*This is a prequel to the story Nakanaori*

Act I: Feelings

     "After all this time, you still do not grip it the way I tell you to," a middle-aged man
scolds. "How many times have I said it? Hold it as if your hand were on fire. As if it were
blistering up and you can barely handle it. Otherwise you will never know how hard to hold it."
     The master and the heir to the Fireblade style, one who's teaching lies within the flame.
     The student repositions his grip and asks, "Like this?"
     "No, just... I'm tired, that's it for today."
     "I'm trying!" the pupil cries out to the master as he walks away. "Sensei! Show me!"
     He pauses for a moment and then speaks without turning to face his student, "I've
showed you so many times and you never learn it."
     "But I have learned," the pupil tells him. "I am better than anyone I have encountered,
why is that not good enough for you?"
     Now he does turn to face the student, "Because it is not a matter of it is good enough for
me, but whether or not it is good enough to live up to it's name, the style that is."
     The Sensei leaves the student standing alone as he continues his walk home. The student
sheathes his sword. He thinks to himself:
     It has been days since I have learned or even practiced anything new with my master. My
Sensei still taught me despite my inability to hold the sword the way he wanted, but that was
assuming I would learn how to eventually.
     Sullenly, the student began his own walk home. He lives in his master's house. 
     His thoughts continue:
     I spend my days going back and forth between practice and my studies. It is Sensei's
belief that I be strong in both body and mind.

