[Fiction] first story attempt

This is my first attempt at a short Planes-inspired story. Any opinions (or corrections) would be appreciated.

Isamu slowly circled his opponent, his sword extended and motionless. The expression on his face was calm beyond measure, but there was a hint of contempt there, as well. This sort of contest was below him, but it was his duty. For the moment, at least.

The strange, insectile creature facing him darted its mandibles in for a quick stab. Isamu deflected the blow with a flick of his wrist, and with one perfectly balanced stroke the creature’s mouth-part was severed on the floor and the beast was reeling back in pain.
Isamu was about to pursue his advantage, but before he could move in, three of the thing’s many limbs tried to pull him into an embrace against the poisoned stingers of its midsection. There was no time for thought; moving purely on instinct, Isamu rolled out between two of the thing’s arms while he simultaneously pulled his sword up for a diagonal slice. Before the thing could recover again, he stabbed forward with vicious speed, his katana blade piercing through the creature’s single multifaceted eye socket and into whatever vital organs lay behind it. The beast was on the ground dead almost before Isamu cleaned and sheathed his blade.

The audience erupted into cheers and applause, and the referee held Isamu’s hand high as he presented the man with a paltry purse of gold. Of course, his reasons for being here had nothing to do with these earnings. As far as he was concerned, this was an exhibition, of sorts. Let the commoners see a glimpse of what he had attained; undoubtedly most lacked any true ambition or willpower, but if there was even one talented creature here who might be motivated to join with the Mind’s Eye, then his trip would not be in vain.

The applause were somewhat muted as the next opponent walked quietly into the arena. From this far away, all Isamu could tell was that the enemy was man-shaped, and that it was wearing a dirt-colored cloak with the hood up. As it approached, the hood fell back, revealing an unpleasant surprise.

“Koichi? It can’t possibly be you. How are you still alive?”

The short, lean man opposite him shook his head slowly. There was the ghost of a smile on his face, which shocked Isamu almost as much as the man’s appearance itself.

“The planes are indeed dangerous, brother, but I have made my way. I can’t say that I am surprised to see you here in turn, though. You’ve always had a way of thriving in chaos, which these strange worlds seem to hold aplenty.”

Isamu restrained his anger; it would only weaken him, he knew. “Are you trying to mock me, calling me ‘brother’? You and I both know that I gave up that title the day I left the monastery.”

“We are far from the mountains and vales of our homeland, brother,” the infuriating man responded. “I sometimes doubt we could be any further.”

The crowd was beginning to mutter at the delay. Isamu, knowing that their support was essential to his purposes, drew his blade with a flourish. With an almost unjustifiable lapse in his personal abstinence from sentimentalism, he bowed in the traditional manner before he approached his enemy.

Koichi bowed in turn, no indecision apparent on his face, and drew his katana in turn. He then maintained a defensive stance, and Isamu began to strike with basic attack patterns, which Koichi easily deflected. Isamu wasn’t hoping for a hit. In fact, he highly doubted that he would learn very much of Koichi’s style from these attacks. For the moment, he was only trying to buy enough time to find out what he wanted to know.

“Why are you here, Koichi? If you can come to this city, then surely you can find your way home.”

Koichi shrugged easily. “Apparently, it is not on my Path at this time. I am not sure of the reasons myself, but perhaps there is something here I must do.”

Isamu felt the urge to snort in disgust, but he restrained himself. “Don’t tell me you’re with the Ciphers now? Still neck-deep in that mysticism of yours? Let me fill you in, Koichi. There is no ‘Path’. You should have learned that long before we even left our own backwater little plane. Fate is cruel and arbitrary; I’ve served as its final arbiter enough times to know that. Only a fool would put his life in its hands.”

This time, Koichi did smile. “Then we are all fools, brother, every one of us. And we have little choice in the matter. What else can you hope for?”

Isamu struck a three-hit attack pattern, this time with a bit of bite to it. Of course, Koichi deflected all three blows easily. “There is such a thing as power, Koichi. The power to change Fate. I’ve been working towards it my whole life, and I’ve found the answers within myself. You can’t deny it; I’ve seen the power within you as well. We are both only men, but we have found within ourselves the power to stand against the worst this strange existence has to offer.”

