Blade of the Immortal: Volume 2: Cry of the Worm

by Hiroaki Samura, 165 pages

Rin and Manji roam the country searching for her parents' killers, Anotsu Kagehisa and his Ittô-Ryû, a revolution-minded school of swordsmanship bent on eliminating all others while incorporating the most powerful elements of their styles. When the pair comes across a young monk who not only is an Ittô-Ryû member but also offers Manji the chance to join him in overthrowing them, the immortal samurai wants no part. He's after Anotsu for Rin's sake and his own mission, not for the meaningless, dangerous, absolute power that taking over the school would give him. But when he trades what should have been fatal blows with the determined monk, he realizes he's not the only one out there with time on his side...although he may not have it for long.

Manji's immortality stems from the thousands of kessen-chu, or bloodworms, that reside in his body and immediately go to work repairing the damage whenever he's injured. As much as he'd like to get rid of them and die like everybody else, he's not ready to throw in the towel just yet. So, naturally, he's none too pleased, and in a world of pain, to find they've suddenly gone on vacation and left to reopen every wound he's incurred since their introduction to his system. Being something of a fatalist, however, he's prepared to go if go he must. But more than for himself, he fears for Rin and what will happen to her if he's gone.

This volume's rumination on the flipside of immortality ventures beyond the usual topics of loneliness and boredom one might find in the more thoughtful of vampire tales to include the idea of value relative to what one does with all that extra time. No extension of seconds or years or centuries will make you something you are not. If you waste them dreaming and not doing, then you are nothing more than you ever were, whatever excuses you may make for your lack of progress up to now. What does "life" really mean, then? How do you make it count for something? These are questions Manji, his opponent, and even Rin must all ponder and answer for themselves.

While I occasionally enjoy a cold, detached, unreadable hero, sometimes it's nice not to have to guess what's going on behind a stony expression. As strong and cool as Manji is, Samura never completely closes the door to his emotions. When he's surprised, he looks surprised; when he's inordinately pleased with himself, he looks as smug as all get out; and when he's worried for Rin, his concern is clearly written on his face (although he may hide it with a snide joke or a convenient pocket of shadow). That accessibility makes him less invulnerable than he'd care to appear, but it also makes him deeper, more human, and easier to identify with. Similarly, Rin, an emotional teenager forced to grow up too quickly, is just as open, though with more naïveté than, and with nearly as much bravado as, her cocky, cynical bodyguard. It's no wonder she cries whenever he's hurt, even though she knows he'll heal--pain is pain and no one wants to see someone they care about suffer. With his choice to make his principals so visually emotionally honest, Samura ensures that that "no one" includes the reader.