A day's travel south of Mount Yasuo, late afternoon. An eagle screams in the distance. A shaft of blinding white light suddenly burns down from the sky. An instant later, a man thumps to the ground in the center of the circle of light. The light vanishes, and the man groans softly, then rolls to his hands and knees before pushing himself upright. He looks around, taking in the inhospitable landscape with a cold, arrogant gaze. He dusts himself off, staring at the mountain peaks in the distance. ?Are you hiding there?? he asks the silent mountains, voice low and controlled, yet hinting at a rage buried just beneath the surface. The man sits cross-legged upon the stony ground and closes his eyes, seeming to concentrate deeply on something. His body is entirely motionless, save a breath taken once a minute.
Five minutes after he sat, the man opens his eyes and stands in one smooth motion, pivoting away from the view of the mountain peaks to look south. ?So,? he says, ?this way.? Without further contemplation, the man breaks into an impossibly fast run, ignoring the chilling wind whipping against his face and exposed skin. Five miles pass in as many minutes, then ten, fifteen. Finally, the man slows to a jog, then a walk, breathing betraying just a hint of the exertion from running. He stops, standing amidst the trees of an old forest. He sits again, falling into the same meditative pose as before. Another five minutes pass before he stands, face set in determined impassiveness. He begins to run again, stopping after ten minutes when he reaches a small town. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat brings forth an anticipatory rumble from his stomach, and he follows his nose to a house on the outskirts of the town. A blow from his fist shatters the door into splinters. A startled man jumps to his feet from his spot by a fire and runs towards him, swinging an iron poker in terrified anger. He catches the poker effortlessly in one hand, ripping it from his owner and tossing it over his shoulder with a casual flick of his wrist. The poker buries most of its length into the wall as he snaps a foot into the townsman's stomach, sending him flying backwards, accompanied by the sound of snapping bones.
He doesn't bother watching the flight, turning immediately towards the kitchen. A screaming woman running out the back door is also ignored. All he's interested in is the food, which he quickly devours. After finishing, he walks casually out through the remains of the door, paying no attention to the crowd of people gathering around the house. Before anyone in the crowd can react, he sprints off again, heading directly south. One hapless person happens to be directly in his path, and is knocked aside as though struck by speeding train, landing in a broken heap a dozen yards away.
He travels another twenty miles before the setting sun forces him to slow his pace drastically. Walking across the unfamiliar landscape at merely human speeds is too inefficient, though, so he stops for the night, sitting down with his back to a tree and falling into another meditative trance. This one lasts for hours, until the morning sun streams through the trees and brushes his face. His eyes open, and he stands, looking southward. He stretches and rolls his shoulders, banishing any hints of tension, then sets off running again.
Five minutes after he sat, the man opens his eyes and stands in one smooth motion, pivoting away from the view of the mountain peaks to look south. ?So,? he says, ?this way.? Without further contemplation, the man breaks into an impossibly fast run, ignoring the chilling wind whipping against his face and exposed skin. Five miles pass in as many minutes, then ten, fifteen. Finally, the man slows to a jog, then a walk, breathing betraying just a hint of the exertion from running. He stops, standing amidst the trees of an old forest. He sits again, falling into the same meditative pose as before. Another five minutes pass before he stands, face set in determined impassiveness. He begins to run again, stopping after ten minutes when he reaches a small town. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat brings forth an anticipatory rumble from his stomach, and he follows his nose to a house on the outskirts of the town. A blow from his fist shatters the door into splinters. A startled man jumps to his feet from his spot by a fire and runs towards him, swinging an iron poker in terrified anger. He catches the poker effortlessly in one hand, ripping it from his owner and tossing it over his shoulder with a casual flick of his wrist. The poker buries most of its length into the wall as he snaps a foot into the townsman's stomach, sending him flying backwards, accompanied by the sound of snapping bones.
He doesn't bother watching the flight, turning immediately towards the kitchen. A screaming woman running out the back door is also ignored. All he's interested in is the food, which he quickly devours. After finishing, he walks casually out through the remains of the door, paying no attention to the crowd of people gathering around the house. Before anyone in the crowd can react, he sprints off again, heading directly south. One hapless person happens to be directly in his path, and is knocked aside as though struck by speeding train, landing in a broken heap a dozen yards away.
He travels another twenty miles before the setting sun forces him to slow his pace drastically. Walking across the unfamiliar landscape at merely human speeds is too inefficient, though, so he stops for the night, sitting down with his back to a tree and falling into another meditative trance. This one lasts for hours, until the morning sun streams through the trees and brushes his face. His eyes open, and he stands, looking southward. He stretches and rolls his shoulders, banishing any hints of tension, then sets off running again.