《Threads to the Past》 Threads to the Past The thunderous sound of heavy rain hit the city almost as loudly as the thunder that accompanied it. The few people who could bear to venture outside quickly made their way to cover, not wanting to be out in the rain any longer than necessary. The face of a stranger hailing a foreign land wandering the streets of Norwich was the least of anyone''s worries at the moment. His cloak was tattered and soaked, his face barely peering out of it as he slowly walked along the side of the road. It was a curious sight to anyone who cared to look, even though the only things noticeable were a long dark cloak slightly dragging, a thin curved sheath of a sword not standard to the lands he was traveling, a small leather bag slung over his shoulder, and his abnormally slow pace. An awning hung from the side of a large building, providing shelter to those who happened by. Under the cover, there stood a young woman, thin as could be. Her relaxed expression betrayed by the slight appearance of grey hairs that grace her otherwise fair appearance. Her apron tied around her dress, soaked through as the water from the rain still makes its way under the protection of the hanging cloth, even if only lightly. ¡°Sir, Look!¡± A shrill, youthful voice rings out, breaking through the constant drumming of the rain against the road. A girl of elementary age jets out from behind a stall full of flowers, holding a dandelion. The unnatural sight caused the foreigner to freeze. Such a sharp contrast breaks through the dull streets, sullen faces, and pouring rain. The girl covers the flower with her small hand, shielding it from the rain at the cost of her comfort as she waves to me from the awning that protects the flower stand, even if only enough to keep the flowers alive. The scene sticks out like a candle flame in an abandoned church, the surroundings dull in comparison. A young woman watches nervously from behind the display. He slowly stepped under the awning, the noise and pressure of the rain removed from his shoulders as he pulled back the hood of his tattered cloak. The removal of his hood revealed his darker skin tone and sharp features. Upon his face lay the natural yet scornful look adorning his face. This, along with his narrow eyes and a scar angled diagonally from his left temple gave him a weathered and dangerous look. His thin and sleek hair soaked, plastered down his neck by the excessive moisture down to his shoulders as the shopkeeper looked up at him curiously for a moment. ¡°Sweetie, don¡¯t bother him¡± A hint of exhaustion in the young woman¡¯s tone. ¡°Is this your daughter?¡± The foreigner asks, glancing down at the girl. Her bright eyes pierce his, giving him an uncomfortable, familiar feeling. His gruff voice and unfamiliar accent caused his voice to raise a few eyebrows. ¡°Ah, yes. Though she might be too sociable for her own good.¡± Though she appears annoyed, her affection for her daughter emanates from every look and movement she makes. ¡°Regardless, is there anything you need, good sir?¡± She keeps her distance, consistently a few paces away. ¡°Nothing from you, what I''m searching for is something no decent man should have to concern themselves with.¡± The foreigner looks at her then the girl, an obvious strong familial connection as she lifts her daughter in her arms. The pleasant sight both made his heart swell and feel as though a thousand cuts were inflicted upon his heart simultaneously. The slight feeling of nostalgia and longing only makes them cut deeper. Yet a fragile, thin strand he had long since neglected pulled on his heart. The origin of which was distant and vague yet its pull was undeniably what caused the man to soften his features and introduce himself. ¡°My apologies, my name is Hikura Fujimura, son of Hanzo Fujimura¡± The woman watches, slightly confused yet delighted at the change in demeanor. Her daughter watched, fascinated as though she had just seen someone speak another language. ¡°Oh, nice to meet you, Hikura. My name is Sarah and My father is Samuel¡± The obvious disconnect caused a small fit of laughter in the present parties. The conversation continues amicably, bringing up topics he had not discussed in a long time as his chest slowly tightens. His hometown of Takasaki and his engraving on his sword handle. As the strand leads him further, it cuts deeper into his heart. Regardless of how pleasant the conversation was, he could not help but cut off the seemingly amicable exchange. ¡°Well, Good day¡± Hikura cuts off curtly, his expression darkening nearly as quickly as it softens. He slides the hood over his head, giving his face and hair what little protection it provides before stepping out into the rain without waiting for so much as a response. The weight of the falling rain suddenly slams