Zitao crept forward on tensed legs, using the shadows of the plants in the overgrown fields for cover. His bare feet made barely a noise as they whispered over the dust of the road, and his breathing had lessened to a nearly inaudible stirring of the air. When he moved through the chilly air he felt lines of cold where his tears had not yet dried on his face.

The sun was setting to his left as he snuck towards the crossroads, the concentrated rays of red and orange light blinding him if he turned his head from the tents that had been erected on the fields around the crossroads. The campground was swarming with soldiers in mail, the smells of freshly dug latrines and cooking meat ading the air, but they were so noisy that Zitao needn’t have feared being too loud.

Nevertheless, he held his breath and when he reached the edge of the camp he waited for some soldiers to pass before slipping within the camp’s borders, just one shadow among many. He couldn’t say why he was acting with such extreme caution when the only thing he wanted was an end worth talking of, spent avenging what he held dear. Maybe it was because he valued his own life more than he thought, or maybe it was because he wanted to be the biggest nuisance, go out with the biggest bang.

As he slipped through the drunken soldiers and falling tents he felt the anger build up in his chest until it was nearly choking him, threatening to spill out from his throat in angry screams and shouts. The soldiers had had no right to walk through his childhood and kill every last memory he treasured like it was nothing. Even worse than the actual deed was the fact that they seemed nonchalant about it, brushing off their murder as just another day’s work. By the time he reached the center of the camp, where there was a small clearing in which to hold meetings, his vision was clouded with red and his fingers trembled against the grip of his sword, wearing fingerprints into the old wood at the very tip of the handle.

He knew what he must have looked like standing there, like a phantom that suddenly appeared in their midst. He was a phantom with bare feet and scraps of clothing, his eyes wild and his arms streaked with blood where he had held his family for the last time, and he held in one hand a blade so sharp that its edges disappeared into nothingness. He knew all of this, knew the terror that the soldiers must have been experiencing at the dark intruder that infiltrated into the heart of their camp. And because he knew this, he smiled slightly to himself, his face creasing uncomfortably at the motion. And then the spell of shock and fear broke, and there was the sound of a dozen swords being drawn at the same instant.

“Intruder!” yelled one of the soldiers just as his comrades ran forward with their steel bristling.

But the dozen swords were no match for his one sword, and Zitao stepped in and out of the s and slashes that could have ended his life. He parried and blocked, smiling at his opponent in the split second it took for him to reverse momentum, changing to the offensive. While three soldiers were still looking for where he had disappeared to, where his blade was threatening, he ducked under their guards and drove his blade into the juncture of arm and torso so blood spewed from the weak spot in the armor. He fought with the clarity of one detached from his situation so the outcome didn’t matter, but he also fought with the ferocity and endurance of one who knew why he was fighting, who was fighting for a cause that he believed in.

The shouts of his opponents grew louder and louder as more fell under the of his blade, now shining a faint bloodred. Reinforcements rushed towards the center of the camp, crowding Zitao onto the pile of fallen soldiers accumulating around him. His movements became more cramped and therefore weaker as he was forced to face several opponents at once. They were all crowded so close he could have reached out and ripped each of their heads from their spines with one sharp twist of his wrist, at the cost of the others overwhelming him.

“Who are you?” one of the soldiers asked as he lay dying, his life rushing from the wound in his stomach.

“No one,” Zitao replied, catching an enemy blade in a solid parry that shook his entire arm.

His opponent was a large man, and his face was covered by an iron helm plumed with a long, red feather. Despite his size and strength the man moved swiftly, dodging attacks with all the grace that Zitao himself had only gained through years of training. This threw him off at first but soon Zitao fell into step, searching in the back of his mind for the complex moves that he had learned long ago but never needed to use until that moment.

It was almost pleasurable, the way Zitao would observe a small mistake in the other man’s movements, a sudden opening or misstep. He would set up his next attack around that mistake, biding his time until it happened again. Sometimes the attack failed, and sometimes it resulted in a light tap on the other man’s dented armor before Zitao’s sword was parried away. But always his opponent would realize Zitao’s plan and correct his mistake, which meant Zitao needed to think of a new plan in addition to protecting himself from the other man’s own attacks.

He was so preoccupied by this back-and-forth that he didn’t notice how his other opponents melted away around him until he was only facing the man with the plumed helm, focusing only on that one battle.

Until he felt a body colliding into his side and the impact of his body on the dusty ground, sending shockwaves throughout his muscles. His breathing was labored from battle but he still tried to force himself up. It wasn’t until he realized there was a sword tip at his throat and his own sword was lying several feet away in dulled red splendor that he threw both hands up in defeat and smiled at the one who had defeated him.

“You must be the commander here,” he said, panting. “I wonder how many of your men I’ve killed?”

“Men are flesh and blood. If they could be killed so easily it was good riddance,” the man replied, nodding at a few of his men to tie Zitao’s hands behind his back. “Who are you?”

“No one.” Zitao allowed his hands to be tied, but when he flexed his fingers he could feel the weakness in the ropes.

