The Fate: Book 1: Tournament Wysteria Read online

  The Fate: Book 1

  Tournament Wysteria

  by John Ko

  Published by IDealSoul Stories

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Copyright © 2015 by John Ko

  ISBN-10:0-9973417-0-X

  ISBN-13:978-0-9973417-0-6

  First Edition (Digital)

  Character Illustrations © Rizky Viyanriri & John Ko

  Cover Graphic © John Ko

  The Fate Logo © John Ko

  Crests and Graphics © John Ko

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Give feedback on the book at:

  [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  PART II

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Epilogue

  Roster Wysteria

  Prologue

  With a single, lazy breath, the Ancient One completes the invocation. The ninth and final verse, one for each who came before, echoes through the darkness. Without the light of even a single torch, the shadows threaten to swallow the rest of him along with his prayer. It is a meaningless threat, however, one that serves only to bring forth a long-buried memory.

  “The snake does not swallow the dragon,” his eldest brother once told him.

  It’s the way his brother said it—glancing down at him without even turning to face him—that he will never forget. The memory alone is enough to make him start to snarl. Around him the pitch-black tunnel shudders and shakes. Only as his snarls turn into laughter does the darkness finally still.

  “Soon, Brother … soon,” he whispers, taking the first steps of this long-awaited journey. “There is just one final matter that needs settling before I face you.”

  The Ancient One begins to smile. It’s an expression that no current being alive has seen before. “This … this should be fun.”

  This passageway will eventually lead him back to the light, but there is no hurry. His thoughts turn one last time to what he leaves behind—his latest distraction, his latest kingdom—what may very well be his last kingdom.

  Let them have it, he decides, thinking of the worthless kin he leaves behind. Only at the memory of her does he feel some small bit of sadness. If the impatient whelp had just waited …

  Her final cries were apologetic, but for what? Not being strong enough? In challenging her father in the first place? Whatever the reason may have been—it doesn’t matter. He has always known. From the very first time he looked into her tiny, dark eyes, he knew. Even newborn, she roared as much as cried, filling him with pride. A true daughter and gone because of it.

  Days, years, or centuries—what’s past is past. Leaving all other thoughts behind, he continues on with his timeless quest. Is remorse all he’s gained through the ages? He couldn’t remember feeling it before.

  Chapter 1

  THE FATE

  [The Village of The Slate Clan]

  The boy stares at the path before him, waiting …

  It comes as a whisper—a sigh of the sun, the sea, and all that lies beyond. It caresses the back of his neck and traces swirls down his arms. It rustles for a moment and then the wind roars.

  The trees of the mountainside bend low. Leaf and limb claw, grasping at one another, and the shadowy path before him begins to shimmer like the ocean. As the wind races overhead, the dancing lights follow directly below. And just behind, the boy gives chase—leaping, scrambling, even scurrying where he must. Each step screams his intention. Each stride tells no lie. I will not lose.

  The young man moves as he is, and he is nothing but truth … unless a smile can tell a lie. The one thing you’ll find he’s never without, a grin so practiced it’s almost sincere. It’s simply the way Terrantius Slate, the first Fate in a hundred years, is and always will be.

  Not that anyone would care … well, at least that he’s a Fate, anyway. These days you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the Three Kingdoms of Wysteria who’s ever even heard of one. But that’s what he is and that’s what he calls himself—the Fate.

  And at this very moment, the Fate has the wind’s shadow at his fingertips. So he dives. Extended to his fullest, he dips his hand into the shimmering lights. For the briefest of moments they dance across his palm before he shuts his fingers tight.

  As if offended, the wind gives a final push before gusting upwards and away, but not without leaving one last gift. Leaves, newly freed, rain down upon the trail ahead. Whatever it is he may’ve caught is already forgotten as he releases his grip and grasps the Stick at his side. Rather long and ever so slightly curved, its enamel gleams darkly, begging to be drawn.

  He complies, lunging like lightning’s kiss upon a tree too lofty. The Fate stutters in mid-step, from a blur to a flash—too fast for the untrained eye to follow—his form materializes impossibly far ahead.

  Without so much as a look back, he swings his weapon sharply, clearing it of skewered leaves. In his wake the trail remains clear. He picks the speckled red one that almost got away from his thick, black hair and flicks it to the side.

  Before the leaf can reach its final resting place, the chase has already moved on. Though, it isn’t until halfway up the mountain trail that he manages to tuck the unwilling switch back into one of his low-hanging belts. The pair of loose leather straps doesn’t actually help much in holding up his pants, but they do manage to hold other things. Lined with tiny compartments, pockets, pouches and even a slot for his Stick—the belts make for good storage. Fortunately, his pants, along with the rest of his outfit, are well-fitted, with the exception of his hood, which hangs loosely from the back of his short, sleeveless coat.

