It was the 17th century, later Sengoku. It was an era of strife and conflict, endlessly shifting lines between the warring territories. There was no emperor, no central authority that could ever bring peace to the lands. Roving bands of bannerless warriors traversed the lands, unbridled fear etched in the hearts of the peasants dotting the lands.
There was a tiny province that had fallen upon hard times. Once led by a brutal warrior that had dared to eke out sanctuary amongst the scorched lands, the loss of its emperor had left the kingdom spiraling. Plagued with deserters and poor harvests, the kingdom was in its death throes, a blade’s swing away from being swallowed up by its more powerful neighbors.
Yet in a spiral of good fortune, it was discovered that an illegitimate son of the kingdom’s former emperor had been sequestered away in the hidden monasteries. Tutored by the finest of scholars and warriors themselves, the son had been carefully cultivated to follow in his father’s footsteps.
The news came as a shock to the denizens of the kingdom. They had long been tormented by the roving bandits and the warriors from rival kingdoms; harvests slashed by wildfires, their women stolen off, and peace negotiations tossed to the wind. Even the princeling himself was the spitting image of the warrior that had once carved out the very foundations of the kingdom.
He carried the same grim stillness in his posture, the same hawk-bright stare, the same shadow of violence coiled beneath the skin. When he appeared at the gates of the keep, led by ascetic monks in frayed robes, the councillors fell silent; it was as if the dead warlord had stepped back into the world.
The kingdom began to sputter into life once again, a fatal optimism seeping into the whispers and glances of the townsmen. With each passing day, more and more of the warriors that had once deserted the kingdom’s standard found themselves prostrated in front of the new emperor, a desperate plea to restore the kingdom’s former glory.
It wasn’t long before the kingdom’s neighbors also caught notice, many a surveillance party dipping across borders to note the quietly swelling barracks and fields. It wouldn’t be long before the kingdom’s enemies marshaled an effort to stamp out the growing flame before it was too late.
The new emperor had doubts as well. Despite the growing numbers of soldiers that had begun to flock to his standard, the kingdom remained woefully inadequate to fend off any campaigns. Years of corruption and weakness had done their part to unwind the progress his father had etched before his passing.
Even more so, the emperor began to nurse doubts of his own. He had been raised to standards of erudition and refinement, an era that had long dissipated in the world of strife and chaos. He had been cultivated for a world that would be born after, an order that could only be enacted with the melding of such violence. His sword lessons had been a minor grievance, a prelude to the scholarly lessons he undertook in the tutelage of the monastery’s roshi.
He had once viewed his peasants as little more than a point of annoyance, nothing more than a point of expenditure that detracted from his careful rationing. Yet with the passage of time, he grew a strange sense of fondness for his people. Whether it be the humble blacksmith that had forged his first sword to the quiet peasant girls that looked at him with curiosity, they had chosen to find faith with him. Even as he wandered the parapets of his castle to survey the progress; however, he couldn’t help but face the overwhelming truth.
It would take nothing but a minor effort from his enemies, and all that he’d grown to care for would disappear. Even the most valiant of efforts, he knew that there was nothing he could do to protect the world that he had now built. He began to consult with his oracle, divining the moon’s light to look for any semblance of salvation.
It was only after a month of such harried consulting that the emperor heard a rumor, an old crone of a witch hidden under a waterfall that could seemingly grant any wish possible. It had been rumored that she had been the very catalyst of the very times that the kingdom had found itself in, casting the world in a disarray after a spited general had begged for cataclysm.
With swirling rumors that the kingdom’s enemies had begun to round up their forces for a final confrontation, the emperor departed in search of the witch, accompanied with just his trusted advisor. According to the legends, the witch was to be found a nearly week’s trek from the kingdom. This was nothing more than a gamble, a final roll of the dice to ensure the kingdom’s sanctity.
Through the journey, the emperor bore sight to the chaos that had sprung throughout the lands. Starving orphans that tumbled through the endless refugee camps, the women that had been brutalized by the wanton violence. This was the future that would await his kingdom lest he fail to reason with the witch.
After a week’s worth of trekking through the lands, the emperor and his retainer finally arrived at the waterfall. There were no doubts, there was no fear left in the emperor’s heart as he bade farewell to his retainer. They knew that there would be a price to pay, a reckoning that would arrive with salvation. But that was for another day, another time.
The emperor carefully walked down the narrow stone path, paved by many a soul that had made a final choice. There were no signs in front of the waterfall save for the belongings of the others that had disenrobed before entering the cavern. With a final breath, the emperor slung off his robes, the very robes that his father had once worn, tossing the red silk kimono to the lichen green stones below.
The witch was unlike the rumors, a frail waif of a young girl that paced back and forth between the waters. She remained quiet as the emperor began to recount the horrors that awaited his people, the thin squelch of her feet all that punctuated the silence.
It was only when the emperor made his plea that the witch finally began to listen. In gaping breaths, the emperor prostrated in front of the witch, begging her to save the kingdom at whatever it would cost him. Throwing bangles from his pockets, the emperor promised all the riches of the world in return for the sanctity of the world he had left behind.
The witch was wary at first. There had been others like him before, desperate and clamorous for a world that had been passed asunder. They had once promised a world of her own, a pristine world that would be pried from the grimy bones that had driven her from the warmth of her family eons ago. But they were long gone, her baubles cast to the side as they hurriedly walked to the surface.
It was only when the emperor began to talk of his wife that the witch finally looked into the eyes of the emperor. Amidst the hardness and exhaustion, through the flecks of green that colored his pupils, she finally saw hope.
Drawing the emperor close to her bosom, the witch finally agreed. In exchange for his life, the witch swore that the denizens of the kingdom would be kept safe, the kingdom’s enemies held at bay for eternity. And without a second thought, the emperor agreed.
The retainer waited all day and all night, but there was no sight of the emperor. The silk robes were all there would ever be to remember the emperor’s fleeting presence. Even as word reached the servant that the kingdom had attacked, he paced in front of the waterfall in preparation to receive his emperor.
It was only when he learned his very wife had been sold into servitude that the retainer decided to walk into the waterfall himself.