Wakizashi

From the beginning, Shane Stipes should have known he was in deep trouble. His sharp, nagging instincts indicated that something was eerie and ominous about the Kumite tournament, something subversive that he could not put a finger on, per se. The alluring glory of winning the Kumite overrode his common sense, however, seducing him like a malicious demon in the guise of an enticing lover.

The signs were there.

For one, the crowd that had gathered to witness this year's Kumite seemed peculiar. Shane had no idea what irked him about the otherwise ordinary Japanese gamblers, chroniclers and underworld crime lords. The spectators were predominantly male, but the large number of females were represented in the form of expensive escorts or curious reporters. It would seem there was nothing at all odd about this gathering at face value, but to Shane, there was something undeniably quirky about them. Perhaps it was their pale skins that triggered the alarms in his head. Then again, the lighting in the arena was sparsely dim, so he did not have an accurate portrait of the audience.

His ascension to the final round was easy; maybe too easy. The Kumite was extremely difficult, even for the most accomplished martial artists. Fighters from all around the world were invited to participate,and they all possessed their own unique fighting styles. Some were based from traditional principles like Karate, Jiu Jitsu, Aikkido and Hap Ki Do. Others employed unorthodox forms and moves that signaled individual variations of fighting skills, making them all the more dangerous.

However, the skill level of Shane's opponents were inferior to his, giving him the impression that they were taking deliberate falls. In particular, Shane had easily defeated Thailand's Mu Tai champion, Sun Ka, whose vicious reputation was established early in the opening round of the Kumite against a smaller Swahili fighter. Sun Ka, with his fists upraised in attack stance, promptly picked apart the outclassed Swahili with two fist strikes to the face and three knee raises to the ribs. When Shane had faced Sun Ka, however, he had blocked Ka's initial leg thrust and delivered a solid knockout punch to the towering Thai's chin, setting a new Kumite fight record at four seconds. Something seemed inexplicably wrong about his win,in light of the brutal finesse that Ka demonstrated in the opening round. Then again, Shane was constantly down on his abilities, always feeling the need to perfect the demanding techniques of his Crane styled kung fu. He was a gifted black belt in the eyes of his peers and master back in the States. Therefore, his victories in the Kumite might not have been flukes after all. In fact, it was quite probable that he was winning of his own accord. Still, something unarguably did not feel right.

He lumbered tiredly through the final round, as he was at last pitted against an adversary of equal and viable skill. As the smoky, dank, subterranean Kumite arena began to blur in Shane's watery eyes, his neck nearly snapped at a fatal angle from a smashing sidekick by his snarling, agile opponent, Kim Si Lan. He panicked as his world spiraled into a twirling, dizzy spectrum that was manipulated by his incredibly relentless adversary. To his dismay, Shane tasted the coppery flavor of his own blood. His breathing taxed him, whittling down his capacity for productive, fluid counterattacks. Perspiration gushed out of his leaking pores as he gasped for oxygen. As his bruised ribs throbbed gratingly, he wondered if he was bleeding internally.

The hollow echoes of the spectators' raucous shouts and cheers stabbed his eardrums, only adding to the building delirium that threatened to cloud his waning judgment in this grueling championship match.

When Shane could focus, he barely saw his name written in both English lettering and Japanese kanji up on a mounted placard that was faced off next to one announcing his Chinese enemy. Kim Si Lan, the former Kumite champion, suddenly materialized in his peripheral view, reaching in to clip Shane with a kung fu snake thrust that Shane barely recognized as similar to his own discipline. Out of pure instinct, Shane fell backwards to avoid Lan's strike. Shane fell so deep he smacked the canvas, but that was part of his master plan. If he moved fast enough, he could finish Lan off. Winding his legs in a blurry, fan-like motion, Shane swept Lan's ankles from under him, upending the svelte Chinese champion. This would be Shane's only chance to win the Kumite.

As the Kumite's long-standing rules mandated a no-holds-barred policy, and fatalities were accepted norms of tournament combat, Shane had no time to consider what was morally right or wrong. He knew that Lan would recover from the trip-up in no time, and being sprawled in his own flat, vulnerable position, Shane knew he would be a sitting - or rather,lying - duck. With a sobering, self-preserving grimace crystallizing on his face, he jerked his elbow back and sized Lan up through his hazy vision.

