One of the biggest pet peeves of mine is wrong formatting.
That's why I'm sending this out again. Corrected formatting
and a little glossary at the bottom and an improved
afterword.

Now that this is fixed, I hope to gawd someone reads this.

Disclaimer:
RK is not mine. Nobuhiro Watsuki own it.
Apologies for mentioning Stefen Gagne, Chris Angel and
Brett Handy without permission. I just mention them, they don't
show up so calm down.

C&C is requested, especially the positive, gives-meanin-to-the
aching-pain-in-heart types.

And if the formattin sucks tell me and I'll try to bloody fix it.

BTW, this is rather PG-13 so be ready for disgusting stuff and nudity. ^_^

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    I savored the smell of barbecuing chicken intestines,
blood, chicken heads, chicken feet, pig ears and pig intestines
as I waited in front of the local barbecue stand, a street corner
away from my apartment.

    "Eto na ho, Manang Elsa," (Here it is, Madam/old-timer
Elsa) Manong Jess, the proprietor of the little streetside
establishment, addressing me by the title of "manang".

    "Manong Jess naman! Masmatanda ka pa sa akin, eh, tinatawag
mo na akong manang!?" (Old-timer Jess! You're older than me and
you call me madam!?) I responded, mock-outraged at the white-
haired barbecue vendor.

    "Mag-asawa ka na kasi, Manang. Ang rami naman diyan na
magandang lalake na liligaw, ah!" (Marry already, madam. There
are many handsome men who would court you!)The gap-toothed grin
on the old man's face held all the warmth of a father has for a
daughter.

    "Bata pa ako, manong. O ano, ayos na ba ang isaw ko?" (I'm
young yet, old man. Well, my barbecue ready?) I asked hungrily as
I looked at the five long strips of chicken intestines set on
five separate sticks. Manong Jess picked them up and dipped them
in a jar of vinegar and onion.

        "Limang piso lang ho." (Five pesos only.)

        I paid the old man five pesos and took the five sticks
from him, careful of getting any of the vinegar that dripped from
it on my slacks or blazer. I nodded a goodbye and went on home,
one hand holding my pre-dinner snack, my left holding the plastic
bag that had my rather extravagant dinner: half of an Andok's
lechon manok, grilled chicken just the way I liked it. Two packs
of rice I bought at the carinderia at the bus terminal would go
over with the chicken and the chicken intestines really well.

    I devoured three sticks of intestines before reaching home,
the three-story apartment building that my parents gave me as a
college graduation present. Not like I own it. I'm more in the
capacity of a landlady for the place, collecting rent and all
that. One of my more anime-oriented friends who had seen the
building and myself during my more landlady-ish days once
commented that I should just name the place Maison Ikkoku and
have every member of the household call me Kanrinin-san. I
promptly smacked her for that remark with my broom.

     It does look like a concrete version of Ikkoku-kan, though
it does have three floors. I have the top floor and access to top
floor, which I've converted into my personal exercise yard and
sometime sunbathing spot. As if there are any other taller
building around here, being at the outskirts of the Metro Manila
region. My humble domain is located on a parcel of land that my
parents bought in what could be described as a partially suburban
area. Most houses are one or two-story affairs. My abode is the
tallest one in the area and a noticeable landmark. The place is
fairly green since there are still plenty of trees all over the
place and some of the greener and sturdier ones are in my
property so I keep them well taken care of.

     I finished of the last two strips of chicken guts and threw
the sticks into the bushes. I pushed at the outer gates and found
them unlocked. It wasn't eight yet so that was normal and to be
expected. Heck, I was the landlady. I had the prerogative to stay
out as long as I wanted. The outer lamps were lit and they
illuminated the simple driveway. Two cars, a motorcycle and a
bike. Everyone was here. And the children had enough of a
playground in the backyard. So I locked the gates after another
visual check.

     I entered the house proper, waving a hello to the Hidalgos
who lived on the first floor from outside their dining room
window. They were having a late supper. Henry must have come home
late again.

     "Kain, Elsa!" (Eat, Elsa!) Henry said the normal invitation
to eat when a friendly visitor dropped by as he spooned a
mouthful of rice with what seemed to be his wife's specialty -
giniling, a viand made of ground meat mixed with vegetables in a
soup.

     "Ate Elsa, ang ganda natin ngayon ah! May nahanap na ba?"
(Elder sister Elsa, you look beautiful today! Found someone
already?) May Hidalgo jokingly asked as she fed her two-year old
son.

     "Wala pa. Sobra kasi akong tomboy, eh." (None yet. Probably
because I'm too much of a tomboy.) I responded with a smile as I
ran one manicured hand through my recently cut short black hair.
I asked Rickie at the parlor to give me a custom job and I showed
him a picture of Haruka Ten'ou with the front, back and side
profiles shown. I was in one of my moods when I woke up that
morning, deciding to give my old college haircut a spin. Most of
my college pictures are quite embarrassing and I just can't rip
out my yearbook pic so I settled for printing out a Haruka
picture. He gave me a weird look but he complied quite happily. I
also had a full beauty treatment: hot-oil, facial, manicure,
massage, everything. Though that put a big dent in my budget it
was well worth it. Besides, a girl's got to splurge now and then.

     "Hi, Tita Elsa!" Michelle, the Hidalgo's precocious four-
year old, said after chewing her giniling and rice.

     "Hi, Mitch," I said, calling her by her nickname. "Kakain
pa ako, kaya bukas na lang." (I'm going to eat now, see you
tommorow.) The Hidalgos nodded in response as I waved a light
goodbye.

     As I took the stairs, I contemplated my day. A pretty nice
day overall. My usual morning workout on the roof, performing all
the barehanded and weapon kata I've managed to learn from all the
members of the Family along with the stuff I learned from the
other interesting people I've met in what has been a surprisingly
strange life. I noticed my sword forms were off, but since I
haven't seriously used a sword or a bolo in years that was to be
expected. Had to check up on someone who's willing to spar. After
that a nice little shower and dressing up in my going-out casual
outfit: a white feminine blouse, black slack, a red blazer and,
of course, my ever-present military boots. Plus the wire-rim
glasses and the nice little ankh earrings I bought once at a
bargain store. My straight-backed, black umbrella completed the
ensemble.

     After that I slipped in various pieces of my going out
equipment. I hate handbags, so I had tailored up my blazer myself
for extra inside pockets and made it a bit loose for a couple of
stuff that I had to hide. Though considering the places I had to
visit, I had to hide two of them under my slacks.

     Second floor and the other half of my tenants. Seems Dennis
is quiet tonight. And by the sound of it the new girls that
occupy the rooms that comprise the other half of the floor are
settling in. The Hidalgos and the De Guzmans had the ground
floor. I didn't get to see the De Guzman's but they're probably
all right, with Jimmy's car already in and Kenneth's bike stowed
in front.

     Anyway, after dressing up, I went to my school first to
check up on my desk and to stick in something that I deemed
necessary. And for the usual pre-class briefing. June is coming
round the corner again and classes will start in three weeks so
everyone's expected to have a viable lesson plan submitted to the
department head a week before the classes begin. I have spare
lesson plans I made a year ago, so I don't have to worry about
that. Got a really great surprise when I found out the English
department moved to an air-conditioned room in the recently
completed new building addition.

     After that I spent my day bumming around town. Well, after
of course, receiving the most complete beauty treatment I had in
years. Visited a nice little apothecary in Chinatown for a few
herbs and visited a few training halls there. Had lunch at a
wonderful little Chinese restaurant where my grandmother used to
work as a waitress and visited my cousins in the area. A quick
trip to Quiapo for a few esoteric items and to contact a nice
little old lady that knows enough of the darker side of religion
than most people know, along with a Spanish priest that I knew
of. Since that little incident at the National Library I have a
distinct feel for things like this. You could say it's in my
blood now.

     A few more visits to some people, along with a few
relatives that needed my assistance and dropping by on a Japanese
friend of mine who owns a grocery-cum-bookstore, for a look-see
on the manga that he and his wife brought over this month. A good
little kaffeesklatsch with Claude, the only woman I know who
insists on being called by the masculine version of her name, an
old friend from college. Made a joking pass at her, a bad habit I
have from my college days. And she made the obligatory joking
response between us of the fact that I was only being her friend
for the sex. Pity I had other stuff to do or I'd have stayed at
her place all afternoon and night.

     After that a good little spin around the second hand
bookstores and antique shops for prospective purchases. You can't
believe what you find at these places. Found a steel machine-made
katana from World War II. Now that would make a nice conversation
piece if anything else, though the Family's main house has six of
these along with one commissioned one when an uncle of mine was
on a samurai kick. Another find were a few interesting books that
in my opinion would be better kept in private hands. Bought those
immediately with a credit card and sent them direct to a few of
my professor friends and scholars for authentication and asked
them to be sent to the Family�s vaults at the main house after
they had been confirmed.

