Competition Part 2

Despite the small chip in the blade, Demehojumarukotene cut as if she was completely unhurt. Shoddy sword after shoddy sword cracked in her wake. On the 61st, I heard another cry. It was muffled, not nearly as bone chilling as that first one, but it was there. I looked to the metal and saw another crack on Demehojumarukotene, just above the chip.

67th, and she cried out again. A pained gasp, as if she was hit hard in the gut. Then another yelp, and another. It got to the point where every sword was damaging her. Her metal was chipped away and warped, and I couldn’t quell this nightmarish pain in my stomach. She had so many chips she could have been mistaken for a saw.

But I’m the only one who heard her cries. Everyone else screamed in excitement! I was happy they rooted for her, but I wish they knew what Demehojumarukotene was going through!

The reason behind the muffled cries was simple. She didn’t want to worry me. Demehojumarukotene knew I was nervous and didn’t want to send her out there, but she put her foot down and made me wait on the sidelines. Now that she was being injured and broken dent by dent, she didn’t want me to suffer.

“But you’re the one suffering!” I thought. “You’re the one in pain, I’m just sitting here, worthless!”

With no other option, I clasped my hands in prayer. I didn’t care about the result of this competition, I just wanted her to be okay.

“Hey, Brooks, why are you praying?”

“Yeah! Your sword is winning.”

“You did an incredible job. Even if it breaks I think you’ve more than convinced Wako to let you stay!”

I didn’t respond. If they didn’t understand, they simply weren’t going to. Maybe Wako was sympathetic, but I wasn’t going to avert my eyes long enough to check.

When we reached sword 78 out of 93, the energy of the field was incredible. For me, this was a battle of my child fighting for her life to fulfill her purpose. But for all them, it was just one sword continually slicing other swords cleanly in half. I got to thinking that Demehojumarukotene’s plight had actually resonated with my sisters to some degree.

Demehojumarukotene was quality. Individuality. Strength.

Fellas’s swords were quantity. Sloppy. Mass produced. Strength through raw numbers. The collective.

As much as we say we’re okay with being just another unit in the unfathomably large army of Master, and as much as we might believe it on the surface, it isn’t entirely true. Deep down, we want to be special in Master’s eyes. We don’t want to be featureless Drones, we want to be unique. In that sense, Demehojumarukotene carried all our hopes within her. Even if they thought she was just a piece of metal, they wanted to live vicariously through her and watch this one, singular unit rise above the rest and prove that you can be more than just a piece of a greater whole.

Thinking like this, it’s no wonder why their screams of joy increased the closer we got to 93. It’s no wonder they were on the edge of their seats for a simple competition of slapping swords against each other. It started out as a fun little bullying session, to watch the sword I put so much time and love into break against the onslaught of cheap garbage, but Demehojumarukotene started winning. They allowed themselves to care, and put their hope on the line and allowed themselves to dream.

But then, of course, the time came and they were all brought back to reality. On the 85th sword, there was a deafening snap and a horrific scream.

“KYAAAAAAAAH!!”

Demehojumarukotene broke.

The top third of her blade snapped cleanly and flew through the air, spinning wildly. There were cheers at first when everyone heard the snap, but they were all looking so closely that they soon realized what happened.

Before the broken piece had even reached the apex of her flight, the crowd was silent. Even the wind respectfully stayed quiet. I closed my eyes to help suppress the tears, and from the sound of grass being crunched, I knew she had landed.

I bit my bottom lip hard and leaned forward, covering my face. “I should have taken you back for repairs, I’m so sorry. I’m such an irresponsible creator, I’m so sorry.”

Wako was the first to make a sound. She sighed. She didn’t gloat, or laugh, she didn’t smile, she just sighed. I could tell she was disappointed too. She was caught up in everything and dared to dream as well. Next I heard her walk across the grass to the center of the field.

“H-hey,” Fellas said, her voice calm and soothing as she rubbed my back, “don’t feel too bad! Your sword gave one heck of a showing! No way Wako will fire you. A-and if she tries too, then she’ll have to fire me as well.”

I forced my eyes open and looked at her, she wore a reassuring smile, even if she was hurting inside too.

“Yeah..!” The sister to my right, Gidera, said. I turned to face her, and her eyes were cold. “Me too. If you get fired, I’ll get fired.”

More sisters joined in the spontaneous boycott. Those nearby patted my back or playfully ruffled my hair, but we were all dying. It was like someone stole our food and sucker punched us in the gut. Their support made me feel better, but only a little.

When I cast my eyes to the other bleachers, it was a mixed bag. Some girls held their heads in their hands, others shed a tear, a few sat back and sighed, and some just didn’t know what to do with themselves. It was a loss we all felt, even those Slavani who worked separate jobs, even the few Casters and Soldiers in attendance. I saw two Assassins hiding under the bleachers, and they collapsed to the ground, pulling their hoods up to mask their torment.

