7: Mirror
The first words out of the master’s mouth upon seeing the blade pointed squarely at his throat was an almost offended, “You don’t take very good care of that blade, do you?” His assailant, a young child who couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, snarled their answer with the surety of the youthful. “A blade doesn’t need to look pretty to do its job, old man.”
“True enough,” the master nodded, “but if you intend to use that sword for anything other that petty banditry, you should care for it better.”
“Yeah, well petty banditry is about all that I’m interested in doing right now, so how about you just hand over whatever valuables you’ve got on you, and we’ll both be on our ways.”
At this statement, pity entered the master’s eyes. “Oh child, you really have no idea, do you? Your blade is a mirror of your soul – if you do not care for it, it tells me that you do not care for yourself. You see yourself as a mindless tool, barely worth keeping alive. You do this because you believe that is all you have in front of you, and because you hope, perhaps, that like your absolutely dogshit filthy blade, that one day someone will do you the courtesy of ending you. How close to the truth do you think I am, hmm?”
The bandit’s eyes narrowed and their grip tightened on the blade. “Shut your goddamn mouth, old man. You don’t know shit about me.”
“Very well,” the master sighed, “I will do you a favor and grant at least one of your hopes.”
The bandit took a single step forward, having decided that really, just taking any valuables off a corpse would involve less talking that made them feel deeply uncomfortable so they might as well go for that option. There was a ping as the master, in response to the forward motion, spun easily to the side of the blade, drew his own, and brought it down on theirs, snapping it in two easily. It was a single fluid motion executed so quickly the bandit wasn’t even completely certain of what they’d seen at all. The master then easily flipped the bandit over his shoulder and deposited them on the ground, driving the air out of their lungs in a rush. By the time it was over, the bandit found themselves with a blade at their throat. They could see their own shocked expression reflected in the steel surface.
“Go ahead,” they said, “end it.”
The master leaned down and smiled. “No, I don’t think I shall. You had the skill to take me by surprise, young one, and that has made you interesting. I find myself in need of a student, and you find yourself with a broken blade that is not going to make your current lifestyle any easier. Come with me, and I will teach you both how to reforge your blade, and how to care for it properly. Or,” he shrugged, “I suppose you can also remain here in the dirt and never know just what you are capable of. It is up to you.”
It really did not seem to be that difficult of a choice to the bandit – mostly because this was the only time they’d ever even remotely considered they might have had some kind of choice in how they lived. “Okay old man,” they said, pushing the blade aside and standing, “let’s see what you can teach me.”