Chapter 1—Kain and Lacan
By Sonicblade
1023 A.D. Village of Truce.
Kain Triggara drew his katana from its sheath, the loud metallic ring echoing through the large building that was the Truce School of Combat. He was a menacing sight. Long, dusk black robes flowed over his lean body and his lengthy legs, a dark grey tunic covered his muscular chest. His hair spiked over his head, much like his father’s, but his was a little longer, and was the color of a stormcloud. Black boots protected his feet. The most menacing aspect of him at that particular moment, however, was his sword, a curved length of metal nearly three feet long, with intricate symbols decorating the nearly flawless blade. The blade was flawless because it had never touched anything before. Today would be the first time, for both the blade and its user.
This dangerous weapon was currently aimed at the master of the School of Combat, Lacan, whose own sword was still in its sheath. Lacan was the only man King Triggara trusted to train his son; however, Crono wasn’t worried about Kain’s safety. Crono knew he could handle himself. Crono had been worried about the instructor going too easy on his son. The people of Truce had always had a fear of angering royalty; an instructor would be afraid that, upon breaking a bone in Kain’s foot, he would be sentenced to death. Lacan was a personal friend of Crono and knew what he desired. A trainer who would take Kain to his limits—and make him surpass them.
“Let us begin,” said Lacan, who was dressed in white robes, with the ceremonial black belt of a master. His light brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. He looked around the room, to the various students watching, and said loudly, “Be sure to watch what we do. See the mistakes he makes and the ones I let myself make. But be quiet. He needs to concentrate. This is his first time fighting me with a real sword, and I’d like to keep my head another few years. Gotta train all you wimps.” This was followed by laughs from the other students. Lacan was a very laidback instructor, and often joked with his students. However, that didn’t make him any less dangerous in a fight. Rather, it made him even more dangerous, because an opponent who laughed at you was bound to underestimate you.
Kain gripped his sword, waiting for Lacan to give the signal for the fight to begin. He wasn’t fooled by Lacan’s outgoing personality; this man had been a devastating soldier in the Guardia cavalry. Kain noticed that his palms were sweaty already. He was nervous, more nervous than he’d been in a long time, and with good cause. Today was the first time he had fought the instructor with a real sword, rather than a wooden one; If he managed to defeat Lacan by forcing him into a position where he couldn’t fight back, then he would get his black belt in the use of a katana. On top of this, he was also worried about slicing his master’s head off. Kain had always been one of the most intense students of Lacan, would always go one step further than the rest of them. He would have to hold himself back, now, to avoid taking the extra step necessary to injure his master, while also avoiding that fate himself. Lacan rarely made mistakes in a fight, but today was not a good day to find out that Lacan could screw up occasionally.
“Alright,” said Lacan, still standing with his sword in his sheath and his arms to his side. “Hei!” The fight begins.
A moment passed. Kain stood there, in his battle stance, his sword pointed at Lacan.
“Well, aren’t you gonna come at me?” said Lacan. “I can stand here all day, if you want. I’ve got plenty of time.”
“But…” Kain was bewildered, a feeling unusual for him. “You don’t have your sword out. You’re not even in fighting stance.”
“So? When you meet your enemy on the battlefield, are you gonna refuse to fight him until he assumes the correct position?”
The students would have laughed, but they all knew they would have done the same thing.
“Ah…sorry.”
“You’re not sorry! You’re trying to kill me, remember!”
Kain decided to forget about arguing. If Lacan wanted to give him an easy win, so be it.
He leaped toward Lacan, brought his sword to the chamber position behind his head, and slashed, aiming toward Lacan’s chest. Lacan ducked under the blade, pivoted on his heel, extended his leg, and sweep-kicked Kain to the ground. Lacan rolled back up, got to his feet, and jumped into the air. Kain got off of the ground just in time to avoid being kneed in the face by Lacan’s attack.
Kain slashed again, this time aiming for Lacan’s exposed neck. The thrill of battle overcame him; his heart beat faster, his blood boiled. Lacan jumped backwards, did a breakfall, and rolled up to his feet again. “You can do better than that!”
Kain ran towards his master, his skilled feet like wings on air. He stabbed once, twice, again, Lacan dodging every blow with a speedy move.
“If you can’t kill someone who’s not fighting back, how are you gonna survive when someone’s trying to carve your head open? Come on, Kain! Show me what you’ve got. Pretend your girlfriend’s watching.”
This statement infuriated Kain, whose girlfriend had just dumped him three days ago. This, and the fact that he could not come near Lacan, no matter how hard he tried. He gritted his teeth and lunged forward.
Expecting another forward slash, Lacan prepared to jump out of the way again. But this was only a feint; Kain bounced to the left, where Lacan was intending to move. The black robed-boy sliced with his sword. Lacan ducked at the last moment. Kain brought his sword around and down. His master rolled backwards on the ground, leaped to his feet, and drew his own katana from its sheath.
“Good,” he said. “Let’s see how well you do now!” He jumped toward Kain, his ponytail flying above his head, and slashed downwards. Kain raised his sword to block the blow, but the force knocked him down. “What?! Blocking a jumping blow? You can’t block those, just redirect the force,” said Lacan, as he repeatedly attacked the scrambling Kain. “Or get out of the way—“ his sentence was cut off when Kain brought his sword straight down upon Lacan’s weapon, the force jarring Lacan’s blade away from Kain’s body. Using the opening to his advantage, Kain sliced upward, nearly cleaving off the top of Lacan’s head. His master jumped backward, rolled again. Kain, now used to Lacan’s evasive technique, ran forward before his master could get up, sweep kicked his leg from under him when Lacan tried to leap backwards again, and, as the man fell down, swung his blade with all of his might, striking Lacan’s sword so hard that his hand released it involuntarily and the weapon clattered to the ground, three feet away. Seeing his chance, Kain jumped upon Lacan, put his legs around him in a leg-break hold, and held his sword an inch away from his master’s throat.
“Have I won?” Kain asked, smiling.
“Perhaps you have, perhaps not,” returned Lacan.
Kain felt bewilderment at the man’s response. He had beaten him fairly, hadn’t he?
Then everything fell into darkness.
.