Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future single-handedly given a decade in which to work. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down at her desk, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. Biology and physics and the mathematics of computation became clear as the clearest of waters, but it became immediately clear that what she sought would not be found there - not for those who had already gone. And yet, beneath the world, beneath the veil of illusion, she glimpsed something else, something deeper than reality and more fundamental than existence, a fragment of the Truth --

-- the girl had no need of books of names. Something like a dictionary of Enochian was worthless to her, and grimoires and scrolls and sutras and texts entirely superfluous. From her mind came the rules of magic from base principles, and that very night she cut open her bedroom rug and scrawled a circle upon the floor.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavenly Dao."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer, with nothing at all between it and and the earth; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, simple absence hammered until it became something almost solid in her hands.

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for so fragile was it that it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could be said - could ever be said - of the 「」 that she held in her hands was its form, for that alone it possessed: it was a sword.

Against the dawn-light she honed her blade, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until even that sound was too much for it. And at last, against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above.

She stood, then, under the starry sky, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky -- leaving nothing at all but a pale gray void, absent even of darkness, where her sword had cut. And to this day, the astronomers of that place are puzzled, by the strange scar in the sky where no stars can enter - for this world has not yet found the Truth.

She stepped out, then, two steps out from the world and one back in, standing impossibly at the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven. And here, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future single-handedly given a decade in which to work. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down at her desk, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. Biology and physics and the mathematics of computation became clear as the clearest of waters, but it became immediately clear that what she sought would not be found there - not for those who had already gone. And yet, beneath the world, beneath the veil of illusion, she glimpsed something else, something deeper than reality and more fundamental than existence, a fragment of the Truth --

-- the girl had no need of books of names. Something like a dictionary of Enochian was worthless to her, and grimoires and scrolls and sutras and texts entirely superfluous. From her mind came the rules of magic from base principles, and that very night she cut open her bedroom rug and scrawled a circle upon the floor.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavenly Dao."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer, with nothing at all between it and and the earth; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, simple absence hammered until it became something almost solid in her hands.

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for so fragile was it that it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could be said - could ever be said - of the 「」 that she held in her hands was its form, for that alone it possessed: it was a sword.

Against the dawn-light she honed her blade, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until even that sound was too much for it. And at last, against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above.

She stood, then, under the starry sky, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky -- leaving nothing at all but a pale gray void, absent even of darkness, where her sword had cut. And to this day, the astronomers of that place are puzzled, by the strange scar in the sky where no stars may shine - for this world has not yet found the Truth.

She stepped out, then, two steps out from the world and one back in, standing impossibly at the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven. And here, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future single-handedly given a decade in which to work. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down at her desk, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. Biology and physics and the mathematics of computation became clear as the clearest of waters, but it became immediately clear that what she sought would not be found there - not for those who had already gone. And yet, beneath the world, beneath the veil of illusion, she glimpsed something else, something deeper than reality and more fundamental than existence, a fragment of the Truth --

-- the girl had no need of books of names. Something like a dictionary of Enochian was worthless to her, and grimoires and scrolls and sutras and texts entirely superfluous. From her mind came the rules of magic from base principles, and that very night she cut open her bedroom rug and scrawled a circle upon the floor.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavens."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer, with nothing at all between it and and the earth; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, simple absence hammered until it became something almost solid in her hands.

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for so fragile was it that it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could be said - could ever be said - of the 「」 that she held in her hands was its form, for that alone it possessed: it was a sword.

Against the dawn-light she honed her blade, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until even that sound was too much for it. And at last, against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above.

She stood, then, under the starry sky, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky -- leaving nothing at all but a pale gray void, absent even of darkness, where her sword had cut. And to this day, the astronomers of that place are puzzled, by the strange scar in the sky where no stars may shine - for this world has not yet found the Truth.