     A full day if I say so myself. My smile quickly turned to a
frown as I stopped before the door to my personal suite. The
tickling at the back of my mind was getting stronger. I had it
since morning but I ignored it. Now it was definitely not
something I could ignore. Narrowing my eyes, I looked around for
signs of a possible intruder. None. But that just means he or
she didn't enter via conventional means. That means that if there
was someone inside like my instincts were telling me, he or she
was probably very good. Or was one of my more special guests.

     My frown deepened. The stairs alone were proof to quite a
few of my more supernatural acquaintances, being peppered with
simple wards when I was first given this house, a fact I
reinforced via regular blood sacrifice. The blood sacrifice on
the roof of the chicken and the Catholic blessing that followed
eliminated more of the usual suspects. So, none of the members of
the local folklore could have probably gotten in.

      Foreigners? I try not to piss off any of them in my
dealings but my Family has a tendency to make enemies. Chinese?
Nah� had enough friendly Feng Shui specialists and Taoists to
help me set up the wards on the stairs and especially the outer
walls that surrounded my building mixing them along with the
broken glass and barb wire I had put on the walls, not to mention
the rooms themselves. Heck, Grandma herself checked. I looked up
at the simple charm on top of my door. It was undisturbed.
Japanese? Nope, usually Chinese charms worked on most of the East
Asian supernaturals. And the latin oracions I recite on the full
moon along with the stuff from an acquiantance in Siquijor and
several albularyo friends of my granduncle left me a few bottles
of oil that I left at several places in the building and the roof
that would repel, discomfort or seriously burn any other things
of Asian origin. So no aswang, engkanto, kuei, yorei, gaki,
penanggalan, rakshasa or whatever can come into my little occult
fortress. European? American? I haven't pissed off any demons
from Europe, but if I did, the Church latin stuff should have
kept those out and the last time I checked the Great Spirit and
Quetzalcoatl weren't pissed off at this particular Filipina.

    But as I said it kept most things out. There were several
things that could still get in. And the tickling in the back of
my mind was getting stronger. I couldn't access my more
devastating capabilities since I had them sealed away a long time
ago. So, I only had what I had on me and whatever I could
scrounge up when I go in. Damn.

     I hope this doesn't spill over downstairs. I bent down and
pulled my slacks up to get my paltik, a homemade pistol just like
Grandfather used to make. Easily disposable and almost impossible
to trace via forensic ballistics, the one-shot gun was my
concealed firearm of choice. Home made, too, if you had the right
supplies and a master paltik maker as your teacher. I have three
of these: one under my bed, one for going out and the last one I
have strapped beneath one of my desk drawers at the English
department office. I do have to change them every three months or
so, but since they're made mostly of scrap, they're technically
free. I would have gone for a .45 right now, but you can't just
hide a .45 on your person. A derringer would have been welcome,
but those could be traced and too damned expensive to just throw
away. The wooden stock of the paltik felt fragile in my hand. One
shot and it would be useless like it was supposed to be. I
soundproofed my rooms when I moved in, so no worries about the
gunshot being heard. My right hand held my umbrella at a relaxed
ready stance from my cane fighting training, the solid metal
point pointing downwards. This wasn't one of my Family's special
umbrellas, so no weird stuff like a sword or a dart gun. I
slipped the paltik into my blazer and got my key out.

     I whisper a simple latin oracion, a simple prayer chant
that I learned during my arnis training. Technically, it's more
like Philippine Folk Christianity's version of a spell, the best
description of it, however, is as a combat mantra or koan. It's
total gibberish but it helps me center myself for combat or a
challenge.

     With a swift movement, I unlock the door, open quickly, get
in and close it in a series of quick motions that the Shadow
would have been proud. My left hand pulled out my homemade pistol
in the same motion I dropped my keys.

     I was greeted by the dark shadows of my living room as I
surveyed the scene. Trained reflexes kicked in and I checked the
room for possible hostiles, my left hand with my modern version
of the flintlock pistols of yore moving in a half-circle as I
checked for any hostiles. The grip of my right hand on my
umbrella had the right amount of tightness retaining the
flexibility of the wrist for immediate action.

     No one. I tried to peer into the shadows in the corners of
my living room, sparing a glance to the balcony entrance. Still
no one. Whoever this was, he or she or maybe even an it, was
good. Either that or I'm overreacting and kicked in my paranoia
into overdrive.

     I was in a crouched position and I duck walked, in other
words waddled, into the next room, silent even with the heavy
military boots I had on. Keeping up my stealth training was
paying off, other than trailing prospective boyfriends through
Manila's city streets it seems.

     I entered my computer room. The white, sanitary light of my
Windows desktop from my newest acquisition, a not-so brand-
spanking new, second-hand computer my uncle managed to salvage
from the company he works for, fought the darkness back a little,
but still the shadows seemed darker because of the light. My
uncles in my parent's opinion spoil me too much. My other
computer I transferred to my small library and the last one is by
my bedside. They're always turned off properly when I go out, so
the thought of an intruder in the premises wasn't exactly the
result of paranoia. I stood up and gazed at what was on the
screen:

     YOU HEAR THE CALL.
     WHY DO YOU NOT COME?

     Shit. Not this again.

    I felt the tickle in the back of my head explode into
something more substantial as I felt the seals that were set on
my body, mind and soul crack open. The sound that accompanied
that rather traumatic event was indescribable.

     NO. I fell to my knees, gun and umbrella falling out of my
hands as I put them up to my ears, trying to stop the sound of
supplications, silent prayers, lamentations, the wailing of men,
women and children.

    I really, really hate this. The seals had stopped me from
touching the powers that went with an office that I assumed a
long time ago. Not like I was that old. I looked like a kindly
teacher in her mid-twenties, but actually I'm far older than
that. No one knows, even the Family does not know my great
secret, a secret that traces itself back to the incident when I
was a college senior. When I found a book that was a portal, or
portal that was a book and how I got thrown through worlds upon
worlds, through time beyond mind, and to places beyond imagining.

    And after getting what I always dreamed of, a life of wild
adventure and incredible experiences, I wanted to go home.

     But getting into the nightmare wasn't as easy as getting
in. The prayers, the summonings, the multitude of voices in my
head all calling for me was part of the price I had to pay for
getting home. Along the way I had to do other things, to achieve
the ultimate goal of being able to go home.

     To make everything simple and short, I became a goddess.

     Not anything like the Three Sisters, Norns, Fates, whatever
you called them, but still a goddess in my own right. Or as some
would dispute a demoness, considering my particular sphere of
attention. Through the pain and the howling multitudes I managed
a light chuckle at the thought. Demon Goddess Elsa. Doesn't ring
the same way as Ifurita does it?

     My hands reach for the solid chair in front of me, my seat
when I go and worship my particular religion of writing and
reading stories. I turn it around with difficulty and crawl up
slowly, ignoring the pain of my body re-arranging itself and
compensating for the divine energy running through it. Fuck it.
It hurts like the first time I got the job.

    So I'm not exactly a god and not exactly a demon, so what
am I? The closest thing that I've ever read that best describes
me, is Stefen Gagne's Slayers Demiurge. I'm kind of like a
Demiurge, only I get to have a whole lot more freedom at what I
do. The Powers That Be point me in a general direction and I do
the job. The mortal supplications and prayers are there for when
I have any free time between the important assignments. Some of
them give me a chance for general stress relief, ranging from
slaughtering a gang of thugs in the most gruesome way possible to
facing down a Great Old One. Heck, I had to face off with a Great
Old One before I got this job. Some people even think _I'm_ a
Great Old One, though my name is quite pronounceable and I have
no visible tentacles.

    "Oh, Mistress of Blades," the supplicating tone in the
whispered voice was quite obvious. But this particular voice
unlike the others in my head was coming from right in front of
me. Pushing away the voices in my head, blocking them off,
sealing them in a way a goddess can only do, I opened my eyes
with effort. I could _feel_ my damned eyes glow momentarily as I
saw the figure before me.

    A Shade. A creature of shadows, this particular creature
was an emissary from the Powers That Be, my superiors.
Technically, it served me also. But majority rules and I'm
currently in the minority here so they probably sent this pet to
deliver my orders or jobs that needed my particular touch.

    The Shade was pure shadow given life, the hooded cloak
flapping in its own personal wind. Very visually impressive and
very formidable if you were an inexperienced mortal, but I could
probably crush it like a bug with all my seals broken.

