The distant wailing of sirens, muffled cries of anguish and even the starkly unexpected sporadic eruption of gunfire seemed to melt away from the elderly man's awareness. He sat excruciatingly still and ignored the cries of his muscles and bones which rebelled at having to hold the meditative kneeling position that had been significantly easier to maintain in his younger days. Inviting decades of arcane and intricate meditation techniques to guide him as he ascended into a state of transcendence that rivaled the most practiced Zen Masters in the world, Esai slowed his respiration in response to the attainment of the desired meditation and stillness. A thickening envelope of willed silence wrapped itself around him as he sought complete detachment from his physical body. Welcoming the wave of clarity and insight, he felt the quickening waves of tranquility and harmony embrace his river of distracting thoughts.
Pushing away the boisterous cacophony of the city that raged just outside the dilapidated and aging storefront strip mall where he resided and even the distracting mildew-like odor that emanated from the dark, cramped and dank back room he meditated in, Esai dwelled a while within the inner peace he had attained. While he would be the first to admit that he was starkly undeserving of the level of quiet and tranquility he'd attained, he encapsulated the offending and distracting thought and allowed it to pass from his mind. Despite the late hour of the evening, he found that he had emerged from his physical body and assembled a third-person view in which he could imagine without effort looking down on himself. With this level of sensory detachment, he began to expand his consciousness to sense the impending intrusion that would stir him from his reverie and plunge him back into the world of violence, harsh isolation and exile that constituted his day-to-day existence.
Running a hand across his bald, hairless pate, Esai's eyes slowly fluttered open, realizing that he was about to be visited by the unwelcome vestiges of a life that he simultaneously wished he could leave, but clung to as a means of defining his existence in the world. His near-opaque, hazel eyes peered momentarily at the lone flickering candle that cast sharp and jagged shadows across the small space from beneath a craggy brow line, decorated with intensely thick grey-haired eyebrows. Inhaling, he rose slowly, welcoming circulation back into his extremities and attempted to prepare himself for the execution of a series of solemn tasks that meant that this evening people would lose their lives.
In the veiled light of the flickering candle, he stood solemn and still, clad in the garb of ancient practitioners of discipline, focus and mastery of martial art. Draped in a loose-fitting Japanese haori with extended oversized sleeves that swallowed his hands, the fabric of the robe was rich and unyielding. The oversized buttons were fastened with precision, hinting at his ritualistic care of the traditional garb he'd chosen. With practiced, precise movements, he bent low, extinguishing the candle's flame with a calloused thumb and forefinger before emerging from the vestiges of his meditative chamber into the surprisingly rundown pawn shop. He squinted at the lights of the midnight sedans that had just pulled up in front of the large plate-glass windows of the storefront and awaited those that would darken his doorstep with the business of blood.
Moments ago, three midnight sedans growled their way through the twisting maze of the city's thoroughfares and alleyways. Shedding the bright lights and pristine highways of the downtown district and barreling aggressively to the outskirts of the city limits, the sedans cut a swerving path through the dilapidated and forlorn segments of the crime-ridden residential areas that constituted the fringes of the city's defined municipality. Moving in practiced unison, the sedans rushed their occupants to their destination without regard for traffic signals, rules of the road or even other cars or pedestrians. Like a living organism, the city seemed to hold these vehicles in high regard, giving them a wide berth to carry their passengers uninterrupted to their destination. As they screeched to a halt outside of the rundown pawn shop, even the most unsavory and predatory denizens peered with trepidation from a safe distance at the figures that slowly emerged from the cars.
The first to appear from the closest sedan was the towering form of a striking woman. With bright alabaster skin and angular, hawkish features, her eyes were concealed behind a pair of designer sunglasses perched on the bridge of her thin nose despite the sun having set hours ago. Her silvery blond hair was oddly slicked back against her skull and cascaded down her back. Her lithe and wiry frame was tightly wrapped in a midnight-colored jumpsuit, but in stark contrast, she wore a bulky ivory-white overcoat that complemented her shin-height steel-toed motorcycle boots. Pausing a brief second to rub lip gloss across her full lips, she inhaled the humid, mist-filled night air before plunging into the pawn shop storefront.
The second individual to emerge from the last sedan was a deliberately unremarkable, lanky and tall man, dressed in a bespoke designer Italian suit. While every detail of his attire and garb had undoubtedly been planned down to the thread, it took an amazing talent to present himself in such a way that he was anything other than completely forgettable. Every detail from his outfit to his hairstyle and expressions were dedicated to slipping from people's perception with ease, making his ability to conduct business significantly easier. Pausing to utilize a cloth to rub the round spectacles he placed back on his face and using a gloved hand to slick back his jet-black hair, he blinked twice at the storefront before entering.