Koichi stepped back and assumed a slightly more exotic stance, sword parallel to the ground, level with his head, and pointed directly at Isamu. “It sounds as if the Mind’s Eye has trained your ego well, brother. But our power is nothing against fate. Come, if you wish it. You know that I will not attack first.”

Isamu stopped his circling, and Koichi did so as well. For a time, the two stood motionless. Isamu stared into the eyes of his oldest friend and oldest surviving enemy, and he saw power there, but it was a strange power. There was a stillness to his enemy’s soul, a silence there that he had never seen.

For seconds, minutes, the two stood utterly motionless, tiny and perfect statues amidst the strewn detritus and bloodstained floors of the vast arena. This time, the crowd did not grow restless. Perhaps even they understood, at some level, that this fight was more than they had ever seen before. Its import had nothing to do with the strength of the two opponents, nor with their spiritual puissance, nor with their long-honed skills. Isamu recognized this fact. This battle was a crystalline moment, a pure clash of will and philosophy unsullied by fear and rage. Each combatant had trained for a lifetime to perfect his technique and form, and perfect they were. The only question that remained was which Path, which philosophy would prove the stronger. Isamu knew deep in his soul that this might well be the best chance he would ever have to prove himself, even if the only witnesses were the drunken lowlifes that patronized this semi-legal gladiator arena. There were only two men currently alive whose opinion of him he valued, and they were both in the arena this day.

The audience was almost completely silent by now, even the most drunken among them aware of the building tension. There was perfect stillness. Then, across the room, an abandoned mug rolled off a table, and shattered.

Simultaneous with the crash, Isamu burst forward with the speed of a wrathful god. His stroke was wide and powerful as he guided his blade for his enemy’s neck.

Almost before he began to move, Koichi moved in response, his neck swinging just below the katana’s arc. Isamu followed through with an elbow strike to his opponent’s midsection to prevent a counterattack as he fell back a step, but his elbow, too, was blocked. As he turned to face Koichi again, he could see that the man’s demeanor had not changed in the slightest. Koichi was smiling, perhaps subtly mocking him, perhaps simply pitying him.
Isamu struck again, slicing downward at Koichi’s head and following up with a kick. Although Koichi was forced to block the slash as expected, the man proved unable to deflect the kick, and he fell back a few paces. His faint smile remained, but Isamu knew now that it was not mocking. Rather, it was… conspiratorial, perhaps? A comrade laughing with you at the foolishness of the world?

Isamu moved into a more complex attack pattern, striking and feinting again and again with a speed and accuracy born of decades of harsh training. At first, it seemed that Koichi was simply lucky in his dodges and parries, but Isamu soon realized that this was something different. Koichi moved with a speed that was beyond the speed of human reaction, until it almost appeared a sort of prescience. He was moving in tune with something beyond what he could see, Isamu knew that much. Perhaps he really had found it, after all – the Path, the Pattern, Tao, whatever it was called in this realm. Perhaps he really had transcended.
So much the better, Isamu decided. If Koichi moved in time with Fate, then he would simply alter Fate. It would not be the first time he had done so.

Isamu was only partially aware that he was screaming; all he could feel was the energy awakening in his soul and coursing through his body. His method went beyond thought, beyond even instinct now, and he moved with a potence and an absolute authority that defied all opposition. His sword was now secondary; his will was his blade, and with it he would cut the chains of destiny.
If anything, Koichi only grew faster and calmer in response to Isamu’s redoubled attacks, but now, it was Isamu who held the advantage. Far in the back of his mind, he was aware that his muscles were burning with unnatural strain and his throat was sore from his screams, but he paid these things no heed. Finally, when he had Koichi on the retreat, he shifted into his riskiest attack: amidst a series of slashes and counterparries, he pulled his sword high once more, and struck down with a force born of immutable willpower.

Only when they burst suddenly into applause did Isamu remember the crowd’s existence. He looked to his opponent, and sure enough, Koichi’s fractured blade and severed right hand lay on the floor in a gathering pool of blood.

