shone through the bars of his cell’s window. The rays of moonlight rested softly on his figure and for the first time since his capture, Hajime could see his marred and broken self. The messy bandages on his right arm were speckled with dark stains, his body littered with scars, and the shackles on his feet were chafing bloody. As for his left arm, it was absent since the day he had lost it. Hajime remembered that day very clearly; so did the stump that used to be his limb. Now and again, it would shudder and ache as if still connected. Everything Hajime tried to stop the pain was ineffectual. Those days he would curl up on a bed in an inn, paid for by the last of whatever money he had managed to scrounge, and fight back the tears as he tried to sleep through the misery. The days after every episode marked by no food nor clean water. The day he had lost his limb was a bleak reminder. A reminder that Hajime was unnatural and that those of his kind were never welcome in Hinode. Some were tortured, some were rendered useless, (like Hajime) and the lucky some were killed. People like Hajime were the scapegoats of his country, blamed for all misfortune and unable to fight back. There were other kingdoms, further south who tolerated and even celebrated those of his kind but venturing there was a long journey that he could not fund. Hajime was fated to stay here, in hostile country with an emperor who despised those with 芸 (in Anguric, ‘ the craft ’ or ‘ the art ’). Hajime suspected, as many others did, that the emperor was bitter as he could not wield the craft himself. So, Hajime sat there and watched the moon reflect off the sea. There was a cruel but amusing story of a girl who wielded the craft of flame. When her village tried to burn her upon the discovery of her abilities, she turned the fire onto them. In her grief and anger, she burned everybody in the village alive, including herself. Hajime wished he could have done that, yet his craft only allowed him to harness water. Hajime had known since childhood that he had it and he had known from the hushed tones in which people would discuss the craft that he would be better off hiding it. Stupidly so, Hajime longed to use it, like all the others who had the craft did. In his case, it was like the sea begged and yearned for his touch that he could not help but give in. Give in, Hajime did, but always in secret, learning how to bend the water to his will for years under the cover of dusk. In that time, he discovered that water had its own spirit. A spirit that desired nothing but to be free. An old sailor’s adage said that to traverse the waters was like training a ravenlark, you could not tame it but only work around it. Hajime found this useful to his craft as he learned how to work with the tides, redirect the undertow, and coax the gently lapping waves to follow his direction. After gruelling work, there was a time he could make statues of ice by raising water into freezing, winter air. Similar to his swordsmanship, his training was rendered almost useless when he lost his left arm. His father had found him on a pebbled beach, at Hajime’s usual hour of practice. He had forgotten an important dinner with yet another bride whom Hajime has absolutely no interest in meeting. His father called. Hajime did not know how else to remember it. It was neither a scream nor a yell, it was simply a call that masked simmering rage. It sounded as if even speaking Hajime’s name left a bitter taste in his father’s mouth like it was a name he didn’t recognise anymore. Hajime did not know how much his father had seen, but he knew that his hands moving in time with the water was enough. Enough for his father to have hacked his left arm off. Three sloppy and unmerciful slices left Hajime on his knees, yelling for the divine. Hajime later realised that all his father needed to cut through was one. It was a conscious choice, to use three. His father had meant it to hurt. A rumble of thunder broke Hajime’s line of thought, alongside a thump from the wall behind him. “You’re a crafty one, aren’t you?” came a muffled voice. The walls must be thin, Hajime noted. The voice was feminine and spoke in Hinode. It was raspy too as if the woman on the other side had not had water for days. “Are you going to answer me?” asked the voice. “What does that matter to you?” Hajime replied gruffly. He would usually not make a habit of talking to anyone he deemed unnecessary, but his death was scheduled in only a few hours. He could care less about his lofty standards. Now was not a time for empty and insincere expressions. “Maybe I’m a crafty one too,” replied the voice. “You were talking to yourself, I heard bits and pieces,” Hajime remained quiet, cursing himself silently for talking aloud. It was a fact that the woman had heard enough that she felt the need to speak. He wondered exactly what she had heard. “You’ve been through quite a life,” said the voice. “I appreciate your concern,” Hajime began. “But I do not—” “Who ever said I was concerned for you ?” replied the voice with a sigh. “I should probably cut the pretences. I am interested in escaping. You seem like exactly the person to help,” Hajime was taken aback, although he did not expect any more from someone who was chained to a wall in the cell next to his. “I gave up on escaping a long time ago,” Hajime said simply. “If you are a crafty woman, you would know the world outside this cell does not take kindly to us. I have nowhere to go nor anywhere to hide,” “That is quite simply a lie,” replied the voice. “You know as well as I that Hinode is a minority, although a powerful one at that. There are other nations,” “I have no funds for a trip,” “Then go there yourself!” “I do not have a ship either,” Hajime spat. This woman did not know the lengths he had gone to, the trials he had suffered for even a chance at a ship to Ma’arafa, where he would at least be tolerated “But you can sail?” asked the voice, intrigued. “Of course, I can sail.” Hajime rolled his eyes. “I was raised by a nobleman, as I’m sure you would know from your eavesdropping,” “Then we steal a ship?” “I pride myself upon never stooping to the level of criminals,” The voice laughed. It was a hearty laugh, tinged with desperation and disbelief. “You are already at the level of criminals; in some towns, you are even below! To them we are demonic! Inhuman!” The voice stated angrily. “These people will not see you differently because you refuse to steal a ship, they already see you differently because you are a cripple and you have the craft ,” “I have not traded the last of my reputation for ‘the craft’ .” Hajime’s eyes stung welled with