The final occupant of the middle sedan slowly and purposefully emerged. For those observing from the safety of concealment from a distance away, the first thing they could see was a bright shock of unkept, thick and wild blonde hair. His broad shoulders and stiff demeanor belied an individual that wanted to be anywhere else than where he was. While not overly lanky or thin, and despite a well-muscled physique hidden by his slightly oversized suit, he clearly hunched over, with his head sunk between his shoulders in a posture that made him appear disaffected and even weak.
Inhaling the autumn night air in an effort to will himself to follow the others into the store, Cain smoothed his own formal attire, brushing the wrinkles out of his jacket before looking down at his calloused and rough hands. He closed his eyes and thumbed his wedding ring, twisting the narrow gold band around his ring finger as he did ritually when he approached the pawn shop. Donning his familiar black, fingerless gloves, he willed familiar mental barriers into place to wall off the part of his life that the diminutive ring represented. With each lungful of the misty midnight air, he drew to him the constituent components of another persona entirely. It was a persona that allowed him to perform the duties of his station without hesitation, distraction or emotion.
There in the moonlight street outside of the pawn shop, he breathed in the persona of an emotionless, almost robotic machine that allowed him to cope with what would come next. Instead of his hunched, reluctant and reticent body language, this seemingly subtle transformation removed the bend from his spine, forcing him to stand to his full height. His powerful and athletic frame became visible and sheer focused willpower flowed into his musculature. Taking halting steps towards the storefront, he avoided looking at his own dim reflection in the plate glass of the store's window. Standing straighter, expanding his barreled chest and clenching his fists he etched a scowl of resolute determination before passing through the doorway to the pawn shop.
The pawn shop's innards were cramped and crowded with an assortment of randomly assembled goods lining the walls and filling flickering neon display cases. As the three individuals weaved their way through the counters of haphazardly assembled goods, they silently stalked towards the rear of the shop until they came face to face with the monk-like elderly bald man. With his hands clasped behind his back, Esai regarded the individuals with a stern and unflinching gaze, fully anticipating the ceremonial ballet that was about to ensue. Without a word of greeting or recognition, each of the three assembled silently and slowly descended to one knee, casting their gaze at the floor of the dank pawn shop with ritual reverence.
Seemingly awaiting expression of their deference before continuing, Esai turned to the dimly lit corner of the shop and faced an oddly out of place ornate wooden weapons rack. Standing out in stark contrast against the modern backdrop of the pawn shop, the golden rich and ancient wood carried with it a sense of history and artistry lost to the ages. Crafted with meticulous detail, the rack featured elaborate carvings paying homage to a combination of eclectic historical cultures. Cradled within its sturdy arms were three impressive, bladed weapons.
On the left, a Japanese katana rested with its gracefully curved blade and an intricately designed handle, embodying the elegance of samurai tradition. Its simple polished surface gleamed under the shop's flickering lights and was a visual reminder of the skill required to master such a simple weapon. Characterized by the unusual double-edged blade with an ornately simple squared guard and long grip to accommodate a double-handed technique, it required a true master sword wielder to effectively utilize its might in a conflict.
In the center, a Scandinavian Viking sword rested with a broad, straight blade and a simple yet sturdy hilt. This sword, reminiscent of fierce warriors and ancient sagas who wielded them, bore the marks and scars of numerous conflicts. Its presence yielded a sense of ruggedness and raw power when compared to the other weapons.
To the right, a European longsword, with its elegant cross-guard and detailed grip, harkened back to a period of historical chivalric knights and medieval duels. The craftsmanship of the sword, from its balanced blade to the ornate patterns on the hilt, showcased the lost art of refined artistry of European weapon-making.
While the three eclectic individuals patiently waited, Esai turned towards each sword and with careful respect completed his role in the ritualistic exchange of weapons between caretaker and wielder. In a repeatedly practiced fashion, he balanced the swords across his outstretched palms and extended the blade towards the shop's kneeling occupants. Without even making eye contact with Esai, the woman with the silvery blond hair reached for the weapon and gathered herself to her feet. With a trained motion, she sheathed the weapon in its ornate scabbard and strapped it to her hip.
