She was too pure for that way of life—pristine even. She lacked that tainted quality that enabled others to shunt away or repress feelings of guilt and awareness of surrounding corruption. As she continued killing her enemies, her actions stayed with her, and her misgivings grew heavier, eventually affecting her in her daily life.
She began to see the world as filled with hypocrisy and contradiction. What she had once seen as just and right was now mere façade; what she had once seen as harmful evil was what propped up the system from within.
She had believed she fought to bring about peace but realized the insignificance of her accomplishments as an individual: that in saving someone, she hurt someone else. When she thought she’d saved a country, the new government collapsed under its own illegitimacy. The more she fought, the more the wars increased in scale. Eventually, she realized that she was being sent into wars for the purpose of further intensifying the conflicts.
It was also true that without those battlefields, some people would have no reason to live. Fighting brought happiness to many people, and an equal measure could find happiness in only that way.
Her belief that she was doing the right thing seemed nothing more than a cliché now. To consider herself a good person would have been about as meaningful as the summary on the back cover of a children’s picture book.
Her life’s path was nothing more than a paved road.
Except there wasn’t even a road at all.
She felt as if she was walking on a muddy expanse, a bog sloshing stickily under every footstep, threatening to twist her ankles—and just as no fish would live in waters that were completely pure, no road could be built upon unstable earth.
And yet everyone else constantly extolled their ideals; rather than admit the world was corrupt, they spouted pretenses of morals and the ability to tell right from wrong. When she thought about the ridiculousness of all the artifice, Tiger felt like she could puke.
To hold fast to her path would be to face constant pressure coming from all sides to turn that path astray. As much as she tried to walk straight, as straightforward as she tried to live, the world would never permit her to continue. Wherever she went, the road ahead of her was closed for construction.
In the end, Tiger left her path.
Before anyone else changed her course, she left it of her own free will—by turning to alcohol.
When she was drunk, she didn’t have to think. Nothing troubled her anymore. The contradictions of the world that had weighed upon her never entered her swaying vision. If her footsteps were caught in a mire, she could simply crawl instead. On her hands and knees, she didn’t feel so nauseous.
For better or worse, Tiger didn’t become a pacifist like Monkey. It wasn’t because she was too weak or a bad person—she was simply too innocent for it. She didn’t have Monkey’s good kind of stubbornness or Chicken’s bad kind either.
Ironically, the more Tiger pickled herself in alcohol, the better a warrior she became. It was as if her talents had been awakened—though despite her claims, she didn’t become stronger the more she drank. Rather, the alcohol saturated her mind, erasing all the troubles that had settled inside her and leaving no room for other unnecessary thoughts. Those thoughts and troubles—or, by another name, her sense of ethics and morals—had been cast aside. Whenever she began to remember them, she drank whatever she could find, no matter what kind or what proof.
She’d often been told her heavy drinking was physically harmful, but she preferred drinks that were bad for her body over thoughts that were bad for her mind. If the world in which she believed was rotten, then she could rot a little too.
She stopped caring what became of her. She truly thought she’d be better off if her very blood fermented into alcohol. The earnest and hearty girl had grown into a cynical and unhealthy adult—or, if that’s too redundant, she became an adult. In a way, that was what growing up was.
Tiger thought she was just going through a slump, like could happen to anyone. Anyone could have a setback and could become discouraged. She began only to go into battle when she felt like it, and her fighting grew increasingly perfunctory. Despite this, she still got results, and her reputation increased rather than plummeted. This approval was another of life’s contradictions that continued to hound her.
She received more praise now that she wasn’t trying than she had when she took everything seriously. That thought drove her to drink even more. For what had been all her effort? Where had her diligence gotten her? For what had she been striving?
At some point, Tiger started getting drunk on blood. Blood and alcohol were the only things that could make her forget everything else. She had once been a superior student, but now she felt her intellect slowly but steadily wane. No matter how much she lost, it didn’t hinder her on the battlefield.
She lost her ability to strategize and started fighting haphazardly. It didn’t hinder her. She stopped being able to remember the names of her allies, so she started fighting alone. It didn’t hinder her. She lost the ability to read expressions, so she quit looking at her enemies’ faces. It didn’t hinder her. She stopped being able to tell the difference between who was important and who wasn’t, so she started treating everyone as though they were unimportant. It didn’t hinder her. She couldn’t read maps anymore. It didn’t hinder her. She stopped being able to read kanji that had more than six brush strokes. It didn’t hinder her. She could still do multiplication, but not division. It didn’t hinder her. She had long since become unaware of what day it was, but now had to struggle to remember her own birthday. It didn’t hinder her. She could no longer walk in a straight line. It didn’t hinder her. She couldn’t even tell if she was still alive or if she was dead. It didn’t hinder her. None of it did.
Then, one such unhindered day, Tiger met a lone master.
In one exceptionally dire battle, she met a warrior. Rather, she was saved by one. Letting the alcohol do the thinking as always, she had made a reckless charge into what she knew was a trap. She had just wanted to get the fighting over with.
Then a dashing swordsman appeared, and with his saber he dispatched the enemy group in the blink of an eye. His was nice, clean swordsmanship, of the sort she once had admired and aspired to attain. He wielded the blade with such precision that to call the display beautiful wouldn’t be doing it justice. In his arm, the saber moved without hesitation, as if he held the conviction that he was doing the right thing in the right way.
He engaged the seemingly limitless enemy in the correct order, taking the shortest appropriate route in the most effective and efficient way. The sight was a bucket of ice water poured over her to wash away her drunken stupor. She couldn’t remember how many years had passed since the last time she had been herself and sober. His transcendent swordsmanship cut her to her heart, and she froze, not moving a muscle.