Wako approached the two Soldiers, and they weren’t happy either. They both cursed themselves for their own failure, if they swung a little differently, or changed the angle, maybe Demehojumarukotene wouldn’t have broke.

But there was nothing they could do now. Castada passed Demehojumarukotene off to Wako and she held it up, inspecting the blade in the light. So many dings, bends, scrapes, chips, notches, and a third of her was missing. At this point, Demehojumarukotene honestly didn’t look much better than any of Fellas’s swords.

Wako sighed, then addressed the crowd with her hand up. “That’s it!” She yelled. “I’m calling it, this sword is busted, Fellas is the win-“

“I can still cut!”

A strong gust of wind rolled over the field, and I felt the words resonate in my chest. They were warm, full of defiance. I looked around and I wasn’t the only one that heard it.

“What was that..?”

“Ah, good, so it wasn’t just me.”

“Did the Soldier say that?”

“No, it was a beautiful voice, much more pleasant than a Soldier’s.”

“You think it was Master?”

“Why would it be Master? Like, in the context, it doesn’t make much sense.”

I lost it, the tears rolled down my cheeks uncontrollably, getting clumped in my fur and falling off my chin. Of course nobody else knew who said that, but I’ve been hearing that voice the whole time.

“Brooks,” Fellas said, “what was that voice?”

“I-it… it was Demehojumarukotene! My sword! She hasn’t given up!”

The audience was stunned by my words. But Wako —a Caster well versed in the arcane— simply looked down to Demehojumarukotene. Her eyes were twisted in shock and horror. She’d probably never seen a talking sword before, and I must admit that I hadn’t either. But there one was.

Gidera was the first to speak. “H-hey!” She screamed to Wako. “What are you playing at? Demehojumarukotene isn’t broken! She can still be used as a sword!”

“Yeah!” Another sister screamed. “She still looks better than most of the swords I make!”

A Worker from another set of bleachers stood up. “She’s longer than my meat cleaver, that means she’s still a sword!”

Everyone rose to protest what they called an unfair rigging of the competition. Who could actually try and argue that Demehojumarukotene was unfit to continue?

Castada swiped Demehojumarukotene from Wako’s hand. “Oh, Master! This sword is magical! Demehojumarukotene, you gals have been calling it? Look, ‘she’ turned from a katana to a shortsword.” She gave her a few swings, “much more comfortable, if I’m honest. I like shortswords better anyway.”

We got a laugh from that, and Wako, with a smile, waved her hand. “My mistake, sorry, the competition may resume.”

The audience was elated, and I was too…. I knew Demehojumarukotene would fulfill her purpose, but knowing what that truly meant hurt me inside.

Wako ran back to the bleachers and the Soldiers began once more. Sword 86 out of 93 was drawn, not much left to get through.

As the Soldiers set up and got in their stances, the audience waited with baited breath. With a mighty swing of their arms, the Soldiers smashed the two beaten swords together, and Fellas’s broke! Sliced cleanly in half and sent flying. We all went wild in a cheer that shook the planet beneath us, but Demehojumarukotene too was damaged in the exchange. Another chunk sheered off, only about half of her was left.

We in the audience who worked in the forge quickly realized what happened, but it didn’t matter. All she had to do was break six more swords without losing the rest of her body.

The next sword came out, and the Soldier purposely aimed Demehojumarukotene so only the top of her connected with Fellas’s sword. Her efforts were a success and less of Demehojumarukotene was ripped off. Still, another few inches gone. Upon this victory, the audience began stomping our paws, causing the wood bleachers to creak under the strain.

Sword 88. They clashed once more, and while Demehojumarukotene won, more of her broke off. My heart raced but I couldn’t look away, she was about the length of a butcher’s knife now, she could hardly be called a sword.

Sword 89, so close! More of Demehojumarukotene broke at the impact and was sent flying. I tried to follow the piece as it went, but I lost it as it passed over the sun.

Sword 90. My comrades around me excitedly jostled me and pushed me around, Demehojumarukotene did it! She had reached 90 swords! That’s a beautiful achievement in and of itself. In unison, without being prompted, all Slavani in all the bleachers stomped their paws and clapped to the rhythm of her name. “Deme-hoju-maru-kote-ne! Deme-hoju-maru-kote-ne!! Deme-hoju-maru-kote-ne!!!” As the chant and excitement reached it’s peak, the Soldiers smashed the swords together and Fellas’s went flying. Demehojumarukotene didn’t break, but there was such a large indent in what remained of the blade. She was maybe ten inches long now.

As the Soldier got sword 91, I looked around the arena. I must admit, even though my creation was suffering and dying, I was consumed by the excitement. My sisters were frothing at the mouth, their eyes bloodshot as they jittered with energy. They put everything into supporting my baby; their sanity, pride, and ego was set on the outcome of this competition.

