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the new morning rays and reflected nothing. Not a single bird sang out as five hundred heavily armed and battle seasoned soldiers waited for the order. Surprise would not be necessary for they held the overwhelming strength of number. Although a mundane operation, it would not be joyless.
    The general carefully reviewed his mission one last time. He alone knew what would be done. All the monks must die, and the great library would be carried back and handed triumphantly to the emperor; extermination and presentation. With his first gesture the heavy oak wood of the temple gate was set ablaze. He smiled as the fires were lit against doors that had once been closed in his face. The smoke from the wood stacked upon them curled frantically skyward, from black to white and whiter still, until angry flames burst forth to do their work. Within the hour the protective gateway was weakened and breeched, the soldiers poured in and the slaughter began.
    Not even the most battle hardened expected the resistance they met. In an instant what the general thought their strength had become their weakness. They fell by the score, cut down by monk steel like wheat in a summer’s field. They stepped and slipped on their fallen comrades pushed forward by the weight of their sheer numbers. The void left by absent birdsong was filled that morning by the nightmarish screams of the dying soldiers. Inevitably the gore robed monks began to fall, and of them, not one cried out.
    He sat upon his horse and for most of the conflict stayed well back and out of harm’s way. For him appearance was everything. In the eyes of his men he must seem to be strong when he knew he was weak, he must seem to be brave when he knew he was fearful, and must seem to be clear when all thought was confusion. The steed beneath him jostled without direction as, with sword in hand, the general shouted meaningless orders to his falling soldiers.
    He wore his bravado like a loud and boastful cape; a cape that he hoped hid from his men the sum of all of his fears. He was prepared for softness, but instead faced hard warriors. These men did not die like lambs, but fought with a skill that the general had never been allowed to know. Victory had become a battle of attrition.
    All the monks that fell that fateful morning fought and died like true warriors, but even in the company of these heroes one monk stood above the rest. With strength, skill, and courage, this singular monk inspired his brothers throughout the battle. He held his ground on a growing pile of bodies, while the remnants of his monastic order fell one by one. Eventually, only this one still lived, and the storm of battle raged solely around him. He was the last of his order.
    His silver blade flashed through flesh and sunlight, its razor edge the border of life and death.

Revenge
    Recognition struck like a thunder clap. He knew this monk. His features had changed little—he could still smell the dirty little boy.
    Even from horseback the general had to look up at the sole survivor. The monk fought like a wild animal high upon the hill of those who had fallen under his blade. Steel moved too fast around the monk to be seen, but on the slower moving hilt of the young monk’s sword, the general glimpsed a pentagram within a circle.
    The face of the monk was almost completely covered by the blood of those that had tried to take his life. The vivid colors, the smell of dying, the sounds of agony; these were memories seared into the mind of the general. But it was the eyes of the monk, eyes that spoke of true power that branded the general’s very soul.
    Amid the chaos of war and destruction the general saw a man at peace. In the chilling heart of combat he witnessed monks inspired and emboldened by this man’s true courage. He saw men follow without question. No amount of blood could obscure the terrible truth: this monk was everything that he was not, and everything that he had wanted, all his