'Sword Masters' Series - All Liturgies

“To train with the sword, first master sweeping.

When you have mastered sweeping, you must master the way of drawing water. Once you have learned how to draw water, you must split wood. Once you have split wood, you must learn the arts of finding the fine herbs in the forest, the arts of writing, the arts of paper making, and poetry writing. You must become familiar with the awl and the pen in equal measure. When you have mastered all these things you must master building a house.

Once your house is built, you have no further need for a sword, since it is an ugly piece of metal and its adherents idiots.”

– Meti’s Sword Manual

“A brain is useful only up until the point when you are faced with your enemy. Then it is useless. The only truly useful thing in this cursed world is will. You must suffuse your worthless body with its terrible heat. You must be so hot that even if your enemy should strike your head off, you shall continue to decapitate ten more men. Your boiling blood must spring forth from your neck and mutilate the survivors!”

-Meti’s sword manual

Meti’s Sword Manual

Argument

1. Glory to the Divine Corpse, o breaker of infinities

2. I am Meti, of no house but myself. In my 108th year I am surrounded by fools. My compatriots cling obsessively to their destiny, and my only apprentice is an idiot speck of a girl with more talent for eating than skill with the blade. Therefore I have decided to die drowning in the boiling gore of my enemies, of which there are many.

3. My master was the greatest lord general to the king Au Vam, Ryo-ten-Ryam, who first coaxed me into learning the ways of turning men into ghosts. As his interest quickly turned to the wholly uninteresting and most useless parts of my body, I returned the favor and relieved him of his.

4. It is my personal opinion the straight sword is best if you can obtain one, but I also favor the sabre. The spear, stave, or club are peasant’s weapons of which I am wholly unfamiliar and so will not speak on them.

5. Upon meeting me, you might find that my appearance is quite dreadful and unkempt. I have been spat upon by priest, king, and merchant alike. I have no retainers, and possess nothing except a straight sword six hand spans (5 and a half kret) long (this is the proper length). This is because I am Royalty and the undisputed master of the principal art of Cutting. I will fight naked with ten-thousand men.

6. From the age of thirteen I practiced every day with the straight sword. I followed a strict vegetarian regimen, and harsh training of barefoot sprints (five) between cities, squats and breathing exercises (two bells), and sword drills and resistance training (three bells).

7. By the age of sixteen, my body was a steel edifice. I was so often mistaken for a man I began to wear my hair long with no pins and unbind my breasts. I could break stone with my hands with no effort, I could sprint between the Yellow City and the Lunar dominions in a day or less and barely strain my breath. My mastery of the sword complete, I enlisted in the Middle Army’s third legion, where I was widely respected as a swordswoman of incredible power.

8. When it came time to face my first real opponent, the Colossus of Pardos, in my youthful pride and immense skill, I brought all my training and mastery to bear. Scarcely half a day passed before my sword was shattered into thirty pieces, my right leg was almost torn from its socket, and my honed body was broken pathetically in a hundred and forty places. I defeated him by gouging his brains out through his breathing valves. My thumbs, in this case, proved far more useful.

9. At that moment, with my thumbs in his brains, I had a revelation. I had trained far too broadly. Existence and the act of combat are absolutely no different, and the essence of both, the purity of both, is a singular action, which is Cutting Down Your Opponent. You must resolve to train this action. You must become this action. Truly, there is very little else that will serve you as well in this entire cursed world.

10. I hope that by reading this manual, you will be thoroughly encouraged to become a farmer.

Meti’s Sword Manual

Mastering the sword

1. YISUN’s glory is great, and you may know this by two paths, the sanctioned words, and the sanctioned action

2. The sanctioned words are YS ATN VARAMA PRESH. The meaning of these words is YISUN and their attainment is Royalty.

3. The sanctioned action is to Cut.

4. To Cut means division by the blade of Want, that parer of potentials that excises infinities.

5. To train with the sword, first master sweeping. When you have mastered sweeping, you must master the way of drawing water. Once you have learned how to draw water, you must split wood. Once you have split wood, you must learn the arts of finding the fine herbs in the forest, the arts of writing, the arts of paper making, and poetry writing. You must become familiar with the awl and the pen in equal measure. When you have mastered all these things you must master building a house. Once your house is built, you have no further need for a sword, since it is an ugly piece of metal and its adherents idiots.

The 18 Precepts

1. Consider: there is no such thing as a sword.

2. Your stance must be wide. You must not be spare with the fluidity of your wrists or shoulders. You must have grip on the handle that is loose and unstrained. I heard it said you must be tender with your sword grip, as though with a lover. This is patently false. A sword is not your lover. It is a hideous tool for separating men from their vital fluids.

3. Going onwards, you must adjust hands as needed, do not keep the blade close to your body, keep your breathing steady. This is the life cut. You must watch your footwork. Your feet must be controlled whether planted on fire, air, water, or earth in equal measure.

