WAY OF THE EMPTY HAND
EPISODE #000060
Editor’s Note: It’s not often that we’re compelled to share content drawn directly from our dreamworld. However we were specifically asked to share this week’s episode by the dreamer who shared it with us, enjoy! Alkacelsior! ~ D’WIZARD!
THE WAY OF THE EMPTY HAND IS AS FOLLOWS…
“Once I asked, Master, just what is the sound of one hand clapping? I had been machinating this ancient Zen Kaon for many, many moons and was filled with enthusiasm. So sure was I that I knew something that I started blurting out my guesses without thinking! Is it the sound waves make when they slap the shore? My practice strikes against the wooden wing chun dummy? Thunder? Lighting? An original thought in a democracy? The unsung hero that arrives in a time of need? All those things and more!?… Yet… Master chose to remain silent…” ~ 1HC
To anyone out there who feels pursued, persecuted, or simply worn down by the weight of our post-after-post-modern world—this dream journey is for you.
It was a night of ceaseless adventure, a dreamscape of heroic side quests that would have made any mythic champion proud. I rescued a beautiful maiden from the clutches of a dragon, freed prisoners unjustly caged by a robber baron, and all the while, I was relentlessly pursued by a villainess straight out of a classic Hollywood fantasy—one of those unnervingly perfect Disney sorceresses, both mesmerizing and malevolent.
I was wrapping up my latest task, still within the ruins of a once-great fortress where the prisoners had been held, when I heard her voice—a rich, taunting purr curling from behind a shattered stone wall.
“Your hammer will be mine, Blacksmith…”
The words dropped with the kind of theatrical menace only a true arch-nemesis could deliver.
I looked down at my hands. In one, a coarse handful of sea salt. In the other, the blacksmith’s hammer she sought with such grand enthusiasm.
And I had had enough.
A shiver ran through me, but not of fear—of power. The weariness of this relentless chase burned away, replaced by something fierce, something long-dormant and waiting to rise.
Fine, I thought. If she wanted the hammer so badly, I’d give it to her.
The ruined stone wall barely registered as an obstacle; it crumbled as I strode forward, stepping into the open expanse of what could only be described as a final boss arena—a massive, half-collapsed colosseum shimmering with the weight of untold battles.
With each step, something changed. A forgotten power awakened, unfolding around me like a lover’s embrace. My form was no longer just my own—blonde locks I did not remember having whipped in the wind as armor, gauntlets, and a girdle of strengthening coiled around my muscular frame, settling into place with a whisper of familiarity.
I had become something more. Something I was always meant to be.
Across the battlefield, my pursuer waited, dressed exactly as one would expect for a villainess of her caliber—elegant, deadly, and entirely too pleased with herself.
I made sure she knew who she was dealing with.
“You can pry MY FATHER’S HAMMER out of MY… Cold. Dead. Hand.”
The words rang across the colosseum, absolute and undeniable.
The air crackled. The moment had the weight of an old arcade fighting game, a Karate Champ-inspired arcade duel on the precipice of fate.
But I wasn’t waiting for the announcer’s classic “FIGHT!”
I raised the hammer high above my head, calling forth a power that had always been mine to command:
“LIGHTNING STRIKE CRASH!”
The sky itself answered.
A white-hot bolt of pure energy split the heavens, slamming down with a vengeance divine. It struck her without mercy, surging through her in electric arcs and radiant destruction.
To her credit, she was no glass cannon—she endured, convulsing in place, her form writhing in resistance as she soaked the unrelenting surge of my storm.
I watched and waited…
The ancient ones say electrocution isn’t pretty, but in that moment, I found the sight oddly poetic—her body jerking like a marionette caught in an elaborate, high-voltage dance.
OK, I admit it.
I may have smiled, just a little.
The battle dragged on. She burned through every buff, every protection, every ounce of HP she had to her name. Which I never did catch.
And then, her form ignited.
Fire consumed her, the crackling embers of her existence snuffed out into drifting ash on the winds of the dream…
And then… Gone.
A disembodied voice, clear and final, declared:
“FLAWLESS VICTORY”
A roar of cheering rose in response, waves of exultation crashing over me in triumph.
The sheer joy of it carried me awake—laughing, still laughing—into a dream within a dream.
I lay beside my partner, giggling so genuinely that for a moment, I was certain I’d wake her in the real world.
And yet, no part of this journey left me drained.
I awoke not empty, but full—charged, empowered.
More alive than I had felt in years.
This dream is a reminder.
A reminder that sometimes, standing up for yourself means stepping beyond the lines drawn for you, getting out of your box and standing up for yourself no matter how awkward that may be.
Remember, strength is not always something we seek—sometimes it is something waiting inside us, ready to be claimed, even when we are weak.
The ancient geeks called it the Way of the Empty Hand:
空手道
But today, I call it something else.
I call it The Sound of One Hand Clapping.
And if you listen closely, you might just hear it… feel it… and be it too.
NEVER THE END…
NOTE: Feel free to utilize this dream journey however you wish.