The man’s voice was muffled from inside his helm. “Everybody is someone. I’ll repeat it: who are you?”

“Tell me who you are first,” Zitao suggested, rolling the muscles in his shoulders as he felt the other soldiers step away from him.

The soldiers had formed a kind of circle around Zitao and the helmed man, probably out of respect for their commander’s authority. Zitao had regained his breath in the few minutes it took them to talk, and the prospect of capture and death filled his veins with new adrenaline. He could feel triumph thundering through his body at his revenge and what he planned to do next would seal the deal.

“Remove your helm and I’ll tell you who I am. You have nothing to lose, after all. I’m surrounded, and disarmed as well as bound.”

The man seemed to agree, and he lifted both hands to remove his helm. Before the motion was even halfway done the ropes binding Zitao’s hands were shredded on the ground and Zitao himself was leaping forward, one foot extended in front of him as he knocked the man to the ground.

“This is for my family,” he growled as he kneeled with one knee on the man’s chest and both hands extended to choke the life out of him.

But then he stopped.

…

The man’s face was like a slap to Zitao’s face and he fell backwards onto the ground as he realized who was the commander of the soldiers that had killed his family. He should have suspected it from the moment he saw that plumed helm, but he didn’t.

The man was Cao Cao, whom Zitao had idolized for the greater part of his life. The man that was supposed to deliver justice wherever he went, controlling the strong and protecting the weak. The man that Zitao wanted to be just like.

The moment Zitao stepped away from Cao Cao, as if distance could change the fact that he was who he was, the soldiers again rushed forward and held him tightly by the arms. One drew his sword and leveled it at Zitao’s chest, but a shout from behind him prevented him from delivering the killing blow.

“Don’t kill him!” Cao Cao shouted. “I want to speak with him.”

The soldiers paused, but none gave protest, or if they did the words did not reach Zitao’s disbelieving ears. They roughly dragged him into a large tent that looked like a commander’s headquarters, but Zitao did not struggle and allowed himself to be deposited on a pile of blankets in the corner with two spears pointed at his throat. They stayed there while Cao Cao delivered some sort of speech to the soldiers assembled outside, and Zitao thought that there must have been some sort of mistake.

Finally Cao Cao returned to the tent and ran a hand through his graying hair as he beckoned for a glass of wine from a servant standing in the opposite corner of the tent. His plumed helm dropped to the ground and was left there untouched as he dragged a stool to where Zitao sat on the ground. He snatched the glass of wine when the servant reached him, and at the same moment a soldier from the outside bowed his way into the tent.

“The intruder’s sword, sir.”

“Thank you. Please give it to me.”

The soldier did, and then left with another bow. Zitao watched silently as Cao Cao ran his finger over the finely honed edge of the blade, his lips in thought.

“This is a fine blade,” Cao Cao said finally. “And judging from its state, well taken care of. This says a lot for the sword’s owner.”

Zitao didn’t respond, and Cao Cao waited a few more seconds than was strictly necessary before continuing.

“You killed twelve of my men today, injured fifteen more, and broke out of your bonds to attack me. If you had finished what you started I would be dead at your bare hands, and you would be dead at the hands of my men.”

He didn’t need to be told that such a cost to the army merited a punishment of equal cost on himself. He was prepared for such a punishment, and even welcomed the escape from such a cruel and fickle world.

“Do you have anything to say?” Cao Cao asked, setting the sword, still bare, on his knees.

“Why?”

Cao Cao blinked. “Why what?”

Zitao almost chuckled to himself. Of course Cao Cao didn’t know what he was asking.

“Why did you kill all of those people? Why would you, when you promised to always bring justice?”

Cao Cao laughed, picking the sword from his lap and plunging its tip into the moist dirt that was the floor of the tent. The blade bent dangerously, sending swirling sound waves through the air as the polished metal rippled under the weight of Cao Cao leaning on it. One hand was in his lap and the other was on the hilt of Zitao’s sword, his body leaning forward and his face twisted into an expression of mirth as he cocked his head at Zitao.

“Is that what this was about?” he asked, his voice still shaking with leftover laughter. “Is this how you were able to single-handedly kill twelve men in a period of ten minutes?”

Zitao didn’t know what he was supposed to say, but his question hadn’t been answered so he asked it again. “Why?”

Cao Cao shook his head as if in amazement and leaned back, so his hand was pulling instead of pushing on the blade.

“Are you asking why I killed those villagers?”

“Yes.”

Cao Cao grinned. “My men were bored. We’ve been traveling for too long without an amusement, until this village presented itself.”

Zitao stiffened as he sensed the soldiers behind him laughing, their crossed spears gently knocking against each other. But he was stronger than that, and he prevented himself from ripping the spears from their grasp. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked Cao Cao in the eye.

“But they were innocent, and you are sworn to protect them. Why would you break that promise?”