4. Breathing is very important! Is the violent breath of life in you not hot? Exhale! Exult!

5. You must strive for attachment-non-attachment when cutting. Your cut must be sticky and resolute. A weak, listless cut is a despicable thing. But you must also not cling to your action, or its result. Clinging is the great error of men. A man who strikes without thought of his action can cut God.

6. To cut properly, you must continually self-annihilate when cutting. Your hand must become a hand that is cutting, your body a body that is cutting, your mind, a mind that is cutting. You must instantaneously destroy your fake pre-present self. It is a useless hanger on.

7. A brain is useful only up until the point when you are faced with your enemy. Then it is useless. The only truly useful thing in this cursed world is will. You must suffuse your worthless body with its terrible heat. You must be so hot that even if your enemy should strike your head off, you shall continue to decapitate ten more men. Your boiling blood must spring forth from your neck and mutilate the survivors!

8. You must never make ‘multiple’ cuts. Each must be singular in its beauty, no matter how many precede it. You must make your enemies weep with admiration, and likewise should your head be shorn off by such an object of beauty, you must do your best to shed tears of respect.

9. When decapitating an enemy, it is severe impoliteness to use more than one blow.

Meti’s Sword Manual

The 18 Precepts

10. A man who finds pleasure in the result of cutting is the most hateful, crawling creature there is. A man who finds pleasure in the act of cutting is an artisan.

11. Man always strives to cut man. Therefore he who draws his sword the fastest is the survivor. To pre-empt this, you must live, eat, and shit as a person who has their sword drawn. It doesn’t matter whether your blade, in actuality, is always out of its sheathe, though you will look like an idiot if it is.

12. Consider: The undefeated swordsman must be exceptionally poor.

13. The weak swordsman reserves his sword strokes. He clings excessively to his blade. His footwork is unsteady. His grip is too hard and he is afraid to crack the earth with his step. He has a shallow and wandering gaze, his tongue is sluggish and pale. He refuses to exhale the hot breath of the Flame Immortal.

14. The weak swordsman clings to victory. He thinks of his life, his obligations, the outcome of the battle, his hatred for his opponent, his training, his pride in his mastery. By doing so, he is an imperfect vessel for the terrible fires of Will. He will surely crack. He will not laugh uproariously if he is cleft in two by his opponent’s blade. When his sword is shattered, his hands will be too reserved to tear his enemies’ flesh.

15. The weak swordsman strikes his enemy down and thinks his task done. He relishes in victory. He casts away his sword and returns to his lover. Little does he know his single cut will encircle the world five times and strike him down fifty-fold.

16. The weak swordsman clings to his instrument. It is better you have a sword, but death must lie under your fingernails, if need be. Learn death with your elbows, death with your knees, and death with your thumbs and fingertips. It is said death with the tongue is useful, but I find words too soft an instrument to smash a man’s skull.

17. In manners of terrain, you must learn to cut yourself from it. You must cut even your footprints from it, if need be. Have complete awareness of each crawling thing and each precious flower, each blade of sweet grass and each clod of bitter earth, each beating heart and each being that thrums with love, hope, and admiration. Only then are you qualified to be their annihilator.

18. Excess heat and excess coldness are undesirable. Learn to read the weather.

Closing

1. It is said the greatest warrior-kings may sublime violence and forget all they learn about the sword. This is true. But the only true path to kingship lies through regicide.
2. Moreover, only the worst kind of idiot strives to be king.
3. My extreme hope is that some measure of wisdom will penetrate the thick skull of my apprentice. If not, may reading this manual demonstrate your powerful disinterest in it, and may its true value die with me.
4. Reach heaven by violence.

“My apprentice asked me why I prefer the company of dogs to men. I told her that a man is an kind of intolerable monkey who clings obsessively to his own fate. To subvert his mortality, he inflicts death and unfathomable torture upon the world. My apprentice told me that I was being a little severe, and asked me about dogs.

I told her that dogs keep my feet warm, and they care very little how badly I insult them. In this respect, they are also better than apprentices.”

– Meti, of the Yellow City

‘On the topic of dogs, a passing priest once pressed me quite fervently on the subject of my own mortality. He was very concerned about preserving the nature of my immortal essence. “Grandson,” said I, “I am old and my bones are sopping with death already. Why should I care?” He went on to describe in great detail the rituals that could be undertaken to guard one’s soul against degradation and ensure smooth passage to the next realm.

“Do you perform these rites every day?” I asked him, trying to humor him. “Of course, auntie,” said the priest, “Every morning before I wake fully I perform my rites, then four more times a day before rest. It keeps me in good health and spirits, knowing that my death will be a golden door to paradise.”

