text: Adam Lewis LaValley Hasaki: The Broken World 
   
   
   Human and Inhuman 
   The young man sits across from his master, stoking the fire as she draws a breath from the pipe. Smoke flows from her mouth. The night covers the two with far-reaching  shadow s that creep about their bodies. 
   
   "I've never done that before," she chuckles. She is an elder woman thought to be in her late 90's, but  
   her true age remains obscure to every man and woman she has met. Rumors from the villagers say that she comes from a long line of samurai family, while children say she is an  
   oni-musha 
   , a monster sent to watch over the village. It is not the first time she has been called a "monster" . 
    Nor does she suspect it will be the last. 
   
   
   Before them, on a wooden table of the most expert craftsmanship, are pages of rice paper with small text printed throughout. An art of precision and meticulous detail. 
   
   "I dislike it. But there are things we learn every day, even to our last."  She smiles warmly, and rests a hand upon her  chest . The man gingerly holds her other hand, massaging as she struggles to move that arm. 
   
   "Of course, Sensei." 
   
   
   "It is true life chooses. You will meet people and see things you never would have imagined possible. Human, and inhuman. You have control of nothing, but that of yourself. The world will be cruel, vile, and evil. Or it will be joyful, calm, and good." 
   
   "And the texts?" he  asks . "Do you truly believe?" 
   
   "Just as the monks and  
   Ranmaru 
    says, there is a land where we return." 
   
   
   She coughs hoarsely, and her eyes falter. "Some water, please." The young man obliges, his gaze downcast as her fingers slip from his grasp. 
   
   
   " 
   I used to dream about death, but not this time..." 
   
     
   
   
   
   SUMMER 
   70 years ago.  
   
   
   
   Chapter 1: Cohesiveness 
    It is a time when anarchy is rampant. Emperor and Empress Asahi once ruled a vast kingdom that, as the wise men say, reached out to the heavens. They were a royal family most beloved by the people, leading the country to an era of peace and prosperity. In the eyes of royalty, the world is just and well. 
   But humanity vies for more power and evil takes over their hearts. An insurrection known as the Chōwa no Tsubasa rose, and the Emperor and Empress were captured and mercilessly executed. The land plunged into bloody violence and chaos. The Chōwa could not claim power for long, for its leadership was not strong enough to hold a nation together. Thus, the countryside splits into numerous nations and domains. Millions of good men died in war, and millions of good women were left heartbroken in destitution. 
   In the present vast countryside, a rogue warrior traverses one coast to another. The plan is to settle peacefully and give up the ways of the sword. However, with power hungry warlords, sociopaths, and strangers at every turn that path is unlikely. In search for a quiet life, the warrior must confront not only the aftermaths of war, but also the Kakiruyi, the hidden world of spirits. A world the living can only reach through a phenomenon known as the "Pillow Book". 
   Legends tell of two types of pillow books - one written as a private diary, and the other a gateway to the Kakiruyi. The notes of the spiritual Pillow Book in this case consists of unconscious memories. Through dreams, a bridge is opened between the spiritual, and mortal realms. It is only by death that one's true Pillow Book is written. Those whose lives are not yet completed, wanders aimlessly in the afterlife. 
     
