A month passed since the torture. As promised, Musashi had language books delivered for Nik to study. Revenge consumed each waking thought. If studying to be a natural at the Japanese language was a road to vengeance, he'd pour heart and soul into it.
Each day he'd practice words and phrases with the nurses that'd bring food and check on his condition. Others would think it a perfect opportunity to flirt and hit on the cute staff. A fantasy come to reality. Sex, and other women, were the furthest from his thoughts.
Nik couldn't walk. Moving body parts hurt. The doctors had him maxed out on painkillers. Studying with books and TV shows was all he could accomplish. Nik could only guess at the hospital bills. Private room, expensive meds, and multiple, extensive surgeries. Musashi told him he'd be good as new, like nothing happened. Once he could move around, Musashi had a laptop delivered with an assignment.
"Find the perfect tattoo. Your tattoo. One that has meaning only to you."
That was all the note said. Full internet access at his fingertips, Nik did as he was told, after dealing with the avalanche of emails to fix life in the real world. Family, friends, bills, everything to put the world in proper order again, so they'd not think he truly died.
While researched the tattoo, Nik thought back to stories he read as a kid. Tales of heroes and legends. People who overcame great, personal tragedy to survive and win. His family name prodded him into reading stories of knights and ladies, myths like King Arthur. Yet as much as Excalibur interested him as a child, the story sparkled too clean for his current reality. Still, reminiscing about it led him through a link game rabbit hole, clicking on similar link after link after looking up a King Arthur story. One Japanese legend caught his attention, fitting his mindset perfectly.
X
One Year Later
Legend speaks of the unholy sword Muramasa, a sword that must draw blood each time it is released from its sheath. A sword so sharp, it'd cut friend and foe alike, without remorse. Researching ideas and inspirations for the irezumi tattoo, Nik knew a weapon would be needed. The basic idea came to mind easy enough, a constant reminder of his shame. His last name symbolized the honorable defender of the realm in western literature. Strong, stout, and steadfast. Neither trait allowed him to save the love of his life.
But blood demands blood, and so the Muramasa beckoned his name. A dark knight, thirsting for the blood of all who oppose his fury. Damnation came at a price; one he would gladly pay.
"He doesn't do the artwork for the cash. You want him to do the piece, you'll have to convince him the art has meaning," Musashi said. "He doesn't speak a single word of English. This is the first test I told you about. If you can get inked, you're in. Can't, and I'm on the phone to the local Shinkansen office."
"You think he'll do it?" Nik asked.
"Don't know. He did mine, but no one else I know. He is also an eccentric man. That fine line between genius and madness. My advice, don't bullshit him."
Musashi opened the door for Nik, waiting outside the shop. He knew from experience the conversation required privacy. Nik took off his shoes and called out.
"Muramune-san? Are you home?"
From the outside, the shop looked like a normal Japanese-style home. Small, one floor building, with a small wall to protect an even smaller strip of grass around the building.
"Are you the foreigner?" he called out, walking to the door with a cane.
"Yeah, I mean, yes, sir, I am."
"Let me get a good look at you, boy," he said, immediately grabbing Nik by the chin. "Good jaw, strong. But your eyes, I see nothing but pain."
Bent over, the cane kept him from collapsing. Each step a turtle's crawl.
"Why do you want the irezumi, hmmm? Painful, much painful, and a long commitment. Yes, very long. Many years, many changes, hmmm?"
Nik remembered Musashi's words. Tell the truth.
"I want redemption, sir. I want to wear a reminder of my weakness until one day I can conquer it."
"Weakness, you say. You look strong, tough. Why are you weak?"
The old artist walked out of the entrance, waving Nik inside to a small living room. Packed to the ceiling in books and artwork. A small TV sat in a corner, showing afternoon sumo. Tea rested on a small table. Nik waited for permission before sitting down, Japanese style, to try and honor the renowned artist.
"I failed to protect the woman I love, and she died for my actions. Tortured and raped. The shame haunts me, and the hurt angers me."
"You seek vengeance then."
"Maybe I seek both, and redemption is at the end of vengeance."
"Do you know how many tattoos I've created, foreigner?" Muramune asked.
"I can only guess. A hundred? Two hundred?"
"Twenty-nine."
"How do you pay the bills?" Nik asked, surprised.
Muramune chuckled, loudly, as if the comment were from a great comedian.
"I design worlds, living, breathing monuments of ink and flesh. You can cut your skin off and hang it like a picture in a museum. I bore easily. I can draw dozens of sketches to pay my bills, young man, but they don't garner my spirit. Spirit gives life."
"May I ask how those twenty-nine were graced by your spirit?"
Muramune shrugged.
"I don't know. Their spirit spoke to me."
"I'm willing to endure the pain," Nik replied.
"Everyone says that, everyone. But pain twists and distorts. What you seek won't be the final result. Your soul will twist in the process."
"I don't care. If pain distorts, I'm already distorted. I'm not the same person that got tortured."
"Self-harm. You should seek a psychiatrist, not a yakuza ink man."
"Twenty-nine people were accepted, but how many bared their soul to you?" Nik asked.
"One or two."
"Don't be coy, sir, it is beneath you. If you're who you say you are, you remember everything said in these interviews. You remember the enunciation of every syllable and their intent."
"You're not cowardly, foreigner. You don't kowtow to anyone, do you?"
"Maybe I used to be overly diplomatic, and if need be I can do so again, but I have a singular goal in mind."
"Have you heard the story of Masamune and Muramasa?" Muramune asked.
"I've heard of them, did some research. Maybe I heard the story you speak of."
"To find out who was the greatest of all blacksmiths they put their heart and soul in creating the perfect blade, one to surpass all their previous accomplishments. Both finished, they went to a quiet stream to test their creations. Muramasa dipped his blade into the water. Reeds, frogs, even the water itself bled by its sharpness. Masamune dipped his blade into the water. Reeds, frogs and water sailed harmlessly over the blade.
A passing monk noticed the competition, sitting idly by to enjoy the performance. At first glance, the untrained eye would declare victory for Muramasa. His blade cut everything. It should be the natural winner. But to the trained eye, Masamune's blade didn't cut not because he created a faulty, dull sword. Nothing required cutting. The frogs, reeds and water brooked no ill-will.
Two blades for two purposes. Both testaments of genius and masterworks of swordsmithing. I chose the name Muramune to recognize the light and darkness within the human soul. You seek the Muramasa, to strike back against those who wronged you. With it, you hope it'll allow you to hold the Masamune, never needing to swing the blade again."
