Zhang Jue Gaiden
The old samurai shivered as a sudden gust of wind scattered the dry, brown leaves that had carpeted the trail. Winter was coming. The sun peeked dimly through the bare branches of the skeletal trees; it was a setting sun, and night would soon envelop the land. Still the man in front of him rode ahead, into the wilderness where there would be no shelter to be found.
“Zhang-dono,” began the samurai as he spurred his horse forward to catch up with the man. “This is not the way to the battleground.”
“Yes, I know.”
No matter how many times he heard that voice, the old samurai found it hard to reconcile that smooth, cultured tone with the powerful, wild appearance of Lord Zhang. He sighed. The madman from the continent had appeared one day at the halls of the Minamoto, accompanied by retainers of the disgraced and exiled Yorimitsu. He was not welcomed, especially not when the current leaders of the Minamoto had finally managed to worm their way back into the good graces of the ruling Fujiwara family. That did not seem to matter much to Zhang, and he seemed keen to move on to tour the country.
The old samurai wondered if it was fate – disastrous fate – that had the grandson of Fujiwara no Michinaga, the undisputed power behind the Chrysanthemum Throne, being a guest at the Minamoto household on that day, of all days. The young man fancied himself a warrior, though he was in fact more a vicious bully that no one dared strike thanks to the influence of his bloodline. He would challenge lowly samurai and commoners, and build a castle to his own ego from his one-sided victories.
And as was his habit, the young Fujiwara took an interest in this strange foreigner and challenged him to a duel, thinking him easy prey. After all, as an important heir to the Fujiwara clan, even a single bruise on his body would mean a death sentence to the offender.
His head was twisted clean off his body in the first few seconds of the match.
Thirty years the old samurai had been in service to the Minamoto, and thirty years he had fought their battles; but the violence he saw that day would be one that stayed with him till the moment of his death.
The young Fujiwara had charged forward, swinging his sword with grace. The wild foreigner stood his ground, his expression one of boredom. Then, he had leisurely reached out with one hand. His fingers closed around the top of Fujiwara’s skull and dug in. The young man’s eyes did not even have time to blink before Zhang twisted his grip. There was a sickening popping noise, and the very important head was freed from its noble body in a bloody parting.
The old samurai shuddered. He could still hear that pop in his dreams sometimes.
The current head of the Minamoto was politically savvy enough to realize that even if he could deliver Zhang’s head to Fujiwara no Michinaga, this would not assuage the old regent’s wrath. In fact, the ascendant Taira would probably make use of this calamitous incident to ensure that the Minamoto were destroyed once and for all.
He had only one choice.
He went to his knees before Zhang, begging his aid in the battles to come.
That was when the old samurai saw the madman smile for the first time.
He wondered if it was a mistake then. Even now, after witnessing the man's gift for bloody carnage up close more times than he would have liked, he was unsure. Lord Zhang was powerful; of that there was no doubt. On the battlefield he would tear a bloody swathe through the enemy lines, leading cavalry charges as fiercely as a god of war. In close combat, Zhang terrorized the enemy soldiers so much that they nicknamed him oni: ogre. Invincible. Strong. Terrifying. Mere whispers of his presence was enough to deflate morale on the opposing side. He was no slouch in tactics, either, on a few occasions outmanoeuvring and devastating the combined armies of the Fujiwara and Taira even when outnumbered ten to one.
Even so… the madman was just that: mad.
He was unreliable. He acted according to his own whim, marching to the beat of a drum that only he could hear.
The path the old samurai found himself taking right now was the perfect example. The Minamoto were about to engage some of the most powerful Taira generals in battle just a few hours away, but Lord Zhang had deemed it more important to wander off into the mountains instead of aiding the people he had doomed by his callous actions.
“Zhang-dono,” the samurai began again, hoping to convince the strange warrior to return to battle.
“There is no need for worry. We have arrived, and in good time too,” replied Zhang.
The puzzled old man looked around him – they were at a small forest shrine built outside a cave. “This is…” He peered closely at the talismans and offerings around the shrine – it was set up to some ancient forest deity, and had been cleaned up just recently.
“I have done my share of reading about the folklore of this particular region,” said the maniac lightly in his accented speech, “and found something interesting. You know that the enemy soldiers call me an oni, right?”
The old samurai nodded, gulping. “Yes, Zhang-dono.”
“Interestingly, the villages in this region were known for worshipping ogres. Of course, the religion seems to have lost traction since about a hundred years back, but…” His eyes glinted with amusement as he scratched his beard. The samurai found his eyes being drawn to the dark cave with trepidation, its foreboding depths hidden entirely from the light. Even the cold weather could not stop him from sweating. Surely the madman cannot be implying that…
“Bow.” Zhang commanded simply as he dismounted from his horse.
“My lord, I must-“
“Bow.” He repeated again, his hand still outstretched.
With a grunt of exasperation, the old samurai unslung his bow from his back and placed it in Lord Zhang’s hands. Risking a possible ogre attack would probably be preferable to certain death at Zhang’s hands. “I beg you to reconsider,” he pleaded. “I have reconsidered my plans of attack a few times,” laughed the madman as he took aim, his powerful muscles drawing back the bowstring to its limit. “I found that this was probably the quickest way.”
He loosed the arrow. It whistled forth, the sound of its passage echoing against the cave walls. Then, there was a faint thud.
The forest fell silent.
The ground trembled under the old samurai’s feet.
A low, deep roar travelled out from the cave like the slow rumbling of thunder… a roar that reached deep into the old man’s soul and plucked out his courage. He fell on his behind, having lost all sensation in his legs.
In front of him, he saw Zhang standing tall. An aura of excitement and bloodlust seemed to emanate from the fearless maniac. Letting the bow drop to the ground, he began disrobing partially, letting the top part of his robes hang around his waist as he flexed his powerful chest. Flakes of white started to fall from the sky: the first snow of winter had come.
Then, the roar echoed again. Closer, this time.
Two red gleaming orbs appeared in the dark depths of the cave, each as big as a man’s palm. They shone with a malevolent intelligence. Eyes – those were eyes, shuddered the old samurai. The legends were true. An ogre lived in the cave.
Though, looking at the expression on Zhang’s face, he did not know which being he feared more.
***
Disclaimer: The above may or may not bear any resemblance to actual events during Zhang's Happy Fun Trip to Nippon. It could be that he is having a very enjoyable, peaceful and bloodless tour of the countryside.