“Four times a day?” I said, incredulous. “Of course,” said the priest, “Don’t you think about dying, auntie? You should be worried, at your age.”

“Do you think about dying?” I asked him. “How about before sleep?”

“Yes,” he said, seeing that I was clearly straining his good nature. “How about when you bathe?” I asked him. He thought a moment. “Well, sometimes,” he replied. “How about when you shit?” I said. “Never,” he said brusquely.

“Not even once?”

“Well maybe once, but I don’t see the point! Who knows?” he said, clearly seeking to draw away from me and peddle his wares onto more the more gullible trash that populated the gutter. “A dog has more sense than you,” I said to him, and thumbed at a lazy mutt that was picking through the market. “He doesn’t think of death at all. Not when he sleeps, not when he bathes, and certainly not when he shits.”

“And I supposed there’s a point,” said the priest.

“You and he will both die,” I pointed out to him. “The four great elements of your bodies will collapse one into the other and you will both become no more substantial than a fart.” I should mention at this time in my life I had very little patience for rhetoric.

The priest spat on me later. I didn’t mind.’

-Meti, of the Yellow City

“Here is my sword,” said Intra. “Your semiotics cannot contain it. Its blade is made of gloaming steel, look how it whispers!”

“But Lord Intra,” said the assembled, “You have no sword!”

“So it is,” said Intra.

-Psalms

“A man who strikes without thought can cut God.”

-Meti’s Sword Manual

“The air is full of the plaintive cries of fools struggling pitifully to bend the arc of their own destruction. Thus it has always been.”

-Ryo ten Ryam, Swordmaster

Lord Intra gathered his retainers, who were hungry for tutelage. “Lord Intra!” said his sandal bearer, “What is the first step on the path to Royalty?”

“There are no steps,” replied Intra, “It is zero-sum with your reality. It is not measured in finger-lengths.”

“Lord Intra,” said his bodyguard, “Is the path to Royalty the path of struggle, then?”

“No,” said Intra, “One may attain it without any effort at all. It is, in fact, the antithesis of struggle.”

Intra’s steward was very discontent with his master’s evasiveness. “Lord,” he said, “Allow us lowly men some small measure of understanding. For sympathy’s sake, and the sake of we good and loyal servants, please tell us in plain language the nature of Royalty.”

“I will tell you precisely what Royalty is,” said Intra, “It is a continuous cutting motion.”

-The Song of Maybe

“Lord Intra,” said Intra’s sparring partner one day, “You are called Lord of Swords. Yet you are a man, and men make poor swordsmen.”

“It is true,” said Intra, for nearly all of the famous sword masters of the day were women and the ya-at, who were three sexed. This tradition was rather long in the bones, and rumored to have been started by a famous vagrant who rarely cut her hair and lived in a barrel. There was popular theater about it, in those days.

“Men are too preoccupied with their swords,” said Lord Intra, “They get distracted.”

“You mistake my meaning,” said Intra’s sparring partner, “What I mean is this: you are a mere man. What can you do to the new gods of the Red City, with their whips of fire and their heavy chariot wheels?”

“I am not concerned with enmity,” said Intra, “I am very skilled in Pankrash Circle Fighting”

“It is true you are very fierce,” conceded his partner, “But my son’s fighting beetle is also very fierce. Could his beetle fell a lion?”

“That depends,” said Intra, “How skilled is the beetle in Pankrash Circle Fighting?”

“Beetles cannot learn Pankrash Circle Fighting, Lord Intra,” said Intra’s attendant, and made a bitter motion.

“Don’t tell the beetle that,” said Intra, who was very skilled at smiling. “If you don’t tell him he will learn it anyway and cut the lion in half with a single blow.”

-The Song of Maybe

“A beggar I passed in the market once remarked to me that if the gods’ brows were wreathed in starfire, their heads must get awfully hot,” said Lord Intra to his sparring partner.

“What a strange remark,” said his partner, “How does one respond to that?”

“I told him he was right,” said Intra.

– The Song of Maybe

“Here is the first rule of Sword Law: a sword is a tool for splitting men. It doesn’t matter what your intentions are, whenever you swing it, it will do what it was made for. Take that law and put it in the secret nook next to your heart, my student. It will serve you well.”

-Ryo ten Ryam

“Here is the second rule of sword law: a sword is not subtle. It is a naked instrument, hungry for blood. When you grasp its handle, treat it as you would a deadly viper.”

-Ryo ten Ryam

“A true king of swords knows not only how to cut, but the value of each cut. Without weighing his blade carefully, he will soon find it carving away his own flesh.”

-Intra, sword god

“Yemmod, storm-crowned, came to Lam, the Blue City
His men were like flies upon the earth and over the earth. They set upon the land a terrible blaze. The heat of the flames consumed the land about and licked the tops of the great walls around the city, and there was much wailing.

