Chapter 2

In the nearly eight hundred years since Ishihara Ryu had crossed into the World of Rivers and Lakes, the land of his birth had changed. The floating vehicles didn’t come as a surprise; they’d been conceptualized back then. Nor was it the shiny metal skyscrapers in a city which had once taken pride in its ancient roots.

No, it was the people.

Beyond the fact that someone was picking their nose in public, nobody looked Japanese.

Well, the middle-aged woman sweeping the streets did; but besides her, everyone looked to be in their mid-twenties, with a ubiquitous beige skin tone, dark spikey hair, and eyes of varying shades of brown. The latter fact, in itself wasn’t bothersome: it meant that in eight centuries, mankind had finally gotten past superficial distinctions of race, color, and nation.

No, more disconcerting was their awful taste in clothes. His eyes ached at the garish colors, and the zigzag cuts didn’t seem to follow any symmetrical pattern.

The most perplexing fact was that beneath their outward façade of good health lay a fragility in their Three Treasures. Their Ki Energy trickled, their Sei Essence lacked foundation, and their Kokoro Spirit wavered.

A simple Splashing Hand shouldn’t have injured his third attacker so grievously, certainly not when his composite armor had absorbed most of the blow. Bystanders had just stood and gawked, nobody willing to intervene on behalf of these poor warriors. Had he not unblocked his victim’s meridians with acupuncture, the man might’ve died in a few years.

At least the soldiers were determined.

The first, whose wrist ligaments he’d sprained, had gained his feet, while the second shouted and charged.

Trying not to yawn, he spun away from the man’s punch, and sent him tumbling head over heels with a Crashing Wave shoulder butt. He held back though, so that the force cracked through molded chest plate, and maybe a bone or three. Well, they’d both be all right, with nothing more than a few fractures and bruised egos.

The first, however apparently wanted more. These modern warriors were low-key cute, like the village children who were first learning to circulate their Ki.

Though, why they’d attacked him, he couldn’t fathom.

Who assaulted visitors asking for directions? Maybe the village elders were right: that beyond whatever technological advancements mankind might’ve made, these people were morally and culturally bankrupt. It was all the more reason he couldn’t fail in his mission to keep the portals between here and the World of Rivers and Lakes hidden.

The remaining warrior tucked his chin behind his fists and hopped back and forth on the balls of his feet. He looked very much like the boxers of Ryu’s youth, before the sport had been banned for of all things, barbarism. He’d watched in on television, and now marveled how there weren’t any screens anywhere in this city. Of all the things that had changed from his youth, it was the lack of screens among the otherwise sparkling towers, dancing lights, and floating cars.

He let out a sigh and held out a hand. Words in a language he hadn’t used in what, seven hundred and sixty years? came out haltingly. “I no want fight.”

“Surenda, hands on your head,” the warrior shouted, still dancing.

Hands on head. That, he could do, and maybe the warrior would spare himself an injury. Maybe they’d even guide him to Honnoji. Whatever the first word meant, well, English never really interested him in junior high school. He kicked up his staff, caught the butt end on his toe, and balanced it. He then put his hands on his head.

On, the stubble. He’d need to ask about a razor, since he’d already gone a week without shaving his pate as all good Fourth-Rank Water Path Cultivators should. He’d also needed to find comfort in the warm embrace of a woman if he were to replenish his Yin energies…

Though… considering how gorgeous all the women were, he’d probably spill his seed for the first time in eight hundred years and weaken his Sei. And even if he could control it, if modern women were anything like these warriors, their fragile Yin might not even fill his Hara core.

Around them, the onlookers held up open hands with black circles in the middle of their palms.

It was all coming back to him. In his youth, everyone carried around mobile phones, and recorded everything from their children’s first steps to idiots trying to launch themselves on bicycles over flaming cars.

“Drop the sutafu,” the man yelled.

What was a sutafu? Ryu cocked his head.

With a shout, the warrior charged in. Jab, cross, hook, cross, lead uppercut, rear uppercut, hook… it was a decent combination which Ryu avoided with Six Harmony bobbing, lest the man hurt his fists. On one foot like a crane, trying to balance his staff on the other foot, it was almost like his Second-Rank Earth Path training seven centuries ago! Only that had also included avoiding No Shadow Kicks and Water Whips.