itself onto his shoulders, wandering away from the light. Hikura made his way to a more densely populated sector of the town as he passed by a variety of shops, people, and beggars. The town of Canterbury has a constant flurry of activity. The buildings were condensed yet towering. He stood in his cloak, doing its job well enough as he peered across a busy street. Making use of the street was a surplus of horse-drawn carriages pulling ornate wagons with a few children weaving between them recklessly. The fresh scent of rain mixed with the slight scent of industrialization. Smoke from smith shops and slight scents from shops that sell hygiene products and the like, a small amount of corruption to the purity that gives the town character. Close by, the foreigner spotted a small inn located cozily between a shoppe and a tavern. He approaches with muddied shoes and soaking clothes. Evening passes into the night as he rouses himself, hearing the creak of the floorboards as he stands up. Hikura approaches a pane of glass separating him from the light falling of rain outside, cool to the touch as the condensation moistens his fingertips. He stands shirtless, his defined muscles displayed through the foggy window convulsing slightly at the cold air seeping through. The rain has let up, permitting more people to travel the street in simple umbrellas and coats without the worry of soaking regardless. He gazes through the window, watching the city, taking in their alien culture through the slight corrosion of the glass. The senseless bustle of businessmen and workers paired with bright colors, enough lights to illuminate the night sky itself. Hikrua examines the architecture, the likes of which he had rarely seen. He tears himself from the captivating and perplexing sight and approaches his clothing draped over the coat hook, finally dried. He holds a traditional garb from his homeland, a Umanori Hakama. He begins to slide his dogi over his shoulders, the familiar cloth enveloping him as it slides gently over his back and envelops his arms. He then crosses one side of the open dogi over the other, tying it gently as the rough yet firm cloth from his homeland comforts him. He then slides his obi around his waist, a thick cloth that wraps around the waist. He proceeds to slide on the Hakima, a loose dress-like pair of pants that he ties around the obi from the front to the back. He proceeds to slowly and methodically slide his sword through the obi, as though reclaiming a part of his being before he exhales a sigh of relief, feeling whole again. Regardless of his familiarity, he tosses on his cloak again. He intended on heading out soon and did not wish to attract more attention than necessary, though he had a nagging feeling it may become necessary. Hikura sits on the bed, its firm, well-used mattress offering little more solace than the floor beneath his feet. His back hunched from many days of traveling and nights spent sleeping in places less hospitable than this. He slowly unsheathes the sword, its original sheen long since gone, though well maintained enough to remain free of any blemishes. A katana, a blade unseen in this land lies curved across his lap. Along the light reflection, he sees the history of his family, the lightly reflective edge shining with the determination of many men who came before him. The blade is pure with a handle made of food, a hilt of iron shaped with his family crest, and A dragon''s head pierced by a single blade. Along the worn wooden handle, he has taken care to prevent splinters yet the engraving along the handle remains untouched. A simple word, mercy. Though no people from this area would be able to tell, his homeland¡¯s tongue is all but unheard of not just in this town, but at this end of the world. His hand grips the hilt, holding the weight of his loved ones'' souls resting upon the edge. He feels the slowly strengthened strand along the sword''s edge. It winds up his arm and into his soul. His eyelids gently close, the curtains of his eyes close, fully immersing him into visions he has not relished in for ages. He can only relish pleasant memories briefly before his vivid daydream is interrupted. A squeak from across the small room, a mouse that had been caught in one of the many traps placed throughout the inn. The mouse''s backside clamped in the iron grip of the trap, desperately crawls across the floor before collapsing, exhausted. Hikura places the swords above the mouse''s neck, watching its small coat of fur rise and fall heavily. He cannot bring his sword down, ending the aggravating squeaks of the vermin as a thin thread wraps around the top of his word, pulling away not from the mouse itself, but something more merciless. Due to this nature of his, he has slowly given into combating the thread, pulling like two forces of one soul battling for dominance to determine his fate. Hikura looks up, at the end of this thread standing a man whose features are obscured and distant. He hesitantly sheaths the sword as the thread dissipates as he stands, a single thread connecting him to a warm, distant memory. Hikura lifts the mouse and releases it out the window, feeling the warm fragility of its life in his hands. A taste of a different kind of righteousness from what he has known since traveling, and hunting. The mouse falls to the dirt and mud below, scampering off. ¡°Here is your meal, sir!