She stepped out, then, two steps out from the world and one back in, standing impossibly at the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven. And here, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future single-handedly given a decade in which to work. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down at her desk, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. Biology and physics and the mathematics of computation became clear as the clearest of waters, but it became immediately clear that what she sought would not be found there - not for those who had already gone. And yet, beneath the world, beneath the veil of illusion, she glimpsed something else, something deeper than reality and more fundamental than existence, a fragment of the Truth --

-- the girl had no need of books of names. Something like a dictionary of Enochian was worthless to her, and grimoires and scrolls and sutras and texts entirely superfluous. From her mind came the rules of magic from base principles, and that very night she cut open her bedroom rug and scrawled a circle upon the floor.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavens."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer, with nothing at all between it and and the earth; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, simple absence hammered until it became something almost solid in her hands.

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for so fragile was it that it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could be said - could ever be said - of the 「」 that she held in her hands was its form, for that alone it possessed: it was a sword.

Against the dawn-light she honed her blade, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until even that sound was too much for it. And at last, against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above.

She stood, then, under the starry sky, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky -- leaving nothing at all but a pale gray void, absent even of darkness, where her sword had cut. And to this day, the astronomers of that place are puzzled, by the strange scar in the sky where no stars may shine.

The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down stars like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and nothing touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear as crystal water - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed no textbooks, no scrolls, no sutras, no grimoires. Biology, alchemy, and physics, the mathematics of thought and the divine kabbalah, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavens."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for so fragile was it that it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And at last, against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found its edge the subtler.

She stood, then, under the starry sky, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray star where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear as crystal water - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed no textbooks, no scrolls, no sutras, no grimoires. Biology, alchemy, and physics, the mathematics of thought and the divine kabbalah, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavens."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for so fragile was it that it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And at last, against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found its edge the subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray star where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear as crystal water - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed no textbooks, no scrolls, no sutras, no grimoires. Biology, alchemy, and physics, the mathematics of thought and the divine kabbalah, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavens."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And at last, against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found its edge the subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray star where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear as crystal water - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed no textbooks, no scrolls, no sutras, no grimoires. Biology, alchemy, and physics, the mathematics of thought and the divine kabbalah, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavens."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found its edge the subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray star where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear as crystal water - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed no textbooks, no scrolls, no sutras, no grimoires. Biology, alchemy, and physics, the mathematics of thought and the divine kabbalah, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavens."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray star where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. And because she was kind, and adventurous, she grew into someone who sought out stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She grew older, and she met a boy: kind and bright like her, and he too loved to tell stories like she did - indeed, they met by chance, when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happened they stuck together, these two story-finders, and they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, she was brilliant - a genius beyond geniuses, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all answers clear as crystal water - and so for her first fourteen years she was rather unmotivated, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

Or so she thought.

For one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Merely a stray bullet in a war zone, an unfortunate accident, and her dear parents were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, unmoving, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius like a calamity, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed no textbooks, no scrolls, no sutras, no grimoires. Biology, alchemy, and physics, the mathematics of thought and the divine kabbalah, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "It cannot be done under Heaven. To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself."

She called up angels, and demons, and spirits and stars, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing may defy the Heavens."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. -- But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew what everyone else had done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never been seen before.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might Heaven be defied?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. -- But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew what everyone else had done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never been seen before.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the Heavens?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought this sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. -- But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew what everyone else had done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never been seen before.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the Heavens?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it eight million times, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. -- But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew what everyone else had done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never been seen before.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news or even in history books and halls of fame but the kind that only ever appears in stories like these, a genius that could pull the whole world into a science-fiction future. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the Heavens?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. -- But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew what everyone else had done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never been seen before.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction -- for she was almost beyond the reach of Fantasy, a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the Heavens?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew what everyone else had done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never been seen before.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction -- for she was almost beyond the reach of Fantasy, a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the Heavens?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said: 

"Last chance."

The stars shone coldly on, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew what everyone else had done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never been seen before.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction -- for she was almost beyond the reach of Fantasy, a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the Heavens?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius who had become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter. And there, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended -- and with it the girl's power, for she had wrought that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might yet be done again.

