'You were always an excellent tutor,' the man sitting high up on front chair spoke softly, 'But you did not lend me the sword-smith scroll. As the royal holiness, I am entitled to master the scroll.'
'The sword-smith scroll was written many years before the royal blood line began and was passed down from generation to generation with a pact that it cannot be passed on by force or power. The scroll chooses its successor, not its master. I have told you this many times before.'
'The ten people who surround you now, some of them are your students. They are ordered to kill their master to death, won't you spare them some last words?'
The old man smiled enigmatically, 'The true master holds nothing back from life, in doing so, he is always prepared to face his death.'
The men hesitated a bit, they were the imperial guards of the king and their duty lay serving the order of royal dynasty. They could not raise hands on their old teacher, who was nearing hundred but they could not defy the king as well.
'I have the best imperial swords specially casted for them,' the king boasted proudly, 'All you have is the rusty swords.'
'These men carry the swords and a hope that they manage to kill me in one shot, for they know, if I survive, they will face the wraith ten times that what they can inflict on me, take your best shot boys.'
A bright solar light blinded the eyes of the king and he used his hands to shield them,
'It is the fear that holds men back, fear of failing, fear of responsibility. A true master has no fear, his destiny is intervened with his sword since his inception. The destiny of a sword lies in blood, for the sword demands blood. The destiny of the hand wielding the sword also is automatically tied to the sword for he has to cut through the flesh to bathe the sword into the blood. No force is necessarily for inflicting maximum damage to your opponent, a fine stroke like the brush of a painter is enough to paint the complete picture red. Do not spare me boys for I am old...'
The king opened his eyes and was shocked to see the old master standing in his front. He tilted his head to see all the fallen imperial guards on the ground, no one dead but all unconscious.
'You.... did... not kill them?' the king asked.
'No, for the sword does not die, it is mere passed on from one master to another. The hand that wields the sword dies and the person who carves this destiny into the sword....'
With a single swish, he sliced the head of the king, as the whole podium watched open mouthed,
'...is a true sword-smith.'
P.s. The post has metamorphic and symbolical references. This style of writing was adopted my John Milton, Victor Hugo who used their stories to pass on secret messages under the nose of the church.