¡± A waitress, dressed in a plain apron and a light grey dress beneath says gleefully as she delivers a small meal. He nods in appreciation, the waitress giving him a quick, slightly awkward smile before moving on. He enjoyed his meal, slowly eating the soup and cider he had ordered as he entered the bar. A booth of one person gives him plenty of room to shift so that he is as comfortable as one could be in this setting. He attempts to block out the overwhelming commotion all around him. The consistent bustle of drunks and employees, noise coming from every direction, and shaking of the floorboards off-putting. He attempts to close his mind, longing for the familiar, tame atmosphere of a sauna or gathering place from his homeland. Almost finished with his meal, he hears an oddly familiar high-pitched squeal pierce the dull, constant mass of noise, followed by a slow descent in the noise. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°An where t¡¯a hell da you get off tellin¡¯ meh what ta do!?¡± bellows a thin, obviously drunk man. He and his companions were fitted in officer''s garbs, a bright green uniform with a patch sewn on to indicate his division and rank. A larger man with a rather extravagant man with a thick beard and wrinkled face, his experience showing on his face as he watches the commotion amused, Seemingly the leader. The rest of the men were in various states of entertainment, drunk, and distracted. A thin beard dripping with ale as he slams his pint on the counter. Each man has a weapon at their side, except for the thin, bearded man, swinging his sword lightly at his side. As Hikura observes the men, a pang of violent emotion surges through his body like lightning before a storm. A sheen of recognition and hatred in his eyes. ¡°Really, sir, w-we were just wondering if you could, please watch where you were swinging your sword. We have a child and-¡± An awfully worried-looking man stuttered, his voice cracking. He is seemingly the father and husband of the family of three that huddled around the table next to the group of officers. Hikura¡¯s eyes widen slightly as he lays his eyes upon the family. While he does not recognize the man with his arms shielding his family, the woman and child are more familiar. His mind flashes with the woman''s smile as she cradles the young girl''s beaming face as she offers up a flower to a man as foreign and strange as himself. ¡°Ye think I give a damn about yer kid? I spend my day pertecten yer sorry asses!¡± his eyes seem to shine with intention, betraying his drunken demeanor. ¡°If anythin¡¯ you should be thanken meh! We went across te¡¯ wurld to plunder for tis excuse fer a country! Maybe let me have a go at that fine woman behind yer.¡± He says, giving a sinister smirk as he firmly grips the man''s shoulder. The scrawny, vile man laughed deeply as he forced the pathetic man aside before he could respond, the smaller man fell on his back. The gruff lawman grabbed at his wife as she screamed, the whole pub watching but not taking action. Even with his limited knowledge of the culture, Hikura could tell the people surrounding him were paralyzed. The badges displayed proudly upon their breasts, though they were only the size of his palm, were casting a shadow over their hearts. Nothing could make him more disappointed. The gruff, vulgar man grabs the woman by the hair as he smirks. A scene flashed before the foreigner''s eyes, just like the one unfolding before him. Layers of horrendous scenes on top of each other. The woman and her daughter struggled as the men would have their way. He sees flames engulf the walls, vanishing as he blinks, barely able to separate the mental display from the activity in front of him. The scene prying open the vault his mind had created. His revulsion, gut-wrenching nostalgia, and mental rejection of the scene before him pulled at his body. Hikura¡¯s vision narrowed as he took a sharp breath in. He could feel his heart pounding as the blood rushed through his veins quickly enough to cause the veins on his wrist to become visible. His feet shift as his coak floats to the floor beneath him, his cover and anonymity shed. The vulgar man laughs as he yanks the woman by her hair. He sensually licks his lips as a degenerate glint in his eye shines. His pleasure was interrupted by his confusion, a simultaneous sudden gust and lack of sensation, and his laughter caught in his throat. The light reflected off the polished blade blinding him for but a second. A grotesque thud echoes across the room before a scream fills the room. The thin man falls back, blood spraying from his wrist as his hand lies dismembered on the floor. He squirms, clutching his hand to his chest as his uniform, as well as the ground beneath him, are stained red. The room falls dead silent apart from his screams, which are like knives against a chalkboard to Hikura. ¡°Pathetic.