     "Oh, Lady of Pain," it addressed me once again. The problem
with most Shades was the fact that they were always so damn
formal. It probably won't be calling me by a normal name anytime
soon, using only my titles to talk to me. I really hate these
things.

    "What is it, Bringer of News? What message comes from
Above, Childe of Night?" I had reverted to English, my first
language, as was natural when dealing with servants of the
Powers. Not that they understood English, but it is the default
language for my power to understand the various tongues of mortal
and immortal alike.

    "The Call has been blown for you, Bringer of Vengeance,
Wielder of the Hallowed Guns." Whew, haven't heard that one in a
long time. The Shade must have been in service for a long time.
"Yet you do not answer. The Powers wish to know why you have not
unleashed yourself once again."

    Because I had tons of mundane work to do and fanfics and
original stories to write. Now that would make the guys, gals or
things upstairs and downstairs really pissed off. Heh. Better be
diplomatic. "I live my mundane life well enough, Shadowborn. A
good, normal, non-bloodshed filled existence. I am content to let
the Call pass me by. The mortals can deal with it themselves,
Rider of the Dark. They have shown enough skill in slaughtering
themselves. They can deal their own vengeance. They can bring
upon themselves their own end."

    The Call was the proverbial tickle in the back of my head.
It's been pesky for the past few weeks but I've learned enough
meditative techniques to keep it out of my head. Besides, I am
very ignoring things and persons that do not agree with me.
Probably because if I don't ignore them, I'd probably kill them
or destroy them utterly. And it is so much easier to destroy than
fix things. Just make something new afterwards. I sighed. The
Shade was not budging. Considering that he was here earlier, it
must have noted my very _special_ collection of tomes in the
locked room, along with other objects given in trust to me as the
Family's default priestess and occult specialist. Semi-normal
would be the best description of my life right now.

    "Mother of Killers, you are part of a system. Your
interference, along with the various other Powers and
Principilaties, is important for the continued existence of the
worlds, of the myriad dimensions of Reality and of the
alternatives therein. You are needed, whether you like it or
not."

    "To kill once again, my dear little piece of shadow? To
slaughter? To bring vengeance? Do not mistake that I tire of
death, Servant of the Powers, and the bringing of it. I kind of
savor it actually. It is that the Call comes at a time when I
rather relax. Take it easy. Kick back and enjoy the sun bake the
flesh off of my bones."

    "You have had nearly a decade, Glaive Bearer, Scourge of
Life."

    "A decade to centuries of service. I was damn lucky that
the Powers sent me to the moment after that damned book sent me
on that little trip, Nightkin."

    "There is no luck when the Powers are concerned, Goddess of
Assassins."

    "Do they still call me that?" Really, the Chinese can be so
irritating. At least I'm not the Saint of Killers. Someone else
already has that one.

    "Yes, Lady of the Black Fan."

    "Anyway, I wish for rest, Darkspawn. Is that too much to
ask?"

    "The Powers are not to be denied, Teacher of the Way.
Besides, was it not you who said that there was nothing quite
relaxing than justice dispensed with sword? Vengeance dealt by
the gun and fist? Of slaughter and the ending of life?"

    "Interesting that someone remembers that aspect of myself."
My surprise was quite genuine. No god or goddess with non-capital
G is omniscient. I had thought everyone had forgotten the more
gentler aspect of my office. And that part about my quote was
quite heartwarming. Told that to a Thor when I participated in a
Ragnarok. And damn, didn't the place burn afterwards. They didn't
call me Surtr for nothing. I'm starting to get really tempted.

    "It is no coincidence that I call you by that title, Guide
of the Path."

    "Buttering me up I see," I dryly commented with a wry
smile. Though one can never see a Shade's face, I thought I felt
it smile with my senses as a goddess. So they were going to bring
me in on _that_ capacity. Ideas spring in my head as I think of
the possibilities. A little bargaining here and there and maybe I
can get a pick of the order of assignments. The fun and games
first before the tedious slaughter.

    "It is because that is your next assignment, Dispenser of
Secrets."

    I smiled. Just as I suspected. Maybe I can agree to ride
once more. Just this once. As if I would lose any time. Even if
it took me centuries on other worlds, the Powers could send me to
the very moment I left. I digested this idea and the incredible
possibilities as the Shade waited for my decision.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    The crystalline towers of the thirtieth century Tokyo
glistened in the midday sun. The handsome man sipped at his glass
of orange juice while he watched his dining companion, a red head
read the report that he had given her.

    "You're actually just letting her go?" The woman looked up
with what would best be called as a look that combined fear and
anger in equal amounts.

    "Yes."

    The redhead's face fell and her eyebrow twitched. "Do
remember how many good people died the last time?"

    "Yes. But you have to admit, a lot more of the bad guys
died than the good guys."

    "Collateral damage is collateral damage, damnit! She'll
probably rip apart a few timelines before this is over."

    "And probably create a myriad more."

    The woman sighed. "I sometimes wish we had just used a copy
of the Shijintenchishou instead of a Portal book."

     The man chuckled. "She was a good prospect. And just
throwing her into that universe would not have sufficed. Besides,
throwing in a homicidal college senior who is also working as
part-time as her Family's enforcer as Genbu no Miko would have
been stupid. The mess that Yuuki and Hongo created was bad
enough, adding a certified mistress of the combat arts, strategy
and manipulation to the mix would have been ... quite interesting
but also quite devastating to that universe."

    The redhead shuddered at the thought. "But look at what we
have created. She is a creature without a conscience, killing at
the drop of a hat, incredibly powerful, mentally unbalanced and
with a God complex to boot. And uncontrolled by us."

    "You are mistaken on that one, my dear."

    "Hm?"

    "She has a Goddess complex, not a God one," the man replied
with a smile. "Besides, being quite logical as she is, she does
tend to ignore her conscience a lot. She _has_ been killing
people from the age of ten, you know. And she does only kill
those that she needs to kill. Besides the Powers would not let
her run amok among the timelines. And she does their will quite
well. Incidentally, Their will coincides with ours so we can pull
off a few agents to reassign to the real trouble areas."

    The woman sighed and read the report again. A strange look
crossed her face as she reached the bottom of the page. Amusement
warred with horror on her face as she looked at her companion.

    "This is her new assignment?"

    "Ayup. It will be quite interesting to see how that works
out."

    "You can say that again." The woman said with a smile and
the couple laughed at the thought of how Elsa was going to get
out of this one.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    You feel the driving rain on your skin, trying to blink
away the raindrops mixed with blood as you watch your opponent.
Breathing hard, you feel all your wounds, the ache of your
muscles from the longest duel you've ever fought.

      The slash on your thigh. The forehead slice that almost
spilled your brains on the cold stone of the dark castle. Your
pained biceps as you hold your swords in a ready stance that you
yourself created: a rapier of the Elizabethan style in your
right, point aimed at your opponent, the ancient katana that was
forged by Masamune in your left, held level with your eyes. The
stinging slash across your heaving breasts and the three other
masterful strokes that had torn your blouse shirt were starting
to bother you. The random thought that quite a few young men
would have given a lot of money to see you in dressed in less
goes through your mind. You ignore it.

    The slice on your back when she had managed to get behind
you started to itch. The various other cuts and slashes, along
your arms, forearm, legs, a slice that almost ham stringed you
were starting to heal. If it were another opponent they'd have
healed up by now. But you were fighting a goddess, someone that
could deal wounds to you that would not heal as quickly as they
would have if you were hit by other mortals.

    You yourself are a goddess in your own right. Mostly a
goddess, to be honest about it. You had absorbed most parts of a
godhead. The only piece left was kept by the goddess in front of
you. Take her down and you can go home. Finally go home.

    Your Family might be crazy nutcases, but they were family,
and you loved them a lot. And you missed them along with your
friends. And the mostly peaceful life that you led. The bitch is
going to die and you are going to go home.

    You had fought for three days, unleashing your most
powerful attacks during the first two days. Ki blasts, ki
strikes, spells, magic, divine energies were let loose. The
devastated landscape around the castle were proof enough to that
fact. Mountains leveled, forests burned, gigantic furrows plowed
by powers that were not meant for mortals could be seen for miles
around. The smoking remains of the other towers of the castle
added more evidence to the amount of power that both you and your
opponent had unleashed. Miraculously, the stone walkway that was
dueling ground was still intact. You could feel the strength of
the stones through your heavy leather boots, feel the energies
divine that was running through them to keep them whole and
cohesive.

