The Blade of Earth - 2 (Patreon)

I couldn’t help but take note of all the changes I could see around me. Things had changed since the late nineties, certainly. For once, everyone was looking at the screens in their hands, which, at first glance, looked like a mixture of a miniature TV and some kind of text-based communication device. 

And, considering the sudden lack of phone boxes around, I guessed that those mini-TVs could also used as a phone. 

Certainly convenient. Not as convenient as the communication crystal that every disciple was assigned — with me being a temporary exception. 

Officially to ensure that I could blend, which was absurd. Even with my cultivation partially sealed, I could still cut a car into two with a kitchen knife —  which I had to, as I didn’t have a sword with me — if I was determined. A little stone that was keyed to my essence would hardly make me easier to detect. 

Especially in a world that was already under complete control of Heavenly Sword Sect. 

Naturally, there would be very few people who would actually know that fact, a small list that I doubted even included the President. 

However, I only doubted rather than knowing, as no one actually bothered to inform me about those details. Of course, if I was here for a real mission, it would have been different. I would have already received a detailed explanation about exactly which groups and organizations were aware of the existence of the supernatural … and more. 

The lack of information or the absence of a communication crystal didn’t bother me. 

The absence of my sword was … a different question. 

Since I had been recruited eighteen years ago, I had never been without my sword. Not in the sect, and not outside the sect. Even when I was in bed … well, entertaining a female guest — or a few, if I was particularly lucky — I never let it drift farther than I could call it with a flick of my wrist. 

A few times I had lapsed, my teachers had admonished me aggressively, repeating many different sayings that could be summarized as my sword was my life, and letting it go was a disgrace. 

It was why I didn’t have one with me. Using the excuse of repairing it after a mission, the sect blacksmiths took it … and Protector Ashira had forgotten to give me a temporary blade. 

Completely accidental, I was certain. 

Yet, I was glad for their so-called punishment. Every single moment of my life, since I had been recruited, was filled with either sword training or cultivation. Well, except for the occasional missions, but considering I still had to destroy demonic cultivators, creatures of the void, heretics, and many other enemies with my sword during these missions, they were a poor substitute for a holiday.  

Without a sword, in a world where nothing could truly threaten me, I felt free. 

No money, no residence, no proof of education, and no friend … with no idea how long I had to stay before the council finally decided to forgive me. 

If they forgave me at all. Admittedly, I wasn’t sure if I wouldn’t prefer for them to forget my presence and let me enjoy the rest of my life — which, I had about two hundred years thanks to my cultivation. 

What a dilemma. 

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I walked, ignoring the suspicious gazes of the people around me. Understandable, as I had been wearing a horrible mismatch of a bright-colored Hawaiian shirt, ripped jeans, and shiny leather shoes. 

Add in my long black hair that reached to my waist, and the suspicious gazes made sense. 

I might have been away from Earth for two decades, but that didn’t mean I lost my senses enough to know just how absurd I looked. But with the urgency of my ‘mission’, I didn’t have time to work with a tailor, leaving me to pick the best from the storage. It was either that, or some kind of weird white suit from the seventies. 

As for cutting my hair to blend better … that was not even a question. 

I wanted to go to a thrift store and buy some clothes, but that was for the latter. First, I needed to find a burger. 

I might be back in my hometown, but it had been almost two decades, and Little Oak was unrecognizable other than some general lines. It was hard to expect anything to stay the same. Even with the memory of a cultivator, I had trouble seeing anything familiar. 

That didn’t stop me from taking a turn toward the more familiar parts of the town, where my childhood home was. It was gone, replaced by a garish motel, though it didn’t bother me much. It had stopped being a home before my recruitment. Once my mother was dead, and my father lost himself in the bottle completely, it stopped being home and turned into some kind of dormitory. 

The supermarket that had been built on the empty yard where we often played as children hurt was far more devastating. It was one of the few places that remembered fondly, without pain — well, metaphorical kind, as I had broken my bones on four different occasions while playing there. 