The warrior disengaged, his expression looking as lost as an unranked Initiate trying to gather his Ki in his Hara for the first time, only to piss over himself. “How are you doing this?”

“May I?” Ryu lifted his hands from his head, slowly, lest his opponent panic and release another barrage of futile attacks. He then pointed at the man’s feet. Sadly, the next concepts were hard to explain in English. “Foot. Must root. Like Tree.”

His opponent froze, perhaps trying to absorb the valuable, if rudimentary lesson. “What are you talking about?”

“No root, no balance, no power. Remember you fall?”

The man’s expression twisted, and was again hopping on his tiptoes.

Some lessons just had to be taught the hard way.

Ryu kicked his staff into the air, and then, as his opponent tracked it with his eyes, ducked down and swept his feet out from under him, yet again. Ryu whirled back up, and before the man hit the ground, slammed his palm down with a Splashing Hand technique. Unlike the first time, he transferred his force to the surface only, shattering the plastic breastplate but not fracturing any bones or damaging any organs.

He reached out and caught the staff.

The onlookers all gasped and pointed.

Smiling, he dipped in chin in a perfunctory bow. He searched his memory for the words in English. “Temple. I go. Temple. You know?”

They exchanged glances and whispered among themselves, fingers pointing every which direction.

Of course. He let out a sigh. Last time he’d been in Kyoto, hundreds of years before the Onslaught, there’d been hundreds, if not close to a thousand temples, and an equal number of shrines. As soulless as these people seemed to be, they probably didn’t know the difference between the two.

“Ishihara Ryusuke!” a female voice called.

His heart soared.

Someone knew his name. He turned.

Six men, led by an exquisite woman, marched through the bystanders as they made way. Unlike the first three, who’d worn composite plating, these seven were all dressed in what looked to be grey yoga pants and wicking compression shirts. Holstered pistols hung from their belts, along with several other devices. Three of the men knelt by the fallen warriors.

Ryu closed his eyes and curled his toes through his boots into the pavement. There was enough moisture in the air connecting them all for him to sense their Ki.

All fragile.

In fact, none of the people he’d sensed so far—save for the middle-aged street sweeper— would even rate with the unranked Initiates back home.

The pretty leader held up a fist. Her companions halted, drew their weapons, and aimed at him. She raised opened one hand and raised the other, in a gesture of surrender.

When she spoke, it was in halting, heavily accented Japanese. “I have a translator. May I?” She brushed her hand from her ample bosom toward his feet.

The six others didn’t look as if they planned on doing any translating, and sadly, she probably wasn’t offering what her sign language had suggested. Still, Ryu bowed his head and beckoned her forward. Though her gait remained confident, she extended a tentative hand toward his head. A black dot was attached to her index finger.

It could be just about anything, and considering how weak all the electromagnetic waves permeating the city made him feel, maybe it was a weapon.

He caught her wrist. “What is it?”

There was nothing but sincerity in her tone and expression. “Translator.”

Oh, so it was a technology. A.I. translations had progressed during his youth, but had not yet made the leap to capture the nuance of human expressions. Ask a computer for basic information, sure; but at least back then, it wouldn’t be able to tell the parse difference between hardware and what he’d like to do with her. But who knew, a lot could change in eight hundred years. Releasing her wrist, he nodded.

She pressed her finger to his ear, then spoke. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

The sounds of her voice didn’t match the movement of her lips, a little like the vintage Hong Kong movies he’d watched as a child on analog VCR technology. It was those videos that had sent him on his journey to the World of Rivers and Lakes, in fact.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” she repeated.

He nodded. “Yes, do you understand me?”

“Yes.” Her tight expression softened, making her look even more beautiful. “I am Captain Oyama Keiko.”

So she had a Japanese name, despite not looking Japanese. He bowed. “I am…”

“Ishihara Ryusuke.”

“Please, call me Ryu.” Grinning in spite of himself, he bowed.

“I need you to come with me.”

He gestured at the six men surrounding him. “I have a feeling that isn’t a request?”

“No. But it will be easier on everyone if you come peacefully.”

