Kamikaze, page 6
part #1 of Dungeon Samurai Series
“What are we doing here anyway? What have we done to deserve this?”
“You already know the answer,” Sensei said. “Akuma brought us all here. Whether we deserve it or not, we are here now. Don’t waste your time and energy thinking about things you can’t change. Focus on your present circumstances.”
“It’s just…” Yamada sighed. “I’m still trying to get the hang of it.”
“Look on the bright side,” Hiroshi said. “Think of our circumstances as a blessing, not a punishment. If we’d stayed in school, we’d have to write endless theses, deal with the professors, figure out how to pay the bills… Here, we get a chance to make use of what we’ve learned for a righteous cause. Not everyone can say that.”
Hiroshi sounded like he’d already resolved himself to go to war. Yamada wished he had that kind of resilience.
“Un,” Yamada muttered. “But are we learning anything useful here?”
“The non-combatants are learning how to defend themselves,” Hiroshi replied.
“Sure, but what about us?” Yamada asked. “We already know how to fight. And if we’re going into the dungeon, why are we wasting time on drills?”
“It is kihon,” Sensei replied. “The instructors are instilling the proper form, spirit and attitude in us. Without these foundational skills, advanced training is impossible.”
“I don’t see how learning how to turn properly or eat quickly is part of kihon,” Sato remarked.
“They are training us to obey orders with exacting precision under stress,” Sensei said.
“Must the instructors shout and scream all the time?”
“Don’t mess up and they won’t.”
8
Aggression
With Sensei’s words ringing in his mind, Yamada paid extra attention during training and sought to do everything right the first time.
The instructors only descended on Yamada twice, the first time for turning the wrong way, the second for repeatedly fouling up a simulated throw.
“I thought you were trained in koryu! This should be easy to you!”
“Throw! I said throw! Not this pussyfooting!”
“This is weak! Didn’t you train in some fancy samurai school? Didn’t they teach you how to be aggressive?! BE AGGRESSIVE!”
“Hoo hoo hoo!”
By now, Yamada figured that the nonsense sounds were meant to confuse, provoke and amuse the recruit—and Heaven help the man who reacted. Yamada simply stood and kept a straight face until the instructors left him alone.
Yamada had it lucky. The instructors were especially harsh on Hiroshi. They must have heard of his special skill, and they took extra pains to single him out the moment he made a mistake. Hiroshi took it all in his stride, never once flinching or showing weakness, but simply striving to do better.
They picked on Sato too, but that was expected.
As the days dragged on the training got tougher. Physical and combat training extended for hours, while drill time was cut. Route marches became longer, lectures grew shorter. Blisters grew on Yamada’s fingers and feet, broke into rivulets of pus and blood, and hardened into calluses.
Sometimes he saw the girl. Not often. The instructors kept the men, women and seniors segregated for most of the day, reforming them only for meals, lectures, and at the end of training.
Once, standing in the breakfast queue, he scanned his surroundings and saw her just a few feet away.
She looked up and smiled at him.
“RECRUIT! STOP DAYDREAMING! YOU’RE HOLDING UP THE LINE!”
Yamada rushed to receive his meal. That was the last he saw her for the day.
The fourteenth day began like any other day. More training, more conditioning, more foot drill, even more training.
Then came the bouts.
“Show us everything you learned!” Chong boomed. “Aggression, aggression, aggression! You will be graded on how much violence you unleash on your opponent. You will fight for one minute, nonstop.
“Use punches, kicks, throws, everything you learned. If you are knocked down the clock will pause, and resume when you get up. The round does not end until the time runs out. If you tap out, the round does not end. You reset and continue the fight. There are only three rules. No shoes, no permanent damage, no giving up.”
The first matchup was a Chinese man and a Westerner. For the first few seconds, they circled each other warily in the parade square. Then the instructors began screaming.
“What are you waiting for? A VIP invitation?! FIGHT!”
“Are you cowards? Hurry up and fight!”
“Hit him! Kick him! Fight him already!”
The Chinese man threw a beautiful straight palm that snapped the white man’s head back. The white man retaliated with a body blow.
Then it was on. A hurricane flurry of punches and kicks and elbows and parries and counterpunches, so fast and furious Yamada could barely keep up. Meaty thuds filled the air. The instructors continued screaming, howling for blood, and the men joined in.
The women looked sick.
