The Rising Sea (NUMA Files 15)

“So that’s why you wanted Masamune’s journal?” Oni said.

Han nodded. “It was rumored to contain the secrets of Masamune’s craft. His endless quest to create the perfect weapon. We’d hoped it would tell us where he obtained the ore he used to forge the blade.”

“And does it?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Han said. “Most of his journal is filled with philosophical nonsense about creating a weapon that would punish evil and not harm the innocent.”

Oni laughed. “A fool’s conscience.”

“Perhaps,” Han said. “But he believed he had achieved just that with the weapon you’re holding now.”

Oni narrowed his gaze and then glanced at the shimmering sword.

Han explained. “By chance, or because you have a fine eye for craftsmanship, you’ve chosen the most valuable sword of all for your memento. That’s no simple antique you possess; it’s the Honjo Masamune itself.”

Oni grinned. He knew. Or suspected.

Han picked up another of the swords; it had a darker, thicker blade than the one Oni held. The steel appeared to have a reddish tint to it. Not rust, but closer to the color of dead roses or dried blood. “This is the weapon for you. It’s known as the Crimson Blade. It was created not by Masamune but by another swordsmith, known as Muramasa.”

Oni held his ground for the moment. “Muramasa?”

Han nodded. “Muramasa was alleged to be Masamune’s protégé, though there is some debate about that. At any rate, it’s well accepted that Muramasa spent his life trying to outdo the great Master, to forge a better weapon—a more powerful, more resilient, more deadly weapon. And in that last category, he undoubtedly succeeded. This weapon, this Crimson Blade, was by far his greatest creation. Throughout Japanese history, it has been renowned for its ability to take life and build wealth. It has brought power, fame and fortune to all who possessed it. Even the legend—meant to discredit Muramasa—tells the true story of its superiority.”

“What legend would that be?” Oni asked with a suspicious glint in his eye.

“Muramasa had tired of being considered an apprentice to the Master,” Han said. “He challenged Masamune in an effort to prove who among them was the finest swordmaker. Masamune agreed and both men consented to be judged by the monks of a local order. They crafted great swords and, under the watchful eye of the monks from the temple, lowered their blades into a fast-running stream, with the sharpened edges facing the onrushing water.

“As the monks watched, the Crimson Blade cut through everything that came its way—crabs, fish, eels—anything the force of the stream brought to it was sliced cleanly in two. Across the stream, the Masamune, perhaps the very sword you hold now, divided the waters without a ripple, but it cut nothing that was living. Only leaves and other inanimate debris that floated past.”

Han continued. “As the contest wore on, Muramasa laughed at the old man’s weapon. In one version of the legend, he calls it an impotent blade. When the monks motioned for the weapons to be raised, the Crimson Blade of Muramasa came from the stream stained with blood. The Masamune dripped only crystal clear water.”

“A clear victory,” Oni said.

“You would think,” Han said. “Muramasa certainly did. But when the monks pronounced their judgment, they chose the old Master and not the apprentice. Muramasa’s Crimson Blade was deemed bloodthirsty and evil for destroying all it touched while the Masamune spared the life of the innocent. Is that really the sword you wish to keep for yourself?”

“‘The innocent,’” Oni scoffed. “There’s no such thing.”

“Perhaps,” Han said. “But you hold the weapon of a saint, not a sinner. Understanding true power the way you and I do, we both know which blade is truly superior.”

Oni studied the blade in his right hand and then stretched out his left. With a flip of his fingers, he beckoned for the other sword.

Han tossed it too high and Oni snatched it out of the air, grasping the hilt in a perfect catch. With a weapon in each hand, he compared them, swinging them this way and that, moving them in circular and then slashing motions.

“There is a heft to this weapon,” he said, looking at the Crimson Blade. “It feels . . . more substantial.”

“It suits you,” Han said. “You know it does.”

“Fine,” Oni said. Without warning, he tossed the Honjo Masamune in the air toward Han.

Han grasped for the hilt of the sword, catching it awkwardly with one hand and bringing the other up to stop it from dropping to the floor. In doing so, he accidentally wrapped two fingers around the blade. He drew his hand back instantly, with blood streaming from a pair of razor-like cuts.

He grunted in pain, shook the hand and grabbed a towel to stanch the bleeding.

Oni laughed. “Too bad you’re not a fish or an eel,” he chided. “The pretty blade would have left you unbloodied.”

Han handed the weapon carefully to his lab technician. “Analyze it,” he said, “but it’s not to be damaged.”

“A souvenir for yourself?” Oni said.