Tales of a Ninja Magician: Of Journeys We Make

Of Faith In Humanity

A lively young man with ruffled violet hair, wearing a Konohagakure headband proudly on his forehead charged at a lone, frail-looking, and short man in a white dogi and a long black ponytail. The Konohagakure ninja was accompanied by an unlikely handful of other warriors: a Tanigakure kunoichi with black hair and jasmine-colored eyes, an old, metallic colossus covered in moss that was a part of the Fennec's band of mercenaries, and a Sky Warrior clad in a cowl of cerulean feathers with a pointy beak for a mask. Together the band of warriors rushed at the feeble martial artist who found himself exposed to anyone without a dance partner of their own.

It all happened in a blur, the old man didn't seem to move much but whatever he did was incredibly effective as all his assailants flipped and rolled and got flung aside by invisible force. The flawlessness of the martial artist's movements left every single one of his attackers baffled as they laid and stared at the exposed old man with stunned looks before fleeing to shuffle into the chaos of the battle royale to avoid the martial artist's retribution. It didn't look like the man was capable of incredible feats of strength, though when they were tossed, it felt as if their own charge aided them in that venture.

"Old man..." a haunting, raspy voice filled the air, making the serene martial artist who stood with his head down and his hands placed and weaved on his hakama trousers in modesty straighten his back and turn for the chilling voice calling out to him.

"Time to reap your soul!" the voice continued to weave its web of intimidation. There was a certain creepy quality to it, that no matter how intense anything nearby or around the man hearing the voice was, the chilling call for bloody murder still reached them in its original form. Almost like it was artificially bolstered, though only up to a certain point.

Proximity was another factor. Being a skilled martial artist, Kamome Gan was not one to scare easily. He also usually was on top of having a perfect sense of his surroundings, which is why the suddenness of this foolish verbal challenge made him turn around and look at who or what was behind him. The old man's eyes widened as a fleshy burrowing noise preceded a painful resonance of pain in his chest. Steel dug under his breast muscle and spilled a splash of red over his white gi.

"Who have you scorned the most? That person is the one wielding this blade..." the voice whispered, this time intimately, right into Gan's ear before pulling the knife out and dashing back in one bountiful leap while Gan staggered and quickly turned around to defend himself against more daring knife attacks such as that one.

He didn't get a good look at whoever stabbed him. The only qualities and features he noticed in their limited yet profoundly painful time of acquaintance was the stroke of plentiful cloth–the figure was cloaked. Also, the touch against his shoulder when the assailant whispered to him felt sharp and artificial. Plastic-like. That suggested that the assailant was also masked. That voice. It didn't change pitch or volume, despite whispering right into Gan's ear. A voicebox to alternate one's voice and give it a sense of lifelessness. A way to be perceived less as a man and more like something inhuman. A tactic often employed by the Kirigakure Demons to mask their humanity and mortality.

Was this one of the famed and bloody Kirigakure assassins of the past? No. Such a professional would've struck a killing blow immediately. It wouldn't have been hard for him to open an artery or strike a vital organ that'd have forced Gan to resign from the competition. No. This assailant was either not a professional assassin or assassination was not in his mind with this plunge of the blade. He struck to hurt, to toy. A serial killer?

Gan didn't bother himself with reading the news or paying to buy books that detailed the investigations into these mysterious and depraved monsters. He had too much training and self-improvement at hand and he respected life too much to spend it gasping at horrific descriptions of crimes and scare tactics. He lived in the here and now. The problem was that scare tactics had found him in the here and now, and these chilling tales of men devoid of morality and common decency became all too real for Kamome Gan.