    Your ears are bombarded by the harsh pitter-patter of rain
on the stones. You feel the tatters of your shirt move in the
howling wind. You feel the tightness of your trousers, tight
enough to hug the feminine curves of your legs and hip, but loose
enough to give you the mobility for your attacks. You are panting
hard, feeling all the aches and pains of your body, yet also in a
strange way you do not feel them. For a day now, after exhausting
both your reserves you and the your adversary attacked physically
and using lower level techniques to try and finish this fight.
For a day, you have suffered painful sword thrusts, stinging
slashes, bone breaking kicks and body blows and for a day you
have not fallen.

    You watch your opponent, yards away, above the point of
your rapier. She did not give you all these wounds without
receiving her own. You can see the slight limp, the horrid gash
along the side of her face, almost bisecting her eye, the bruise
in her jaw from the rising crescent kick you gave her. You can
see the glow in her eyes. She is a goddess. You are a mortal. But
you were a mortal with half of her godhead. You were her equal
and you needed to win.

    Thunder crashed and alabaster white lightning whipped
across the sky down to the ground. She took advantage of it and
attacked, crossing the space between you in the blink of an eye.
Your thin rapier somehow managed to deflect her long sword while
you sent the Masamune for a thrust. A matching katana swept the
attack away, her foot coming up in a blur hoping to catch your
chin. A backward leap. The clanging of swords, katana to long
sword, rapier to katana. The rasp of metal.

    The sound of boots landing on stone. Rushing forward. Heavy
breathing as you glare at her scarlet-gold eyes, her horribly
beautiful face, majestic and terrible, framed by hair as black as
your own and the cuts and bruise that you managed to land on her
visage in the past three days.

    Break. Turn. Parry. Riposte. A de otcho of the Spanish
school met hidari-kesa-giri, while numero cinco was deflected by
the Waving Fan. An elbow bends to deliver a pommel strike.
Dancing backwards. Heavy breathing and the dripping of rain from
wet hair, mixed with the blood of a goddess and mortal who sought
to become a goddess.

    A treize of the French met the Claws of the Tiger, while
the Threading of the Needle was dodged and counteracted by a
sentro. The Solar Explosion met the Immovable Oak while foot met
thigh in a leg block for an axe kick. Whirling Dervish was
countered by the Attack of the Wasps. Parry. Contrata. De
Astarloa�s unstoppable thrust was avoided by a swift bound to the
left, counter attacking with suichyoku-giri and with Cat�s Swipe.
Only a hastily executed World Emraces All strike stops them. A
swift turn to face the opponent and the Thousand Feints attack is
executed. She ignores all the feints and finds the true attack.
You break and then come again at each other. Slash. Parry.
Thrust. Riposte. Feint. Slash. Thrust. A sword-breaking strike is
dodged instead of blocked. Ekis from escrima. Redonda, twin
strikes at the same place. Doblete, two strikes disguised as one
slash. Crouch and foot sweep. Roll to avoid the descending heel
of the axe kick. Rising upward in a double rising crescent with
rapier and katana. Dodge. Slash. Masamune meets Masamune.
Damascus steel meets Toledo steel. Once again you are face to
face. You can see the slashes on her tattered tunic, the bleeding
from her trousers. Her eyes glow as a scarlet-gold and you know
your own glow, except they were glowing only scarlet. You both
disengage, leaping away from each other, powered by both strong
legs and powerful arm muscles, landing yards away.

    You know you have not been wounded, but your wounds are
starting to take their effect. Adrenaline can only do so much.
Your black trousers and boots, your tattered white shirt that was
now dyed with your red blood. Your mestiza-white skin, the
product of being descended from Spanish, Chinese, British,
Japanese bloodlines mixing with the proud Malayan blood of the
Family, was dirtied by blood and dirt. Your eyes, once normal,
now glowed a dark scarlet, almost black. You smile wryly at the
thought, your face showing an emotion other than pain for the
past three days.


    Le blanc, le noir et le rouge. Favorite colors since
childhood.

    The white, the black and the red. You know that you and
your opponent are both waiting for someone to make a mistake. A
gap in the defenses. And you�ve beer trying to make each other
make mistakes. But you finally figured out how to successfully do
it. You both know each now, after three days of fighting, you
know each other well enough to know a trap by the other.

      But what if the trap was disguised as a mistake? Just a
slight gap. A small hole. Small enough to be mistaken for fatigue
or for desperation. I still had one thing going for me, you think
to yourself as you straighten yourself and stand at cavalier, a
stance taught to you by that old bastard Montignard. It looked
like as if you were posing heroically for a statue hence the
name. My greatest advantage of all, you think to yourself as you
draw all the reserves of strength you have, is that she is a
goddess. And that I am human.

    You smile an evil smile, raise your rapier up to your face
for a swordsman�s salute: the flats of the blade facing you and
your adversary. She understands, even through the driving rain.
She goes into a relaxed stance, similar to your own. She knows
this will be the last pass. Life or death will be decided in this
one. You have gone many time to that place between life and
death, the level where true masters and mistresses of the sword
fight, where all is decided in a single moment and you�ve come
back ten time more than that old dirty vagabond Musashi has. You
prepare myself once again for that ride to hell�s mouth and
heaven�s gate. You whisper the words your father taught you, when
your rattan sticks were out and you two were to go at each other
with body, mind and spirit, combined.

    �In nomine patri, et filli, espiritu sancti��

    The words left your mouth barely a whisper, a latin oracion
for arnisadors of the Family, for all who practice the art of
escrima in the Family. It relaxes and gives strength, though the
priest at the convent you were confined in when you were younger
once told you it was total gibberish. Your grip on your katana
was the way your sensei taught you, thumb and index finger
holding lightly, neither lightly nor tightly by the middle finger
and the ring and little fingers hold tightly, no slackness in the
hand that holds the katana. The Masamune is held at your side,
the arm relaxed, point downwards. The rapier in your hand is held
in the Spanish style, a remnant of your arnis training. It is
still in the swordsman�s salute in the blind spot between your
eyes.

    Lighting and thunder roll and crash in the heavens once
again and once again, you and the goddess meet in clang of blades
and begin your final dance. You katana and rapier are blurs, a
sight mirrored by your opponent�s blades. Slash. Thrust. Slash.
Deflect. Dodge. Parry. Riposte. Slash. Thrust. After the thrust
you change your sword style from European to Oriental. Shaolin
sword style met with Shaolin sword style. Then Japanese, Ganryu
style mixed with Niten Ichiryu clashing with pure Niten Ichiryu.
Then Kali style met the Mantis Sword. All styles having the mark
of personal modification and sometimes even original creations.

    After another near miss from your opponent, you put your
plan into motion. Going into a style that you rarely used, you
pressed the attack. The Style of Deadly Flower, as you called it,
was a sword style creation of yours that you rarely used. Mostly
because it made you look stupid. Beautiful graceful movements,
which left large holes in your defense, and insane stances that
were outwardly more visually appealing than deadly. For the
earlier parts of this final attack, you had been pretending
fatigue, intentionally slowing down, making almost fatal
mistakes. This was the culmination of all the earlier acts.

     For this performance you changed the style. The Deadly
Flower, instead of leaving large holes was now leaving only a
small one. A direct straight strike to the heart. Not just that.
That gap in your defense alone would be too suspicious. No, it
appeared and disappeared as you changed from stance to stance,
from attack to attack. Your opponent was good. Very good. Soon
she will notice the rhythm. Soon she will see the pattern. Then
she will see the hole.

    Then she will strike. Then you will strike after her
attack.

    The Rose Blooming was met by the Stone Wall. The Lotus
Blossom clashed with Removing The Fly�s Wings. Lily In The Field.
Sunflower Follows The Sun. Fragrance Of Poppies. Bending of
Daisies. All of them countered. You are pushing her, leaving her
no chance to attack except for one, no other part to strike at
except for a solitary spot. You see the glow in her eyes and you
know she will break soon.

    You see the exultation in her face, the look of victory
that you have seen countless times on many a duel�s victor, a
sight that has been seen on your face also. And you know she is
going to take the bait.

    You screw all of your strength up and wait for the moment
you set in your rhythm for the opening. Tulip Bursting gives her
the opportunity and the katana goes in for a thrust, long sword
sweeping backwards for the follow-up decapitation strike, the
true killing blow.

     You feel the point thrust in between your breasts, cut
flesh, crack bone, lance through the heart.

      You ignore the pain as a pain comes up from your chest. You
force yourself to drop to your knees, look up at her surprised
face. Then biting your lips as the pain reached up to engulf you,
forcing yourself to stay conscious. Your powerful leg muscles
pistoning up, forcing the katana to continue its journey through
your heart, guiding it through one of your lungs with a sidewise
turn, feeling it graze a rib and come through your back, until
the tsuba is in the valley between your breasts.

