Blood Ninja by Nick Lake Page A

the perfect physician: one capable of dispensing advice but not action. For action was the preserve of the samurai class, and was only to be entered into on the express orders of the lord .
    After that, Lord Oda had canceled all his activities other than the most essential, such as eating, sleeping, and torturing informants. He had dedicated his waking hours to training his left arm, making it as strong as his right had been. After a month, the great sword fighter Musashi had sought Oda out, thinking the time had come for the greatest of sword saints to be brought low. Oda had disarmed him, then dishonored him by ordering him to remain alive, and refusing him the release of suicide .
    The sword saint had discovered something new: His left hand might be weaker, but it was faster .
    Lord Oda coughed, and Ito, startled, raised his eyes from the wasted arm to the lord’s face. Oda glowered at him, proffering his hand, and Ito understood that the lord wished him to hand over the sword. He unwrapped the soft oiled fabric and took out the sword, giving it to the daimyo .
    “A sword of blood, or a sword of peace?” asked Oda. “Should I find a stream in which to test it?”
    Ito thought how to answer. He had trained under the great sword smith Muramasa, who was known for creating bloodthirsty blades. But Muramasa himself had trained under Masamune, known for his peaceful weapons. It was said that one day Muramasa grew too bold and claimed that he was as good as his master. So Masamune took him to a stream in the mountains, next to a forest of great fir trees. He lowered his best sword, Yawakara-Te, or Gentle Hands, into the water,and bade Muramasa do the same with his own blade, Juuchi Fyu, or Ten Thousand Winters. The pupil’s sword cut everything that flowed toward it. Fish, leaves, twigs were all severed and split asunder. Yet nothing was cut by Gentle Hands—indeed, the leaves and fish simply swished around it, unharmed. Even the air hissed as it glided gently past the blade .
    After a while, Muramasa began to scoff at his master: Surely no one could claim to be a great sword smith, whose swords would cut nothing, not even the air. But just then a monk was passing on the opposite bank. Masamune hailed him, keeping Gentle Hands all the while in the current next to his pupil’s sword .
    When they had exchanged pleasantries, the monk asked Masamune if he knew of a way to cross the stream, for it was very deep in parts and not easily traversed. “I’m afraid not,” said Masamune. “But please, tarry awhile to judge a contest between myself and my apprentice. Which of these swords would you say is greater?” The monk kneeled on the bank and watched as Ten Thousand Winters sliced through frogs, fish, and leaves, and Gentle Hands only stirred up eddies in the water. Threads of blood billowed in the water from Ten Thousand Winters, as if red silk ribbons had been tied to the blade .
    “That sword is greater,” the monk said, pointing at Gentle Hands. “The other is a brutal sword, good only for killing, and indiscriminate. It will cut a butterfly as happily as it will sever a head. But this sword”—he gestured again at Gentle Hands—“is more thoughtful. This is a sword that would hesitate before cutting that which is innocent or undeserving of harsh treatment.”
    Muramasa scoffed again and drew Ten Thousand Winters from the stream, sheathing it. “My master has simply made a sword that is blunt,” he said. “Anyone could do that.”
    At that, Masamune turned suddenly and whipped Gentle Hands around in a circle. The blade passed through the trunk of a great oak tree behind the pair, as if the trunk—which was as wide as two men standing side by side—were made of water. Masamune sheathed the sword, then walked to the other side of the tree and, very gently, pushed. It fell over the stream with a loud crash, its trunk neatly severed. Themonk bowed, and used the new bridge to cross to the side where the two sword