  The Fate has r
un this trail countless times, but today … something is not right, he thinks, finding himself stroking the back of his head. My Warrior’s Braid …

  It used to just get in the way, but he wore it with pride anyway. After all, he is the youngest of the Slate Clan to have earned one. But when he awoke this morning, his Warrior’s Braid was gone.

  “Stupid Princess Rules,” the Fate mutters, remembering the note left in explanation.

  Tracking the sun, the Fate knows he should make it just in time. It’d be a shame to miss the sunset at his spot. Well, it is hers, too, he supposes.

  Even though he was the one to discover the way up the cliff, it’s Ieiri who spends the most time up there. Wondering if that’s where she’s been hiding all day, a sudden “Squeak,” disturbs his thoughts. It’s not an unfamiliar sound in the forest, but this particular one feels out of place. Thinking not much of it, he heads deeper into the thick brush.

  Leaves blackened by dusk swallow him whole. Twilight streams through tiny gaps in the canopy like so many stars. But there is only one that will lead him out of here. He finds the twinkle easily enough and follows the speck until it turns into the sky.

  The trees part to reveal the sun hanging just above the ocean’s grasp. But from much closer on the little overhang comes a, “Squeak, Squeak, Squeak!”

  There, standing right on his favorite rock is … a chipmunk? It continues to chatter away, only growing more incessant as he approaches.

  “Eh?” responds the Fate in unexpected dismay. “Excuse me, Mister Chipmunk, but that is my rock you are standing on.” His hopes of it simply darting away are dashed when the little creature glares back at him, unflinching.

  “There are plenty of other nice rocks all around, but that one is mine. I watch the sunset from it every day and tomorrow … well, tomorrow, I will be going away.”

  The little one doesn’t seem to care one bit.

  With a sigh, the Fate lowers himself eye-to-eye with the chipmunk and adamantly declares, “My rock!” Having wasted enough precious time, the boy attempts to ever so gently sweep the troublesome creature off of his rock. Which ends with …

  “Ouch, ow, ow!” The Fate hops around waving a barely bleeding finger. “You bit me! With those vicious spikes!” He sticks his pricked pinky into his mouth.

  The chipmunk lets out a string of squeaks, all the while refusing to budge. After an unusually thoughtful moment, the Fate whispers to himself, “Well, if the wind cannot blow the man’s coat off …”

  He figures a warmer approach may be in order. The young man bows his head and apologizes in Han. “Mian Hae,” he says. They say the animals of the forest are more apt to understand Han. After all, it was the language most heard in these lands for over a thousand years.

  “That was wrong of me to do,” he admits, holding up empty hands in a sign of peace. His right hand, the bitten one, is covered by a fingerless, wool glove that looks innocent enough, but the heavily armored, left one—not so much. He quickly lowers his hands to his sides.

  “Hmm …” the Fate wonders aloud, tilting his head and scrunching his brow in examination of the small, striped creature. The chipmunk is full-grown with a thick, shiny coat ready for the coming cold. A rather ordinary chipmunk, nothing unusual at all, except for that it’s on his rock. In the end, he decides, a chipmunk is just a chipmunk. And they are all bound to like the same sort of things.

  He removes a roughly woven pouch from his belt and begins to work it open. “Do you know what this is?” he asks, pulling out a small, round object. “Yes, it is a nut, but it is no ordinary nut. This one has a Tear Shard embedded in it, and I know the Technique to make it grow. Would you like to see?”

  The chipmunk edges closer. The Fate scoops up a chunk of soft earth and places the seed into the ground. He intones loudly, “Seed Craft: Bloom Hodo Nut.”

  A small stalk pushes through the dirt, which quickly straightens and sends smaller stems branching outward. Tiny leaves sprout as the stems harden and brown. The barely visible dots between its leaves grow into compact buds, which open and fall to the ground. In a matter of moments, a small, nut-bearing bush stands there, soaking up the last of the sunlight.

  The Fate leaves the chipmunk to its inspection of a particularly large nut and climbs, triumphant, onto his favorite rock. And he’s just in time.

  The ocean looks particularly blue today, accented by bleeding ribbons of crimson stretching from either side of the blinding sun. High above, the vibrant sky holds a scattering of clouds that fly directly towards the sinking golden light. He reaches out with his hand and watches the colors stream through his fingers.

