Outside Rokugan, six months ago

Rosoku sat deep in meditation, communing with the silent voices that swirled all about him. The wind, the earth… everything was connected. The spirits whispered to him like a lost friend, and he listened to them. It was such a simple thing, to listen, yet so many found it impossible. Most were too busy dwelling upon what they thought was important that they failed to notice what was truly significant. Sometimes he wondered – was that which he could sense that others could not, that which he imagined was important, also an illusion? Was there something higher, something greater? There must be. All roads simply led to another. His face, still smooth and unlined with youth, showed deep concentration. A large black crow watched him patiently from a limb at the edge of the garden.

There was a sudden urgent sense of chaos, and all was silent. Rosoku opened his eyes, realizing something was amiss. There was a shout from outside the shrine. The young monk’s frown deepened. He had but three students, all souls who had come upon his shrine by accident or fate. They had remained to study with him, though they did not understand his true nature. Gathering his robes and taking up his staff, he stepped from the shrine into the cool mountain air.

The sky to the south boiled with clouds that no kami had fashioned. A crimson rain poured from the heavens, drenching everything in a rancid sea of red. Kyojitsu, his most favored student, lay upon the surface of a boulder, writhing in agony as the blood covered his skin.

“Master!” one of the other students shouted. “Master, what is this?”

Rosoku had no answer. Kyojitsu had been found among the rocks ten leagues from here, twisted and broken and left for dead by an unknown party. He had no recollection of his past, or claimed to have none. Such semantics were important when one wished to start a new path. Now, it seemed, the past had resurfaced.

“Dead!” the man shrieked. “Dead! All of them! I killed them! The captain said they were nothing but barbarians, but there were old men… children… I felt nothing!” Kyojitsu leapt across the boulders toward the shrine, his face a mask of violence and hate. “Why would your father save an Empire as wretched as this?” He lunged toward the Rosoku, his hands twisted into animal claws.

The young monk seized Kyojitsu’s wrist in his free hand, blocked his lunge with his staff, and pressed him to the ground with an easy movement. Kyojitsu struggled, frothing at the mouth. Rosoku dropped his staff and pressed two fingers against the center of the screaming man’s chest. His face went blank and calm, then he collapsed into sleep.

“Bring him inside,” Rosoku said flatly.

“Master,” the other repeated. “What is happening?”

“I do not know,” Rosoku confessed, watching the storm to the south with growing concern.

Otosan Uchi, One Thousand Years Ago

The last guardsman fell to the floor with a crash, his ceremonial armor making an almost apologetic crunching sound when he struck the cold stone floor. A half dozen of his comrades lay scattered across the floor, dazed and struggling to reach their feet. Some did not move at all.

A samurai clad in brilliant orange armor moved between the small stranger and the Emperor. His hand rested on the hilt of his katana, but he did not draw it. He only watched the man with curious, intelligent eyes.

“I do not wish to harm you,” he said.

“Stay your hand, mighty Shiba,” the little man laughed. It was a mirthful, sincere sound, empty of all mockery. “I do not wish you harm either, nor your brother. Not even these fine and honorable men and women here, although I do hope that they learn the lesson I offered them.”

“Perhaps it was foolish to dismiss you without offering to hear your words, little man,” the Emperor said. “What is your name, stranger?”

“I am Shinsei,” the little man answered. “I have come to offer you advice.”

“You offer the Son of Heave advice?” Shiba replied coolly. “Who are you to question his wisdom?”

Shinsei raised his eyebrows curiously and smiled. “I offer no wisdom, just advice. Wisdom springs from within.”

Shiba’s eyes widened slightly.

“As for who I am?” Shinsei continued. “I am just a man.”

“No disrespect intended, Shinsei, but why should I regard your presence as anything but arrogance? There are tens of thousands of men at my command,” the Emperor returned. “Why should I regard you differently? What can you offer that my learned scholars cannot?”

“Perspective,” Shinsei replied.

“I have little time for riddles,” Hantei said irritably.

“And that is why Fu Leng will triumph,” Shinsei said with a sad nod. “As evil has triumphed so often before. The world is more than we can see. Fu Leng understands this, and that makes him strong.”

Both Hantei and Shiba grew very silent for a moment, and the Emperor’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “What do you know of my brother?”

“I know much,” Shinsei answered. “I know that there is a balance in all things, dictated by the laws of the Celestial Order. I know the secrets of balance between the elements: air, water, fire, earth, and that which lies between. I know that your brother, the one you call Fu Leng though that is not his true name, draws his strength from the foulest realms of corruption and death. He seeks to consume all, as a rabid dog attacks everything in sight. If he is not defeated, then the mortal world shall be remade in his image for one thousand years of darkness.”

“How can he be stopped?” Shiba asked.

“By understanding the truth as he does.”

Shiba and Hantei looked at one another, then back to the little stranger. “And you would share these secrets with us? For what price?”

“My price is steep,” Shinsei said, his tone solemn. “You may be unwilling to pay it.”