The only other place I could remember fondly was the Single Barrel Pub, which was ironic considering my father’s habits, but the old man who owned the pub had been banned from the place for some reason, making it a beautiful haven for me. 

Especially since we had a nice little deal. I washed the dishes, and he allowed me to do my homework in the corner as I enjoyed one of his famous burgers. I 

Oh, how I wished for it. I could almost smell it before I even turned the corner. But, I felt my feet turn to lead even as I approached, knowing that once I took that turn, I would find it gone, replaced with some kind of ugly franchise. 

It was scarier than facing a twenty-feet demon with more teeth than skin. 

Yet, once I turned, I met with a welcome surprise. A faded green door, with a little board with a faded name. 

Single Barrel Pub. 

I couldn’t help but walk toward it with quick steps. I didn’t have any money, but it was easily resolved. As I approached toward the door, I passed near a man in a suit who was busy catcalling a passing woman. One accidental collision later, I was a wallet richer. 

Cosmic justice. 

Then, I stepped into the pub. 

It was a blast from the past … or it would have been, if I saw the old man on the counter rather than a man in his fifties. There were no TVs inside, just several old barrels that were used as tables, following the theme. The old jukebox was still in the corner, and considering the song that was playing, it hadn’t been updated since my childhood. 

I continued examining the place, turning my attention to the walls, bare except for a single violin that the old man occasionally played whenever the mood struck him. 

I walked to one of the tables, not asking whether the old man played it whenever the mood struck still  … afraid of the answer it would lead to. For the moment, I was happy to relive one untainted memory of my childhood. 

Before I could even take a seat, the bartender gestured toward me. “How can I help you?” 

“A double bacon burger, extra fries, and the biggest chocolate milkshake you have,” I asked. 

He didn’t say anything, but looked at me with a careful gaze. “That would be thirty-six dollars,” he said, his tone reluctant.  

I would have been angry, but considering the way I dressed, I couldn’t exactly blame him for having doubts. Luckily, I came prepared. I pulled a hundred from the wallet and passed it to him. “Keep the change.  Just make it quick,” I said as I passed the bill to him. 

He didn’t look as excited as I had been expecting at the prospect of the tip, though he was enough to keep his swearing to an inaudible whisper. 

Well, what he thought to be inaudible. I still heard him, but it was hardly fair for him to predict my enhanced hearing. 

Instead, I found myself wondering what a hipster was, and why the bartender was afraid of an infection of them… I didn’t bother with it much, but closed my eyes, enjoying the crackling voice of the jukebox as it played a familiar song. 

For this moment, I was a child, with no concern other than homework. No demons, no cultivation, no other planets, no annoying council. 

Certainly no swords. 

I kept my eyes closed even as I heard footsteps getting closer. A woman, I recognized from the sound, wearing short heels, thought the strength of her steps betrayed some kind of martial training. Ranged, based on the subtle hint of fleeting movement I could pick.  

I suspected a crossbow, but it could also be a longbow. It was definitely not guns.  

I could have discerned the exact weapon if I paid more attention to it even without opening my eyes, but I did not. I was far more occupied by the delicious smell of the burger. Somehow, it smelt even better than my memories suggested. 

“Enjoy,” the waitress said as she dropped the plate in front of me. Her voice felt familiar, but I was too occupied with the impending feast to think about it. I opened my eyes, and feasted upon the familiar shape. A thick slab of meat oily enough to clog my arteries, enough condiment to create a mess no matter the familiarity, and a tall glass of milkshake made of real ice cream. 

Just like I remembered. 

Lost in the anticipation, I didn’t care about the footsteps approaching from behind, even if they belonged to someone who was carrying two guns. Someone that felt self-assured, but not cocky. Add in the subtle aura of justice I could feel, I easily guessed law enforcement. 

I was determined not to care other than a general passive register, but she stopped next to me. 

“You’re under arrest. Raise your hands and come with me,” she called. 

I was tempted to do something I disapproved of intensely, but I still remembered the rules of the pub, one of them never starting a fight inside. 

I doubted the old man would appreciate it if I started a fight against a policewoman.