Side Story #14: Hatch's Tournament

<Author’s note: This story takes place before the events of Book 1.>

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Side Story 14: Hatch’s Tournament

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■■ Jijinto ■■

“Hyah! Hyah! Hy...ah?”

A young boy shouted with uncertainty across a modest-sized training hall, a dojo for martial arts nestled between the East and Westside slums of Jijinto. Though they weren’t slums back then, in the days before the samurai and other nobility moved to the new capital of Yamato. Wealth was slowly but certainly leaving Jijinto and the evidence was as clear as the near-empty halls of the Ken Raijingu Dojo.

“Hesitate not, Hachi-kun! Each movement within the form, give everything to!”

Some men held no regard for riches or reputations. Among them was an aged warrior, who spoke in a broken Hyugan tongue. His nose and several dozen bones across his body were broken, too—the result of a lifetime of battles. Though his greatest challenge yet was raising his grandson Hachirobei alone. The boy was a bundle of energy with an open heart and a closed mind—especially when it came to learning.

“Hyah! Yah-yah-yah-yah!” Hachi-kun freestyled the remaining moves in the form, adding techniques like leg sweeps and uppercuts to add a bit of variety to an otherwise dull blocking and punching routine.

Grandpa shook his head and scolded the boy for the fourth time that morning. “Maintain focus you must, Hachi-kun! Engraving the strikes into your mind, the purpose of the form is. Perform them even while blinded, you should be able to!”

“They’re so dumb and borin’...I wanna learn the cool moves!” the boy complained. “Real fightin’ ain’t like this at all, Grandpa.”

“Real fighting?” It was at this time that Grandpa grabbed the boy by his karate uniform’s collar and inspected his hands. Notably, his knuckles—which were bruised. “Getting into fights, you are?!”

When Hachi shut his mouth and gave no reply, Grandpa shook the boy in frustration. From out the boy’s uniform came a skewer of dango. Hachi let out an audible gulp before quickly trying to explain himself.

“They didn’t wanna share, Grandpa! And the boys were makin’ fun of how you talk, sayin’ you ain’t Hyugan! So I took—”

Grandpa sweeped Hachi’s legs out from under him, following up with a downward punch into the boy’s stomach. Hachi re-tasted the dango he had eaten earlier as it threatened to come up the way it went down. But the real shock wasn’t the taste or even the pain: this was the first time Grandpa ever struck him.

“Never forget, Hachi! Behind your punches...that is what matters most!”

A knock against the shoji doors interrupted the lesson. They were already open, of course, to welcome any and every potential new student to the Ken Raijingu Dojo. Though this man had little need for training: he was a master in his own right, though his style of fighting was geared towards subterfuge. He was about as old as Grandpa with a grey peppered beard on his chin and an odd child covered head to toe in rags behind him.

And like most old men who visited Grandpa, the two already knew each other.

“Choe Yeong! Still kicking around I see. And who’s this? Your girl’s, I take it?”

“Fujibayashi! Come in, you two must. Kanna’s, he is.”

Hachi wasn’t at all interested in Fuji-whoever. The kid behind him was much more fascinating to the young martial artist. Hachi assumed it was a boy though he couldn’t be sure, considering the child was covered in oversized robes. He couldn’t even make out the kid’s face, which made for a mystery that sparked his youthful curiosity.

“Tosh, play with the boy while I reminisce with an old friend,” Fujibayashi said before turning back to Grandpa. “You don’t happen to have any more of that soju, do you Yeong-san? I’ve been craving it for two decades now!”

The child named Tosh bowed and approached Hachi, inspecting the floors and walls of the dojo. Hachi, in his excitement, grabbed Tosh by the hand to give them a tour of the place, or at least tried to. Tosh didn’t appreciate being touched, and twisted the boy’s arm hard enough to nearly break it. Instead crying out in pain, however, Hachi starting laughing.

“What dhis so funny?” asked Tosh. “Dhere’s nothing to joke about. Don’t touch me again!”

Upon hearing the unfamiliar accent, Hachi laughed even harder. After he was done, he wiped the spittle from his lips before putting on his usual boyish grin and raising up his hands in the ready position. “You’re gonna be a good fight, aren’t cha?”

The two proceeded to clash, Hachi being the less skilled but more eager of the two. When it came to combat between children, that made for an even brawl. At least until Hachi winded up a punch and declared it his ‘ultimate technique’. Tosh grabbed his outstretched arm and flipped the boy over their shoulder.