“Anything,” Hantei answered. “Teach me these secrets. What is your price?”

“You must listen,” Shinsei answered. “You must open your mind to the truth that I bring you, and then comes the most difficult part. You must change.”

The Emperor gestured toward the south. “Every moment I delay, hundreds die in my name. For them, I would gladly face any difficulty. Let us parlay, little prophet. I would listen to these truths of which you speak.”

“I think I would like to hear them as well,” Shiba said, removing his hand from his sword.

Shinsei smiled.

Toshi Ranbo, the present day

Though he was the most powerful man in all of Rokugan, Toturi III never seemed to have a great deal of time for personal pursuits. He had known such would be the case before he ever began his bid for power, duty had always been a part of his existence, but the demands on his time had surpassed even his expectations. Tonight, for instance, it was very late in the evening, and he had finally dismissed his attendants. In simpler times, he might have done so hours ago and enjoyed a play or some other diversion. These were hardly simple times, however. Now, when he sought entertainment, it was always strictly planned and organized in advance, usually a thin façade for some courtier’s political gambit. Toturi Naseru sighed, and turned his thoughts to more important matters.

The Rain of Blood had been far more of a debacle than even Iuchiban likely realized. The ritual had been intended to throw the Empire into absolute chaos, filling the streets with Tainted madmen and reducing vast stretches of land to smoldering ruins as brother turned against brother. If his goal was to weaken the Empire, the Bloodspeaker had failed. The sons and daughters of Rokugan were stronger than the Bloodspeaker had imagined, and their resilience filled Naseru with pride. The clans had rallied to their Emperor’s banner and turned aside the corrupted among them. The clans were stronger for the Rain, their ranks thinned of the weak and the decadent.

Though many had fallen in the Rain and some now marched willingly with the Bloodspeaker, those who remained were galvanized against the enemy. Hundreds of thousands had lost members of their friends and family. Iuchiban was a distant, unassailable foe that few understood, but the warriors of Rokugan eagerly looked forward to facing him. The pain and the loss they all felt needed a target, demanded vengeance. Perhaps, Naseru mused, that was in fact Iuchiban’s goal. Unfocused rage was a tool of evil, and had always served the Bloodspeakers’ purposes. He was no expert on matters of magic; that was his brother Sezaru’s specialty. Uneducated speculation on such matters did little good.

It was obvious, however, that in the months since the Rain the once focused anger of Rokugan was now beginning to fray, to seek other targets. Border skirmishes between clans were far more frequent, and the war near the City of the Rich Frog had escalated dangerously.

The Seppun guardsman walking in front of him stopped suddenly, holding up his hand in a signal to the others. The Emperor waited calmly to see what was about to happen. As the Seppun moved to create a barrier in front of him, he caught a glimpse of a man in a heavy traveling cloak standing calmly in the hallway near the entrance to his private quarters. A black crow sat upon his shoulder.

“Greetings, Emperor of Rokugan,” the man said in a respectful tone. He bowed, but only slightly.

The lead Seppun said nothing, simply drew his sword and advanced on the intruder. The stranger watched the guard curiously from within the depths of his shadowed hood.

“Wait,” Naseru said, extending one hand. “What is your name, stranger?”

“I am Rosoku,” the man said.

“Your Majesty, if this man wishes an audience with you, there are channels,” the Seppun said, not sheathing his sword but pausing at the Emperor’s command. “He has invaded the Imperial Chambers without permission. There is only one penalty.”

“If this man is who he claims to be, to attack him will only serve to fruitlessly repeat history,” the Emperor said. “I would not have my guards damaged or dishonor them by ordering them to attack one we owe so much… if you are who you claim to be.”

“I do not seek violence, Righteous Emperor,” Rosoku said, “but I must move cautiously. I could not reveal myself by making an appointment.”

“Of course,” Naseru replied, stepping around his guards. “I know your name. My father spoke of you to me once, so that I might be prepared if you returned. Yet I would ask one question, to prove you are who you claim to be.”

“Ask.”

“What were the last three words your father said to the last Hantei?” Naseru asked. “I find that the dramatizations invariably quote him wrong.”

Rosoku smiled, and the crow on his shoulder cocked its head to get a better view of the Emperor. “You are mortal.”

Naseru turned to his guards. “Leave us.”

Otosan Uchi, the second Day of Thunder

The man once known as Akodo Toturi, the so-called Black Lion, reflexively flicked the blood from his blade and sheathed it without thinking. The rapidly cooling body on the floor smoldered and began to crumble as if it had experienced weeks of decay in the few moments since its death. The head that had been attached to it lay across the room, but Toturi could not bring himself to look upon it.

A quiet sobbing was the only sound in the chamber. Bayushi Kachiko held the dying form of his friend Doji Hoturi. Toturi longed to say goodbye to his friend, but the words between the Crane and Scorpion were private, and he did not wish to intrude. He would hear Hoturi’s voice again in the halls of the ancestors, where those who had come before had offered their guidance to him throughout his life.