One day that girl might again hold a sword whose edge was sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew what everyone else had done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never been seen before.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction -- for she was almost beyond the reach of Fantasy, a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the Heavens?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter.

There, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended, scattering across the many worlds -- and the girl's shadow splintered and followed, into a thousand thousand thousand shades. And with them went much of the girl's power, for she had forged that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she laughed, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might naturally be done again.

One day that girl may again hold a sword sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was kind, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. For those stories she plumbed the heights of the heavens and the depths of the earth, in search of more stories to tell. But one day she found that everyone she knew knew all her stories, for she had told them so many times; and so because she was kind, and bright, and adventurous, she set out to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

Once upon a time, there was a boy: kind, and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. For those stories he searched the depths of the clouds and the seas, in search of stories that had never been heard. But soon he found that all the stories around him had been told, that everyone knew all that had been done, and so he set out to find more, the stories of the unknown, stories that had never before been seen.

They met by chance, the two story-finders. when they sought to tell the same story of the same person, out on the edges of the world. They met, and as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction -- for she was almost beyond the reach of Fantasy, a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant; no point in reading, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news she simply stood still, impossibly still, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, Death was her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, this genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called up angels first, and then demons, and faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but one purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont, and said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she called up angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the Heavens?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

And she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she had ... could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. Only form it had, and that barely: it was a sword.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, for her songs were as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more subtler.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius become a calamity, with Nothing in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust touched her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter.

There, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended, scattering across the many worlds -- and the girl's shadow splintered and followed, into a thousand thousand thousand shades. And with them went much of the girl's power, for she had forged that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she laughed, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might naturally be done again.

One day that girl may again hold a sword sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was stubborn, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. For those stories she plumbed the heights of the heavens and the depths of the earth, in search of more stories to tell. And when at last she had exhausted all of earth and light around her, she set out to search the world of man to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She met a boy, kind and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. For those stories he had searched the depths of the clouds and of the oceans, in search of stories that had never been heard; and when he had exhausted even the seas of air and water set out to search the world of man; stories of the unknown, stories that might otherwise have gone all unwitnessed in the edges of the world.

They met, it seemed, by chance, seeking stories where few had gone before. They shared their stories with each other, shared a campfire, and when morning came as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all possible description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction, that girl beyond the reach of Fantasy; a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Her gaze was the sharpest sword that could ever be described, and before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant without reference; no point in stories, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news a terrible stillness crept over her, and she stood: quiet, silent, motionless, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, she took Death as her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, that genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods alike in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called down angels first, and then called up demons, bound faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but a single purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed cruelly, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont; but said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she bound angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the eyes of Heaven?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

So she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she bore in her hand was 'something' that could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear the touch of a description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could ever be said of it was this: it bore an edge, it was a blade.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice clear as her eyes that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, her songs as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more abstruse; and then at last she quenched it in the freezing moonlight.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius become a calamity, with Nothing at all in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust could touch her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter.

There, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended, scattering across the many worlds -- and the girl's shadow splintered and followed, into a thousand thousand thousand shades. And with them went much of the girl's power, for she had forged that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she laughed, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might naturally be done again.

One day that girl may again hold a sword sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was stubborn, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. For those stories she plumbed the heights of the heavens and the depths of the earth, in search of more stories to tell. And when at last she had exhausted all of earth and light around her, she set out to search the world of man to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She met a boy, kind and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. For those stories he had searched the depths of the clouds and of the oceans, in search of stories that had never been heard; and when he had exhausted even the seas of air and water set out to search the world of man; stories of the unknown, stories that might otherwise have gone all unwitnessed in the edges of the world.

