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Isamu took a defensive stance and panted, trying to catch his breath. This man seemed untouchable—even when he had hit him, the crystal had negated the wound. Isamu had respect for this strong opponent.
“That’s quite a weapon you have their, Mikio.”
“Thank you,” he returned amiably. “That word you keep calling me, what does it mean?”“Mikio? It is how we would call you in my village.” Isamu chuckled a little and switched into an offensive stance, “It means, ‘tree-trunk man’”. And with this he lunged forward and tried to make a quick slash at Matrue’s leg.
Matrue’s arm swung down automatically and he parried the spear with the sword the crystal had given him. He moved the blade like it was an extension of his own arm. He looked down at his hand for a moment and seemed surprised by how easily it had obeyed him. Isamu took this moment to try again; this time Matrue raised the earth—sending Isamu shakily upward.
“Thank you, Mikio!,” He called cheefully, as he jumped down, pushing all of his force and momentum behind the downward-pointing spear head. This was a great finishing move on boars and leopards, who have no more than teeth and tusks to defend themselves, but for a man with a magic sword, it was nothing. In a flash of instinct, Matrue slashed above him, slicing the spear head off the spear, and digging a deep gash in Isamu’s wrist that broke a bone.
Isamu let out a terrible cry of pain as he felt his hand go limp. He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, his spear pole beside him.
‘This is the end of my journey,” he thought, hopelessly. “This is where I stop. Defeated by a youth with an unknown power. Who knows what else there is in this world that I am unprepared for? I don’t even know who my enemy is or what his weapon will be.’
Mature stood a few feet away, watching this pitiful man; he was clearly a strong and skilled warrior, and had put up a good fight, but he fell so easily. Was this really all he was capable of?
Increasingly consumed by despair, images of the village flashed through his memory. His people, his family, his friends, his home; the elder who had found him; sitting above the destroyed village—it was all too much. Being entrusted with their revenge was too much; failing them was far too much. In a mix of pain and grief, Isamu let out the most devastating yell Matrue had ever heard. Then he noticed the crystal in the hilt. It had begun to glow, and Isamu too seemed to be covered in a cyan mist.
Faces faintly shimmered in the mist, and as each new face appeared, the mist swelled and took more solid shape until it looked like a large, gray, misshapen gorilla.
Isamu’s eyes changed, as though they too were filled with a fire. He grabbed the spear head and ripped off a piece of his shirt, which he wrapped around his broken wrist.
Isamu picked up the wooden pole in his good hand and stood up, facing Matrue. The gorilla, too, stood hauntingly behind Isamu, howling and growling.
“My people,” Isamu whispered. He didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone, but at these words, the gorilla charged wildly forward toward Matrue.
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