Yemmod said, “For every man of age to fight, hack off his right hand,” and it was done. “And his sons too,” and it was done. Then the hands were set in a pile, like pale driftwood, and the people could see his cruelty. The shrine of the Goddess was burned and its idols defiled and smeared with filth and excrement. The angels of the shrine were driven back and abandoned their sanctuaries.

An angel came to Umman Ap, who was king of that place. “See the defiler Yemmod,” said the angel. “He stacks the bodies of the people of this city like the autumn harvest. He provokes your power. Ride forth and drive him from this holy place.”

“I cannot harm Yemmod,” said Umman, blue-eyed. “He has consumed the hearts of many of my kin and is swollen with their star magic.” This was true, but the angel was enraged nevertheless. His kind lashed together steeds of fire and clay and abandoned the city to its fate. Umman had expected this. He gathered the remaining people inside the walls of the Blue City, which had never been breached.

The others were on fire, for it was a time of war. The yellow city had recently been consumed by great gales and fell into the void. This was the way of things.

At last Yemmod rode to the gates of Lam. He had a spear three times the length of a man and its point could burst through shields like matchwood. It never missed its mark. It was called Amija, or heart-piercer.

Yemmod said “Open the gates, and grant me passage.” But the gates did not open.

“Open the gates, lest I make the dead to outnumber the living.” But the gates did not grant him passage.

Yemmod called for star fire and smote the gates with one blow into ten thousand pieces. This was the way of things.

There was one way the city could be saved, so Umman sent for him. The sword-saint Intra was there. But when the men of the Blue City found him, he was very drunk.”

– The Song of Maybe

Once, the great king Aurochs was gifted a prize gladiator. This warrior was a three-sexed Ya-at slave monk. It was mute, and the impurities of its flesh had been seared away as part of its training. The Ya-at were incredible fighters, and this one was no exception. Over the next few turns it won nearly every bout and won the king an enormous amount of fame and glory. The king ordered a private garden built for his prize fighter, and attendants to oil its sore flesh, and it was given every luxury afforded to it, most of which it refused, for it craved only challenge.

Word got out that the king had an invincible fighter, and soon three infamous wandering mercenaries arrived at his door to test their mettle. The first was Five Mountains Gale, who wore a beautifully embroidered jera, a fine silk vela, and a legendary sword at her waist. Her face had been burned hideously by a duel with a sorcerer. It appeared puckered and shiny under the best light, though she was said to be quite beautiful before, and nobody dared comment on her disfigured visage. The second was Yerrid, who was a western dragon. His mouthblades were pitted with the scars of battle, and his hide was thicker than any armor forged by man. He was a member of the Red Dogs Legion, who were infamous rogues and despoilers. They mummified the hands of their enemies and took them as tokens.

The third and last was an unusual fellow, a minor nobleman from the countryside said to have taken up the sword after starving himself and meditating under a plum tree for a week and a day. His finery was disheveled, his sword was rather poorly made, and his long dark hair was held up in crooked and bent pins. He had no reputation, nobody thought very much of him, and it was obvious that he would quickly lose.

Gale squared off against the slave monk first. Her beautiful robe accentuated her lithe form and powerful step. Her sword was called Circle the Moon Thrice. When drawn, it gave off a sound like shivering glass. It had hacked five hundred bandits into pieces just the week before and was thirsty for blood. Gale’s technique was called Flying Snow. She could step on air as well as land, and cut a fly in twain with a flick of her wrist.

For all her arts, however, she could not break the defense of the slave monk. For every movement she made, the monk was faster to react. For every shivering blow she laid upon the monk, it could take it and deal more. She threw her blade aside and submitted before thirty blows had been struck.

Next, Yerrid strode into the arena. It was clear to observers that he would not submit as easily. His scarred, bestial form was corded with thick muscle, and his mandibles were shaved down in the manner of vagabonds and mercenaries of terrible repute. He tore into the monk with incredible violence. His technique was Red Dog Boxing. Every blow he took upon his stony hide, he turned into a counterattack, redoubling his attacker’s strength. He fought like a wild animal, throwing caution to the wind, and absorbing tremendous amounts of violence.

Where Gale had folded after thirty blows, he took a hundred. But it still was not enough. The defense of the Ya-at was too strong, and it tired too slowly. Eventually, Yerrid collapsed of exhaustion, and was dragged out of the fighting pit stone cold unconscious.

Finally, the last man strode into the arena. The crowd leaned in, eager to see him dismembered or worse by the Ya-at warrior, who scarcely had suffered a scratch and was oiled and offered refreshments by its house slaves.