They met, it seemed, by chance, seeking stories where few had gone before. They shared their stories with each other, shared a campfire, and when morning came as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all possible description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction, that girl beyond the reach of Fantasy; a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Her gaze was the sharpest sword that could ever be described, and before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself bored, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant without reference; no point in stories, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news a terrible stillness crept over her, and she stood: quiet, silent, motionless, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, she took Death as her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, that genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods alike in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called down angels first, and then called up demons, bound faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but a single purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed cruelly, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont; but said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she bound angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the eyes of Heaven?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

So she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she bore in her hand was 'something' that could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear the touch of a description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could ever be said of it was this: it bore an edge, it was a blade.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice clear as her eyes that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, her songs as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more abstruse; and then at last she quenched it in the freezing moonlight.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius become a calamity, with Nothing at all in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust could touch her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter.

There, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended, scattering across the many worlds -- and the girl's shadow splintered and followed, into a thousand thousand thousand shades. And with them went much of the girl's power, for she had forged that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she laughed, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might naturally be done again.

One day that girl shall again hold a sword sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was stubborn, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. For those stories she plumbed the heights of the heavens and the depths of the earth, in search of more stories to tell. And when at last she had exhausted all of earth and light around her, she set out to search the world of man to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She met a boy, kind and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. For those stories he had searched the depths of the clouds and of the oceans, in search of stories that had never been heard; and when he had exhausted even the seas of air and water set out to search the world of man; stories of the unknown, stories that might otherwise have gone all unwitnessed in the edges of the world.

They met, it seemed, by chance, seeking stories where few had gone before. They shared their stories with each other, shared a campfire, and when morning came as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all possible description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction, that girl beyond the reach of Fantasy; a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Her gaze was the sharpest sword that could ever be described, and before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself without purpose, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant without reference; no point in stories, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news a terrible stillness crept over her, and she stood: quiet, silent, motionless, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, she took Death as her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, that genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods alike in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called down angels first, and then called up demons, bound faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but a single purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed cruelly, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont; but said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she bound angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the eyes of Heaven?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

So she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she bore in her hand was 'something' that could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear the touch of a description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could ever be said of it was this: it bore an edge, it was a blade.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice clear as her eyes that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, her songs as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more abstruse; and then at last she quenched it in the freezing moonlight.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius become a calamity, with Nothing at all in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust could touch her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter.

There, the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended, scattering across the many worlds -- and the girl's shadow splintered and followed, into a thousand thousand thousand shades. And with them went much of the girl's power, for she had forged that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she laughed, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might naturally be done again.

One day that girl shall again hold a sword sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was stubborn, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. For those stories she plumbed the heights of the heavens and the depths of the earth, in search of more stories to tell. And when at last she had exhausted all of earth and light around her, she set out to search the world of man to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She met a boy, kind and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. For those stories he had searched the depths of the clouds and of the oceans, in search of stories that had never been heard; and when he had exhausted even the seas of air and water set out to search the world of man; stories of the unknown, stories that might otherwise have gone all unwitnessed in the edges of the world.

They met, it seemed, by chance, seeking stories where few had gone before. They shared their stories with each other, shared a campfire, and when morning came as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all possible description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction, that girl beyond the reach of Fantasy; a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Her gaze was the sharpest sword that could ever be described, and before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself without purpose, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant without reference; no point in stories, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news a terrible stillness crept over her, and she stood: quiet, silent, motionless, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, she took Death as her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, that genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods alike in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called down angels first, and then called up demons, bound faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but a single purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed cruelly, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont; but said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she bound angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the eyes of Heaven?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

So she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she bore in her hand was 'something' that could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear the touch of a description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could ever be said of it was this: it bore an edge, it was a blade.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice clear as her eyes that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, her songs as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more abstruse; and then at last she quenched it in the freezing moonlight.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius become a calamity, with Nothing at all in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust could touch her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter.

There, in the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, each edged with golden light leaking through where the nothing ended, scattering across the many worlds -- and the girl's shadow splintered and followed, into a thousand thousand thousand shades. And with them went much of the girl's power, for she had forged that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she laughed, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might naturally be done again.

