Somewhere down in the valley a bell tower’s gong chimed midnight. Fresh snow crunched under his bare feet as the Arcarian monk waded through the white fields. A strong gale blew past his face, assaulting his skin as if struck with a thousand knifes, but the monk was unaffected. The flesh around his bones was tough, hardened by living in the freezing hell of his home that is Arca. Subject to incessant gusts of arctic winds, Ceon’s most southern lands appear nothing short of a glacial wasteland where little life is able to manifest itself. The Arcarian race was amongst the handful of species that had adapted to the extreme climate. When small roaming tribes met, some hundreds of years ago, the biggest of the two Arcarian settlements, Skodos, was formed.

The monk stood at the edge of a snow-clad cliff, overlooking the huts and homes made of bone and hide. Their cattle of Arcan Aurox being one of the very few resources that the frozen plains have to offer, its people had grown provident and use every part of their herds. Not a single shard of bone was wasted during the erection of Skodos’ homes, cleverly braiding ostial tissue with skulls and rib cages to form a macabre but more or less air tight skeleton, which was covered by the Auroxes’ densely furred skins, forming the outer layer where the snow storms would soon seal what gaps were left. It was not much, but it was enough.

The Arcarian monk absently brushed a broad hand across his bare arm. Inch long nails grew from sturdy fingers where his hands and feet had evolved into wide claw-like appendages, lending ultimate support and weight distribution on Arca’s treacherous ice plains. Then his fingers met with a patch of softer tissue. He sighed. Looking down onto his silvery skin, his eyes fell on a great scar that ran from the tip of his shoulder to the elbow, the remnant of a battle fought, but not truly won.

That fateful day had left its mark on his arm, but an even greater scar on his soul and a melancholy frown grew on his aging face. Tonight had been the moment he had dreamt of living since the day he had suffered his greatest defeat as the abbot of Arca’s most prominent monastery of warrior monks. The bitter aftertaste of his loss had remained present in his mouth, reminding him relentlessly of his shameful incompetence as a master.

But he would redeem himself. Tonight, he would do all in his power to clear the stain on his memory, the shadow that had haunted him throughout the years.

Behind him, a brittle twig snapped under a heavy foot. The Arcarian monk did not need to turn and look. “So you have come.”

“As you were expecting.”

The monk spun on broad feet to be greeted by a leather clad figure. Bare hands stuck from underneath a black robe, fingers curled around the hilt of a polished blade.

“I see you have not betrayed your new trade the way you did mine,” spoke the monk, nodding at the man’s weapon. The grip around his sword tightened, his eyes acutely reflecting the frustration that the monk’s words had invoked. But the Arcarian monk could only guess to the extent of his anger, an emotion that had grown in intensity as the years passed since the man had left his master’s teachings behind for a new life. A richer life, a life worth living in his eyes, something his master had always refused to comprehend.

“It is you who betrays the true potential of our abilities, old man.” The assassin’s voice was distant and insensate, cold as the ice that surrounded them. During his years under the wings of the Kuran Angon, he had learned to banish the emotions from his mind and divert them to the blade instead. Impregnated with the essence of his hate, the sword had become a deadly weapon, striking with a killer’s callous determination. That same sword had meant to end the monk’s life many years ago, but had proven unable to. A black page in the book of his life, but the assassin had come to clear the record and carry out the order he had been issued with. An order he had been all too eager to fulfil and, now that the moment of his victory was imminent, he felt the same twisted excitement as he had felt that fateful day. Itching to sink his blade into the flesh of his former master, he raised his sword with deadly aim.

“Your legacy ends here, monk.”

The monk hummed. “You can not win. There is still time to see the light and return to my teachings, our teachings of wisdom and inner wealth.”

“Spare me your preaching, old fool,” the assassin spat. “The Arcarian qualities reach far beyond your fruitless meditations and restricted physical training. A far greater potential lays hidden in each of us and you aimed to prevent me from discovering that truth, where a master’s primary concern should be to aid in his pupils’ aspirations.”