      Your katana does an obscure maneuver, Flicking Open The
Fan, slicing the hand and forearm that held the katana that was
embedded in your body and the long sword. The Elizabethan
slashing rapier goes for an upwardly tilted atake numero cuatro
from your style of escrima, slicing her neck so cleanly that the
head only fell off when her body had dropped dead to the cold
flagstones of the stone walkway between the devastated towers of
the castle.

    You are losing blood quickly and the katana still in your
heart is rending the life giving muscle every time it pumped. The
only reason you are still alive because of the godhead you had
obtained. Forcing yourself to move, you feel the metallic tang of
your blood in your mouth and knew you had moments to act.
Gathering your remaining strength you reach for the goddess� head
while your left hand plunged between her headless body�s breasts.
Cracking bone and tearing flesh with bare hands, your blurry
vision soon avails you the sight of her heart and brain. Motes of
scarlet and gold seem to spiral upwards from these two seats of
power.

    Only one last thing to do.

    You open your mouth and put her heart to your mouth and
start to chew.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

    I wake up in a cold sweat. Haven�t had that dream in a long
time. I look around and breath in and out the way my sensei
taught me once, to attain focus. I look to the place in between
my rather nice pair of breasts (it wasn�t me who said that) to
see the scar. Pulling the damn thing out was twice as painful
than receiving it in the first place. I have a dozen other scars,
but mostly because of vanity I kept them as mementos of war. The
facial scars however I removed with the help of my power. Rather
flippant but as my mother always used to tell me, a woman can
have whatever body she wants, but the face must always be clear
and smooth.

    The room at the inn was quite comfortable, or as
comfortable Tokugawa era Japan can give. I slept in the nude,
discarding my white yukata for the fresh caress of the wind,
though for most people it must be quite cold. Being a goddess
does have its perks, you know.

      I smile as I look over to my travelling clothes for this
assignment, a red and white kimono and a black obi, a black
folding fan with the kanji of death displayed prominently on the
top leaf. There were other kanji and ideograms on it but they
were within the fan itself. I sighed as I decided to go to sleep
once again.

      Lying back on my futon, I lightly caress my thighs, run up
my smooth stomach, tracing most of my scars, thinking of my
little mission here. All the people involved, especially the one
they called the Hitokiri Battousai, were all known to me. I knew
the anime and manga, of course, but still there were holes in the
information that I remember from watching and reading the series.
I will need to look for more information on the actors of this
particular play and see what part I am to play.

      I felt an almost electric rush as I touched the scar that
ran diagonally from my left breast to the right, almost missing a
nipple. Tomorrow I visit an old friend, or more like a servant,
concerning my current assignment and maybe I can get a little
satisfaction on the side.

    I arch my back, stretch like a cat and close my eyes,
trying to find rest behind closed eyes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    Hiko Seijuro the thirteenth was the reigning master of one
of the deadliest sword arts known to man, the Hiten Mitsurugi
Ryu. His training has made him probably one of the most dangerous
men on earth.

    And Hiko Seijuro, was at the moment, very afraid.

    He didn�t show it, of course. Nothing changed from the
arrogant visage on his face, but considering who he faced that
mask of arrogance was inches away from breaking.

    The woman had entered silently, without him feeling her.
The sliding wooden door behind her was closed. She probably
didn�t use it. Woman?, Seijuro thought contemptuosly, this was no
woman. She was a monster. He well remembered what this woman did
all those years ago.

    The woman that was object of Hiko�s hidden fear did not
look remarkable. She looked, for all respects and purposes, quite
normal. Her jet-black hair cut short in a mannish style framed an
attractive face with eyes that glinted strangely in candlelight,
eyes that seemed to be both gaijin and Japanese at the same time,
and a mouth that was tilted in a smile. Her skin was light, white
enough to be a courtesan�s. It was quite indeterminable whether
this woman was a gaijin or a woman born of Japan.

    Her red kimono with a white flower design managed to hug
the figure beneath it. The black obi was tied in a simple manner,
the knot in the back seemed to be a bit loose. The lady had a
black fan, more like a tessen in design, and Hiko could see kanji
and various other ideograms written in red ink that he couldn�t
recognize. He could see the words �Death�, �Vengeance�, �Blood�,
�Battle�, �Blade� and various other warlike words. The red ink
seemed to glint like blood in weak light of the candle. Hiko
moved his eyes from the fan and looked at the face, a face that
had not aged a day since he first saw it when he was a disciple
under the twelfth Hiko Seijuro.

    �So, Hiko-chan, how did you find out?� There was amusement
in the woman�s voice as she moved towards the small table and
knelt as if she was going to attend a tea ceremony.

    �I asked my master. And he told me of you, Lady of the
Black Fan. That you visit every disciple and give them your
blessing. As was the ancient agreement.� Hiko was stiff when he
mentioned this, remembering that night long ago, when he met this
woman. �If you are looking for my disciple, I have none.�

    The smile on the lips of the woman widened dangerously. The
only thing that Hiko could compare that smile to was a katana,
bare and drawn, ready to draw blood. �There is no need to lie,
Hiko-chan. I know of young Himura. He has offered many a
sacrifice to me with blade, though unknowingly.�

    At the mention of his wayward disciple�s name, Hiko�s face
hardened. �He is my student no more. And I do not regret that
fact. The kid was an idiot from the beginning holding on to his
ideals.�

    The Lady of the Black Fan clucked her tongue. She fanned
herself with her fan, the red kanji on it seeming to glow. �You
are sour at his abandonment of you, Hiko-chan. You love the child
like a son. A son that you will never have.�

    Hiko stiffened once again and remembered the Lady�s
Blessing. She ignored him and continued. �I need information on
young Himura. Tell me about him.�

    The tone of her voice brooked no refusal. Hiko could not
refuse, the power in that voice that hinted at sake and blood. He
talked and she listened. Of Himura and how he found the young
boy. Of the years of training. Of the boy�s faults and stupidity.
And after severe coaxing, the boy�s virtues and triumphs.

      Everything. Every minute detail that he could remember he
told the Lady of the Black Fan.

      The candle was only a stump on the table when he had
finished. It had been a stump on the table for so long that Hiko
suspected his visitor of using her power to keep it alive. The
Lady of the Black Fan was one who manipulated things in her
favor, whether it was the weather, the people, or the world
around her.

    He had finished and he looked to the woman across the
table. She seemed satisfied at what he had told her. She stood up
and addressed him with an enigmatic smile on her lips.

    �That was well-done, Hiko-chan. That is what I needed to
hear.�

    �You will be leaving then?�

    �No, not yet.� The smile on her face was now a grin and a
hungry light could be seen in her eyes.

    She moved toward him. He could not move, paralyzed, by her
power or his fear he did not know. He could see her right hand
flick the fan closed and her left hand reaching for the knot at
the back of her obi.

    The piece of cloth fell and the kimono followed soon after.
Hiko found out that she wasn�t wearing anything underneath the
hard way. His mind flashed back to that long ago night when he
had first received her Blessing.

      He had barely survived the ordeal.

      She was now on his lap, removing the ever-present white
cloak trimmed with red. The flame of the candle went out in a
sudden gust of wind that came from nowhere.

    �You have served me well, Hiko-chan.� Hiko Seijuro could
feel her hands slip into his gi and he could feel them awake
something he thought long buried. Her lips were by his ear, the
satin feel of them almost driving him mad. His hand started to
come up and they felt the smooth skin and the silky hair.

    �And you know as well as I do, Hiko-chan, that I reward
those who serve me well.�

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    I nuzzle against the thirteenth Hiko Seijuro�s chest,
feeling the hardness of them. I usually don�t go for large manly
muscles. I usually look for lithe bodies that are built more for
running than weight-lifting. But once in awhile, I kind of like
to feel the solidity of a very masculine chest. I looked up from
my rather comfortable position and feel him breath normally.
Asleep or very tired. I opt for asleep since I usually have that
effect on men when my seals are totally broken.

    I slip off of him and out of the futon that we somehow
managed to end up in. The table, the floor, then the futon. I ran
a hand through my hair as I arched my back to get all the kinks
out.

    �You are leaving again.�

    Hmmm�I change my opinion of the current master of Hiten
Mitsurugi Ryu as I call my clothes to me. �You are truly a
master, Hiko-chan. Usually men are totally worn out when I give
them my Blessing.�

    �If it is any consolation, I cannot move any of my limbs
and it is taking all my power to speak. How many times?�

    I stretch a bit more as my kimono slides up my body along
with my obi. �Forty-five.�

    �Fort- Shouldn�t it be dawn now?�

    I chuckle at Hiko-chan�s consternation. �I am the Lady of
the Black Fan, Hiko Seijuro. I am one of the kami, a goddess, I
slowed down the time we spent in this hovel of yours to a mere
hour.�

    I heard Hiko-chan sigh. �You have spoiled me once again, my
Lady.�

    I smile and shake my head. Masters of the Hiten Mitsurugi
Ryu either ended up celibate or sex maniacs after I had given
them my Blessing. The celibate ones believed that they could
never find anyone to match my �er� skills and were also a bit
afraid of the sexual experience as a whole. The sex maniacs
usually tried to duplicate the experience of my Blessing.