The two warriors squared off, the young nobleman dwarfed by his opponent, and the bell was rung. The nobleman then did a very strange thing. He threw out a single sword stroke that was so artless, so completely lacking in skill, that a child might have made it. It was like a village idiot absentmindedly hurling a stick into a muddy pond. The Ya-at warrior was so shocked and offended by the young nobleman’s complete and utter lack of skill and technique that the hulking warrior was caught by surprise and decapitated in one blow.

The crowd was taken aback and instantly sprung up in confusion, disarray, and rage, for surely the young man must have cheated. The king descended from his gilded palanquin and quieted the crowd, addressing the young man directly.

“What trickery did you use to defeat my warrior?” demanded the king, at this point sputtering with disbelief himself. “No trickery,” said the young man, who was absentmindedly toeing the ya-at’s corpse.

“Then what technique? What sword art did you learn to make such a blow?” said the king.

“My technique is no technique,” said the young man. “My art is no art. It was an idiot’s blow.”

“Ten thousand warriors have failed to defeat my gladiator,” said the king, gaping. “Trained in ten thousand fighting arts from across the Wheel. How could an artless fool have defeated my prize slave?” The young man scratched his chin. “Well, not anyone can use my lack of technique. No ordinary fool could make that blow,” he replied “only one extremely dedicated to foolishness.”

It was immediately apparent to the king that this young man was extraordinarily powerful.

He mentioned as much.

“Powerful men, my lord, must by nature be exceptionally good fools,” said the young man.

“What do you want?” said the king, breaking out in a sweat.

“A drink will suffice,” said the young man.

“What is your name?” said the High King Aurochs, of the Southern Realms.

“My name is Intra,” said Intra, “I am the king of swords.”

” EMPTY PALMS

An internal, cold-atum style said to be as ancient as the gods themselves. It is said the god Ovis taught it to the first angels, who taught it to the first human, Metia. The style involves miraculous alignment of the body’s meridians to multiply the muscular power and striking force of bare handed strikes tenfold. Since the style relies heavily on the cultivation of internal force, its external strikes may seem unassuming to the untrained eye until they hit their target with the force of an ox cart.

It is said masters of this style can so precisely align the channels of power within their body that they can project the force of their blows at range, sometimes up to thirty or forty paces away. One old master of this style, who dwells in Fifteen Rivers, makes a great show to visitors of striking a heavy cast iron bell some 5 or 6 shins high with great blows from his fists, though he stands apart from the bell quite some distance.

A practitioner of this style must take tremendous pains to use it effectively. The style was originally developed for battling and destroying various titanic void monsters and unbound devils, and is rather difficult for humans to learn. A student must train rigorously, keep a strict diet, and maintain fine bodily control in order to effectively utilize its techniques. Therefore, it has always been an unpopular school, seen as somewhat old fashioned. None, however, deny the power of its techniques, which include YISUN’s Open Palm, widely regarded as an unbeatable move.”

– Manual of Hands and Feet

There is only one way to be a pure master of sword law. This is to allow your body to become absolutely soaked with death.

Death is always in the body at all times, but happier people are able to let it live only in their skin, or on the surface of their eyelids. They may easily wash it off from time to time and carry on with their lives.

When I tell my students to shave their heads, partly it is so they cannot rid themselves of death so easily. Those who do not bathe in death regularly will forget it is there, and that is a very stupid thing to do when swords are involved.

– Meti Ten Ryo

“When studying sword law, many of my students ask me about the principle of hesitation. I tell them plainly that hesitation is defeat. Thought is slower than the edge of a blade and does not cut half as well.

‘Master,’ they then ask me, ‘What if victory is impossible?’

The answer to this very simple question is this: flee, or go to your just and honest death. Either is a good choice. The worst of all is the man who agonizes for half a breath over the value of his own life and dies an indecisive coward.”

– Ryo-ten-Ryam

“The touch of a sword handle is the deadliest poison known to man. It settles in, deeper than the bone, instantaneously. It is a deep curse that can never be lifted and will last you the rest of your days.”

– Ryo-ten-Ryam

“When Metia, the first human, crawled from the ash of Koss’ hearth, misbegotten as she was, she was so small, defenseless, and naked that the gods that found her took pity on her. Examining her closely, they found to their amazement that she bore the gift called Death and therefore was able to die, the first truly mortal being on the Wheel. This discovery would later yield great understanding among the gods and lead eventually to their self annihilation, but that is a story for another time. At the moment, they were astounded that a being so weak could exist at all, and therefore lavished her with many secret fires and gifts, so concerned they were with her safety. They first taught her the means of language, and finding secret things, and of making fire and finding food. But it was not long after that they resolved to teach her to defend herself.”

– Eight Hundred Manual

“Ogam was the first to teach Metia the ways of violence.

‘Make a fist,’ he said, showing her how, ‘And marry it with your enemy’s jaw.’

-Psalms

“What if my enemy should harm me?” asked Metia of Ogam.