“The body will not grow strong when the mind is weak, Djarlan,” rebutted the abbot. “I have tried to tell you this that day, but it would seem to have fallen on deaf ears. Weapons are tools of destruction, bringing not only death to those who oppose it, but eventually to its wielder as well. I taught you the way of the open hand. It is all you will ever need. I deliberately turned you away from weapons, as they would inevitably drive you into Death’s embrace. I do not regret it.”

His former pupil, Djarlan, levelled the tip of his sword with the master’s exposed neck. The monk looked down. An old man, tortured by years of mental burden looked back at him as he watched his reflection in the metal. The master sighed.

“You are walking a path from which there is no return, Djarlan.”

“I have no need for your sympathy, Lkotar. You will not escape your fate, not this time. After tonight, only one of us will live to see another day.”

“How I wished it could have been different. How I wished for my words to reach you and restore the wisdom that lays dormant deep inside your heart. If I can not make you see the wrongness of your convictions, I will have failed as your master, a sin for which I can only repent by taking your life, swift and painless so as to add as little suffering to your tormented existence as possible.” These words enraged the Arcarian assassin.

“You will be taking my life? It is your bare hands against my sword, blessed by the Dead God himself. You can be sure that you will not be as lucky as you were last time,” he spat as he reached his weapon into the sky. “Your life is forfeit by the edge of my blade!”

With one swift motion the sword sliced through the night, moonlight briefly flashing off the naked blade. Abbot Lkotar could feel the blade brush his cheek, much to his surprise. Djarlan had not been idle these past years and his training had been fruitful. Where the master’s skills had been far superior to his apprentice’s in the past, he now had great difficulty remaining out of the weapon’s reach. With deadly precision did Djarlan strike, grazing his master’s flesh to leave his silver facetted skin streaked with cuts. The abbot would have to exert every bit of his abilities to overcome this enemy, an enemy he could not help but perceive as his dearest and most talented pupil, but he knew him to be not that. Not anymore.

Djarlan was no longer the man he remembered; he had traded his soul away a long time ago. Where once his pure and selfless heart had been, sat now a black hole, feeding on greed and anger. All that remained for Lkotar, was to release him from his suffering before the darkness would swallow him whole. The warrior monk pressed his fingers together, keeping his hands open. Blinking the water from his eyes, he dismissed his emotions and gathered his focus. Within moments his mind became clear as crystal and the world around him slowed to a near halt. Perceiving the scene before him in a single shot, he comprehended all that surrounded him down to the finest detail. He became aware of every flake of snow that drifted around them, every brush of the wind, every ray of moonlight. As if time itself had slowed down, the master could see the assassin’s sword swoop down with a sure aim, but it would not meet its target. It took Lkotar no longer than an instant to anticipate and when time had caught up, the blade was stopped in its track between the master’s bare hands.

Djarlan, thrown off guard, did not recover in time to prevent Lkotar from disarming him. He jerked the blade from Djarlan’s hands the moment he felt the man’s grip slacken and swung the sword away. It made a graceful sommersault before landing upright in the snow. For a moment, Djarlan stared at the blade that stood up from the ground, its spotless steel reflecting the stars of the night sky.

Then, a painful blow landed on his chest, forcing the air out of his lungs. The assassin staggered backwards.

“This is not over yet,” he panted as he got back onto his feet. Lkotar’s gaze grew fixed. A palm strike connected the heel of the monk’s hand with the assassin’s head. A wave of vertigo forced him back onto one knee. The world turned before Djarlan’s eyes as he swept his arms wildly about. His muscles were far more developed than the abbot’s. His well trained physique would prove at least as effective against the monk’s unarmoured body as his sword would have been, so the assassin reasoned. Thrusting his muscled arm towards the blurred figure before him, Djarlan felt his fist meet with what he expected to be the monk’s chest, only to feel a surprisingly firm hand close shut around his own in the same moment. With unexpected ease did master Lkotar fold the assassin’s hand on his back, locking the shoulder joint. A painfilled moan escaped Djarlan’s lips.