Yamada spotted Chong keeping an eye on a small hourglass, so tiny it would be more properly called a minuteglass. When the sand ran out, Chong bellowed, “TIME!”
The combatants separated. Blood dribbled from the corner of the white man’s mouth. The Chinese man’s nose was battered and broken. Both men sported black eyes.
Despite the violence, or maybe because of it, they shook hands, hugged, and returned to their seats.
The second match was for women. The instructors grabbed two at random, one a little larger than the other, and placed them in the ring.
“Um…” the larger one said. “I don’t want to—”
“FIGHT!”
The smaller one pounced. Shrieking, the larger one covered her head, protecting it from an onslaught of slaps and claws.
“Fight, damn you!” Chong shouted. “You do not have permission to give up!”
The larger woman shoved the smaller woman. She barely noticed it; she just flowed in and swept out her leg, sending her crashing to the ground.
“You do not have permission to die! Get up get up GET UP!”
“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
The taller woman got up. Raised her hands. Hit the smaller one in the face. The shorter woman grunted and kicked her in the belly. All semblance of skill and strategy evaporated; now there was only the wild flailing of hands and feet and heads.
“Time!”
The fighters kept at it, ripping and tearing, grabbing each other by the hair and clawing at faces and throats.
“Break break break!” Chong screamed.
Four burly instructors leapt in and forcibly dragged the women apart. Then, and only then, did the fighting stop.
The fights continued unabated. No one fought outside his age group or the opposite sex. But there were no formal restrictions on height or weight.
“They don’t want to see if we actually learned anything,” Yamada mused. “They just want to see if we can be aggressive.”
“Sure looks like it,” Hiroshi agreed.
Sensei was paired with a tall, strapping white man. The Caucasian stood in a boxing stance, presenting his left side to Sensei. Sensei crouched low.
“This would be interesting to see,” Hiroshi said.
“FIGHT!”
The white man advanced under cover of a flurry of punches. But Sensei was a ghost, slipping and bobbing and weaving, meeting every punch with a vicious forearm smash. The white man kicked, Sensei caught his leg, and tossed him to the ground.
The moment his opponent got up, Sensei was on him again. The Westerner snatched his sleeves, Sensei seized his lapels, and they jostled for position. The men grunted and shifted, throwing their weight left and right, seeking to unbalance the other. Suddenly Sensei stepped out, struck his opponent’s cheek, and threw him again.
The Westerner was stronger and faster, but Sensei had the cunning that came with decades of experience. The white man tried keeping Sensei at bay with sharp, snapping punches and powerful kicks, occasionally landing one or two. Sensei relentlessly closed in, smashing offending limbs with hardened forearms, and caught the boxer with decisive throws and locks and trips.
The white man gave everything he had, yet he was still outclassed. He had little grappling experience, and it showed. Again and again Sensei seized him, and again and again he offered scant resistance before being flung down. But every time he went down, he picked himself back up and launched himself back into the fight.
When Chong finally called time, the boxer returned to his group with his head held high. So did Sensei.
Then it was Yamada’s turn.
And his opponent was a huge black man.
The same black soldier he had seen on the first night.
Yamada gulped. His opponent was a full head taller than him. An ebony giant of thick muscle, iron sinews and hardened bones. As the opponent raised his fists, right side forward, Yamada saw that the first two knuckles of both hands were swollen and callused.
The black man grinned like a shark.
Yamada smiled back and lowered into his stance.
Never show fear to your enemy, Sensei had said in training. And Sensei was watching. He would not let Sensei down.
“FIGHT!”
The black man came in swinging, his punches fast and furious. Yamada shielded his face with his arms, but the fists just kept coming, every shot a wrecking ball to body and brain. Gritting through the pain, Yamada studied his opponent, watching his arms, looking for an opening.
The black man dipped his right shoulder and swung his arm in a tight arc. Yamada hacked out his forearm, going for the soft underarm. Bone crashed into flesh.
Hardened knuckles collided into Yamada’s temple.
Yamada reeled away. The black man was overwhelming him. Not good. He had to make space, get clear, find ma-ai—
He tripped.
Slammed his back into the ground.
“Get up get up get up!”
Reeling, Yamada got up, squatted—
“FIGHT!”
The black man loosed a blizzard of punches. This time, Yamada was ready. He slipped one punch, parried another, and launched a palm strike. But Yamada was too far, too short, and his missed. The boxer punished him with a one-two combo to the face.