The match had lasted about 15 minutes, each hungry warrior trading blows in an epic struggle that was only encouraged by the bloodthirsty shouts from the entertained onlookers. The vying return champion looked fatigued,which shifted the advantage to the challenger. The look on Lan's sweat-drenched face betrayed embarrassment from being taken down with such a basic maneuver as Shane's leg sweep. Lan's facade sank into despairing horror as Shane rode a wave of testosterone-laced adrenaline, and drove his upraised palm viciously into Lan's nose, shattering the bridge with a nauseating crunch. Blood sprayed all over Shane's trembling hand. The broken shards had apparently jettisoned into Lan's brain, as his slanted eyes rolled upwards. His body sagged onto the combat platform and he flopped spasmodically like a dying fish as his crushed nose swelled to a ghastly purple, and Lan ultimately ceased to breathe.

Shane struggled to stand up, his knees wobbling from the aftereffects of the coursing adrenaline that guided his unintentional deathstroke. His shocked eyes fixated on Lan's corpse, as the terrifying realization of his actions shook him accusingly. The cheers of the crowd suddenly dwindled to silence as a medic quickly dashed to the combat platform, put his fingers against the taut cords of Kim Si Lan's outstretched neck, and shook his head negatively, pronouncing the former Kumite champion dead.

The elders watching from the balcony above the platform shot to their feet, and murmured anxiously amongst one another in Japanese. The arena had fallen so quiet, the elders' chatter was easily perceptible. Shane panted heavily in bewilderment as the cigarette, cigar and marijuana smoke clouding the arena choked him. He struggled to ignore the agony punishing his banged-up body. He had successfully fought this way through the original group of 30 contestants to accomplish his life's dream - winning the Kumite - but at what cost?

The ceremonial gong clanged three quick-snapped tolls as Kim Si Lan's slain body was carefully hoisted out of the arena by the medic and a few janitors. The council of elders bowed to Shane and then turned their backs to him. They tipped their heads in respect for Kim Si Lan. The crowd followed suit, as did Shane, who sullenly prayed for his fallen opponent's soul. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, taking solace in the fact that at least it was all over, and he was now the champion, only the second American to win the Kumite since the legendary Frank Dux. He had not meant to kill Lan, but death was sometimes inevitable in the Kumite - a sad, but true, fact.

Had Shane kept his eyes open, he would have witnessed a spectral, cloudy film materializing above the heads of the elders, forming a greenish, wispy shape of a snarling dragon's head that tilted its ethereal facade back and silently bellowed its vengeful roar. The elders and spectators raised their hands upwards in deference to the smoking idol.

***

During the closing ceremonies, Shane, now covered with a black robe bearing the insignia of his master's school on the chest, along with gold kanji cresting the folded flaps that read "Honor and Persistence Will Triumph," humbly bowed before the elders. The emptied arena was lit only by smoldering torches mounted on pikes that encircled the combat platform. The surviving combatants edged the boundaries of the slightly raised mat, offering polite applause for the new champion.

"For the glory of the Kumite," the senior elder announced in choppy English, bearing a victory wakizashi that was encased in an exquisitely decorated sheath with an articulate plating of a dragon reaching forward with a taloned claw on it, "and everything we value in the martial arts. We bestow the honor of this wakizashi unto this year's Kumite champion, the American Shane Stipes."

Shane graciously accepted the sword and properly raised it above his head, and bowing before it. He then brought the blade to his chest level and bowed respectfully to the elders. Before turning to face his fellow competitors, he examined the detailed silver plated dragon, running his finger along its edges with satisfaction, and then pinched the smooth, red silk ribbon that entwined the hilt. With a haughty smile, Shane pulled the blade loose a few inches, savoring the hiss it made as it scraped free of its sheath.

The senior elder harrumphed for Shane's attention and gestured for him to face his comrades in combat. As Shane obligingly did so, the warriors' applause abruptly ceased, and they all folded their arms across their chests. Finally, they widened their stances, forming what appeared to be a blockade around the platform. The unified shifts in postures had been meticulous, and Shane decided quickly that the maneuver had been pre-planned. His guts soured as he realized that this whole tournament was some sort of a set up. But for what? He steeled himself for whatever was coming, his eyes darting suspiciously, waiting for any slight movement that would trigger his defenses.

"Shane Snipes!" boomed a voice belonging to another of the three elders. "You are now one of us."

Shane's internal brace crumbled impotently and he confusedly whirled around to acknowledge the strange words of the elder.

