A Blade With No Sheath
Dark clouds look over the battlefield as if the gods wish to spare their eyes from the gruesome scene. Surely, though, the stench of iron and rot and cacophony of screams would not let them fully escape the truth.
A pale-haired girl stands unbowed amidst the sea of bodies, her dark robes stained red. A boy with a spear charges at her in blind rage, but both weapon and wielder are swiftly cut down, and the girl's sword seems to drink in his essence.
Jian saw the truth clearly. This was not combat. It was not some grand war. It was the gates of hell, where friend and foe could not be distinguished, and the only rest was death. Where warriors were not forged, but killers. The young girl had been left by her sect alongside a few others, yet she was certain that the boy she just slayed wore robes not unlike her own.
Another approaches. Whether the redness of her hair is natural or brought about by carnage is unknown, for the heavy blade she carries is certainly well-used. Her soul burns hot enough that her steps scorch the corpses on which she traverses. Their gazes meet.
The other girl seems to size Jian up, and Jian does the same. Under such circumstances, this was the closest one may come to peace. There was oft no time for the preamble to battle when men attack wildly, driven mad with bloodlust or desperation to live.
The moment of calm is short-lived as a group of said crazed fools shamble their way. The girls' eyes register an understanding as sword and saber work in unison. One moving as if blade herself, quick and unyielding. The other dancing like a flame, sparing none from her inferno.
A smile creeps its way into Jian's cold features. The girl's name was unknown to her, yet she felt she knew in the way they danced together. More than any of the other unfortunate children from her sect, she thought she might call this girl Sister.
A familiar clink brings Jian back to the present. She looks on with pity at her handiwork.
"How unfortunate that our fates crossed..."
The scene before seemed as if it had leaped from her dreams. A group of bounty hunters who were not so long ago offering her a quick death now lie broken, their bodies expertly taken apart. Pity turns to disappointment. There was a countless number of geniuses in the current age but, perhaps naively, she hoped to meet the Sister she had made again if any good was to come of this bloodshed.
She glances over her own condition, finding that some of the life spilled on the ground was her own. A blade did not retreat until it had served its purpose, regardless of injury. Yet, without proper care, it would fall to ruin. If she did not find a physician willing to treat her, then she would have no need to fear the bounty hunters.
So she pushes forward and hopes that there is some kindness to spare for one such as herself.