The air crackled and a shadow blotted out the sun. Ryu looked up.

Two large figures plummeted from the skyscrapers. They landed to either side of him. The impact shook the ground and sent webs of cracks rippling through the concrete. They stood head and shoulders taller than him, and twice as broad. Their polymer plated armor made them appear even larger. A six-barreled minigun sprouted from a compartment in one’s forearm, though without any feeding belts of ammunition.

The onlookers who had the presence of mind to flee did, though most screamed and cowered and fear rooted them in place.

“On your knees, hands on your head!” One of the new behemoths ordered.

A machine? No, behind the visored helm glared a pair of brown eyes. When Ryu gripped the ground with his toes and reached out through the moisture, he sensed the Ki, albeit weak, of a living being.

“No!” Captain Oyama grabbed at the one man’s gun, pulling it down.

With a snarl, the giant shoved her away, his brute strength sending her out of the circle of her soldiers and careening into the crowds. He raised his weapon again. “On your knees. Hands on your head.”

Ryu smiled. “Sir, if you shoot and miss, you will hit these bystanders. Or your friend.” He dropped through the beefy arms of the soldier behind him, who’d tried to wrap him up. Ryu back-rolled between his would-be captor’s legs, popped up to his feet, and slapped both palms into the man’s back with Splashing Hands.

The armor shattered, and the man staggered forward, crashing into his comrade. The first extended his arm, and the minigun’s six barrels whined as they started to spin.

Did this man not care for the onlookers? Like all Cultivators on the Water Path, Ryu had trained the fundamentals of the Metal Path. Metal was the Mother of Water, after all, and even untrained Initiates started the rudiments of Iron Palm. He dashed in and rooted to the ground. Guiding Ki to his fingers, he knifed his hand into the whirling barrels. The weapon locked up and jolted free of the warrior’s arm mount.

And mangled Ryu’s digits.

Pain blossomed in four fingers. He took a deep breath and calm his mind with the Water Path’s Placid Pool to block it out. He directed Ki up and down the six hand meridians and collaterals, sensing the pathways. No broken bones, just a few partially torn ligaments. Gritting his teeth, he yanked his hand back, minigun barrels still entangled in his fingers.

The two huge men stared at him, looked at each other, and exchanging nods, turned on him. In unison, they clenched their fists, and twin blades of energy sprouted a meter and a half from their wrists. They closed with admirable speed, attacks coordinated in a flash of lights akin to an old sci-fi movie.

Ryu lifted the minigun into the path of the blades, which severed the metal barrels like a newly sharpened sword through exposed flesh. With the cut so close to his hand, the weapon’s heavy stock unbalanced his hand. Before the barrels hit the ground, Ryu flipped the minigun over. The next hack of the energy blade sliced through the gun’s body.

A flick of his wrist sent pain jolting through his fingers, but dislodged the mangled metal. He executed a back hand spring and landed out of range. One second was all he needed to focus. With his good hand, he drew water vapor out of the air. Bending it to his will, it coalesced into a molecule-thin whip and snapped it across the men’s blade emitters. The light blinked out.

In their moment of shock, Ryu used a Crashing Wave shoulder butt into the closest, shattering his armor and launching him into the second. Both landed in a heap six meters away.

The remaining onlookers gasped.

One of Captain Oyama’s men was first to regain his wits. “Take aim!”

His comrades came out of their stupor and levelled their weapons at him. If they were so foolish as to fire, and he jumped over or ducked under, six innocent bystanders would be hit.

“No!” Captain Oyama’s voice came out weak, from among the crowd.

“Fire!”

Ryu had to protect the innocents, even if it meant getting hit. He reached into the fold of his robes, plucked a Hara Fortifying Pill from the interdimensional space in an internal pocket. He flicked the glowing green pearl into his mouth and swallowed. Warmth filled him, energizing his meridians and strengthening his core.

Six beams of blue light shot out. As a Cultivator of the Path of Water, channeling the Path of Wood came easy. He rooted to the ground and sunk his stance. The energy surged through him, like the time when he was a stupid child and stuck a fork into an electrical outlet. He buckled to his knees. The edges of his vision blurred as all faded to black.