The Price of Life was first published by Thick Jam magazine in November 2014.
The Price of Life
The sliding door silently opens, allowing Kojiro access to his target. A blotchy and bloated man lies before him, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly as he sleeps. A clean kill is the only gift Kojiro presents to his quarry. His blade buries itself deep into the merchant's chest while his free hand covers the man's mouth. Unable to scream, the merchant's pupils flicker left and right, seemingly searching his killer's eyes for something. An answer.
Instinctively, Kojiro responds in kind – fixing his gaze on something just out of his victim’s sight. The merchant’s eyes cry agony, but even as his vision begins to fail and shadows start to consume his world, he can still understand why he has met this fate. The merchant's bedroom acts as a symbol, a small emblem that shines as brightly as the rest of his estate. Every corner of it is filled with luxuries: kimonos of the finest silk, long smoking pipes made of gold, the purest saké, and yet all of it was brought with blood.
The merchant had once watched idly as the hired hands of criminal ronin – masterless samurai – had torched the houses of hundreds, simply so that he could reclaim his investment. Much of the village was indebted to him, and repeated warnings written in elegant and cursive kanji did not seem to rouse the peasants into paying. The truth was: not one of them could read.
The wealth gained from looting the villagers' houses as they burned to cinders had far outweighed the cost of the mercenaries. A perfect transaction.
Now as he gazes up into the glassy and unforgiving eyes of his killer, the merchant can see the pain he has caused. His attempt at speech is a pitiful thing, little more than an exhalation – blocked anyway by the assassin's hand. With that pathetic death cry, the merchant slips into an everlasting sleep – the ninja hopes it is one tortured by nightmares.
Kojiro now struggles to pull his blade from its latest resting place. Falling backwards, he regains his balance and focuses on his next task at hand. A single, swift slice is all it takes to remove a section of the merchant’s beautiful bloodstained kimono. He holds it close, seeing in his hand not a piece of cloth but a swatch of gold.
‘Leave the proof at the crossroads and collect your reward in the morning,’ was all the letter had said. Why collect some paltry reward for the deed when Kojiro could simply take everything his victim already had? The merchant would never need any of it anymore…
Resting on his knees, Kojiro stares covetously at one of the gold pipes beside his victim’s lifeless hand. The candlelight in the room is just luminous enough to create an image on the decadent pipe’s surface – a reflection of Kojiro’s own face.
Instinctively, Kojiro responds in kind – fixing his gaze on something just out of his victim’s sight. The merchant’s eyes cry agony, but even as his vision begins to fail and shadows start to consume his world, he can still understand why he has met this fate. The merchant's bedroom acts as a symbol, a small emblem that shines as brightly as the rest of his estate. Every corner of it is filled with luxuries: kimonos of the finest silk, long smoking pipes made of gold, the purest saké, and yet all of it was brought with blood.
The merchant had once watched idly as the hired hands of criminal ronin – masterless samurai – had torched the houses of hundreds, simply so that he could reclaim his investment. Much of the village was indebted to him, and repeated warnings written in elegant and cursive kanji did not seem to rouse the peasants into paying. The truth was: not one of them could read.
The wealth gained from looting the villagers' houses as they burned to cinders had far outweighed the cost of the mercenaries. A perfect transaction.
Now as he gazes up into the glassy and unforgiving eyes of his killer, the merchant can see the pain he has caused. His attempt at speech is a pitiful thing, little more than an exhalation – blocked anyway by the assassin's hand. With that pathetic death cry, the merchant slips into an everlasting sleep – the ninja hopes it is one tortured by nightmares.
Kojiro now struggles to pull his blade from its latest resting place. Falling backwards, he regains his balance and focuses on his next task at hand. A single, swift slice is all it takes to remove a section of the merchant’s beautiful bloodstained kimono. He holds it close, seeing in his hand not a piece of cloth but a swatch of gold.
‘Leave the proof at the crossroads and collect your reward in the morning,’ was all the letter had said. Why collect some paltry reward for the deed when Kojiro could simply take everything his victim already had? The merchant would never need any of it anymore…
Resting on his knees, Kojiro stares covetously at one of the gold pipes beside his victim’s lifeless hand. The candlelight in the room is just luminous enough to create an image on the decadent pipe’s surface – a reflection of Kojiro’s own face.
