West of Beiden Pass, there is a province. In the province, there is a village, and in the village, there is one samurai. And because he was the only samurai in the village, he was the only person with a name. But his name was never spoken.

Sweat trickled down his brow; sticky hair fell over his eyes. The samurai had no tolerance for the overwhelming heat, such was his nature. But the samurai endured the heat as he strode through the street as if he owns the road. He was stocky man dressed in a fine silk kimono, both his hands rested upon his daisho. Tucked in his obi were two swords. One hand gently caressed the katana like a lover.

The townspeople moved out of his way before his approach and bowed respectfully. His keen eyes took in the sight with pleasure. A warm breeze swept the dust through the street. A quick glance caught the eyes of a portly farmer. The samurai’s eyes narrowed, filled with malice. Screaming with anger, the samurai drew his katana from its saya. He beheaded the farmer, whose eyes widen in shock and fear, with a single cut.

Respect was his due; anything less, he will not tolerate. Fear invaded the people like a tremor of the earth spreading amongst the trees and leaves. The samurai sneered with disgust as he wiped the blood from his katana. Returning it to its saya, he turned away from the sight of death and pain, he had incurred. Feeling secure and proud of his station, he stepped through the frightened peasants like a wolf among a herd of sheep.

A young girl knelt before the dead farmer’s headless body, crying. Her dark silhouette hovered over her father’s body. Had she been born beautiful, then the tears streaming down her flushed cheeks would have marred her beauty. High above, the clouds gathered around the sun. Only thin streaks of sunlight escaped down to the earth. A sad, discerning mood descended upon the crowd as they slowly dispersed. Until only a daughter’s sob could be heard on the quiet streets.

From a nearby teahouse, a stranger walked across the street and knelt beside the bloodied head. Its eyes wide open, glaring at the heavens. Its mouth opened in a silent scream. Shrugging off his kimono, the stranger used it to wrap the farmer’s head. Rising to his feet, he whispered a soft prayer. He walked over to the girl, and carefully placed the wrapped head atop the neck of the dead body. The girl reached out to touch the bundled head; her long fingers caressed the soft, smooth fabric. Looking at her father’s covered head, she traced the exquisitely stitched mon of the Crane Clan. Stepping back respectfully, the stranger turned to leave.

“Honourable Sir,” the young girl rushed forth and prostrated herself before the stranger. Looking up with tears still in her eyes, pleading, as if her heart had leapt into her eyes. But she dared not ask for the justice, her heart demanded.

* * * * *

The samurai strode through the crowd like a tiger through the forest and people gave way to his approach like small animals fleeing from a tiger. Whether it was out of fear or respect, the samurai cared not. He was a samurai. And that alone demanded respect.

As he approached his favourite sake house, he increased his pace. He gave the young boy blocking his path a vicious glare that spat daggers. The thought that the boy might not moved out of his way never crossed his mind.

The samurai didn’t slowed down; he was truly surprised when he walked right into the boy. His face flushed with embarrassment as he lurched into the dirty street. He glared up with indignation at the boy standing before him. Humiliation washed over him as he heard the hushed murmurs of the crowd. The samurai quickly dusted himself off from the ground. He glared viciously at the boy, who remained still as a mountain. The fury of the samurai flared up like a mid-summer sun.

He scowled with terrible anger. The boy stood unfazed. The samurai’s eyes widened in astonishment. Enraged, he reached for his katana. But his hand grasped only empty air. His hands found his long sword gone from its saya.

The samurai felt a sharp pain pierced his heart, looking down he saw the sun reflected from his own blade.

Anger faded, as he started to fall backwards. Everything blurred but the pair of eyes staring at him, cold and dangerous. Darkness surrounded him as he fell to the ground. Dying, he heard a whisper in the darkness. It was a whisper from death.

“I am Tenzo. And you are unworthy of thy ancestor’s name.” And so, the samurai’s name was forgotten.

* * * * *

Tenzo allowed his gaze to wander far into the night sky. Barely a month has passed since his gempukku, and already he has written his new name in blood. The stars in the night filled him with wonder as he purged his soul. He searched deep within himself and found no regrets. The samurai he killed was a fool who behaved as if he was a king. Tenzo laughed out loud as he let his mind pondered. In times such as these, a samurai could indeed be a king in some isolated town. But that was to live hiding, far better to die in the coming war than to live a coward’s life.

At an early age he had infiltrated the most prestigious fencing school in the Empire, The Kakita School, where he mastered the way of the Crane. He was not surprised when the letter of summons arrived for him at the school. The Empire was in turmoil, and once again, there was war. Now answering the summons to return to the Scorpion lands, Ninube Tenzo wondered what the future holds. And whether, in the days to come, he’s worthy of his own ancestor’s name.