     The night arrives, and the student sits quietly just outside his room, staring at the stars.
     He speaks to himself, for it is the only way he can ever sort out his thoughts, "Everyone
looks up to the stars. The mysticism that surrounds them intrigues us all."
     His concentration is broken by the call of his master, "Hirohisa! I need your assistance."
     He gets up from his seat and goes down to offer help. He finds his sensei waiting for him
outside.
     "Hand me that lamp."
     As he reaches over for it, he trips over his sensei's foot and his hand falls into the flame
within the lamp. Somehow his tripping caused his sensei to fall on top of him, pinning him
down, with the student unable to move his hand away from the flame. The student tries as hard
as he can to hold down the scream rising in his throat as his hand is slowly torched.
     After what seems to be forever to him, his sensei is able to get off of him and he pulls his
hand out. He looks at his hand and can see the blisters beginning to form over it. The student
gets taken inside and the sensei's wife wraps his hand in a cloth.
     Afterwards, the sensei still calls the student out to finish the job, which apparently was
just the simple task of resetting a loose rock around his fish pond.
     That night the student slept clutching his wounded fist. The next morning he is up with
the sun. He sits on the steps outside the house observing the nature around him. He concentrates
on his thoughts:
     Peace. My heart deserves peace. I wish not to hurt, just to heal. The world deserves
peace. I must find a way to bring it. Perhaps, just maybe, through my sword. That is how.
     The screen slides open and the young boy's sensei steps out, "Get your sword."
     "But sensei," the boy pleads. "I hurt my hand. I can't grasp my sword."
     "Are you that indolent," the sensei berates. "Do what I told you to do."
     The boy acknowledges the command and gets up to get his sword. He walks back out to
his master on the lawn holding the sword in his left hand, the one that was not burned.
     "Get into posture," the master orders.
     "But I can't..."
     "Get in your stance!"
     The startled boy immediately pulls out the sword and painfully grasps it with both hands
in front of him. He struggles with it.
     "Master," he begs. "I can't hold it. It hurts."
     "You better keep on holding it, boy," the master yells at him. "This is how you learn to
hold the sword. As if your hands were blistering."
     The boy thinks to the same words spoken to him the previous day. A thought comes to
his head and he says it out, "You purposely tripped me, didn't you?"
     "What will you do about it?" the master says. "You had to learn somehow."
     The boy's faces gets flushed in anger.
     "I can see you are angry," the master says. "If you hate me so, attack me."
     The student is conflicted with what he should do. His master continues on.
     "Come on," he says. "I have nothing here to stop you. Attack me!"
     The boy snaps. He swings his sword above his head and tries to slam it down on top of
his sensei's head. The master sidesteps, grabs the boy's right wrist with his left hand. The master
uses his right hand to clamp down on the boy's hand that is holding the sword.
     The boy lets out a little yelp at the pressure on his blistered hand.
     "Did you think you could win?" the master questions. "You should know better, and now
you learn."
     The master uses his left hand to hold the sword in place as he uses his right hand to
squeeze hard and then he forcefully rotates the boy's hand across the handle of the sword
breaking the blisters. 
     The boy works hard to stifle his screams and small tears run down from the corner of his
eyes because of the pain. Finally, the master lets go and the boy immediately backs away,
dropping his sword, and clenching his hand close to his body.
     The master speaks, "The principles: Attack swiftly as fire spreads. Embrace your
environment as if everything may cause you pain, so you are always ready. And inversely to the
idea of being like fire, your most important lesson is this; you will never be the strongest if you
fight with fire in your heart. Anger will consume you, like how a fire consumes all living things.
You will never be able to control it once it begins. Once again, like a fire that has been sparked,
it grows and can not be controlled. There is great power to be had there, and many past masters
of the Fireblade style have been consumed trying to control their great anger to increase their
abilities. I am here to impart my wisdom on you. It can not be done by a mortal being. So it can
not be done by anyone. You must do one of two things then to stop it from consuming you.
Either learn to never be angry, or learn to feel nothing at all. You are a swordsman, you will
fight, it is all you know how to do. You have knowledge, but in this world your specialty is the
blade. Being that you live this way, I should strongly consider the latter of the two
recommendations as to how to stop the devouring of your life from your sword."
     The master turns to look at the young boy, "That is all I have to teach you today. Go back
to your weak bandages."
     The sensei walks away into the house. The boy stands pondering his words. He looks
down at his hand. It is wet with the fluids released from the wound. He looks down at the sword
on the ground. The boy lets go of his hand and reaches down to pick up his sword. He flinches at
making his hand do more work.
     The boy walks to a tree. He figures to do hard work to learn to control his sword the way
he should. He sets himself up in the basic posture. He begins practicing against the tree. Each
time he grunts but bears the pain.
     The boy works on the tree for hours practicing different techniques. The sun begins
setting and the boy's sensei walks out to him.
     The boy continues practicing, slicing the wind, and his sensei says, "What are you
doing?"
     "Practicing," the boy answers.
     "Where is your bandage?" the sensei questions.
     "If this is suppose to teach me what I need to know, then I must utilize the opportunity."
     The boy continues practicing. "Boy, sheath your sword. Night is here and you must rest.
Practicing will do no good if you are too tired to see what you're doing right."
     The orders are followed and the boy puts the sword back in it's sheath, but will not turn
to face his master.
     "Are you still mad at me, boy?" the master questions.
     "On the contrary, you have taught me what I need to know," the student answers.
     "I have not taught you everything you need to know," the master says. "Life has yet to
teach you many harsh lessons. You will experience much loss. Of friends, love, and yours
dreams and ideals."
     "I shall not," the boy tells his master. "Because I am stronger than you."
     "Oh really?" the master questions again.
     The boy turns to face his sensei, "You are the weak one. You have your wife, your
property, and as cruel as you may be to me, you have your pupil."
     "Perhaps, boy, perhaps," the master somewhat agrees. "But I chose a path of not trying to
dominate my anger for more power. I have tried to live my life on a path absent of anger as best I
could and this is what I have received for it."
     "Weak, pathetic," the boy abruptly says.
     "And how can you justify your strength?" the master asks. "You don't know what
relationships and goals you will come across."
     "None," the boy says. "I will shelter myself from friends, family, dreams, and the
common lights of one's life. No wife, no beliefs, and no common acquaintances. And
consequently, no morals and no feelings. Just as you suggested."
     "Many have taken that path," the master tells him. "The majority of our kind who have
learned this style have done so that way. I felt strong enough to take the harder way of going
without anger, not just blocking it all."
     "That's your way," the boy says. "This is mine."
     "Then... that's how it will be," the master says. "You can have your way. It won't stop
me from teaching you."
     "Teach what I need to know, and then let me out of here."
     "Do not be so hasty, my boy," the master says. "You still have a good deal to learn even
about your techniques."
     The boy just stares at his sensei.
     "Come on, this has been enough for one night," the master says. "It is time for rest."
     The boy does not reply and the two walk into the house.