“Harm him first,” said Ogam, “Or else, have a very thick skull.”

– Psalms

KRAYU MAT

“I made several feeble attempts to learn this art, but was rebuffed in my efforts by its very nature. It is, by my best attempts at researching its origins, the oldest martial art in existence. The human Metia was said to have been taught many martial arts by the gods upon her birth from Koss’ hearth, but the angels say Krayu Mat is older. It was (purportedly) taught to them by a god whose name has been forgotten. Today it is exclusively practiced by angels, who regard its practice as highly archaic. All angels know it, having learned it at some point during their repeated reincarnations, but it is extremely rare and unusual to observe it in practice, for the simple and plain reason that its origins are in the primal killing movements of angels in their ancient forms, whose foes at the time were enormous unbound devils, beings of myth, and lesser gods.

Each of my inquiries with the Concordant Knights led to exactly the same conclusion, which they explained to me with great patience and kindness: it was impossible for me, a being with a weak soul flame, to practice Krayu Mat, as it would tear my flesh in ten thousand places and utterly annihilate my physical body. ”

-Manual of Hands and Feet

“In that moment, Metia discovered that the weight of a god was slightly less than that of an empty welk shell.

She hurled her opponent ten leagues with the flick of her finger, and that was that.”

-Psalms

“Remember, oh student, this above all other laws: the grip of a sword is suffused with a deep and powerful poison that rots to the bone. It can never be rid of once touched, no matter how much you wish otherwise.

The sword does not kill. The hand kills. The hand is the most beautiful part of a human being, and is capable of nearly infinitely other things than parting men from their ghosts. Once you touch the sword, a terrible tragedy will occur, and your hand will slowly lose this ability. Over time, it will cease to be a hand, and become a sword.”

Ryo-ten-Ryam

“A swordsman is at his most natural state when he thinks of nothing at all. Thoughtlessness is the natural state of things, and thinking is probably the biggest mistake of amateurs. By completely disavowing use of that pesky organ in your skull all that is left is the hard and old nerves in the body that think about deep and consequential things such as survival. They know exactly what to do, and they are smarter than you. You become a completely naturalistic and comfortable animal, who’s only motivation is the killing impulse.

To give you an example, I once spent the better part of a summer afternoon killing thirty five men from the Kagen Amat school who had been sent to execute me, returned home, and I had made most of supper before I came back to myself. I remember the incident poorly but several of the men were almost certainly master swordsmen who had studied the blade for most of their lives, and I unfortunately was still an idiot at that time and had taken no weapon with me. I ended up using a piece of driftwood I picked out of the surf. It was quite pleasant and not difficult at all.

Some people think my story an exaggeration and that I had a hidden blade on me or had used perfidious tricks such as poison or several of my friends hidden in ambush. I tell you no such thing is true. I started my afternoon out taking a shit on the beach and I ended up decapitating fifteen men. I had clams for dinner.”

– Meti ten Ryo

“Once, Lord Intra came to the Vale of Stalks. It was a broad land with a hardy and beautiful people that wove stems of grass into elaborate mats. There were frequent harvest songs and offerings to the God of Pigs.

Unfortunately, at the time, the people were starving. The land was ruled by Yem Yeddo and his family, who had sucked the life out of it for some time. That was the way of things in those days. Though the soil was quite fertile, Yem Yeddo had surrounded himself with thickset and well-fed men, who lacked in brains but made up for it in muscle and the same kind of canniness found in very smart dogs. These men he used as tax collectors, and he drained the land of every third, fourth, and fifth bale of crop, and sold it for crude coin, feeding the scraps to his thugs.

Lord Intra arrived at the local way house and was served black bread, as was the custom, but skesh was strangely absent, and the bread was thin and mealy. When Intra asked why, he quickly learned of the lands’ plight.

“What of the peregrine lords that tend this place?” He asked.

“They were killed by thirty men, and hung from a tree for seven days,” said the inn proprietor, with a look like a beaten animal.

Intra could not abide this. He called out to Yem Yeddo in the spare and decaying market square, who brought his thirty men.

“Preem Yeddo,” bellowed Intra, “You are a cruel and petty man. How can you scour this land so and not feel for the people that call it their abode?”

Yem Yeddo laughed. “Let them eat the stones, for all I care,” said he.

Intra, who was not one to balk at such matters, picked up a particularly large rock and said, “So it shall be. I shall feed the people with this stone.”

– The Song of Maybe

The lord of the vale and his thugs laughed at Intra and his preposterous proclamation. But their mirth was cruel, so they stayed to watch his futile labor.

“I will turn this rock into fire,” said Intra. The men roared with laughter.

“Fool!” they cackled. “The rock shall not become fire, no matter your wish.”