“Quit playing around! Martial arts is a serious practice,” Tosh scolded, looking down at the dazed boy beneath them. “You disrespect Master Yeong. Fuji-sama says dhat he is an elite warrior, said to have killed a hundred pirates with but his hands!”

Hachi had no clue that Grandpa had killed anyone. That didn’t bother him so much as the fact that this brat knew more than he did about the man who raised him. That wasn’t fair—and it was enough to send Hachi charging forward.

“Aaaah! Ow, It hurts!” the young martial artist moaned, as the mysterious child sat upon Hachi’s back while forcing up one of his legs in a painful leg lock. Upon hearing the cry, Grandpa and Fujibayashi came in—the later yelling at his pupil to stop.

“That’s enough, Tosh! I swear...what sort of kid doesn’t know how to horse around without hurting someone? No small wonder why you don’t have any friends...” Fujibayashi let out a sigh as Tosh separated himself from Hachi and bowed deeply to apologize. “Don’t bow to me—bow to Hachi-kun, over there.”

Reluctantly, Tosh did as they were told and bowed deeply to Hachi. From his angle down on the floor, the boy was able to get a better view of his opponent’s face. He saw a pair of green eyes, and not just that.

“Brown skin…? Grandpa, that kid is a Kondo! No wonder they don’t fight fair! It’s illegal for ‘em to fight anyways, isn’t it?”

“Keep an open mind. To one style, never limit yourself,” Grandpa said while lifting the boy to his feet and patting off the dirt from his uniform. It was a futile effort, he knew, as dust and grime attracted to the boy like rice flour on bean paste. “Now then,” he addressed his guests, “weary from your travels you two must be. Please, spend the night.”

Fujibayashi appeared tempted by the offer but ultimately shook his head. “I’m afraid duty takes us elsewhere. The truth is—I’ve only come here to pay back the debt I owe you from the war.”

“Which debt and which war?” Grandpa replied with a grin.

“I’ve learned more of Kanna-chan.”

The reply sucked all humor out of Yeong’s face. He held his pronounced jaw with his hand, lost deep within thoughts of his missing daughter. He spared Hachi a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Are they...are they true, the rumors are? Leave for a man, did she?”

Kanna’s husband had died in the war, and the news of it shocked the woman so deeply that she was never the same afterwards. Even giving birth to the man’s child did little to improve her mood. She was despondent for days until one day, she was gone.

Fujibayashi thought long and hard before nodding. “Yes. I found the man,” he said, pulling out an odd necklace from his sash. “He’s hanging from a cross.”

Hachi gasped, staring at the tiny figure that took his mother away.

■■ Years Later ■■

“Here we are!” Hatch said with a grin. “Ken Raijingu Dojo. Still, er, workin’ on the repairs to the roof. Can get a bit wet when it rains, but hey—that’s what buckets are for!”

The street fighter picked up one of the many buckets placed across the training hall to keep the floor from flooding. He brought it to his lips and chugged down a gulp before offering it over to his guest. She promptly refused.

“Ew, no. Let’s just get this over with,” said the woman whose name may have been Aiko or Kimiko. Hatch couldn’t recall, though in his defense he had only known her for a minute before she decided to come home with him. She wore a yukata, a summer kimono—or at least pieces of one. Her skin that was exposed (which was most of it) was deeply tanned from standing around outside all day.

Hatch had seen her and suspected she must be bored, and true enough it didn’t take much to convince her to check out the dojo. “A womanly presence would really do this place some good!” Hachirobei grinned, thinking to himself. “And so would another student!”

“This here’s the closet where we keep the sparring equipment! Oh and Grandpa’s shrine is over this way. I like to make an offering at least once a month, somethin’ small like—”

“Look, this place is a dump but I’ve done it in worse. Now where’s your futon?”

Hatch’s eyes went wide in surprise. It wasn’t because he had pieced together her true intentions, or that her profession was that of a prostitute. The young man was too dense for that.

“Tired already? But I was hoping to teach you a lesson, first! I know a technique that works great for novices!”

The prostitute let out a laugh that sounded more like a cackle “Do I look like a novice to you, boy? I’ll be the one teaching the lessons here,” she said, leaning her breasts against Hatch’s chest. Her hand traced up his inner thigh. “Now let’s talk pricing: one ryō gets you one hour. Pay upfront.”