Cao Cao seemed to like the direction the conversation was going in, and he examined his fingernails idly before regarding Zitao again, the sword in his loose grip bending and shining in the light, digging a thin line into the dirt ground.

“Promises are words, and words are free,” Cao Cao explained. “If they could buy me the support of the people at the time, I was happy to say them. And when I no longer needed their support, I broke my promise. It’s easy to break something that has no value, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather betray than be betrayed.”

“But that’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” Cao Cao threw his head back and laughed again, loudly. “Is that the only criticism you can come up with for my actions, boy? Really. Do you know why it’s wrong, since you seem to be so fond of that word? Do you know a single reason I should do the right thing when the wrong thing is so much more profitable?”

Zitao stayed silent, and Cao Cao plucked the sword from the dirt, turning it in his hands as he examined the mud caked onto its tip.

“I’ll tell you how this world works.” He shook the blade in the air with a single sharp movement of his wrist, and the metal rippled slightly from the strength of the movement. The mud slid off the blade to plop onto the ground, though a thin layer of dirt still remained on the tip. Leaning back again, he used the dirty tip to draw lines in the air as he spoke.

“People create all of these boundaries around them. We have to protect our families, but we have to obey our fathers and respect our mothers, and if we have older brothers we have to listen to them too but if we have younger brothers we can tell them what to do. We have to respect older people, but not so much that they get too much power. We have loyalties first to our village, then to the town that buys from that village, then to the city that created that town, then to the lord who controls that city, then to the emperor that rules the lord, and then to Heaven which created us all.”

Zitao watched as the blade moved through the air, rippling again as Cao Cao moved it too fast for the tip to catch up with it.

“It is honorable to kill a man in battle, but it is death to kill a man during peace. We’re allowed to eat pigs and sheep and cattle, but eat the already dead flesh of another human and it’s taboo. A wife is supposed to be loyal to her husband, and she likes it when he touches her softly. But lay a wrong hand on her and you’ll earn a rope around your neck as you hang in the village square. We all have boundaries around us, but what for?”

Zitao realized he was holding his breath, and sweating despite it being early still in the year.

“If we would disregard those boundaries--kill a man during peacetime, eat your friend after he dies--we open up so much more space for us to live in. There’s no more worrying about what’s right and wrong because it doesn’t matter. There’s just happiness and sadness, having a full stomach or an empty one, and whatever we have to do to get that is fine, because we don’t care about what we’re supposed to do. And that’s freedom. That’s space to scream and shout and kill and whatever, because we’re no longer restrained by whatever came before, whatever people say is right.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to know Sun Tzu, but I’ll tell you about him anyway. He was the greatest warrior in China once, and once he said that a wise man looks into space, and then he knows that there are no true boundaries. He was right. The only boundaries we have are the boundaries that we make. I’ve decided to make no boundaries for myself, and you can hate me for it if you like.”

He motioned at the soldiers to uncross their spears, and once they did, he tossed the sword at Zitao, who caught it numbly and let it hang useless from his limbs.

“That’s why I killed your damn village, all right?”

…

When Zitao woke up his muscles ached from too much use and from sleeping on the hard ground. His mouth was dry and when he his lips his tongue was clumsy and swollen. Then he sat up, and he found out that though his hands remained unbound, the tent in which he lay was small and confined, and the cloth was nailed hard to the ground. The only entrance was guarded, as he could tell from the worn boots that peeked through the crack in the canvas.

Sighing to himself, he stuck his head out of the tent and looked at his guard, who didn’t seem much older than Zitao himself was.

“I want to talk to Cao Cao,” he said.

The guard nodded to himself. “He thought you’d say that. Follow me.”

He crawled out of the tent on his hands and knees, and when he stood up his back cracked painfully. It was night outside, and the camp was mostly silent. They wove through the assorted tents together, not speaking a word to each other. When they reached the large tent Zitao recognized as Cao Cao’s, he felt his stomach churn with dread and anticipation. Cao Cao himself was awake, poring over a stack of maps that depicted in great detail all the towns and villages of northern China. He looked up when Zitao entered, and smiled.

“You’ve had some time to think,” he said.

Zitao nodded, but didn’t offer anything in return.

“You’re one of the greatest warriors I’ve ever met,” Cao Cao continued. “Worth at least those twelve men you killed the other day.”

Zitao continued to stay silent, and Cao Cao shook his head to himself.

“Would you like to work for me? You’ll be taking care of some particularly annoying threats for me, rebel leaders and would-be assassins. I can give you riches and power beyond imagine if you do well, and you’ll never have to worry about all these boundaries you keep putting up around yourself. It’ll just be a target, and task, and you, all nice and orderly. At the end of a mission you’ll get a comfortable house and whatever crap you could ever want or need. Just say yes, and kill some people for me.”

Zitao took a deep breath, and when he exhaled he felt all of the chains of right and wrong fall away. He knew what he wanted, and that was a peaceful existence, free from the pain he had experienced thus far. He just wanted to stop hurting so much, even if it meant he would stop loving too.

“I’ll do it,” he agreed.