¡± The foreigner says quietly, eyes not gracing the vulgar lawman. His voice dripped with pure, unending disgust. ¡°What the hell is wrong with you?! My-My hand!¡± The other men stare in shock, Hikura¡¯s Katana still in the air. Blood drips from the tip like dew from a flower as it ripples in the thick, red puddle beneath his feet. His feet spread in a wide stance, holding his sword at head level with the curve of his sword aiming at the ground. A sword from a distant land before their eyes, the truth of their situation dawning upon them. In a mix of shock, confusion, fear, and anger, they all glance between the bloodied blade and the severed hand. Hikura''s Hakama is surprisingly absent from the blood he so swiftly spilled. The man''s screams of agony were unceasing. ¡°S-sir, I respect you and your work b-but you have to understand! We didn''t wron-¡± Says the man shielding his family, pale in the face. It seems as though he is incapable of seeing past these men''s authority to the monsters underneath. Hikura¡¯s stomach turns at the scene. Not due to the severed hand nor the guttural screams of the bleeding officer. His repulsion emanates from the man before him, still trying to appeal to this pathetic, squirming excuse of a man. He takes a deep breath, readying his voice and steadying his mind. His goal within reach, He steadies himself to reveal his purpose to those he has hunted far beyond his homeland. ¡°My name is Hakura Fujimura!¡± He says with a firm voice, a heart of steel, and spirit as firm as a boulder. His eyes pierce the men as he levels his katana at them. The name struck a tone as their heads perked up slightly, causing a curious look in the eye of the leader among them. ¡°You slew my father like animals, burned my mother alive, and violated my sister! No distance was too far for me to track you monsters! Now that I have found you, you can no longer cower behind the wartime armies or cowardly excuses! If you believe you''re able to escape my judgment, put those ambitions to rest before I do it myself!¡± His voice slowly lifts until it fills the entire bar, face twisted with a firm resolve and a twisted hatred. The leader among them smiles menacingly at the threat. He unsheathed his sword, the rest of his entourage doing so in unison. The sound of steel was removed from its sheath like beasts baring their fangs. His expression is the furthest from Hikura¡¯s own. ¡°You have come a long way to die then.¡± declares the leader among them, The crowd fled out the crowded door. Hakura stares back at him. His stance, gaze, and soul are unwavering by anything before one of the men rushes at him with his sword raised high, a clumsy move meant to put all his muscle into a rending stroke. Hakura swiftly side steps and ripostes, rending the flesh across his shoulder. The crimson splatter leaves a mark on his outfit and the surrounding furniture. The man wails for a moment, doubling over before returning his sword to his hand. The thread around his sword pulls his sword from any flesh that radiates death and vulnerability. ¡°Why?¡± Hakura whispers. The other men step off of their stools and rush him as Hakura engages in a series of parries and reactions. Cutting and slashing across their bodies. His mind is in a flow state, a dance of crimson violence as though Hakura spreads ripons of blood across the establishment. The men stepped into heavy, cowardly swings and Hikura responded in turn with his blade in a swift motion, his footing shifting with each action. ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± He says louder, his face focused yet perplexed. One after the other throws themselves at him, a flurry of slow swipes and swift dodges. Hakura¡¯s confusion caused him to take a blow to the back, then another to the shoulder. The incessant blows and parries from Hakura become more savage. Each more savage cut caused the wooden handle to slowly fracture. Deeper, faster, more vital as the thread strained, the men fell one by one, agony and blood spreading across the room along with broken stools and shattered glasses. Hakura¡¯s traditional garb, the connection to his homeland, was gashed and covered in blood. Most of which flows from another man''s veins. ¡°Why would you fight? How can you not see your own hideous reflection? Why can''t I kill you?