Yamada stumbled back. Blood poured out his nose and into his mouth. He spat a scarlet gob on the floor. The boxer bounced on his feet, steadily and steadily closing the distance, an arrogant sneer on his face.
“You’re not done!” Chong shouted. “You don’t get to give up! FIGHT!”
Fight? How? The boxer had him beat. There was no way he could…
Wait. Why was he trading punches with a boxer? That was suicide. That was not the way of Kukishin-ryu.
He had to change the game.
Wobbling, his nose blocked, his head spinning, Yamada forced himself into his guard. The boxer charged in. Yamada stared at his collarbone, watching for moment.
The black man fired a lightning left jab. Yamada ducked. Knuckles scraped the top of his head. The boxer whirled in with a right hook. Screaming, Yamada slipped inside the punch and shot his palm at the black man’s face. The boxer recoiled away. Yamada closed.
And a rock-hard shin slammed into Yamada’s calf.
The blow drove Yamada to his knees. The kickboxer circled around. Yamada barely got his arms up before a colossal right hook rocked his head, quickly followed by a left hook.
Yamada teetered aside. Panting heavily, he slowly lowered his hands, inviting the boxer to close for the kill.
The black man took the bait, charging in head-on. Yamada slammed his palm into his face. The kickboxer ate the shot and whirled into an elbow strike. Yamada bobbed—but the tip of the bone glanced across his temple. A supernova exploded in his head, leaving stars flashing across his eyes. Then heavy hands grabbed Yamada’s shirt and a knee slammed into his groin.
Yamada grunted. Grabbing the kickboxer’s collar, he planted his foot on the black man’s belly. Dropped. Rolled.
The kickboxer wheeled over Yamada’s supine body. Yamada completed the throw, dropping his opponent on his back. Yamada spun with him and landed atop the kickboxer. Mounting his torso, Yamada raised his right hand.
Chopped.
“EEEEEEEEEE!”
And stopped the blow just shy of the man’s throat.
“TIME!”
Yamada helped the man up. The kickboxer extended his hand.
“Good fight, buddy.”
“You… fight well… too,” Yamada gasped.
Yamada shook his hand.
The kickboxer reeled Yamada in.
Yamada tensed.
But it was only for a one-armed hug. Yamada relaxed, patting the man on the back.
Yamada lurched away. Hot blood streaked down his face and lips. He patted his nose and felt a ruin of shattered cartilage. He swallowed a bit of salty, coppery blood and breathed through his mouth.
Strong, firm hands caught him and helped him sit down. Colors softened, his vision blurred. The voices around him sounded so far away. The loudest sound he heard was his heart pounding in his skull, his brain throbbing with every beat.
“Daijoubu da?” Hiroshi asked.
“Un,” Yamada said.
It was all he could manage to speak.
“See you later.”
Yamada floated in an out of consciousness, barely registering what was going around him. Someone handed him a wet rag. Yamada wiped down his face and stopped up his bloody nose. Slowly, his brain put itself back together, just in time to see Hiroshi throw his opponent and flow into a kneeling arm lock.
As Hiroshi returned, Yamada said, “Good job.”
Hiroshi smiled. “Thanks.”
Hiroshi was covered in sweat. He walked stiffly, as though he had taken a few body blows. But his face remained untouched.
A fresh wave of dizziness overtook Yamada. He blinked, pressing the cool rag against his forehead. The fights continued without him. He thought he saw the miko wrestling with another girl, Sato and a Chinese man pummeling each other, his fellow students giving as good as they got, but his head was spinning and he could barely track what was going on.
A few more fights later, Chong called an end to the exercise.
“You survived the fights. Some did well, some did better, but all of you showed that you have the heart to stay in the fight. More than anything else, that is the difference between life and death. It’s the ability to keep fighting, no matter how much it hurts.
“I want to see a show of hands. How many of you are hurt?”
Everybody raised their hands.
“Father Johnson!” Chong called.
A young man in a long black robe and a white collar entered the square. A wooden cross swung from around his neck. Glancing around the crowd, he knelt, clasped his hands and lowered his head.
“Father of Mercy, God of all creation, I come to you as your child. Allow your healing hand to touch us and heal our wounds. Deliver aid and comfort to your children, and return us to health and strength.”
Gentle rays of light descended from the heavens. Warmth and energy filled every fiber of Yamada’s body. His many aches faded. His heart calmed. His skin cooled. The bleeding stopped. Something crawled across his face. Touching it, he realized it was his nose.
