Skip to main content

The Sword-Smith

'A sword is an extension of ones arm. It is the part of the warriors body. Do not think of the sword as a mere tool, for every tool is weapon if you hold it right,' the aged teacher spoke as he wielded the two swords in his arm, 'Do not think of these two as different, they are different parts of the same thought. The thought that drives the arm into motion is the same thought that drives the two blades in both your arms. They swing together in uniform motion like gears in a well oiled machines, like two brothers in the duel, both fighting back-to-back watching for each other.'



'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.

Cheers,
Did you check out Holy Cow yet? Shame on you if you didn't.

Comments

  1. this was new and I did not get the hidden message what-so-ever it was meant to be :-|

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

What do you think about the post? Have your say, like, dislike or even hate me. Tell me.

You might also want to Subscribe to RSS feeds or follow me on Twitter (@sidoscope) or on facebook

I don't need weapon, I have a sharp tongue.

Popular posts from this blog

Short Story: Parting ways

Funny thing, I just realized I never wrote a funny short story, which was quite surprising as Story is what I like writing and humor is what I do best (atleast I think so), but for some reason I do not write a short story with a fun thing and I wanted to know why, I realized writing humorous stories is a challenge that even I cannot take. Well, below is not some of my best work, I tried to stay focused but apparently couldn’t. No characters in this story are real, any resemblances to real characters is coincidental, I just put some Blogger friends names so I might get inspired but well… you tell me how it is. Sreya was driving all the way to her friends house. As always Shruti was in trouble. ‘He has left again, Sreya,’ said Shruti between sob, ‘it was so obvious since beginning, he as just messing around. Its over girl, its over. I have nothing else to do now.’

[Short Story] The Last Breath On Earth

A bug is a computer anomaly that is generated usually because of developer’s ignorance or environmental factors. The former is more prominent in computer programs. The term debugging means to find the cause for the bug and fixing it. The term debugging has a humorous origin. In 1947, Grace Murray Hopper was working on the Harvard University Mark II Aiken Relay Calculator. On the 9th of September, 1947, when the machine was experiencing problems, an investigation showed that there was a moth trapped between the points of Relay #70, in Panel F. The operators removed the moth and affixed it to the log. The word went out that they had "debugged" the machine and the term "debugging a computer program" was born. As the technology progresses it advances towards perfection and minimizes its flaws, unfortunately, this was not true for computers. The bugs and errors increased exponentially with the advancement of computers. What earlier was a mere moth trapped i...

Hidden

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 11 ; the eleventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton . He stood there on the grave of his best friend, holding a piece of paper in his hands. The piece was paper was the echo of his friend last words on earth. A single tear rolled on his chin and went for a free fall onto the mud with a splash. Eighteen years ago, location: A walking path in an unknown forest They were teens, 18-19 year old and wore pure white robes and were arguing furiously.   'You know it,' the 18 year old, Dhuri was talking.   'I do not,' his friend, Aju said.   'You do...,' Dhuri said, 'I know guruji took you aside and taught you the way.'   Aju kept mum, the fact that Dhuri knew about his secret scared him. Guruji had warned him of the threats. ‘We are best friends Aju, tell me,'...