“The Empty Vessel and the Unyielding Flame”

“The Empty Vessel and the Unyielding Flame”

At Waking Summit Monastery, where clouds bowed low to the mountain and monks bowed lower still to the First Ones, the Doyho was more than a sparring circle, it was a crucible of spirit. And within it, two names echoed like drumbeats: the eldest Disciples. Komuso, the Empty Vessel, and Jiro, the Unyielding Flame.

They were rivals not by hatred, but by fate. Honored students and disciples of Votr Ator, the Walking Summit's dedicated martial art, the Way of the Flying Feet. Each trial of the monastery was a lesson. Each lesson, a contest between the two strongest disciples. And each contest, a victory for Komuso, though never without honor or reverence.

Trial of the Wind

The monks stood atop narrow stone pillars, arms bound, with only the wind and their instincts to guide their feet. The goal: to leap from perch to perch, avoiding the false pillars that would collapse with their weight, striking suspended bells in a sacred rhythm without faltering.

Jiro launched himself with force and precision, his movements sharp and deliberate. Komuso moved like mist, his Flying Feet barely whispering against the stone, his breath in harmony with the wind itself.

When the final bell rang, Komuso had struck all seven in perfect cadence. Jiro had missed two.

Komuso bowed low to the shaking with restrained rage Jiro, hands folded before him. “This vessel thanks the Young Master for the lesson.”, and Jiro, speechless with anger, bowed briefly, refusing eye contact.

Trial of the Flame

No combat. No movement. Only stillness.

After three days of fasting, the monks were led to the Doyho, where iron chains were draped across their shoulders, arms, and legs. The Trial of Flame tested the very bounds of mortal resilience. How long one could remain standing, unmoving, under the weight of hunger, metal, and expectation.

Jiro gritted his teeth, his body trembling with effort. Komuso stood like carved stone, his breath slow, his eyes closed. He did not resist the pain, he accepted it, let it pass through him like wind through reeds.

Hours passed. Jiro collapsed to one knee, then fell. Komuso remained standing until the sun dipped below the horizon.

When the Yobidashi declared the end, Komuso bowed, chains clinking loudly as they met the stone floor. “This vessel thanks the Young Master for the lesson.”, as Jiro vibrated with rage, barely able to dip his head as tradition demanded.

Trial of the Moon

Blindfolded and paired with a younger monk, the disciples entered the labyrinthine caves beneath the monastery. Only with spoken word could they guide their blindfolded fellow Rikishi. No touch, no support. Truth was the blade, trust the shield.

Jiro’s voice was commanding, but impatient. His partner stumbled, misled by half measure and hurried orders. Komuso’s voice was precise, deliberate, unwavering. His vow of Truth forbade embellishment, and so his words became lanterns in the dark.

Komuso’s partner emerged unscathed. Jiro’s emerged bruised and bitter.

Komuso bowed. “This vessel thanks the Young Master for the lesson.”, even as Jiro stormed away, fury painted in his every step.

The Honbasho

The final match. Jiro, desperate to ascend to Ozeki, challenged Komuso once more. To the last option remaining. A ceremonial Basho before the entire monastery. A lower ranked Rikishi's chance to challenge his senior for their position. Victory meant advancement. Defeat, another lesson learned.

The Dohyo Matsuri was performed. Salt scattered. Chants whispered. Yokozuna Tsuyo-sa watched from the high seat, his gaze heavy with memory.

Jiro entered the Doyho like a storm. Komuso entered in silence.

The match began. Almost immediately, Jiro struck first. Heart filled with heat of battle and desire for victory, he always did. Komuso did not rush to meet strength with strength. His vow of Peace forbade the first blow. He danced, deflected, redirected. His Flying Feet lifted him above the fray, his patience and devotion guiding his dance.

Jiro roared, charging with all his might, his actions grew reckless as his heart besting his head for control. Komuso stepped aside, guiding the momentum with a subtle shift of weight, a slight push. Jiro stumbled, and Komuso swept him from the circle with a single, elegant motion.

The Yobidashi declared the victor.

Komuso bowed deeply, his voice soft but resonant. "This vessel thanks the Young Master for the lesson.”

Jiro did not return the bow, ignoring tradition and storming off without a word. Komuso watched his fellow disciple, his brother, shove his way through the attending crowd and sighed.

With sadness, Komuso saw that Jiro's heart had turned their competition into a rivalry. A rivalry that would fester and grow to consume the fellow student he felt only friendship and gratefulness towards.  And so, after gathering his few possessions, and paying respect to his mentor, Yokozuna Tsuyo-sa, Komuso set his feet on a new path, striding down from the mountain tops to rejoin the world below.

One year later, as Komuso wandered the land of Za, offering and accepting challenges at every Doyho he found, whispers followed him. Of a monk who never struck first, who never lied, who never threatened. A monk who accepted every victory and loss with the same measured “This vessel thanks the Young Master for the lesson”. Of a vessel still empty, always seeking fulfilment. And of another monk who stormed across the lands, ever guided by rumors and stories towards his target, For only by defeating Komuso could Jiro finally claim the honored spot of Ozeki among the Waking Summit's Atori and be freed from the shame he needlessly placed upon himself.