His nose was resetting itself.
The light faded. And just like that, he could breathe through his nose again.
“Masaka…” Yamada whispered.
“Thank you, Heavenly Father, for your aid, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, now and forever. Amen.”
“Amen,” Hiroshi echoed, crossing himself.
Yamada patted himself down. No bruises. No broken nose. Not even a twinge of pain. Even the blood had dried.
“How is this possible?” Yamada wondered.
“All things are possible for one who believes,” Hiroshi said.
Johnson stood. Chong bowed. Johnson bowed back, and quietly departed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Chong said. “That was impossible, right? This place is not like Earth. Reality works differently here. Set aside everything you think you know. In the coming days, we will show you how to do something like that—and more besides.
“When this course began, I said we were in Hell. But even here, Heaven can still reach us.”
9
Bushi
On the morning of the fifteenth day, after breakfast, the drill instructors assembled everyone in the parade square. Not by nationality, nor by ability group, but by guild. When they were ready, William Marshall strode front and center, and delivered his speech.
Yamada was too tired to care about Marshall’s words. All he heard was the most important sentence of the speech.
“Ladies, gentlemen, you are now ready to begin additional training. Good luck, and Godspeed.”
Escorted by a company of troops, the drill instructors marched out the recruits one by one. Everyone except the soldiers.
When the last of the noncombatants were gone, Marshall left the square, and Chong took command.
“I want you to separate into your respective martial blocs. Koryu on my left, Chinese martial arts in front, HEMA and Internationals to my right. Move!”
When the troops had rearranged themselves, Chong continued speaking.
“You worked hard these past two weeks. Good job. From now on, you are no longer civilians. You are warriors, and for the next month, we will prepare you for war.
“Today is an admin day. Kit issue, lectures, and measurements. In between, I want you to rest up and clean your barracks. Enjoy the break. You will need it.”
* * *
The first item on the agenda was a visit to the camp tailors, near the rear of the garrison. Long lines of men snaked from their workshop. The recruits took to talking amongst themselves, and curiously, the DIs simply stood back and said nothing.
“What did you think of the bouts?” Sensei asked.
“I think we held our own,” Hiroshi replied.
“There are some areas which could use improvement,” Sato said.
“You already know the answer,” Sensei said. “Akuma brought us all here. Whether we deserve it or not, we are here now. Don’t waste your time and energy thinking about things you can’t change. Focus on your present circumstances.”
“It’s just…” Yamada sighed. “I’m still trying to get the hang of it.”
“Look on the bright side,” Hiroshi said. “Think of our circumstances as a blessing, not a punishment. If we’d stayed in school, we’d have to write endless theses, deal with the professors, figure out how to pay the bills… Here, we get a chance to make use of what we’ve learned for a righteous cause. Not everyone can say that.”
Hiroshi sounded like he’d already resolved himself to go to war. Yamada wished he had that kind of resilience.
“Un,” Yamada muttered. “But are we learning anything useful here?”
“The non-combatants are learning how to defend themselves,” Hiroshi replied.
“Sure, but what about us?” Yamada asked. “We already know how to fight. And if we’re going into the dungeon, why are we wasting time on drills?”
“It is kihon,” Sensei replied. “The instructors are instilling the proper form, spirit and attitude in us. Without these foundational skills, advanced training is impossible.”
“I don’t see how learning how to turn properly or eat quickly is part of kihon,” Sato remarked.
“They are training us to obey orders with exacting precision under stress,” Sensei said.
“Must the instructors shout and scream all the time?”
“Don’t mess up and they won’t.”
8
Aggression
With Sensei’s words ringing in his mind, Yamada paid extra attention during training and sought to do everything right the first time.
The instructors only descended on Yamada twice, the first time for turning the wrong way, the second for repeatedly fouling up a simulated throw.
“I thought you were trained in koryu! This should be easy to you!”
“Throw! I said throw! Not this pussyfooting!”
“This is weak! Didn’t you train in some fancy samurai school? Didn’t they teach you how to be aggressive?! BE AGGRESSIVE!”
“Hoo hoo hoo!”
By now, Yamada figured that the nonsense sounds were meant to confuse, provoke and amuse the recruit—and Heaven help the man who reacted. Yamada simply stood and kept a straight face until the instructors left him alone.