      I usually only do this once with a master, but there have
been exceptions like little Hiko-chan here. I remember him being
a somewhat scrawny when I first gave him my Blessing. Almost
killed him that time. So I wisely decided not to bring some of my
toys this time. Probably have him turn into a babbling wreck in
the middle of it when he sees them again.

    �Will you be giving your Blessing to my ungrateful
student?� Tiredness was creeping into Hiko-chan�s voice. Any
moment now and he�ll quite probably pass out.

    �I do not know, Hiko-chan. I will see. But before I go,
another gift to you, Hiko Seijuro, my faithful servant. A
prophecy. Your student will come back and you must teach him the
Ougi of the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryu.�

    �Why? So that I may die?�

    �No. Your land is on the brink of a new age and in that new
age, enemies who seek to destroy your land will be many. He will
have need of all that you and I can teach him. His destiny is to
regain his innocence, to expiate his sins, to help keep this new
age that he helped bring forth. And I will help him do that.
Farewell, Hiko Seijuro. We will meet again when you have finally
fallen to the Final Enemy.�

    I look to the futon for a response. Nothing but a snore.

      Great.

      Men always fall asleep when I talk like that. Come to think
of it, women too.

    I flick my fan open and smile. Mortals are so amusing.

      Reality bends to my will as I walk the shadows to my inn.
Time to bring the next phase of the plan into motion.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       Shaku Arai was a sword smith. When you are a sword smith,
you tend to meet very interesting individuals who wish for you to
make them swords. His encounters with various people ranged from
the mothers or fathers of honorable samurai to the most dangerous
murdering madmen in the country, the hitokiri of the various
factions. He had met men and women who were stone-cold killers,
each with their own peculiar madness. Even the hitokiri of the
Ishin Shishi, the Battousai, had his own mania. He was no
stranger to blood and violence, to the coldness and dementia of
master murderers.

       But this woman before him was the strangest he had ever
seen in a long time. A woman with hair as black as the coals in
his furnace cut in the style of men, dressed in a kimono of red
and white, the design of white flames on a blood scarlet
background. An obi that was as black as its owner�s hair tied at
the back in an elegant yet simple manner. The white yukata peeked
out on her neckline, emphasizing the feminine curve of her neck.
A neck that Shaku noted as having an almost invisible scar or
were those many scars not just one? The woman had insisted on
anonymity and Shaku had agreed considering the times that they
live in. Secrecy was sometimes necessary in dealing such as
these.

      A female hitokiri? A good guess, since her fan was a
tessen, decorated with kanji that he could not puzzle out. Mostly
because its wielder fanned herself with it. The red ink glinted
faintly in the reddening light of the afternoon, making the kanji
seem to be written in blood. It was obviously a formidable weapon
but what would a female hitokiri wish from a sword maker. The
women did not usually use katana, often they use long polearms,
yari or even bow and arrow. As long as it had a longer reach than
a sword, Shaku considered them as women�s weapons.

    Along with his services as a sword maker, Shaku Arai also
occasionally acted as a polisher for swords. Polishing swords of
killers and meeting the men that held these deadly masters of
death, he had a feel for men like them.  But this woman was
different.

    She was a killer. Shaku had no doubts about that now as he
looked clearly into those eyes. Eyes of a wolf or a lethal
predator. But what he could not understand was the warmth in
those eyes. As if she was doing the world a favor by killing.
There was also amusement and tenderness, along with a faint tinge
of sadness that was mixed in with the two emotions, in those
eyes, that Shaku Arai had the pleasure of seeing many times in
his life. They were like his mother�s eyes when he was young,
guiding his steps, teaching him the lessons in life that his
father had no time to teach him. He had also seen them on his
wife�s face when she was with his son. Strange.

    A killer with a mother�s eyes, sad yet happy. As if the
bringing of death was a duty that had to be done and that it was
more of a favor to the one you were killing. She could be a
mother herself for all the old sword maker knew, killing people
to be paid a few ryo to feed her children. But she looked too
young for that.

    �Shaku-san,� the woman finally began, breaking the silence
between them. �I would like to commission two swords.�

    Shaku sighed. More swords to make the streets scarlet with
blood. All they ask for is swords, swords and swords. Swords that
killed better than any other sword. He could not blame them. He
was a master and you always go to the best if you want the best.

    The woman was amused at the sigh. �Shaku-san, do you tire
of making flawed swords?�

    Shaku stiffened. His glare was pure outrage. Flawed swords?
What was this woman talking about? �Woman, how dare yo-�

    She raised her left hand to cut off his angry statement.
�You do not understand the statement I see. Let me finish.�

    The sword smith sat back, trying to not make the rage that
burned within to show on his face, yet he still trembled at what
the woman accused him of doing. Flaws in his swords? Swords that
he had worked his heart to create?

    The insolent woman was not dismayed at angering the old
man. She leisurely closed her fan and lay it by her side. Then
she began.

    �Shaku-san, do not be angered. All swords in the world are
flawed, you see. So all you sword-makers are making flawed
swords. Even all of the great Masamune�s creations are flawed.
Since the beginning it has been flawed.�

     Shaku Arai narrowed his eyes as he finally understood the
woman�s reason for calling his swords flawed. A flaw? In all
swords? Since the beginning? Impossible. The look on his face
told it all. The woman�s smile was amused as he asked him the
question.

    �What do you think is the flaw?�

    Shaku Arai was silent. He was calling upon all his skill.
Where was the woman�s alleged flaw? In the working? In the
making? In the design? In the hilt? Or maybe in the blade?

    A long moment as the red sunset dappled the room with its
burgundy and gold light. The woman waited patiently, unmoving and
keeping her smile as one of the greatest sword makers in Japan
searched for a flaw in the swords he made. A few moments more and
he shook his head.

    �My Lady, I do not see this flaw you say. Tell it to me so
I might know?�

    The woman nodded. �What were swords first meant to do,
Shaku-san?�

     Shaku Arai recited the old saying he inherited from his
master. �To protect the Emperor and the land, to fight and
destroy the evils of the land and to enforce the will of the
Emperor.�

     The woman shook her head in a sign of disagreement. She
stopped and looked into the sword maker�s eyes. �The sword was
first meant to protect. That the strong may shield the weak. That
justice may have a strong hand to protect those who cannot
protect themselves. That is what the sword was first made for.
Now, do you see the flaw.�

     The smith was even more confused. �I still do not
understand. Enlighten me more please.�

     The woman made a slight tilting of her head. �The sword
was meant to protect. But how can it protect when it also kills?
What was originally meant for protection was now turned against
its own purpose for the hand that wields the blade determines its
use.�

      Shaku pondered on this statement and reflected on his
swords. �But if this is true then all swords are flawed for all
of them can kill.�

      The woman nodded gravely. �For a sword that protects must
never kill.�

      �But the blade itself is the flaw. The cutting edge is
what kills�� Shaku trailed off. Continuing his thought. The
cutting edge�the cutting edge�then in a moment of clarity, an
epiphany, that Shaku himself saw the true sword. The flawless
sword as it was meant to be. It was a vision so clear in his mind
that he could swear that the kami themselves had a hand in this
thought. The beatific expression on his face must have revealed
his thoughts to the woman across him.

      �Exactly, Shaku Arai, the flawless sword. The sword that
never kills, that can only protect.�

       �A sakabatou,� Shaku whispered under his breath. �A sword
with a reversed edge. It would be difficult but��

      �It is possible,� the woman said, finishing his sentence
for him. �I will commission two such swords. One for the Hitokiri
Battousai, one for yourself as your final masterpiece. Your
legacy to the world and your way to redeem yourself in your
eyes.�

       �A sakabatou for Himura-san?!� Shaku�s surprise was quite
evident in his voice. �But-�

       �On the day that you finish the first sakabatou wait for
Himura on the road that lead out of Kyoto to the south. Bring the
sakabatou and give it to him, for he will need it on journey.�

        Shaku considered this statement for a moment. He looked
at the woman across the small table and asked a question.