Intra ignored them, turned the rock in his well worn hand, and dug a shallow pit with it, piling the earth carefully at the sides. Then he gathered dry brush and reeds and piled them high in the pit. The sun was hot and bright overhead as he worked, and his traveling clothes were soiled with sweat as he worked. The men bade the villagers of that place gather water for them to drink as they watched Intra’s labors.

From his traveling cloth, Intra produced a sword. The thugs watching him leaned forward at this, but then quickly relaxed. It was a decrepit and battered thing, well used and pitted and chipped.

“I no longer use this to kill men,” said Intra. “But it’s very good for cooking dinner.”

Intra struck the rock against his sword, and a spark flew into the dry brush. Intra fanned it with great care, and soon a roaring fire blazed in the village square.

– The Song of Maybe

“Now I will make of this stone Earth and Water both,” said Intra, standing in front of the blaze.

“And air too, I suppose,” jested Yem Yeddo, the richest man in the vale, and all his men laughed.

But Intra did not. He took his proclamation very seriously. At this point, he had been sober for months and had a headache.

– The Song of Maybe

Intra took the stone, and his terribly damaged sword, and began to set to work by the side of the fire. Using the edge of the sword, he slowly chipped at the rock, flattening its shape. As the rock was of a reasonably large size, this took quite some time.

Once he was satisfied with his tool, he took off his kafeyen and traveling cape, so he was clad only in his underclothes, then found a good spot in the barren and muddy town square and began to dig.

Even the people in the square who had filtered in to see the Sword Saint and had some hope he might yet prove their savior felt their resolve sag at the sight of his starved body, laboring and sweating as he toiled in the muck and filth. The cruel master of the vale laughed and had a tent set up to shade him as he watched Intra’s struggles. “If you are done with your farce, I will happily geld you and make you my jester, lord Intra,” said he. Intra said nothing, but kept digging, only emerging to feed his fire. As the day dragged on and his fire burned to coals, he had quite a sizable amount of clay, which piece by piece he molded into bricks and let dry by the light of the sun and the heat of the fire.”Behold the earth,” said Intra.

As the sun began to creep lower towards the horizon, his craft quickly became apparent. Exhausted, and muscles quivering, he emerged from his hole and began to stack his bricks into a sturdily made bread oven. Then he asked for a vessel, and went down into his pit, emerging with it filled to the brim with muddy water, as he had dug deep enough to coax it from the dry earth.

“Behold the water,” said Intra, and set it to boil clean over the fire. He began to shovel coals into the oven, to prepare it and set it.

At this sight, more people began to gather at the square. They could sense that something was afoot. Yem Yeddo would have beaten them back into their homes, but he too was transfixed by the strange spectacle that was unfolding.

“Clever,” said Yem Yeddo, with the slightest tinge of anxiety in his voice, as all tyrants are wont to have when confronted with an honest man. “Do you mean to bake bread for the people? That will not work despite your powers of transfiguration, as I have all the grain.” His thugs, like the loyal dogs they were, sensed their master’s discomfort, and gripped the hilts of their weapons.

“I tire of this,” said Yem Yeddo, without realizing the gravity of his own situation. “Break his limbs.”

“Next,” said Intra, “I will turn this rock into air.”

The thirty strong men of Yem Yeddo drew their beating staves and started to approach Intra, slavering and yelping at the thought of snapping his legs like dry twigs and the food they would get as a reward after. Intra was a handsome man who did not have the look of a warrior about him, and the men were very stupid. His eyebrows were thin and delicate, like a woman, and he had lashes like a spider lilly. This made the men laugh uproariously at his effeminate appearance.

Intra, for his part, merely took the rock and raised it high. After all the work he had done with it, it had become quite small, dense, and sharp. Then with a flick of his wrist, he skipped the rock off the air so fast that it cracked like a whip. A sound like thunder rippled across the valley.

Intra was extremely good at skipping rocks, as it had become his famous pastime in his sobriety. He could skip rocks off anything, be it god or man. In this particular case, he skipped the rock off the ribcages of all thirty men in half a second. They blew open like an old basket and the wind whistled merrily through the empty and sputtering spaces where their chests had once been.

‘Behold the air,” said Intra.

Yem Yeddo was astonished, and a great terror overwhelmed him. He was a quick and cowardly man, and fled. The people rejoiced and the granaries were broken open. The bodies of the tyrannical lord’s men were burned without rites and stomped upon. Flour was dragged forth by the sackful, the well Intra dug was quickly filled with fresh water and reinforced with stone, and soon many loaves of bread were emerging, steaming, from his oven. A goat was slaughtered and a great feast was had.

“Thankyou for the hospitality,” said Intra, when the night had grown long. “I will not impose upon you any longer.”

The populace were desperate for him to stay. “Lord Intra,” said they, “Yem Yeddo may yet return, with more men!”