Yamada had it lucky. The instructors were especially harsh on Hiroshi. They must have heard of his special skill, and they took extra pains to single him out the moment he made a mistake. Hiroshi took it all in his stride, never once flinching or showing weakness, but simply striving to do better.
They picked on Sato too, but that was expected.
As the days dragged on the training got tougher. Physical and combat training extended for hours, while drill time was cut. Route marches became longer, lectures grew shorter. Blisters grew on Yamada’s fingers and feet, broke into rivulets of pus and blood, and hardened into calluses.
Sometimes he saw the girl. Not often. The instructors kept the men, women and seniors segregated for most of the day, reforming them only for meals, lectures, and at the end of training.
Once, standing in the breakfast queue, he scanned his surroundings and saw her just a few feet away.
She looked up and smiled at him.
“RECRUIT! STOP DAYDREAMING! YOU’RE HOLDING UP THE LINE!”
Yamada rushed to receive his meal. That was the last he saw her for the day.
The fourteenth day began like any other day. More training, more conditioning, more foot drill, even more training.
Then came the bouts.
“Show us everything you learned!” Chong boomed. “Aggression, aggression, aggression! You will be graded on how much violence you unleash on your opponent. You will fight for one minute, nonstop.
“Use punches, kicks, throws, everything you learned. If you are knocked down the clock will pause, and resume when you get up. The round does not end until the time runs out. If you tap out, the round does not end. You reset and continue the fight. There are only three rules. No shoes, no permanent damage, no giving up.”
The first matchup was a Chinese man and a Westerner. For the first few seconds, they circled each other warily in the parade square. Then the instructors began screaming.
“What are you waiting for? A VIP invitation?! FIGHT!”
“Are you cowards? Hurry up and fight!”
“Hit him! Kick him! Fight him already!”
The Chinese man threw a beautiful straight palm that snapped the white man’s head back. The white man retaliated with a body blow.
Then it was on. A hurricane flurry of punches and kicks and elbows and parries and counterpunches, so fast and furious Yamada could barely keep up. Meaty thuds filled the air. The instructors continued screaming, howling for blood, and the men joined in.
The women looked sick.
Yamada spotted Chong keeping an eye on a small hourglass, so tiny it would be more properly called a minuteglass. When the sand ran out, Chong bellowed, “TIME!”
The combatants separated. Blood dribbled from the corner of the white man’s mouth. The Chinese man’s nose was battered and broken. Both men sported black eyes.
Despite the violence, or maybe because of it, they shook hands, hugged, and returned to their seats.
The second match was for women. The instructors grabbed two at random, one a little larger than the other, and placed them in the ring.
“Um…” the larger one said. “I don’t want to—”
“FIGHT!”
The smaller one pounced. Shrieking, the larger one covered her head, protecting it from an onslaught of slaps and claws.
“Fight, damn you!” Chong shouted. “You do not have permission to give up!”
The larger woman shoved the smaller woman. She barely noticed it; she just flowed in and swept out her leg, sending her crashing to the ground.
“You do not have permission to die! Get up get up GET UP!”
“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
The taller woman got up. Raised her hands. Hit the smaller one in the face. The shorter woman grunted and kicked her in the belly. All semblance of skill and strategy evaporated; now there was only the wild flailing of hands and feet and heads.
“Time!”
The fighters kept at it, ripping and tearing, grabbing each other by the hair and clawing at faces and throats.
“Break break break!” Chong screamed.
Four burly instructors leapt in and forcibly dragged the women apart. Then, and only then, did the fighting stop.
The fights continued unabated. No one fought outside his age group or the opposite sex. But there were no formal restrictions on height or weight.
“They don’t want to see if we actually learned anything,” Yamada mused. “They just want to see if we can be aggressive.”
“Sure looks like it,” Hiroshi agreed.
Sensei was paired with a tall, strapping white man. The Caucasian stood in a boxing stance, presenting his left side to Sensei. Sensei crouched low.
“This would be interesting to see,” Hiroshi said.
“FIGHT!”
The white man advanced under cover of a flurry of punches. But Sensei was a ghost, slipping and bobbing and weaving, meeting every punch with a vicious forearm smash. The white man kicked, Sensei caught his leg, and tossed him to the ground.
The moment his opponent got up, Sensei was on him again. The Westerner snatched his sleeves, Sensei seized his lapels, and they jostled for position. The men grunted and shifted, throwing their weight left and right, seeking to unbalance the other. Suddenly Sensei stepped out, struck his opponent’s cheek, and threw him again.