Hida Yakamo struggled to his feet, laughing in triumph as he shrugged off the chains the Dark Kami had summoned. Otaku Kamoko knelt in prayer beside the fallen form of Isawa Tadaka. Mirumoto Hitomi was already gone, as was the body of Togashi Yokuni.

“Well done, Toturi,” the Hooded Ronin whispered to him, standing at the edge of the shadows. “You have succeeded. Mankind’s fate is decided for the next one thousand years.”

“You should stand with us,” Toturi said. “Come with us as we announce our victory. This is as much your doing as ours.”

“No,” the voice replied. “That is not my fate. I must retire from the Empire, so that my line may be protected until the next Day of Thunder. It is our fate, to guide your descendants just as our ancestor guided yours.”

Toturi nodded. “I wish you well, my friend.” He hesitated for a moment. “With your destiny fulfilled, what will become of you?”

“Rest.” The voice sounded full of relief and exhaustion. “And I shall begin my work anew.”

“Your work?” Toturi frowned. “I thought this was your destiny.”

The Hooded Ronin chuckled. “Do you think the universe resolves but a single destiny for each of us?” he asked. “Do not be silly, Toturi. There is more work to do than that. Soon you will know this better than most.” The omnipresent crow upon the ronin’s shoulder squawked in mirth.

Toturi frowned, not certain if he liked the strange little man’s tone.

“Will we see you again?” Toturi asked.

“You will,” he replied, stepping deeper into the shadows. “My line has found it most important to keep those such as yourself aware of our existence.”

“Such as myself?” Toturi asked. “What do you mean?”

The Hooded Ronin was gone.

“So you are Shinsei,” Naseru said, studying Rosoku carefully across the empty expanse of his private chambers.

“Yes and no,” the stranger said. “I am his descendant. I am no more Shinsei than you are the Akodo, Matsu, or Isawa, though the blood of those three heroes runs in your veins. If I am Shinsei it is only in the same way that all rivers are one.”

A wry smile appeared on Naseru’s face. “You speak like Shinsei. Close enough, then.”

“Perhaps,” Rosoku said.

“Your guidance saved the Empire, and on a more personal level it saved my father’s life,” Naseru said seriously. “I honor my family’s debts, prophet. Name that which you require, and it shall be yours.”

“I require nothing,” the prophet answered. “It is you who require my aid.”

Naseru said nothing for a moment, weighing the implications of such a statement. “I know that your line remains hidden for a reason,” he said. “I know that every thousand years there comes a challenge between the ideals represented by the Celestial Heavens and Jigoku, a Day of Thunder, a challenge that determines the fate of the mortal realm. I know that your line bears the wisdom to guide us through that challenge. Is Iuchiban’s presence so great a threat that you would risk stepping forth from your solitude?”

“Partially,” Rosoku said.

“What do you mean?” Naseru asked.

“Only that we are much alike, mighty Emperor,” he said. “We are both bound by the promises we have made to our fathers. My father grew to love the Empire during his time here. He watched events from afar, and was saddened by the War Against the Darkness, the War of Spirits, and Daigotsu’s destruction of Otosan Uchi. He always felt that perhaps had he not retreated from the Empire that things would not have been as bad as they were.”

Naseru frowned. “I mean no disrespect to you or your father,” he said, “but what could you have done that we could not? Do you truly believe that the descendant of Shinsei could have done anything to prevent the tragedies you speak of? Would not the inevitable attacks his open presence would invite from the Shadowlands negate any good that he could have done?”

Rosoku shrugged. “Put yourself in my father’s place,” he said. “Consider – your destiny is to guide the Empire to its salvation through simple wisdom. Then, when that deed is done, you must step aside. Could you do so? Could you watch the pain and misery and torment that have consumed this Empire and not feel that you must do something? It was his duty to maintain the secrecy of his existence, but that duty was not an easy one. When my father died, he made me promise that the line of Shinsei’s guidance would not vanish from the Empire.”

“I cannot allow that,” Naseru said. “The Empire will need another Shinsei when another Day of Thunder comes. I cannot let you risk yourself by appearing openly.”

“Nor can I,” Rosoku said. “Yet Shinsei’s great secret has always been that the value if his wisdom is reflected not in himself, but in the greatness he inspires in others. I have a plan.”

“I am listening,” Naseru said.

“My line has collected our teachings for generations, six books which contain the writings of Shinsei’s own descendants,” Rosoku said. “I propose a series of challenges, tests which will determine the most enlightened of your followers. When you find the one who triumphs in these tests, you shall find the one who can guide you as only Shinsei could.”

“But would not such an enlightened soul scoff at answering such mundane challenges?” Naseru asked.

“Perhaps,” Rosoku said, “but in Rokugan all men are answerable to another, and all are answerable to you. The one you seek most likely serves a samurai who would hunger for the honor and prestige of completing a quest laid down by Shinsei’s own descendant, especially if announced by the Emperor himself.”

“I begin to see the possibilities,” Naseru said. “Tell me more…”