“That is true,” said Intra, “And that I cannot help with you. But remember, men like him have forgotten their mothers. Their feet do not touch the earth, and they grasp at feeble things. They are like a mangy dog fighting over a fetid corpse. They have forgotten that with their brothers, working together, they could bring down a magnificent ox.”

He reached down and picked a goodly sized rock from the floor of the valley.

“This valley is broad and beautiful. It may have one Yem Yeddo, but it contains many more stones.”

– The Song of Maybe

“The perfected art – when a man and sword are made one. The poison of the hilt becomes the poison of the arm and gradually infects the whole body. There is no beating a man who has been subsumed by the sword.”

-Ryo ten Ryam

“The Universal Sword – cut everywhere at once. Then there will be nowhere left for your enemy to stand.”

-Ryo ten Ryam

“U-am-yet was old, yet spry. During the war, he often ate his lunch up by the cape, against the curfew. Soldiers had to chase him down several times and fined him his ration cards, causing him to go hungry.

When I asked him why he risked so much, he told me the ringing of steel from the Princes of the World fighting in the low valley, some ten leagues away at that point, could be heard growing closer every day, and he wanted to be ready.

He went up there every day and ate his lunch, and memorized the sound of death.”

-Unknown attestation, C.E. 260 S.C.

“When it comes to so-called ‘immortals’, do not fear them. Those that call themselves by such a title have purged themselves of the most useful and primal their brain, the parts that remember the cold fear, the old night, the teeth in the dark. The swordsman should be a great friend to fear and pain, so when they inevitably find him, he will not collapse at their remembrance, like a pathetic mewling thing, as I have seen these majestic godlings do.”

-Ryo-ten-Ryam

“Listen, closely, pale worm. Our only goal here, and indeed, for the rest of your miserable life, is to learn the cut called Quelling the Breath of Man. It is the most superior sword technique in the Seven Cities and will win you every battle if done properly. You must resolutely study this cut. Your life, as mine, is no longer your own. You have now become a blade, and the hearts-hilt of this blade is held by his Grace, and when he swings it you will kill any number of men that he wills dead.”

– Gälde ten Bilong, sword god of the Lunar Kingdoms, to their student Ryam

“Here is a cut I call the Life Cut. It is adapted from my ancient master, who roamed the world when it is young, and taught it to me in a different and weaker form. Listen, whelp. I have improved upon her fragile schemes. Where once my sword hand was held by my master, this cut has a secret art that can roam and strike him. It is the most important thing I will teach you – the blade that cuts its own wielder.”

-Great Blade Hermit Ryam to his student Ryo

“Listen well, peasant girl. The time is long past I teach you the ultimate technique, as I have promised.

The only thing you must understand about this technique is it is purely for killing. This is the cut of no cuts, the form of no form. It doesn’t have a name. There is no school it belongs to. There is no master it belongs to, not even you. There is no purpose it belongs to. It is a poisonous technique, the product of a thousand venoms distilled from one master to the next, back to the line of the Gods. All my master used it for is stacking corpses, and his master before him, and his master before that, and that is all you shall use it for as well.”

-Ryo, to his student Meti.

“Secret techniques? Here, girl, I’ll show you a secret way to pick your teeth. Ha ha!”

-Meti ten Ryo to her student Mathangi

“Lord Mana, a man that treats people as he hammers iron, and treats tools as his most tender lovers. No greater craftsman will ever exist, I am sure. Shame.”

-Payapop Pritram

“Cut once, think not at all. Every situation must be handled this way. Any more than that is excessive and will only burden your sword arm with the weight of regret.”

– Ryo ten Ryam, sword saint

“Sirs, and if you will hear me, I have a certain ken,

a way of moving, and if a man intend do violence to me, I shall simply lay my hand upon his shoulder

gentle as all, sir, and though the touch is light he will feel

that terrible weight

and in that moment I have killed him without killing him, and all the knowing of that will drag him down, meek as a lamb,

attest I, sirs, and witness you I have never had to kill a man yet this way, nor do I fetter them,

aye, tis’ merely in my interest to go on my way, as all men should – a merry way of living,

wouldn’t you say?”

– Intra, God of Swords

“It is said, in those days, to the great armies of the Yellow City was made a peculiar decree. All men, regardless of rank, were ordered to eat in common, in common reed and rush mat halls, and with no utensils other than their hands, and nothing other than a wooden bowl to hold their mess. Protestations were made against this policy, as a matter of course, for mingling with the coarse and ignoble was seen as unsightly in those days, but the master of that army, Ryo-ten-Ryam, had a voice like a southern wind, and scattered them to the corners of the world.

It is said that by sharing the meal, the men intermixed, and by intermixing, their common destiny became entwined, and eventually their blood. What force could stand up to that?”

– Yua Yua Lo, Lunar Monk (notes in the Blue Record, circa 45 SC)