   *** 
     
   Hasaki Sakura does not blink as the katana slices part of her cheek. Drops of blood smear across her face and nose. Hair strands whisk away to the dirt below her geta sandals along with sakura petals. A stream of blood flows out against the flowers on the ground. 
   A world without loss, without bloodshed, is no real world. Any world without these is an illusion of grandeur. The samurai know this better than anyone. The last resort to reason is the blade. Those who meet an end by sword offer nothing but satisfaction to the power clutching the hilt. Each samurai knew this by heart, and every dead man knew it as his last breath. Only, she is not a samurai. 
   A large man wielding said blade wheels about and brings the katana down low. In a blink of an eye, it skims across another blade. Sparks fly every which way. Several men stand to the side, dressed in tattered clothing and clutching various weapons. 
   "Stranger, your draw is like none other I have seen," the man chides. His body seemed like a two-story building in comparison to Sakura. 
   Wind blows the sakura in her direction. The young woman positions her own katana forward, eyes unseen beneath the bamboo hat. 
   Humans with inflated egos never fear retribution. Throughout the history of war, a woman bearing a sword is often associated with the onna-bugeisha. However, Sakura is no royalty. Since the corruption of the national government, and the revolutionary anarchy which spanned, she intends to settle in a quiet little place. Somewhere she can call home. 
   "Please, just kindly allow me to pass," she says. There is not even a hint of tension in her tone. The men in the back shout and jeer, one of them making note of the woman's bodily form and appearance. 
   The man looks up and down his opponent, then scoffs in the ugliest way. "The hell? You are a woman, aren't you? We were told to expect a woman in samurai attire." 
   Her hands tighten around the hilt. "I am a traveler on my way to the next town, merely wishing to take this route." Tucked inside her kimono is a thin sheet of paper, neatly wrapped with a crimson stamp in the center. The man again barks with laughter. Birds take off from the sakura trees, fleeing his madness. 
   "You don't have any choice in the matter. Drop your weapon. You will strip naked for us." 
   The young onna-musha plants her feet in the ground. She remembers her training and the final words of Sensei. His thin warm hands on her shoulders, and the glistening eyes that look down upon her, as she accepts... 
   "Understand, if you will." 
   "Every person tries to make a living. You just happen to be part of ours." He shrugs and gives her a reassuring glance. "Look, it's nothing against you, ma'am. We just happen to need the money. These boys and me – we have families." 
   She hesitates, looking to the faces of each of the men. She then begins loosening the sash around her waist. 
   "That's right," he sighs with a wave of his hand. The men stand idly by. Without removing her hat, she puts down her pack and begins sliding her arms from the kimono's sleeves. She effortlessly shifts the katana to each hand as she does so. 
   The men look on with wild eyes. Sakura lets down the upper half of her kimono, but she stops there and tightens the sash. She wears a form of black sleeveless top. Her muscles define her forearms, brimming with irregular white lines. A bestowment to her skin. She points the katana back at them. 
   In a flash of raw fury, the large man charges forward, his eyes sparking with rage. She feels a sense of relief releasing from her mouth. She makes only a few movements, weaving the katana blade, and side-steps the man. Her ponytail wavers slightly in contrast to her calm demeanor. 
   He turns with teeth hammering against one other and raises his arms to strike a blow. But he cannot bring the sword down as he intends. Blood gushes through his clothes. Two more men rush towards her, but she slices through one man's arm, while she knocks out the other by a swift hilt to the stomach. Another man attempts to strike her from behind. But she grasps his arm and snaps them like fallen branches. Sakura whips the wetness off her weapon and sheathes as the large man with the gash through his clothes collapses face-first, a cloud of dust rising above. The blade makes a light tune as it enters the black sheath. She pulls her arms into the kimono sleeves with heavy gasps. 
   The men already stop their jeering. They watch aimlessly as the small onna-musha walks before them. All they can see is the brim of her hat. 
   She points. "It is a shame death is chosen over cohesiveness. If I was you, I would give up this routine." 
   Light breaks through the spaces between the trees' leaves, painting the ground in a warm gesture. She turns and follows the path into the blossoming sakura forest. The plump man with the gash lies as cold as a tombstone as his men stand around like funeral gatherers. A stream of white rises amongst the sakura trees, floating through the air without any sense of direction. The streams of their wings are soundless, yet they move with clear reverberations. 
   Within the forest, the young onna-musha pauses to watch these creatures, lifting her bamboo hat. Overhead, mountains stand like towers into the heavens. Around her body is a light kimono, black on the top, crimson on the bottom. A uniform meant for a man, her kimono is large for her body, allowing the fabric to stroke like ocean currents. 
   Her pitch-black hair moves gently with the breeze, and her amber eyes take in the world around her. Unlike other women of the time, she does not care for makeup or other cosmetics. 
   As the white butterfly-creatures move their bodies about the branches, Sakura finds a shady spot, and digs into the pack she carries at her side. She grimaces in pain and slowly sits, careful not to arch her back. She smiles a little to the creatures, bringing a ripe apple to her lips. 
   They are named Shiroginu, or "White Silk," for the smooth white coating which flows like silk at the base of their bodies. The Shiroginu bask in sun and moonlight and make homes in the crevices of trees. 
   Sakura raises her arm, stretching her hand as a Shiroginu passes over her head. The silky surface crawls through her fingers, and she slightly giggles, an image coming to mind of the days she would weave Sensei's clothing. Her Sensei singing a soft tune, and Sakura humming softly along. 
   Tales of the Shiroginu are common with children, whose parents claim the creatures would follow them in the smallest of shadows if the children were naughty. They were the equivalents of "parent's eyes". Sakura remembers those stories fondly, at one point as a child keeping her mouth closed a whole day when Sensei told her this. An achievement for a child, her Sensei said. 
   As the sun continues to rise, Sakura slowly stands and notices smoke rising over the distance. She fits the bamboo hat over her head and shifts the bag on her back. In the trees, crackling noises echo through the atmosphere as the Shiroginu twist and turn. The scent of blossoms permeates the air, pale mountains lining the horizon. Mist swirls about the trees, and the sun just barely pokes its head from over the distance. 
     
   
   
   Publication Date: July 20th 2019 https://www.bookrix.com/-rootrot