One day that girl shall again hold a sword sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.

She was stubborn, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. For those stories she plumbed the heights of the heavens and the depths of the earth, in search of more stories to tell. And when at last she had exhausted all of earth and light around her, she set out to search the world of man to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She met a boy, kind and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. For those stories he had searched the depths of the clouds and of the oceans, in search of stories that had never been heard; and when he had exhausted even the seas of air and water set out to search the world of man; stories of the unknown, stories that might otherwise have gone all unwitnessed in the edges of the world.

They met, it seemed, by chance, seeking stories where few had gone before. They shared their stories with each other, shared a campfire, and when morning came as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all possible description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction, that girl beyond the reach of Fantasy; a girl that could only ever appear in old sutras or metaphor-drenched fairy tales like these. Her gaze was the sharpest sword that could ever be described, and before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself without purpose, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant without reference; no point in stories, when she could know the entire plot and every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that.....

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news a terrible stillness crept over her, and she stood: quiet, silent, motionless, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, she took Death as her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, that genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all melted and gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods alike in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called down angels first, and then called up demons, bound faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but a single purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed cruelly, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont; but said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she bound angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the eyes of Heaven?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

So she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, then, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down her hammer upon her anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she bore in her hand was 'something' that could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear the touch of a description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could ever be said of it was this: it bore an edge, it was a blade.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice clear as her eyes that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, her songs as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more abstruse; and then at last she quenched it in the freezing moonlight.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius become a calamity, with Nothing at all in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust could touch her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter.

There, in the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into a blade of shards, scattering across the many worlds -- and the girl's shadow splintered and followed, into a thousand thousand thousand shades. And with them went much of the girl's power, for she had forged that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she laughed, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might naturally be done again.

One day that girl shall again hold a sword sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.

Once upon a time, long ago and far away, there was a girl.

She was stubborn, and bright, and adventurous, and she loved to tell stories. Especially, she loved to tell stories that no-one had ever heard before - her own or others', she didn't care which. For those stories she plumbed the heights of the heavens and the depths of the earth, in search of more stories to tell. And when at last she had exhausted all of earth and light around her, she set out to search the world of man to find more stories to tell; stories of those without voices, stories of those in the edges of the world, stories of those who might otherwise have been entirely forgotten.

But this is not her story.

She met a boy, kind and bright, and who loved to tell stories. Especially, he loved to tell stories that none had ever told before. Those that he created, those that he found - so long as none had spoken them in the history of the world. For those stories he had searched the depths of the clouds and of the oceans, in search of stories that had never been heard; and when he had exhausted even the seas of air and water set out to search the world of man; stories of the unknown, stories that might otherwise have gone all unwitnessed in the edges of the world.

They met, it seemed, by chance, seeking stories where few had gone before. They shared their stories with each other, shared a campfire, and when morning came as sometimes happens they stuck together; they found and founded a home to come back to when their storytelling was done.

-- But this is not their story, either.

This is the story of their daughter. For if her parents were bright, then no words could describe her but brilliant - a genius like a calamity, beyond all possible description, not the real sort that one sees on the news, nor even in history books and halls of fame, nor even in fiction, that girl beyond the reach of Fantasy; a girl that could only ever appear drenched in metaphor, in old sutras or a fairy tales like this one. Her gaze was the sharpest sword that could ever be described, and before her eyes all things were as crystal glass, all riddles transparent and all mysteries useless - and so for her first fourteen years she found herself without purpose, for nothing in the world was worthy of her full attention.

There was no point in games, when she could see thirty-two steps in advance and win before the very first move; no point in studies, when she could derive what she needed as she needed in an instant without reference; no point in stories, when she could know the entire plot to every twist and turn from the very first page.

She could have spent her whole life like that, listless and unmotivated, except that...

