Justice

Follow thy greater's code and words, if not, your own, to all ends.

Courage

A heart, filled of bravery, and devoid of the ways of the foolhardy.

Compassion

Mercy for those who require mercy, blood for those who seek it not.

Honor

Stay to the code one hath set thyself to, as breaking such means losing one's meaning.

Integrity

To adhere to the views of other man is to shackle thine own self.

Respect

Respect thyself, and to others whom are worthy of such.

Self-Control

Be guided by emotion, sin and virtue, not ruled.

Loyalty

To one's greater, to one's family, to one's allies, to one's rival. Least of all to one's self.

The Bushido code.

Indeed, if one is not even loyal to thyself, who art thou?

...

The sword is greater than a simple weapon; an answer to life's questions.

An extension of thine master's hand, guided by wrist.

Care it not whether guilty or innocent blood shed, for be it a mere edge, a weapon.

For blade that forget or refuse to cut be shameful, meaningless, disgraceful. Nay, be it considered a tool at all?

What dost the weapon do when the steel hath no guide, that the master hath mingled far?

Doth it Stay? Perhaps quiver at possibility, the loss of reason for existence?

Or does it go forth into the unknown, guided by merely the wind and the edge?

A wandering sword, a phantom blade-

A lone S̶a̶m̶u̶r̶a̶i̶

....

He didn't know where he was, vision partially obscured.

Drip.

The slight pluck of water resounded throughout the area.

Drip.

His eyes loitered on the single slot above him, mossy cobble that portrayed years of age.

He didn't know what was covering him, only the slow din of the water's constant fall.

Drip.

A faint pause ensued, until it resumed again, a quiet roar within a violent emptiness.

Drip.

Why do I do nothing? Paying attention to such a thing will do me no good.

In a familiar motion, the man lurched upward, swerving his body against gravity.

SLAM

Surprise and slight confusion ensued, a heavy thing that crusted over him thwarting such a simple movement.

His body almost seemed to reject his will, causing his movements to be slothful, creating a sense of doubt, whether his fingers could be fidgeted, much less used.

There was also the fact that he could feel something heavy weighing down, in turn leaving him in an awkward position as he laid still.

If he was captured by the enemy, he'd gladly commit seppuku. Stopping the leak of information through death would prevent torture and the alluring taint of bribery. It could also get rid of his dishonorable stain of not doing so earlier.

However, he didn't know if that was true. A concussion, perhaps?

He shook his head, or what was barely passable for such a notion. His mind was fuzzy, but in a weary way, not damaged. He's felt both sides of the spectrum, so it was natural he should know. At most, he lost a few hours of memory. It would explain why he's so tired, at the very least.

His breathing became humid, claustrophobic.

Whatever was covering his face made his tired irritation a constant companion.

He strained his mind, forcing his aching body to move forward. It groaned in a lacking response under the pressure of the weight, gravity, and the cold of a worn body, which seemed to seep through to the bone with a haze of frost.

But eventually, his skin creaked as he rose upward.

He faltered many times, teetering between whether or not he would lie down again, but he lurked forward ever so slowly, until he could rest on his hands placed behind his back, his legs straight forward.

The first thing he noticed in the slit of vision he had was how dull it was.

The only thing that seemed to give away that there was life were the small patches of green, hopefully moss of some sort and not mold, and plants emitting a small bioluminescent glow on the ceiling. The ground had patches of thick gray jutting out of the ground, while the lighter gray was a smooth surface. He looked down at where he was sitting.

Drip.

Where is that coming from?

He just couldn't find the puddle it was falling on. His mind obscured by such a trivial matter, he looked at the table he was unconscious on moments ago. It was of hard stone, scuffed by marks of the metal which most likely encased him. It was like the one which would come to mind when making a sacrifice for an old Aztecian ritual, without any other design.

He scooted his legs to the ledge, letting them hang off so he could muster strength into his hands for other tasks.

The sight was quite strange.

Red plates overlapped one another to form an intimidating amount of armor, and though it seemed heavy, it was not nearly as weighty as it looked. He could imagine his arms looked much the same. No, he could imagine the rest of what his body looked like. It was the armor that got passed down as an heirloom to the heir of the family. However, this made no sense with the given time frame.

Putting on full armor then making it deep within a cave in a matter of hours? Absurd.

It only made the notion he was kidnapped or captured even more so.

Then what?

His consciousness gnawed at his exhausted mind as his attention flit back and forth between thinking and doing, moving his hands ever closer to remove the helm.

Clink.

It unhooked and fell into his arms, almost falling onto the ground. He thanked whatever luck he had left for such an occurrence. His feeble state would not appreciate any more unfortunate circumstances.

It gave off a noble yet dangerous aura through its hue of deep blood. The sides were layered with slates as was the back to provide a haven for the neck. A design of horns laid flat on the top of the helm, which he knew could be flipped up to appear as such. The face-plate had a slit wrapping around till the edges of a normal person's vision, with hard netting plastered neatly inside to prevent the heads of arrows and projectiles from rupturing his sensory organs. It had a mask that could be put on for excess armor at the cost of sight. It was of the visage of a great oni from lore, as if it feasted upon the organs of 100 foes.