“Is this what you wanted?” I thought as my fingers dug into the bleachers. “All us Slavani at your back, supporting you as you fulfill your purpose? Demehojumarukotene, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous. In this moment, in this field, our attention is focused squarely on you. You’re the most important person here.”

Demehojumarukotene clashed with sword 91, and while the fate of 91 was a given, the large dent from before sheared her already weakened and wounded body in half, leaving only around six inches of blade remaining.

“Hngh!” It was like she cried through clenched teeth. We all heard it. There wasn’t a single one here who didn’t hear it.

“You got this Demehojumarukotene!”

“The pain is temporary, focus on the glory of your victory!”

“We’re with you!”

We all felt so indebted to that little sword that we felt it only right to share in her pain. We pinched ourselves, or bit our bottom lips, or smashed our knuckles down onto the wood. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to break the skin and have nerve fluid leak out, but I wouldn’t stop. Two more swords to go, then I would stop.

Sword 92 was brought out, and sword 92 was destroyed.

“Ghuh!” Demehojumarukotene cried, but none of her broke.

One sword left. She was gonna do it! Deep in our hearts, we all knew she was the winner! Her cracking the next one was just a formality!

But when they took out the last sword, Fellas’s shoulders fell forward. I raised an eyebrow, then looked to sword 93 and had a similar reaction. All the spectators who worked in the forge saw that sword and felt despair crawl into their stomach. The Soldiers noticed it too and were hesitant to continue.

Sword 93 didn’t look bad. It didn’t look brittle, or chipped, it looked like it had even been sharpened a little. Meanwhile, Demehojumarukotene was more like a six-inch kitchen knife rather than a sword.

I turned to Fellas, my ears drooped, and I spoke as my teeth bit into my cheek. “What happened?”

Her eyes were cold and she took a moment to speak. “I… that was the first sword I made for this competition. I gave it a bit more time than the others… I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and tears silently rolled down her face. I can’t blame her for her feelings. Even though she had no way of knowing how this competition would go, she was fully on Demehojumarukotene’s side. But in that moment, she felt like she had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory, and ruined it for everyone.

“Don’t worry,” I said through a slight smile and teeth that were still biting my cheek. “Demehojumarukotene is strong. She won’t be beaten just by a sword that was built a little better! I stood up and screamed “you can do it, Demehojumarukotene!”

More got up and shouted words of praise and encouragement to that young sword, and, for just a moment, my heart swelled with hope. A gust of wind swept across the land and the Soldiers clashed.

There was a horrible grinding noise that caused my ears to recoil. Demehojumarukotene had been cut so short that, when the other Soldier swung sword 93, she ended up swiping against our Soldier’s suit of armor.

But I quickly shook the grinding noise from my head and looked to see the result. Sword 93 was mostly undamaged, save for a large chip in the center, while Demehojumarukotene lost the exchange, and was left with only three inches.

I quietly sat back down on the bleachers. Fellas couldn’t bare to uncover her face from her hands, and Wako turned to look away. The field was silent, save for a gentle rustling of the wind.

“It’s just so much… I’m sorry… Brooks… I’m going to fail…”

The Soldiers clashed once more. The chip on sword 93 grew slightly larger, but Demehojumarukotene was reduced to one measly inch of blade. With my eye honed from years of blacksmithing, I could tell sword 93 would need a few more clashes to be cut fully. Demehojumarukotene… just didn’t have it in her.

“No, I’m sorry… I should have… I should have been a better blacksmith, I should have made you sharper, or spent more time polishing you! Did I not set my materials enough? The fault is mine…”

I reached up and gripped my horns tight, it was all so frustrating. If I didn’t get interrupted as much as I did, could I have made her better? Or did the interruptions help in some way?

While we spectators and the Soldiers were at a loss for what to do, a realization struck us. Demehojumarukotene’s words, pleading for forgiveness from her creator, is that any different than what we Slavani do when we fail? We ask Master for forgiveness all the time. But, that being the case, don’t we also ask Master to help guide us through difficult trials in our lives? To give us the strength to succeed?

Demehojumarukotene hadn’t done that. She hadn’t prayed to Master, or asked for help. Sure, she had us at her back, supporting her, but how burdened was she by our hopes and dreams? If she is like a Slavani, and she is, then it was unfair that we saddled her with such a burden to carry all by herself.

The path forward was clear.

Nobody needed to explain our thought process, nobody coordinated us, we did it as one. We stood up from the bleachers, turned around, got on our knees, and laid our elbows on the seat. Our backs turned from the arena, we clasped our hands in prayer and, as one, prayed to Master to help Demehojumarukotene. We didn’t pray in the hopes that our own dreams were fulfilled through her, no. We prayed for Demehojumarukotene’s success. She deserved it. She had been fighting alone this whole time and deserved to feel Master’s love and warmth at least once. In a sense, she was Master’s grandchild.