        �Is the young Himura your son, my lady? Or brother?�

        The lady only arched an eyebrow and smiled. �Tell none of
what happened in this meeting to anyone. I will pay for the
swords with gold and a promise that your family will be taken
care of while me and mine are still abroad.�

      Shaku smiled an inscrutable smile. �Will you not ask for a
sakabatou for yourself?�

      The smile of the woman became a mixture of sadness and
amusement. She stood up and addressed the gray-haired smith
before her.

      �I do not protect, Shaku Arai. I kill. I bring vengeance.
And at times. I even teach and guide. I do not protect. I avenge.�

      With this final statement, the woman seemed to flow into
one of the many shadows left by the light of the almost gone sun.
And she was gone.

      The very next day, Shaku Arai started to work on the
flawless sword.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    When it comes down to it, this entire mess I�m in is Rob
Heinlein�s fault. Yeah, him. The sci-fi guy. Starship Troopers.
Time Enough For Love. Number Of The Beast. Stranger In A Strange
Land. Yup. All of it his fault.

    So the next time I see the idiot, a fair occurrence since
I�m a goddess, I�m going to give him a good swift kick in the
nuts.

     I�m a bit harsh on the old fellow. The entire thing isn�t
all that bad. I can kill people. That�s a big plus. Not just
people, I can shatter worlds, scourge planets and all that. And
that in my opinion Rob deserves at the very least a kiss for
that. After that, I give him another kick in the place where the
sun doesn�t shine.

    On general principle, of course. Any intelligent woman
who�s read Rob�s works would give him a kick. Besides, Rob makes
that really amusing sound when you crush his nuts with a military
jackboot.

    If I seem a bit sour, that is because I am. Try standing
stark naked in the middle of the night by a cold pond about to do
one of the most painful things you can ever experience. My
clothes are piled at a nearby tree, along with some of the things
I will be using for the next few years.

    A little explanation is in order. I am not exactly a normal
goddess. I was formerly human and mortal. I became a goddess via
a rather unnatural means. Usually mortals who become gods or
goddesses usually have to die first, recreating the soul of a
mortal into a divine configuration. There are other means, like
that little wish Chris Angel and Brett Handy made in their
respective realities. That made Ygdrassil reconfigure them into
divinities.

      Me, I didn�t have that option. I absorbed my predecessor�s
godhead via ingestion and other hard ways. I received the power
but I wasn�t reconfigured. So I technically have an incomplete
divine configuration, which mean I am still part human.
Nitpickers usually call me a demigod because of that, but no
demigod could do some of my rather frightening accomplishments.

    But to come back to why I was standing nude by a pond,
because of my rather unique situation I have to do things the
hard way. I was going to change into one of my disguises for this
particular part of my assignment, a more motherly look than my
current one. And I was going to feel a lot of pain and probably
release a lot of blood.

    Hell, delaying the inevitable is still delaying the
inevitable. Sighing, I gather my power. Focus my will. Shape it
into what I need to get done. I was going to age myself,
considering how painful flesh shaping is for me aging my body
would be far less painful way to disguise myself. I could do an
illusion, but illusions have that percentage of breakdown that I
don�t like. Better make it as real as possible.

    My power was focused and shaped. All it needed now was my
release word. I chose this place because I knew I was going to
scream, no matter what I tried. The shock on my body will
probably be quite devastating. Though I will assuredly survive, I
don�t know in how much pain I will be afterwards. Well, here goes
nothing. Luckily, unlike some gods my release words were always
monosyllabic.

    �Age.�

    I felt the divine energy ripple under my skin and course
through my veins. I felt my eyes glow their usual dark scarlet.
Then it hit me.

    �AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!�

    My scream must have been audible for miles around. I felt
two and a half decades of accumulated biological time crash into
my body like an avalanche. My insides twisted and I vomited.
Hormones that were supposed to be pumped into me over a period of
twenty-five years were released in a matter of seconds. I felt
all the aches and pains of growing old in a few moments. And
probably the most irritating of all, two and a half decades of my
monthly cycle came in a period that lasted for five brief
seconds. Let�s just say that I lost enough blood that would have
probably filled a good-sized bucket. Torrent isn�t the word I�d
use to describe what happened.

    And as suddenly as it began it stopped. I fell to my knees
and crawled towards the water to clean myself. At least when I
change back to my favorite age it won�t be as painful. The
reverse of the aging powers I used does the opposite. It is as
delicious as this was painful. The sacrifices that one must make
for one�s work.

    I inspected my body as I clean it of most of the blood and
vomit. Most female members of my Family don�t age well, but it
seems I am an exception. My breasts sag a little, but that is to
be expected. Wrinkles and laugh lines have appeared where I
expected them. My hair was streaked with gray and was very long.
I used a little of the power and a bladed hand to cut it off
right under my shoulders. Damn, I hate it when my hairstyles are
totally ruined by my powers. I could use my power to just return
it to my mannish cut, but that wouldn�t fit the image that I will
have to give young Himura. On the overall, I look like a woman
entering her fifties, aging gracefully like all women should,
keeping my womanly figure to boot. Maybe I could sneak over to
the Aoiya and get some nookie with Okina-chan. Hmm�I�ll think
about that later. Have more things to do right now.

    I had saved a little of my blood from my little accumulated
period. I used the blood to draw arcane characters on my forehead
and in the middle of my breasts, focusing my power into them.
Within moments my eyes glowed and the characters disappeared,
absorbed into my skin. Temporary seals, enough to hold most of my
powers out while easily breakable when truly necessary. I don�t
use my powers much anyway, except for stuff like this and the
peripheral stuff, like enhanced speed, enhanced senses, magical
affinity and ki access. I love the perks of this job. Another
reason I don�t use my powers is because they make me soft and I
have always liked the mortal way of doing things.

    I emerge form the pond and walk to my clothes. New clothes
for a new identity. A proper looking black and white kimono in a
stripe design with a red obi, along with decent underclothes.
String to tie my hair into a bun. Proper underwear, nice and
motherly. Nice wooden travelling slippers along with the white
socks. And a red oak walking staff, worn smooth with use, four
feet in length, as long as a regular katana. With a snick, I pull
the hidden blade out. I nod in approval at the blade. Good and
sharp, like I remember it. I most probably won�t use the blade,
but as always plan for contingencies.

    As I finish dressing, I look up at the full moon. A few
days from now, the events that lead to Himura Kenshin�s long ten-
year journey will come to a head. And he will leave Kyoto.

    I will be waiting on the road.

    I walk off. Sealing up most of my powers sealed away my
ability to walk the shadows. And so I went back to Kyoto the hard
way.


Okay. It wasn�t exactly that hard. I cheated a little.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    Himura Kenshin felt the scar as he sat at the roadside
teashop. It was still a bit fresh. It had opened a few times in
the past few days as he walked out of Kyoto, out of a city that
held so many painful memories for him.

    Shaku Arai was waiting for him when he left. How he knew he
was going to use that road, how he knew that he had broken his
sword and had walked out of his former life as a hitokiri,
Kenshin didn�t have time to ask. More like he was too surprised
to ask. Shaku-san had gone away immediately, giving him no chance
to overcome his shock.

    Now, days later, he looked to the scabbard he held at his
side. A sakabatou, a sword with a reverse edge. Shaku-san had a
very strange though appropriate sense of humor. A sword that can
never kill with a man that has vowed never to kill. With that
thought, another question rose in the young man�s mind. It takes
months to craft a normal katana, more so a sakabatou. How did he
know to craft that sword? How would Shaku-san know that these
things would happen to him?

    �Young man, your wound seems to be bleeding. Do you need
help?� He heard a woman address him. He had been too deeply in
thought to notice the woman�s approach. He looked up.

    It was a woman, with streaks of silver gray in her hair
that had been tied up in a bun. Kind eyes that seemed to twinkle
with amusement, though they had a coldness that he had only seen
in the toughest hitokiri. A black and white kimono that hugged a
figure that was still quite curvy, even for the woman�s obvious
age. A red obi wound around her and was tied in a complicated
manner that held the kimono tight. In her left hand was a straw
travelling hat, in the right and oaken walking staff smooth with
years of obvious use. Something tickled at his memory at the
sight the lady before her.

    �Young man, you seem to be a bit stunned. I repeat. Do you
need help?� The woman pulled out a cloth handkerchief and put it
to his cheek. �If you keep on looking at me slack-jawed at me
like that, young man, I�ll help you whether you want it or not.�

    Kenshin stammered out a response. �I� I�I�m sorry. But for
a moment, I thought I knew you.�

    The matronly lady gave him a smile. �You might know me at
that. I have been travelling a long time and I have met many
persons on my path. Watashi wa Kuroshiro Akai desu. Dozo
yoroshiku.� The woman said and bowed in the woman�s manner, hands
in front, left hand over right.