...

Something kept bothering him in the back of his mind.

Drip.

No, it was more than simple irritation, but a matter of a warrior's sense of danger.

Putting himself on guard as much as possible, he continued to survey the room with his now noticeably foggy eyesight to watch for any attackers, but only the silence disturbed his thoughts.

Focusing his will, and slipping the helmet within the crook of one of his elbows, he slid ever so slowly off the podium. As his foot reached the gray surface below, he applied pressure to the limb as he pre-

WHOOSH!

The 'floor' gave way, sucking him into deep abyss as his powerless body succumbed under the torrent of water, the chilling liquid seeping through the cracks between his heavy wargear.

His body flailed as it tried to find balance upon liquid.

The surprise, combined with tight lungs, forced him to inhale the disgusting froth that could barely considered water anymore. His body, weakened, fought hard to resist even such a trifle as getting up, and a task such as this seemed too hard a trial for him.

He couldn't see, so he desperately started clamping his hands against the moss-stone as the slimy substance oozed between his fingers, barely giving a ledge to pull against. With a final resistance, his body was heaved above the surface, his clothes clinging tightly to his body, giving the harsh sensation of adrenaline once more.

Only after safety was reached did he reject the putrid essence, heaving his guts out once more until he stumbled into a half state of sleep and awareness, his mind rejoicing at the mere mention of rest.

His eyes closed, sleep unable to be fought against.

...

Drip.

A familiar wave of noise ushered over him, as if his mind was welcoming and old friend, in a way.

He couldn't tell if he had hypothermia or not, with most of his body dangling in water. He was too numb to tell.

...That's probably not a good sign.

He gave a chuckle that held no strength.

I bet most warriors wouldn't find themselves in a situation like this. No, most people wouldn't either.

His eyes, much clearer now, looked about the room. The water surface was still a bit unsettled, leading him to the conclusion he hadn't been out for long. The piles of rocks turned out to actually be rubble that piled over the water.

He kicked his feet lightly, confirming that they still worked.

It seemed that the water was waist deep, and slightly thicker than water from a murky lake. He could traverse it, but he would need to find warmth quickly.

But then again, there was only one way to move, and that was forward.

He slid back on the stone table to regain his bearings. He gasped as the air made contact with his legs, showing just how cold he had previously been. It was if he could feel the small layer of ice dissolve against his skin, even if the air itself was still frigid.

He already knew he had to move on, especially while he still had adrenaline running through him, but anyone would be hesitant after having a near death experience in waist deep water.

He deeply sighed. He at least should have the willpower to try again.

Once again he leaned over the side, deeply exhaling, before putting his foot on the rock just below the table. It slipped across the degraded surface, but that's only to be expected, who knew how long the stone had been in the water?

Holding onto his one stable ledge, he continued his legs' descent into the chilling solution. His resolve already made, he didn't stop even after frostbite-inducing slime encased him once more.

He had to admit though, it did scare him that the air now felt warm.

He must be too tired to realize the drastic difference in an already cold area.

With a slow, metallic heave, he waded through the water.

The unsettling 'glop’ sound traced his every movement as his numb legs continued to move forward, sheathing them in terrible empty sensation.

He, however, remained vigilant.

He was ooze-slow. He needed to be, being surprised by a sudden drop spells death in capital letters, and it was a fate he'd rather avoid if possible.

The gelatinous mass' resistance worked against him as he sloshed within the tar-water. He could almost see the rise of rotten bubblings throughout.

His eyes looked closer, now almost unsure of himself.

The slime was most certainly not a chemical compound. It should have settled far before he had entered its domain. Therefore it containing pockets of air was nothing but a pipe dream, an empty wish.

Something was there with him.

The most mundane actions at this point seemed like adventures. Sitting up, falling down, a single step. He winced at having to slay a living creature, much less one impossible for him to see in the muddy shallows.

However, a small flame burned inside of him. One so small, yet burned with such intense ferocity that it seemed it could burn up the sun, deep within the bosom.

A tiny, whistling scream.

It spoke to him.

"You can't die here, not to something like this.

Over such a simple task, truly you are a failure.

Get up, straighten your back, wring out your pride of this swamp murk.

You are a warrior, flick you blade, for it is you, and you are it."

The small candle flicker was correct. Indeed, it was him.

It spoke to him, from the most minuscule part of his heart. It felt ALIVE.

He didn't need to think about the odds.

He didn't have to think about the cold.

He didn't start to think about what crept below.

He didn't think at all.

All he had to do was grip the handle, feel the wood and string, drenched in congealed paste under his gauntlet.

All he had to do was let his steel roam.

All he had to do was be an extension of his hand, a blade.

His hand rose, and his personal weapon rose as well, the polished sound of a weapon slinking out of the case to face opposition.

For he-

He is a S̶a̶m̶u̶r̶a̶i̶.