  The Fate’s ready to leave it all behind, but he had to see it one more time, the sunset at his—their favorite spot.

  “Did you know that when the red and yellow of the sun kisses the blue of the ocean, it makes every color imaginable?” he asks no one in particular. He’s quite fond of the sight and nowhere is it as magnificent as here. “Things like this matter too—I will have to remember that,” he says, surprising himself. Watching sunsets has never been part of the plan, but perhaps when he’s finished …

  Always the believer, he closes his eyes without losing sight of that dream. “I suppose I will have to return here someday,” he declares. “So, look forward to that day, the day I have captained a team to one hundred victories on the Tournament. To this, I swear.”

  The conjured bush has already begun to wither up. Its shriveled leaves fall and swirl away with evening’s first breeze.

  Leaning over, supported by his armored left hand, the Fate begins to sift through the dirt. Absorbed in his search for the original nut, he doesn’t notice the chipmunk poking around his bracer and gauntlet.

  Tiny flecks of dust lift off the ground and fly towards the iron gauntlet. Constructed of solid plates, the armored glove looms gigantic against the boy’s slim form. But it’s the bracer and the tear-shaped stone set within that draws the chipmunk’s interest.

  Abruptly, the Fate’s Tearstone flashes brightly. And for an instant he glimpses the inconceivable—the glowing outline of translucent armor surrounding the chipmunk.

  “That is what happened,” the Fate explains to the tiny wrinkled man sitting cross-legged across from him. When the Head of the Slate Clan fails to respond, the boy wonders if the Elder is just mulling the story over or if he’s really fallen asleep.

  Since the Elder’s eyes are closed anyway, the Fate leans in for a closer look.

  Just as he gets close enough to be mesmerized by how the hair growing from the Elder’s nose sways in and out with his slow breathing, the Head of the Village snorts loudly. The Fate scampers back to his floor mat.

  The Elder raises an eyebrow without opening his eyes. The Fate knows that it’s his patience which is in question—as always. The young man smiles innocently, his eyes darting back and forth in search of something, anything of interest. But there’s nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before.

  The one-room home of the Elder is large. He’ll give it that much, but otherwise it’s no different from the dozen others of the village. All of them constructed of wood, lacquered dark with bean oil and tiled in thin-cut stone. Each home built directly onto one of the many granite terraces lining the cliffs of the beach.

  He looks up and begins counting the thick wooden beams. There are nine of them, just as there was the day before. But something is different today, he realizes. Where is everybody? The Elder’s House should be bustling during the late meal hour.

  The Fate twists to and fro looking for a clue before realizing they’re all outside, preparing for the feast—his Farewell Feast.

  “What happened after you saw the chipmunk glow?” the Elder asks him, snapping him from his thoughts.

  “He climbed up my back and into my hood. I think he did something very bad in there. It stinks now. When I tried to grab him, he bit me with his vicious, spiky teeth a second time.” The Fate imitates menacingly with his fingers.

  “I see
. Is he in there still?” asks the amused Elder, pointing at the pile of cloth in the young man’s lap.

  “Yes, sir.” The Fate nods. “He has been quiet ever since. I think he may be sleeping.”

  The Elder goes silent again. With his tally of the beams already complete, the Fate begins counting the veins running through the warm, stone floor.

  Finally, the Elder opens his eyes and says, “It can only be one thing really—you have somehow bound that chipmunk as your Tear Companion.”

  “No, I did not …” the Fate begins.

  “It’s the only answer that makes any sense. There are no other reasonable explanations for what you saw. The glow must have been his Spectral Armor,” the Elder tells him. “Unfortunately, an answer like that just leads to more questions. Can you feel the beast’s presence?”

  “No … maybe. I know he is in there,” answers the Fate, gesturing to the dark jumble of cloth. Could that really have been Spectral Armor? he wonders.

  “I realize you might have had other plans, but still, you should be more excited. Having a Tear Pet is a wonderful thing. Even after all these years my greatest joy is watching—no, feeling—Cheo soar, wind between her teeth and the sun at her back. And it’s all thanks to this,” the Elder says, patting the amber-colored, tear-shaped stone hanging from his neck.

  “But only newborns can be bound. This chipmunk looks to be fully grown,” says the Fate.

  “That’s how it’s done today, but it hasn’t always been this way,” the Elder says. “A newborn can be bound by almost anyone, but as they age, their compatibility narrows. Still, if the match is just right, it is possible. This isn’t an issue today with the abundance of Master Level Trainers and all of our domesticated breeds. But before it became so convenient, the most reliable method for acquiring a Tear Pet was to perform a ritual Calling.”