The Westerner was stronger and faster, but Sensei had the cunning that came with decades of experience. The white man tried keeping Sensei at bay with sharp, snapping punches and powerful kicks, occasionally landing one or two. Sensei relentlessly closed in, smashing offending limbs with hardened forearms, and caught the boxer with decisive throws and locks and trips.
The white man gave everything he had, yet he was still outclassed. He had little grappling experience, and it showed. Again and again Sensei seized him, and again and again he offered scant resistance before being flung down. But every time he went down, he picked himself back up and launched himself back into the fight.
When Chong finally called time, the boxer returned to his group with his head held high. So did Sensei.
Then it was Yamada’s turn.
And his opponent was a huge black man.
The same black soldier he had seen on the first night.
Yamada gulped. His opponent was a full head taller than him. An ebony giant of thick muscle, iron sinews and hardened bones. As the opponent raised his fists, right side forward, Yamada saw that the first two knuckles of both hands were swollen and callused.
The black man grinned like a shark.
Yamada smiled back and lowered into his stance.
Never show fear to your enemy, Sensei had said in training. And Sensei was watching. He would not let Sensei down.
“FIGHT!”
The black man came in swinging, his punches fast and furious. Yamada shielded his face with his arms, but the fists just kept coming, every shot a wrecking ball to body and brain. Gritting through the pain, Yamada studied his opponent, watching his arms, looking for an opening.
The black man dipped his right shoulder and swung his arm in a tight arc. Yamada hacked out his forearm, going for the soft underarm. Bone crashed into flesh.
Hardened knuckles collided into Yamada’s temple.
Yamada reeled away. The black man was overwhelming him. Not good. He had to make space, get clear, find ma-ai—
He tripped.
Slammed his back into the ground.
“Get up get up get up!”
Reeling, Yamada got up, squatted—
“FIGHT!”
The black man loosed a blizzard of punches. This time, Yamada was ready. He slipped one punch, parried another, and launched a palm strike. But Yamada was too far, too short, and his missed. The boxer punished him with a one-two combo to the face.
Yamada stumbled back. Blood poured out his nose and into his mouth. He spat a scarlet gob on the floor. The boxer bounced on his feet, steadily and steadily closing the distance, an arrogant sneer on his face.
“You’re not done!” Chong shouted. “You don’t get to give up! FIGHT!”
Fight? How? The boxer had him beat. There was no way he could…
Wait. Why was he trading punches with a boxer? That was suicide. That was not the way of Kukishin-ryu.
He had to change the game.
Wobbling, his nose blocked, his head spinning, Yamada forced himself into his guard. The boxer charged in. Yamada stared at his collarbone, watching for moment.
The black man fired a lightning left jab. Yamada ducked. Knuckles scraped the top of his head. The boxer whirled in with a right hook. Screaming, Yamada slipped inside the punch and shot his palm at the black man’s face. The boxer recoiled away. Yamada closed.
And a rock-hard shin slammed into Yamada’s calf.
The blow drove Yamada to his knees. The kickboxer circled around. Yamada barely got his arms up before a colossal right hook rocked his head, quickly followed by a left hook.
Yamada teetered aside. Panting heavily, he slowly lowered his hands, inviting the boxer to close for the kill.
The black man took the bait, charging in head-on. Yamada slammed his palm into his face. The kickboxer ate the shot and whirled into an elbow strike. Yamada bobbed—but the tip of the bone glanced across his temple. A supernova exploded in his head, leaving stars flashing across his eyes. Then heavy hands grabbed Yamada’s shirt and a knee slammed into his groin.
Yamada grunted. Grabbing the kickboxer’s collar, he planted his foot on the black man’s belly. Dropped. Rolled.
The kickboxer wheeled over Yamada’s supine body. Yamada completed the throw, dropping his opponent on his back. Yamada spun with him and landed atop the kickboxer. Mounting his torso, Yamada raised his right hand.
Chopped.
“EEEEEEEEEE!”
And stopped the blow just shy of the man’s throat.
“TIME!”
Yamada helped the man up. The kickboxer extended his hand.
“Good fight, buddy.”
“You… fight well… too,” Yamada gasped.
Yamada shook his hand.
The kickboxer reeled Yamada in.
Yamada tensed.
But it was only for a one-armed hug. Yamada relaxed, patting the man on the back.
