A gas mask. That was all the protection he had gotten to venture out into the Elderwoods and hunt for a hunter. In all honesty, Shinbatsu had long forgotten what fear felt like. When he was younger he could experience it: fear that he would not pass, that he would not be loved, that he would be killed. The years had changed him. Now all he did was calculated, and if he was in, he was in; if he was out, he was out. Fear was left out of the equation.
But that did not mean that Shinbatsu did not know when he was in danger. Right now, he was in danger. The probability of him making it out of the danger in one piece, he calculated, was roughly seventy eight percent. That was a high probability. He was thirty eight years old, however, and up till this point he had kept himself together by never entering a situation when he was not at least ninety percent confident that he would be alright. This was really bad, and he knew it, and he had to adjust. Something had to change.
Around when he had that thought, he paused and sat on his behind, grabbing at the arrow embedded in his calf and breaking most of it off. Tilting his leg slightly outward, he pulled out a vial of caster oil and poured it as well as he could into the wound, watching as purple fluids oozed out of the mix of blood. The arrowhead had been poisoned; he needed to pull the rest out, and he did, pouring more oil on the wound and ducking his head just in time to evade another arrow. While the man pursuing him reloaded, Shinbatsu wrapped the wound on his leg with a make-shift bandage, and before his hunter could fire again Shinbatsu was up and running. Eighty two percent, he calculated.
What he did not know was that amidst the agricultural machine were traps. Evasion, however, worked in his favor again; mechanics are rigid, unguided, and can only proceed in one direction, and so long as Shinbatsu anticipated that direction correctly, he was safe. He knew his pursuer must be getting frustrated. Ninety percent.
With a flicker of his wrist and a spin on his foot, the Shinobi had turned straight around and launched an exploding projectile straight in the direction of the man following him. The objective, of course, was not to make contact; this man was too skilled for that. By the time he had dodged and recovered from the surprise and the frustration and recomposed himself, however, Shinbatsu had vanished. This latter man now looked over his shoulder, taking in his success. One hundred percent. His eyes narrowed in on his target.
Later that night, Shinbatsu sat in his bar again, this time a patron, not a businessman. He was so tired. Everything made him so tired. Maybe, one day, he would close his eyes and not be tired anymore. But tonight he was just downright exhausted.
MFT
But that did not mean that Shinbatsu did not know when he was in danger. Right now, he was in danger. The probability of him making it out of the danger in one piece, he calculated, was roughly seventy eight percent. That was a high probability. He was thirty eight years old, however, and up till this point he had kept himself together by never entering a situation when he was not at least ninety percent confident that he would be alright. This was really bad, and he knew it, and he had to adjust. Something had to change.
Around when he had that thought, he paused and sat on his behind, grabbing at the arrow embedded in his calf and breaking most of it off. Tilting his leg slightly outward, he pulled out a vial of caster oil and poured it as well as he could into the wound, watching as purple fluids oozed out of the mix of blood. The arrowhead had been poisoned; he needed to pull the rest out, and he did, pouring more oil on the wound and ducking his head just in time to evade another arrow. While the man pursuing him reloaded, Shinbatsu wrapped the wound on his leg with a make-shift bandage, and before his hunter could fire again Shinbatsu was up and running. Eighty two percent, he calculated.
What he did not know was that amidst the agricultural machine were traps. Evasion, however, worked in his favor again; mechanics are rigid, unguided, and can only proceed in one direction, and so long as Shinbatsu anticipated that direction correctly, he was safe. He knew his pursuer must be getting frustrated. Ninety percent.
With a flicker of his wrist and a spin on his foot, the Shinobi had turned straight around and launched an exploding projectile straight in the direction of the man following him. The objective, of course, was not to make contact; this man was too skilled for that. By the time he had dodged and recovered from the surprise and the frustration and recomposed himself, however, Shinbatsu had vanished. This latter man now looked over his shoulder, taking in his success. One hundred percent. His eyes narrowed in on his target.
Later that night, Shinbatsu sat in his bar again, this time a patron, not a businessman. He was so tired. Everything made him so tired. Maybe, one day, he would close his eyes and not be tired anymore. But tonight he was just downright exhausted.
MFT