“The hand can wound, cripple and even kill if it is required. The Open Hand will protect you. You should not strive for anything beyond that. Weapons will bring you nothing but your own destruction,” came the master’s voice from behind. The assassin simpered.

“You know nothing of destruction, old man,” he grunted. “Your unwavering trust in the flawlessness of your ways has blinded you from any other ways besides your own!”

These words struck the aging Arcarian monk like an arrow and for a brief moment, a sliver of doubt entered his mind. His eyes widened and the grip on his attacker’s wrist weakened, only slightly, but enough for the assassin to seize his chance and pull free from his opponent’s clutches. Taken by surprise, the master fumbled but recovered his composure almost immediately and when Djarlan’s fist came, the master replied accordingly. With the eyes of a hawk, Lkotar followed his every movement, dodging the assassin’s hits by merely averting his head.

Djarlan’s frustration built. Behind the monk, the moonlight reflected off the sword’s blade and the assassin calculated his chances.

He broke into a dash.

Fast like lightning, he slid through the snow, firmly gripped the hilt and tugged the blade free. His lips stretched into a wide, malicious grin.

“The tables have turned, senile old fool.”

Lkotar stood with blank eyes. “You cannot win.”

“Prepare yourself!”

Under a bellowing war cry came the assassin for the abbot’s throat. The blade flashed. The open palms of the monk deflected. The assassin swung his sword with skill, but his accuracy was compromised by his growing rage. He knew this. He knew the monk knew this.

It did nothing to assuage his anger.

After what seemed an endless exchange of fruitless strikes, the frustration in him rose to the point of boiling. The assassin broke into a mad dash that was swiftly dodged by the nimble warrior monk, who now dropped his hip lower than Djarlan’s, flipping him over the resultant fulcrum using his own momentum. Tumbling headfirst into the snow, the assassin could not recover soon enough to prevent Lkotar from planting his knee on his former pupil’s upper arm. Unable to lift himself from the ground, the Arcarian assassin struggled like a beast, shouting, swearing. Waving the sword in his free hand wildly about, Djarlan missed Lkotar’s head by just an inch. The monk straightened his hand, thumb aligned with the palm, to disarm his attacker by a single knife-hand strike to the bicep. The arm went limb, the assassin’s hand dropped the weapon. The strong hand of the master picked it up and threw it high up into the sky with one firm swing of the arm.

Flying through the sky for a second time that night, the sword shone a soft red by the first light of day. At the horizon, a palette of crimson and purple heralded the imminent dawn in all its splendour, but the master of the monastery had eyes only for the man who lay squirming beneath his knee. His eyes filled with unspoken remorse, he reached out for his former pupil’s reason one last time.

“Djarlan, please reconsider. It does not have to end this way.” The assassin, now fully consumed by a raging fury, had abandoned all but his thwarted desire to end his former master’s life.

“It will end my way. I will make it so,” fumed Djarlan as he eyed Lkotar over his shoulder with heart-felt hatred. Emotion distorted the abbot’s face, sorrow over the man’s words plain in his eyes, but he did not speak.

Then, Lkotar rose up in one sudden, fluid motion.

Djarlan, now free from the monk’s submission lock, turned onto his back. “Now I’ll have your-” he started, but his words were cut off by the blade of the sword. His weapon had come down, piercing his chest in the midst of its free fall as it came plummeting blade-first back to the ground. Djarlan gazed down, wide-eyed and speechless, as his life slowly ebbed away. The pristine snow stained red beneath him. The assassin’s last breath mingled with the abbot’s rueful sigh.

Lkotar looked up. The warrior monk’s eyes could watch the suns rise, but his heart would never see another dawn.