"As this year's Kumite champion, you are now obligated to join our realm of Dragon Samurai. It has been preordained for ten years that you will fulfill your destiny as a member of our clan."

"What the hell is this?" Shane demanded, fear frigidly pricking his spine. The preliminary warnings buzzing in his head earlier were now justified. For a split second, Shane reflected on the ease of his fights through the final match. There had been no illusion; the elders had allowed him to win the Kumite for whatever perverse motive guided their reasoning. But what of Kim Si Lan? Was he an unfortunate victim in this scheme?

Shane had little time to ponder these thoughts, as he was suddenly aware that the pupils of all three elders' narrow eyes were glowing a yellowish green. Together, they raised their right hands up in a priestly fashion and began muttering gibberish in Japanese, as if preparing to cast some sort of evil spell at Shane. What was even more horrifying was the green light escaping their mouths as they chanted, looking queerly like humanoid jack o'lanterns. As if to accent the fact, smoke belched forth from their mouths amidst the greenish illumination, swirling playfully in the rays.

"To become one of us," began the senior elder, "you must honor the ways of bushido and commit seppuku. Only then will you truly be a Dragon Samurai."

"Holy..." Shane whispered in muted terror with the realization that the elders were asking him to take his own life with the wakizashi. His anger was a distant emotion smothered by the ranks of fear, and he turned to spring away from this madness.

Shane unleashed a yelp as he discovered that all of the warriors' eyes were glowing in the same manner as the elders'. Additionally,they now locked hands, enclosing Shane with no hope for escape.

Well, maybe there was hope. He yanked the wakizashi free with a metallic shriek. His ticket to freedom would be to carve his way past the warrior-things that were blocking him.

As if sensing his intentions, the elders increased the ferocity of their mantra, and the fingers of their outstretched hands elongated sickeningly like branching tree twigs, wrapping around Shane's ankles to prevent him from going further.

"In the days of the samurai," one of the elders spoke, while his cohorts continued their spell casting, "seppuku was mandated by The Code for those samurai without honor. However, our immortal sect was formed by our ancestors by committing seppuku with the very wakizashi you hold in your hands. Its mystical power is granted through the magic of the ancient dragon named Ishatzu, and grants immortality to those who prove themselves in combat. Your destiny has long been coming, Shane Stipes. Use the wakizashi and take your place amongst us."

"Are you out of your frigging minds?" Shane thundered, outrage overpowering his fright. He struggled to break free of the elders' otherworldly grasp to no avail. All of a sudden, the wakizashi was no longer a grandiose champion's trophy; it was a dangerously repugnant weapon that he needed to be rid of immediately. Shane pulled his arm back and tried to throw it away.

One step ahead of him, the elders spewed out a new chant, and the hilt remained glued to Shane's hand. The circle of possessed warriors began to pick up a chant of their own as their eyes blazed neon. "Seppuku...seppuku..."

Shane felt a mysterious phantom force tug at his arms and wrists, guiding the tip of the wakizashi towards his stomach.

"NO!" Shane screamed as he desperately fought to resist the magic compelling his movements. His sore and worn muscles yielded to the strength of the force that nudged the blade into him. The elders continued to rant and lock Shane firmly in place with their hideous digits, while the warriors repeated their calls for Shane's suicide.

As the mystically driven wakizashi engorged itself and shredded Shane's insides, he gurgled blood in exclamation as he pinpointed Kim Si Lan among the ranks of the undead Dragon Samurai.

"Welcome to the brotherhood," Lan said, smiling.

x x x

About the author, Ray Van Horn Jr.:

My name is Ray Van Horn, Jr. and my ambition to write seriously dates back to 1985. After many years of hard effort (which included a stint as Assistant Editor and columnist for my college newspaper from 1988 to 1990), 1999 has been a highly successful year for me. My work appears in Mocha Memoirs, Cyber Age Adventures, It's All Happening at the Zoo, Dark Lords of the Sith and Maul's Corner. I will also be featured in upcoming issues of Antipodean SF and Blast! the Irreverent Webzine. Additionally, I am a hockey analyst for Hockey Nut and Hockey Voice. I also write regular sports and entertainment articles for an online kids' magazine, Kid Shtick. I have completed a full-length thriller novel entitled "Progeny," and am in the process of procuring agency representation. It is an honor to be included in Anotherealm.