Yamada lurched away. Hot blood streaked down his face and lips. He patted his nose and felt a ruin of shattered cartilage. He swallowed a bit of salty, coppery blood and breathed through his mouth.
Strong, firm hands caught him and helped him sit down. Colors softened, his vision blurred. The voices around him sounded so far away. The loudest sound he heard was his heart pounding in his skull, his brain throbbing with every beat.
“Daijoubu da?” Hiroshi asked.
“Un,” Yamada said.
It was all he could manage to speak.
“See you later.”
Yamada floated in an out of consciousness, barely registering what was going around him. Someone handed him a wet rag. Yamada wiped down his face and stopped up his bloody nose. Slowly, his brain put itself back together, just in time to see Hiroshi throw his opponent and flow into a kneeling arm lock.
As Hiroshi returned, Yamada said, “Good job.”
Hiroshi smiled. “Thanks.”
Hiroshi was covered in sweat. He walked stiffly, as though he had taken a few body blows. But his face remained untouched.
A fresh wave of dizziness overtook Yamada. He blinked, pressing the cool rag against his forehead. The fights continued without him. He thought he saw the miko wrestling with another girl, Sato and a Chinese man pummeling each other, his fellow students giving as good as they got, but his head was spinning and he could barely track what was going on.
A few more fights later, Chong called an end to the exercise.
“You survived the fights. Some did well, some did better, but all of you showed that you have the heart to stay in the fight. More than anything else, that is the difference between life and death. It’s the ability to keep fighting, no matter how much it hurts.
“I want to see a show of hands. How many of you are hurt?”
Everybody raised their hands.
“Father Johnson!” Chong called.
A young man in a long black robe and a white collar entered the square. A wooden cross swung from around his neck. Glancing around the crowd, he knelt, clasped his hands and lowered his head.
“Father of Mercy, God of all creation, I come to you as your child. Allow your healing hand to touch us and heal our wounds. Deliver aid and comfort to your children, and return us to health and strength.”
Gentle rays of light descended from the heavens. Warmth and energy filled every fiber of Yamada’s body. His many aches faded. His heart calmed. His skin cooled. The bleeding stopped. Something crawled across his face. Touching it, he realized it was his nose.
His nose was resetting itself.
The light faded. And just like that, he could breathe through his nose again.
“Masaka…” Yamada whispered.
“Thank you, Heavenly Father, for your aid, for thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, now and forever. Amen.”
“Amen,” Hiroshi echoed, crossing himself.
Yamada patted himself down. No bruises. No broken nose. Not even a twinge of pain. Even the blood had dried.
“How is this possible?” Yamada wondered.
“All things are possible for one who believes,” Hiroshi said.
Johnson stood. Chong bowed. Johnson bowed back, and quietly departed.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Chong said. “That was impossible, right? This place is not like Earth. Reality works differently here. Set aside everything you think you know. In the coming days, we will show you how to do something like that—and more besides.
“When this course began, I said we were in Hell. But even here, Heaven can still reach us.”
9
Bushi
On the morning of the fifteenth day, after breakfast, the drill instructors assembled everyone in the parade square. Not by nationality, nor by ability group, but by guild. When they were ready, William Marshall strode front and center, and delivered his speech.
Yamada was too tired to care about Marshall’s words. All he heard was the most important sentence of the speech.
“Ladies, gentlemen, you are now ready to begin additional training. Good luck, and Godspeed.”
Escorted by a company of troops, the drill instructors marched out the recruits one by one. Everyone except the soldiers.
When the last of the noncombatants were gone, Marshall left the square, and Chong took command.
“I want you to separate into your respective martial blocs. Koryu on my left, Chinese martial arts in front, HEMA and Internationals to my right. Move!”
When the troops had rearranged themselves, Chong continued speaking.
“You worked hard these past two weeks. Good job. From now on, you are no longer civilians. You are warriors, and for the next month, we will prepare you for war.
“Today is an admin day. Kit issue, lectures, and measurements. In between, I want you to rest up and clean your barracks. Enjoy the break. You will need it.”
* * *
The first item on the agenda was a visit to the camp tailors, near the rear of the garrison. Long lines of men snaked from their workshop. The recruits took to talking amongst themselves, and curiously, the DIs simply stood back and said nothing.
“What did you think of the bouts?” Sensei asked.
“I think we held our own,” Hiroshi replied.
“There are some areas which could use improvement,” Sato said.