The fastidiously detailed and lanky man did the same, slowly rising and stowing the broadsword before adjusting his spectacles. Waiting patiently, he displayed no sense of urgency or impatience like the woman in the large, white overcoat. His demeanor belied none of the emotions or anticipation that he might be feeling. It was sealed beneath an inscrutable professional disposition that had undoubtedly served him well in his line of work.
Cain, however, paused for a split second and looked at his own blade before finally grasping the weapon in his reluctant hands. While the hesitation might have been an insignificant pause, almost inscrutable to an untrained eye, to those gathered, he might as well have exhaled in a deep sigh. It was a very plain weapon in comparison to the other swords that were sheathed in the rear of the shop as well as in comparison to the weapons which he just handed Cain's two traveling companions.
The long hilt of the sword was wrapped tightly in a black and gold cloth around a firm grip. The long steel blue blade glinted in the light as Cain turned it over in his hands, regarding its double-edged nature. As he moved the sword, he was sure he was psychologically conditioned to hear the sharp and perfectly maintained blade slicing through the air with an almost metal-sheen sound. The other two shot curious gazes at him as he completed the fluid motion of sheathing the katana, but Esai quickly called an end to the ceremony.
"Susume, Ken no Toraiamuviraato," Esai said in perfect Japanese to the gathered.
It was as if a behavioral trigger deeply engrained had been flipped. The woman swiftly turned on her heels, and departed the shop swiftly, closely followed by the spectacled man and returned to the depths of the black sedans that awaited them. As Cain turned to follow, Esai called after him, with a bemused expression on his face. Sensing the man's hesitation, he chose to explore the depths of his turmoil that he hid so well from others.
"Of all the swords I have been charged with, the Sword of Cain is my most admired weapon," he said leadingly, causing Cain to pause his departure.
Cain, sensing Esai's gentle prodding, responded with the humility and equanimity he'd been trained with since childhood.
"It is a useful weapon. I will try to be worthy of its legacy," he growled out in a low tone.
Stepping closer to the powerful man, Esai pushed their unusual conversation a bit further. Unused to such levels of discourse in their prior interactions, Cain maintained his edge, wary of the direction the man was taking the conversation in. With his eyebrow raised, he trained his gaze on the headlights of his awaiting car out the glass panes of the shop.
"Cain, from what I know of you, the most admirable trait you possess is that you must consistently believe in what you are doing. It is not hard to see that if you truly believe in the task at hand, you are a force to be reckoned with. Not only that, but you inspire and influence the will of others. It is the trait of a strong person, an honorable leader and excellent servant.
The only caveat is that to be any of those, you must believe in the will of your master. Regardless of whether you treasure the task at hand, you must believe that your master's will is ironclad and in the service of a greater good that you both share a belief in," Esai paused as Cain nodded in a puzzled sort of deference.
He knew that Cain was internalizing, taking in his words and with practiced suppression sealing away any disagreement or emotional context his words evoked. Regardless, the old man continued.
"This is an admirable trait sought by masters within their students. However," Esai paused, stepping around Cain to meet his stoic gaze.
"It is a dangerous trait if the student grows too presumptuous and begins to question the master. Much like a dog biting the hand of those that feed him, questioning the will of those that have made you what you are today is foolish," Esai's gaze and tone began to freeze, all traces of his incredulous tone fleeing from him.
Cain detected the icy change as well and wisely chose from several more volatile responses he had roiling within him.
"Elder," he began, choosing his words wisely and carefully.
He refused to let this conversation end without expressing himself and chose to couch his sentiment in a fashion that would make Esai listen to his point.
"It remains a mystery to me why your wisdom is wasted here advising servants like me instead of benefitting the Triumvirate."
While he awaited Esai's response, he conducted a flourishing movement which served to sheath his sword in the jet-black ivory scabbard on his hip. He brought his hand in front of him in a deferential gesture to Esai's age and experience, bowing curtly at the waist. He waited for Esai's response.
"Cain, just as you do, I serve the Triumvirate. You serve as a Sword of the Triumvirate and I serve to provide guidance to those in its service," Esai's conciliatory tone returned to his voice, but the edge was still there as he meant his next remark to close the conversation and send Cain on his way.
"And as part of the guidance I provide to those in your position, keep your council on my relationship with the organization and your role in it and continue your distinguished service to the Triumvirate. You are one of the most legendary Swords in recent history. Learn your place as such and I foresee great things for you."
"Elder", Cain firmly planted his fist into his other open palm and bowed deeper.
As he turned, his face seemed to darken, his visage hardening much like a grizzled old vet returning to a war which he'd much rather leave in the past.