¡± He says, speaking inwardly. Before he can take another breath, the leader barrels into him, knocking the wind from his lungs. They fly through the door. Hakura wheezes as he lays in the mud. His blood mixes with the rain and mud, creating a vile substance that shifts under his feet as he stands. Scrambling for his sword he sees the leader stand up and glare daggers at him. The leader pulls out his own blade as Hakura¡¯s expression darkens further, the leader''s expression shifting to a sadistic smile. ¡°Ah, the son of the smith makes his grand reveal!¡± Hakura blocks a brutal strike from his hulking sword, staggering back. He breathed dramatically, already winded. ¡°I remember your father, He was a weak, pathetic excuse for a man, but oh that girl that was with him!¡± He exclaims with a taunting bliss, Hakura lunging at him narrowly avoiding his large blade before cutting at his back, only able to make a shallow cut but enough to stagger him. His blood-stained clothing slowly drenches, mud sliding slowly from his body as his hair wildly clings to his back. Hakura then cuts at his shin swiftly, the man falling to one knee. He swipes at Hakura, blade digging into his hip with a pained scream. Hakura wildly swings at his hand with his sword. He lops a few of his fingers with a gruesome display. The large sword falls to the ground as Hikura staggers back, sword still in hand. ¡°Oh? Do you think this will fix your soul? Return you to the normalcy you so obviously crave?¡± The man growls through gritted teeth, Hakura standing over him with a gaze full of rage, barely registering his wounds. ¡°You won''t kill me, I can read the engraving on that sword you carry, you are just as pathetic and weak as your father!¡± He spits, not even looking up. ¡°Don¡¯t You dare compare yourself to an idol such as him! Every man woman and child in Takasaki was worth a thousand of you and your disgusting band of savages!¡± Hakura looks down at him with a gaze full of rage, raising the blade above his head. His eyes drift to the gore and bloodshed he caused in the tavern then to the man before him. A hideous painting of restraint and hatred. The leader''s head hangs weakly as his hair hangs soaked, obscuring his face. A strand restrains his sword as it rests above his head. He pulls and tugs and pressures his sword to end the man before him. His breath catches at the sight before him. His family on the other end of the strand, loving, worried looks on their faces. He should stop, his morals and connections to his late family should take priority. His heart burns. His flesh sears. In less than an instant, the only sensation that burns through his entire being is rage. The man''s words seeped into his mind. It will never bring them back. Though the strand strains, A primal noise bellows from deep within his soul and resounds through the entire town as the years and years of resentment, hate, and every disgusting, vile emotion he feels releases in a moment. The strand snaps, resounding louder than any firecracker. A soft thud and a resounding crack is the result of this sin. Simultaneously, the man''s head falls to the ground, his disgusting face smeared with mud as his sword shatters. The blade buries itself in the ground as the wooden handle shatters, the original engraving no longer recognizable as shards of wood lying on the ground and buried into his hands. His heart is pounding as he stands frozen. He stands as still as a statue before collapsing. Hakura looks up, the artificial sun hanging from a pole shining, blotting out the night sky as shaky breaths are all he can focus on before his consciousness gives way. Somewhere in the distance, a woman''s voice resounds through the air, lingering in his mind. For the first time in what feels like ages, he sees his sister, sitting next to a shrine, a kimono flowing like clouds over a mountain. Father sharpens his blade, finely tuned muscles shining through his sweat as he presses the blade to the grindstone. His mother is in the distance, hanging linen as she adores her husband''s work. He watched, attempting to run to them, yelling out. Though there was no voice, the scene seemed as distant as it was clear. Tears fell from his eyes as his limbs and throat were bound by chains of blood. The curtains rise as Hakura regains his consciousness. Somehow he finds himself in a rustic room full of vials and curtains. His body was wrapped in bandages and his wrists were tied together by a thick rope. The circumstances do not worry him as much as a single, devastating revelation. Not peace for avenging his family nor reveling in his skills. He reflects as he looks at his hands. The thread has snapped. His family is truly gone.