    �Himura Kenshin desu. Dozo yoroshiku.�

    �Well, Himura-san, your eyes are troubled. May I sit with
you and help you in your problems?�

    �Um�of course, Kuroshiro-san.�

    The woman sat across him and they began their conversation.
By the end of it several hours later, Himura Kenshin and
Kuroshiro Akai were travelling companions, the young man not
willing to let such a kindly old lady travel the roads of Japan
alone, in these troubled times.

    And that is how Himura Kenshin�s tutelage under the woman
known as Kuroshiro Akai began.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Next episode on Sensei:

Narrator: Elsa under the guise of Kuroshiro Akai has began the
schooling of Himura Kenshin on how not to kill people. Though
there are a few false starts.

    ELSA(VO): Don�t worry about anything, Himura-san.
    Castrating  them is much better than killing them, ne?

Narrator: Also in the next episode, more sex with RK cast
members!

    ELSA(VO): Well, Aoshi-chan, Okina has requested me to teach
    you how to be a man! (seductive voice) Come over here, boy!

Narrator: Saitoh Hajime meets his psychotic mother-in-law!

    ELSA(VO): Tokio, you got married and didn�t invite me!?

Narrator: And find out what other crap Elsa had to do with the RK
timeline!

    ELSA(VO): They want me to WHAT!?

Narrator: All that and more in the next episode of Sensei!

(Elsa in a tight-fitting Chinese gown that has a slit right up to
the hip. Black and white dragons twirling up a background of red
is the design. She is wearing her wire-rim glasses as her eyes
glow a dark scarlet. She smiled her razor-blade smile)

    ELSA: Zettai Unmei Mokushiroku!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Glossary:

Probable obscure terms:

The Family: the unofficial title that the current generation of
    my clan have taken to calling it. Mostly after I called it that.
    Damn, I hate being the oldest of the generation.

Pig and chicken parts: Filipino cuisine has strange members like
    pig blood soup and bruised chickens. We also have the tendency
    to extrct every part of an animal and use it for food. Stems from
    over three centuries of Spanish oppression and, of course, pre-Spanish
    influences.

Metro Manila: The capital of the Philippines and my main stomping ground,
    other than Pangasinan, a province up north, and Panay Island, an island
    in the Visayas region.

Kain: an invitation to eat. Literally, eat. Most Filipinos extend the
invitation
    when you arrive or pass by in the middle of a repast. The common
response
    is saying     that you've already eaten, even if you haven't or you're
about to eat.
    Part of the rather strange ambiguity of the Filipino values system.

Piso: The Philippine monetary system is in pesos. Think it's forty nine
pesos
    to a single dollar right now. So technically, some of the manga I've
been buying
    cost a dollar and a half. I really love having Japanese friends. ^_^

Ate, Tita: More like the Oniichan of the Japanese if anything else. Tita is
used
    if the age difference is rather large. Ate is for a somewhat closer age
difference.

Classes in June: Every year, the Philippine educational system starts in
June and lasts
    until March with summer classes up to May.

Bolo: Really long knife. Really long. And sharp. Trust me.

Albularyo: local healers who are like modern day shamans, combining
Christian belief
    ancient occult and herbal lore. They usually undergo a sacrifice once a
year, usually
    crucifixion, though there are lesser sacrifices.

Chinatown, Quiapo: Chinatown is one of the older parts of Manila and I have
taken
    quite a liking to some of the thing I could dig up there. Quiapo is the
perfect
    example of the flexibility of Philippine Christianity. Herbal
concoctions and religious
    quasi-magical items are sold out front in the church, while you can find
old women
    who would sell prayers and other stuff.

National Library: One of my other haunting grounds and a nice place to
research on
    Philippine history and folklore. Also the alleged location for the
locally dubbed version
    of Fushigi Yuugi being shown on primetime. Damn it, they called Yui by
the name of
    Julie -_-;;;; !!!!

Philipine folk christianity: What my favorite nun at the convent used to
derisively call
    the rather strange version of Catholicism practiced by most Filipinos.
She was
    quite a devout Italian so I pardon her for not understanding, though I
agree with her
    in the estimation. A strange mix of pagan and Catholic, we have customs
that are
    quite strange. Like a chicken blood sacrifice followed by a priest's
blessing to both
    appease and cast out spirits.

Oracion: a latin prayer. Well, they tell me it's latin. Usually used by
local healers for
    magical/holy efficacy. Arnisadors use them as mantras to focus when
meditating.

Paltik: homemade pistol. One-shot and effective. If not well made, however,
could blow
    your hand off. It is usually built around a bullet. Bullets are usually
those for pistols
    but I've seen shotgun shells used, though my uncle has often warned me
that those
    had a better chance of blowing your arm off than putting down an
opponent. Usually
    used by criminals and street gangs in lieue with other simple weapons,
like ice picks
    and that sort of stuff. And I don't keep paltiks at school. At home,
yes. Outside, no.

If there's anything more, just ask, 'kay?

A Longer Afterword


    Well, the last afterword was short since I was feeling another
of my attacks so I hurried that one a bit.

    Anyway, this fic is the result of writer's block and too much SI
fics. And Trevanian and Lustbader. Blame those two idiots, too.

    And put it clearly, once again, Elsa isn't me. Well, she's more
like a version of me. My Family, through rather strange and very
large, is not involved with crime. Though we do occasionally
illegal dealings. The Family is more like a real-life version of
Anne Rice's Family from the Vampire novels, though we don't
have a vampire patron and we aren't extensive. We got like this
since most members have this wanderlust that has them ending
up in foreign countries and really strange places. I have cousins
in Canada, Texas, Hong Kong and some other obscure places.
Whenever it's my birthday I get over thirty overseas calls. I think
we got a new branch in Vietnam since I heard one of my cousins,
an airline pilot, just got married. Damn. More members. ^_^

    Anyway, since I'm the eldest member of my generation, I'll probably
end up as matriarch of the Family when I'm older. So I got some
really weird training from my father and grandfather assisted by uncles
and several granduncles. Now that I'm older and much more informed,
I think the two read a Doc Savage pulp or two. Though I didn't end
up like Pat Savage, I am a rather strange person after that. I know
a lot of martial arts, but I'm not Master grade in any of them. I know
a lot of really weird stuff ranging from literature to science and local
occult stuff. Nonetheless it ended up with me in a convent after one of
the side-effects hit.

    Anyway, my lineage is also mostly true. Granny is Chinese and we have
several lecherous Spanish Franciscans in our line courtesy the Spanish
era. Being a woman in the Philippines during the pre-1900s wasn't exactly
a picnic and their was a fair chance of rape and other unsavory stuff.
And, of course, there is the elders of the Family claim descent from Malayan
Datus, which technically makes me a princess. Yeah, right. ^_^

    After that, the fighting styles for that cute little fight scene are
mostly
real. Spanish fencing styles were absorbed into some of the local martial
arts, especially in escrima, and I got that a lot. Arnis, escrima, and kali
are local fighting arts, technically the same in form but there are
variations
that make them unique. I am also a bit acquainted with a few foreign
weapon arts and I threw them in, too. The Deadly Flower style is quite
real, though not for weapons. It's a variation of silat that is similar to
Drunken-style boxing, with rather stupid-looking moves and insane stances.
They guide the opponent into attacking the opening or gates that
practitioners
leave open and strike, though unlike me, they usually intercept the strikes.

    The character of Elsa in this fic is lot more nastier than the real me.
Well,
I am that nasty actually, if you piss me off, though often times I have the
urge
to just kill people. She is more like the person I want to be. I know I can
kill
people, the only thing stopping me is that I rather dislike the idea of
jail. I like
the idea of hurting people. That's why I sometimes just walk into a training
hall
and ask for sparring match. Also the reason why I love kicking my cousins
and
other blood relatives around. I get a thrill whenever I hit someone or do
some
hurt. But I have excellent self-control and I am a very good actress. I keep
the
mask up. And as a proof to the old law, I am as nice as I am nasty. I
genuinely
like teaching kids. I genuinely love some things and am quite friendly with
my
friends. Too friendly some of them say, since I cuddle up to them way too
much
sometimes. And I usually act really goofy and cute when in their presence.

    This fic is more like catharsis for my darker emotions. It's my chance
to kill
people without getting arrested. So if you need a mass slaughter or a good
villain
that's just doing her job, get Elsa to do it. Just ask permission first. ^_^

    Anyway, now that this is finished, I finally have an idea on how to
finish Pissing
Off Pluto 3 and Two Heavens Part 2. I even started working on my two big
Pluto
works.

    Ja mata ne!

    Elsa Bibat
    Future Clan Matriarch of the Family ^_^

















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