... one day, she came home, and her parents did not. -- There was nothing nefarious about it. No sinister plot, no evil deed, not even a true criminal. Her parents were gathering stories in a place where two nations were at war, and a stray bullet happened to claim them both.

It is said - for naturally no-one was there at the time but herself - that when she heard the news a terrible stillness crept over her, and she stood: quiet, silent, motionless, for a long, long minute.

And then she nodded, and smiled, and she said, "Very well." And from then on, she took Death as her enemy.

She sat down upon her porch-step, that genius beyond geniuses, and before her eyes the world gave up its secrets. -- She needed neither textbooks nor tutors, neither sages nor sutras. Biology, alchemy, chemistry and astrology, physics and the art of divine creation, all gave up their secrets before her gaze. In a single night she tore asunder all the works of man and gods alike in her mind, and when her world proved unable to grant her the answers she sought she cut a circle into her floor and turned to others.

She called down angels first, and then called up demons, bound faerie and youkai and stranger spirits still, her reach extending farther and farther until she learned to call down the very stars from the sky. And to all she called she asked, for she had but a single purpose: "How might Death be defied?"

And they shook their heads sadly, or laughed cruelly, or shone coldly on as was their respective wont; but said to a one: "To defy Death is to defy Heaven itself. It cannot be done under Heaven."

So she bound angels, and demons, and spirits and youkai and the very stars from the sky, and she asked: "How might I escape the eyes of Heaven?"

And then they all laughed at that, some more kindly than others, and replied to a one: "Nothing can do that."

So she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

Between her mind and the world she built, with all her new-found craft and gathered power, a forge out of dreams. She lit a furnace out of undying love, built an ice-pump out of cold reason; she called down a thunderbolt for her hammer and for an anvil, why, she used the very earth. For eight days and eight nights she swung down hammer upon anvil, and what was between them was precisely nothing at all; she smote the void again and again, folding it against itself, until at last....

Until at last, what she bore in her hand was 'something' that could not be described, for it was too ephemeral to bear the touch of a description. It could not be named, for it was so fragile it would collapse under the weight of a name. All that could ever be said of it was this: it bore an edge, it was a blade.

She walked outdoors, and honed her blade against the dawn light, until the soft light of the morning sun became too coarse for it. Then against her voice clear as her eyes that rang over eight mountains and eight rivers, her songs as beautiful and clear as the frozen dew upon the pines; until that sound was still the murkier. And, as dusk fell, at last against the starlight, falling softly from the skies above, until that starlight found itself no more abstruse; and then at last she quenched it in the freezing moonlight.

Until on the midnight of the ninth day, she stood under the starry sky, that genius become a calamity, with Nothing at all in her hands. She looked up to the heavens, and she said in patient rebuke: 

"Last chance. You may yet be forgiven."

But the stars shone coldly down, unanswering.

And so she nodded, and she smiled, and she said, "Very well."

With a single swift motion she swung up her sword, up and across and down, and with that motion she cut stars from the sky. The Heavens roared, in pain and rage, and threw down starlight like spears - but she simply stepped aside, out from the world, and not a grain of dust could touch her. And when she stepped back in, she stood impossibly upon the horizon - and just above her, the scar cut into the dome of Heaven, a dim gray scar where not even darkness could enter.

There, in the only place in all the world that was not under Heaven, she pierced through the sky and the world and Death itself; she tore open a jagged door like a lightning bolt, and pulled her parents back.

-- But in so doing... Her sword was too delicate to bear description, too absent to bear a name, but it was not entirely without substance, for it bore a form: it was a sword. And so the sword of absence broke in the doing, shattering into shards, scattering across the many worlds -- and the girl's shadow splintered and followed, into a thousand thousand thousand shades. And with them went much of the girl's power, for she had forged that sword with all her might and will.

But she nodded, and she laughed, and she said, "Very well." For after all - she had what she came for. 

And besides. What could be done once, might naturally be done again.

One day that girl shall again hold a sword sharp enough to cut the stars from the sky.