warm tears. Suddenly, he was harshly aware of his predicament. “Then you are a fool,” said the voice with finality. Hajime let his tears fall to the floor. A little over an hour passed before they spoke again. Strangely, it was Hajime who started the conversation. The sound of thunder grew more frequent, and the horizon could not be seen from his window through the heavy fall of rain. “I can attempt to do something about the storm,” “You’re going to have to be more specific about that,” clarified the voice, and although Hajime could not see her face, he could hear a sliver of eagerness. “Lightning,” Hajime stated. “I can try and strike it in the heart of the jail,” “I can work with that,” “It’s going to be difficult and if fire spreads, I will not be able to move, it would take a toll on my body,” “I will not leave you alone.” “What are you going to do?” The voice paused before responding. “You have heard of Qi from Shenzhou? Or what the ‘fair’ call Aether?” “Stories, yes,” “They are all one and the same, it was what ancient alchemists called ‘energy’. It is why lightning strikes and why fire burns. I can amplify its effects,” “Preposterous,” Hajime said incredulously. “That is the realm of the Divine,” “So is the sea? Is it not? As are the storms that rage above us,” replied the voice patiently. “We call everything we do not understand ‘divine’ to fill the gaps in our knowledge. This is why we are different, Hajime. We understand why these things work, we threaten the idea of the people’s divine,” Hajime hated that idea. It rocked him to his very core, but he could not disagree. “I despise that thought,” said Hajime simply. “My very existence convinces them that I am a threat. It fosters their hearts with hate and yet I do not wish to usurp the divine. I do not believe any man could ever,” “Neither do I.” The voice sounded despondent. “Yet hate is often unreasonable, and its seeds are ingrained in Hinode’s antiquity. We have to bear the effort of reaping what history has sown,” Hajime stayed quiet once again. “I believe in your craft,” “Good,” “When the eye of the storm has passed us, I will call down the lightning,” “And I will spread the fire. The jail’s guards do not care for their prisoners, they will leave us here to burn. That is when we escape,” Hajime looked outside his window, hoping that this would be the final time he saw this view. “Then we steal a ship?” “Correct,” For the first time in several days, Hajime felt hope. It was real hope. Not the yearning, dissonant hope that would never come, but a hope that was tangible. “You’ve never told me your name,” said the voice. In those few words, Hajime could hear the same hope. “Hajime, Kaneko Hajime,” “Yue,” replied the voice. “My name is Yue. Now rest your body Hajime. Be ready to strike. I will remove your chains when the time comes,” “So you are concerned for me?” Hajime said through a smirk, something he had not done for a long time. “Perhaps,” said the voice. Hajime could hear her smile through her words. “But I concern myself with everybody. It is that compassion that reminds me that I am still human,” “Oh,” said Hajime softly. “Yet I assume alike myself, you have been the brunt of the ordinary’s unkindness,” “Of course.” Hajime could hear the clatter of chains through the wall. “But I am not any less than them,” said the voice. “In fact, greeting insults and jeers with a kind smile makes me feel even more human than they are,” “How noble of you.” Hajime meant it, somewhat. Though, he could not imagine himself doing the same. Whatever awfulness anyone mouthed at him, he would only spit back. Kindness was a privilege he could not afford. The words of his old instructor echoed in his head and alongside came another memory. “You must not be reckless with your weapon, Hajime,” said his instructor, the blade of her sword held against his neck. She was middle-aged, with her hair often tied up in a bun so it would not get in the way, just as Hajime’s own was. “You must not spend more effort than your opponent. There is no time for flair nor ostentatious showmanship. Remind yourself of this, it will keep you alive,” Ironically, the advice did keep him alive, but not because of his swordsmanship. ~ Their escape was marked by the sharp, rattling cacophony of dozens of chains. “What are you doing?” Hajime asked in a daze. His remaining arm was slung over Yue’s shoulder, gasping for air as smoke filled the musty halls of the prison. Yue had her palm laid flat against the wall and her eyes were tightly shut. The harsh rattling continued, punctuated by Yue’s own shallow breaths. “I am not leaving people here to die,” Yue replied, opening her eyes. “I have left none shackled,” Hajime looked at her incredulously. He had misjudged the strength of her craft. “Are we not to help them escape?” “We already have,” she said with finality. “What our fellow prisoners choose to do with the fire you started and the chains I’ve broken is up to them,” “And if some die?” “Then may their journey to Diyu be blessed with safety,” “ Diyu?” said Hajime bemused. “You’re not Hinojin?” “ Half -Hinojin, on my father’s side,” Yue replied. “But I resided with my mother in Shenzhou for most of my life. We always treated divinity with far less distaste than here in Hinode,” “I see,” Without another word, Yue led them through the daze of smoke and heat. The storm above them provided some respite, battering the flames just enough so it would not overwhelm the prison. The yelling of the prison’s guards filled the air, hollering their colleagues to run. They cared not for the wellbeing of the imprisoned, only for themselves. Wooden barred windows opened from the left into the prison’s central courtyard, where a frenzy of guards and escapees were running amok. “Right!” Yue veered them close to the wall as burning debris from a watchtower smashed into the corridor, blasting a hole into the wood and brick. With a flick of her wrist, the fire recoiled away from them, burning its path instead back into the courtyard. “Keep going! The end of this hall opens up into the pier,” Yue said with urgency, hauling Hajime’s arm off of her shoulders. “What about you? “I’ll remain close behind! Just get out into the open air or the smoke will kill us before the fire does!” With gritted teeth, Hajime barreled forward without looking back. His knees trembled, but the steady trail of footsteps behind him gave him solace that Yue was following suit. Each second felt like an eternity as smoke settled within the corridor. He hacked and coughed and yet he could barely hear himself over the growing roar of the flames and the screams that echoed freely through the narrow walls.