Exhilaration rose in him for one beautiful moment, until he felt a sharp pressure on the back of his neck. Sure enough, the remaining fragment of a katana held in Koichi’s left hand was pressed to his neck. The other man had moved in sequence with him; had Koichi so wished, Isamu would now be dead.
He collapsed to the ground and allowed his head to bow in a rare display of emotion – in this case, defeat. “You win, Koichi.” But his head rose once again, and he continued, with a hint of lingering pride, “but it did cost you. I couldn’t shatter your fate, but I did bend it.”

Koichi’s tiny grin widened slightly as he dropped his sundered weapon. He held up the bleeding stump of his hand, and with a whisper of a healing sutra, the bleeding quickly slowed and stopped. “You did indeed succeed where few others could, my brother. For all your denials, I think there is a spark of true understanding somewhere within you.”

Isamu looked up with annoyance. “You wound my pride, Koichi. Kill me here, and avenge those I’ve wronged. Strike me down and I perhaps I can still face my ancestors with some honor to my name.”

Koichi shook his head and pulled Isamu up from the ground. “I’m no avenger, brother, and no Dustman. I didn’t come here to kill you. In fact, I believe I’ve done whatever it was I came for. Now I suppose I’ll get myself to a healer before I forget how many fingers they’re supposed to give me.”

Rage burned within Isamu at an almost unbearable level. “You would release me then, without condition and without punishment? Know, then, that you are a fool, Takamura Koichi! I will find my power, and I will wield it against you. I won’t alter my Path for your misplaced pity!”

Koichi nodded solemnly. “When you believe you can take more than a hand from me, find me again, brother. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble doing so. Our fates seem intertwined, in some way at least.”

Isamu nodded curtly. “That is one fate, at least, that I will not fight. I will see you again, Koichi.”

Koichi bowed low as he left the arena, and Isamu replied in kind, out of long-forgotten reflex as much as intent. He wiped and sheathed his katana and strode slowly out of the arena. There would be no recruitment tonight, he was sure. Any witness worthy of the attention of the Mind’s Eye would have recognized the true victor of that battle, despite the purse of gold now being pressed into Isamu’s hand. As he wandered out of the arena through one of Sigil’s less savory areas, he began to ponder what he must do to improve himself. He was not so foolish as to believe that he could ever attain the power to fight everything there was in this odd world beyond worlds, but Koichi was different. Koichi had always been his proving ground, the flip side to his own character that had given him focus. Once he had spilled into the multiverse of the Planes, Isamu had thought he had left Koichi far beyond him along with the rest of his past life, but it would now appear otherwise.

For the first time that night, for the first time in months, Isamu smiled himself. He had a yardstick again. He had his nemesis back.

------------

As soon as he was out of Isamu’s sight, Koichi focused his internal energy again and used his healing sutra again, this time restoring his hand fully. As he wound his own path through the dark streets of Sigil, he too reflected. It was not as common an act as it once had been for him, since much of his learning had taught him to choose stillness of mind over meandering thought. But tonight was different.

As usual, his movements had been guided by what some would call intuition, and what the knowing would call the guidance of the Path. It had led him to a reunion he had long expected, if not hoped for. And he had learned much this night, accomplished much, if he judged the situation rightly.

Isamu walked the same Path as he, the Path of the Warrior. He began that road for different reasons that Isamu, and thought to take a different route, but the result would be the same.
The warrior had shown a spark tonight. He thought he was battling destiny, but in truth, he was simply beginning to sense its presence. The Path of the Warrior is the Path of All Things, after all, and if one seeks true mastery in one Path, one will become a master in all Paths.

Koichi did not doubt that they would battle again someday, and that in that fight, he might lose more than a valuable sword and a dispensable hand. But someday, sooner or later, Isamu would find the enlightenment he was forcing upon himself, and if the warrior had the strength to finally subsume his pride and arrogance once and for all, the Transcendent Order would have a powerful new member.

He shook his head dismissively and chuckled at himself as he continued walking, paying literally no attention to where he was wandering, letting the Path guide his steps. He claimed to be a devoted follower, and yet he guessed and second-guessed the Path’s intent at every turn. He cleared his mind of the useless clutter of planning and forward thinking, and his customary smile spread back over his face.

Few would ever truly understand, but it was a smile of enlightenment, a smile of true bliss.

<EDIT: added space between paragraph breaks>