As we prayed, the Soldiers closed their eyes. Master would guide their strikes to exactly where it needed to be.

We sat like that and waited. The wind rolled by in waves, and eventually small birds noticed the silence and landed on the top of the bleachers. A cloud drifted in front of the sun and I felt the world go dark around us. I didn’t know when Master would determine the best time to strike, but it wasn’t for me to complain.

Eventually, the urge to swing hit both Soldiers at once, so they did! In the exact angle they felt was best in their hearts!

“UUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!” Demehojumarukotene let out a mighty, planet-rumbling warcry as she flew through the air, and I heard the CRACK of thunder vibrate the air around us!

Then, silence. I couldn’t tell who won and the Soldiers didn’t open their eyes to let us know. Nobody wanted to be the first person to look… but I felt that it was my job to be the first witness. I pried my eyes opened and turned around. The cloud passed from under the sun and it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the light, but there the Soldiers were, their heads down and their arms up to show who won the exchange.

It was sword 93…

That was broken in half!

“Demehojumarukotene!” I screamed as my ears perked and fluttered wildly. “Demehojumarukotene won!”

Instantly, my sisters screamed in jubilation! Going wild from the excitement, crying their eyes out at the beauty of the moment, feeling so fulfilled that Master had let that little sword win the day.

As everyone else celebrated, I ran to the Soldiers. I stepped over bits of 93 broken swords, and it’s amazing I didn’t cut my paws on anything. Castada handed her to me and I held her close.

“Demehojumarukotene!” I cradled the handle in my arms as I fell to my knees. “You did it, you won.” I bit my bottom lip as I tried my hardest not to cry. This was her special moment, what kind of Monster would I be if I ruined it? My lips, which I forced into a smile, trembled. “Don’t worry, I’ll scour this field and find all your pieces, then I’ll reforge you, good as new. Better than new, actually!”

“…”

I didn’t hear her speak over the cheers and chants of her name. It took the Soldier stomping her paw and screaming “SHUT IT!” for everyone to pause and notice what was happening.

In that moment, the wind stopped.

“Brooks… did I… serve… my… purpose..?”

I desperately nodded my head. My face tightened but tears still leaked out. “You did. Of course you did! Any Slavani would love to have served their purpose as well as you did!”

“…good. Thank you… Brooks… thank you… Master… it’s been… fun.”

She was a sword. There was no heart that stopped, nor did she breathe her last breath. But… I felt her go. In my soul, I felt her pass on.

I grit my teeth and fell forward until my forehead touched the ground. “Hgck!” I grunted out as my last bit of resistance before the tears came. “No..!” My voice squeaked. “Thank you, Demehojumarukotene!” A wave of regret washed over me. “Why didn’t I say that when she was still here? Master, please! Give her my thanks, tell her I’m thankful from the bottom of my heart…”

The wind picked up again, and I had to stand up. When I looked around, I saw all my sisters bow in respect.

At least it was a good send off.

Epilogue

As you might have guessed, I didn’t get fired. Not only that, after such an impressive showing, Wako gave me explicit permission to take as long as I wanted to craft swords. No time limit, no quota. Some sisters like Fellas and Gidera came up to me and asked for tips on how to make better swords, so in my free time I’ve been giving lessons on all the ins and outs of crafting weapons. The biggest ingredient is love, of course, but there are other important factors too.

Using your fur to add the polish turned off a lot of people, but those who didn’t skip that step and stuck to the process ended up creating wonderful blades.

Ultimately, however, I’ve yet to make a sword that matches the quality of Demehojumarukotene, or even comes close.

It’s hardly surprising. She was a sword made in a specific state of mind under specific circumstances. I put my everything into making her because my everything was on the line, the stakes were just so high and I was desperate for victory. Those circumstances haven’t been replicated yet, so the quality of the sword suffers.

But, just as I said I would, I went to Wako and apologized for slapping her, even if I ended up being proven right in the end.

As for Demehojumarukotene, she’s up in heaven with Master, I’m sure. All her pieces, which were collected from the field, were placed together like a puzzle, and are now hanging on the wall, watching over the forge with her name proudly written on a sign beneath her.

I won’t reforge her. She served her purpose and was allowed to pass on with no regrets. Not only would it be cruel to try and bring her from Master’s side, but, once again, I wouldn’t be able to match her quality. I’d bring her back as an inferior weapon.

But with that, the story of Demehojumarukotene and the sword competition comes to a close.

Thank you for reading, Master.

Forever your most hardworking and fastidious daughter-

– Worker Brooks Linthelel Smith, First Daughter of Worker Hall Quail Ellen and Worker Heather Tyta Mello, Born of the Hogada Spawn Pits on Crown World Oshai.