“Eh? I don’t think you understand,” Hatch said, scratching his head. “You’re the one whose gotta pay me. Nothin’ to worry about though: membership fees are discounted this month! Hows about we get started with the first lesson before you decide to commit to a—”

*slap*

The streetwalker walked away, leaving Hatch confused and with a sore cheek. It wasn’t the slap that hurt—he was accustomed to those by now—but that was the third potential student he had lost this month. “Why are women so hard to understand?”

To take his mind off the disappointment, Hatch retightened his headband and proceeded to start training. The martial artist had just finished his stretching routine when the dojo’s front door slid open. Hatch’s boyish grin returned, thinking the woman had reconsidered his offer.

To his disappointment, he was met with three men instead: a lowlife, a ruffian and a goon. You had to be a Jijinto native to tell them apart. But they were more than just street punks: they had ink on their skin, notably snakes wrapped around their throats.

“This shithole yours, I take it?”

“Who’s askin’?” Hatch said with a frown. “What yakuza group are you from? Haven’t seen snakes before.”

The three snickered. “We’re Shiroyama’s boys. She’s marryin’ into the Yamagata-gumi. And she’s callin’ in all the debts from squatters like you. We got papers sayin’ some Yeong feller has an unpaid loan on this lot. Pay it up by the end of this week or we’re throwin’ yer ass out.”

The goon looked over the place and spat on the floor. “Dump like this needs to be torn down. Not a half-bad spot for a whorehouse, I’d say.”

Hatch knew better than to show fear in front of wanna-be gangsters. So he cracked his knuckles and shrugged. “Alright, so my old man owes some money. How bad can it be?”

■■■■

“This is bad,” Hatch said while staring back at his reflection inside a dirty cup of cheap saké courtesy of The Canary. Beside him was Tan-kun, his best friend, and across from him was Eguchi, his best bartender.

“That kind of coin can’t be earned in a week! A year—maybe!” said Tan-kun, who slammed his fist into the bar for dramatic effect. It earned him a cold glare from Eguchi.

“Word ‘round town is that they found a monk not far from your dojo, Hachi-kun,” said the bartender. “Found ‘em dead. They say his face was missing. Might be its best for you to move on out of there. It’s not like you’ve got any students.”

Hatch downed his drink and grimaced, before gesturing for another. “Not for lack of tryin’. All the girls I bring back just want my money and to sleep on my futon! Can you believe that?”

Tan-kun and Eguchi exchanged stares before shaking their heads in unison. Hatch was the most oblivious man either of them had ever known.

“You sure are an odd one, Hatch. But what I want to know...” Tan-kun paused, deep in thought, “...is why the yakuza waited so long to ask for their debt. The fact Ken Raijingu Dojo has lasted this long is a miracle itself! Must be that dumb luck of yours.”

“Dumb luck...that’s it!” Hatch raised and shook his fist. “Few good rolls of Chō-Han and I’ll be able to turn my pocket change into a pouch full of ryō! I’ll pay ‘em off that way!”

Hatch slurred together his goodbyes and headed on out before his support group convince him otherwise. Tan-kun sighed as he once again paid off his best friend’s tab. “Leaving destiny to the roll of a dice...he makes it sound admirable!”

On his way out The Canary, the streetfighter bumped into somebody. That somebody had something he rarely ever saw, this deep into the Jijinto slums: a katana. Hatch couldn’t get a good look into their eyes but he really didn’t want to. The samurai had a fearsome aura and a reputation to match, judging by how Eguchi shot up upon recognizing them.

The bartender hurried to grab a bottle from the top shelf to pour out a cup for the odd guest. Hatch wondered what a samurai was doing in a joint like this, but he was sure he could get the story out of Eguchi later.

“I need to focus on winning! Come on lucky spirits,” Hatch prayed, “don’t fail me now!”

■■■■

The spirits were cruel that early afternoon, as luck—dumb or otherwise—was well outside Hatch’s grasp. In his excitement to pay off his grandfather’s debt, he ran to the nearest gambling den he could. That early in the day, he wasn’t up against casual, half-drunken sailors but full-fledged bakuto: old gambling addicts who were like sharks compared to Hatch who was more akin to a dolphin.

The young man’s desperation was blood in the water.

“I’m not done yet! I gotta win sometime, kuso!” Hatch cursed as he stripped off the top of his karate uniform. He had just lost the shirt off his back—along with the rest of his meager savings. There wasn’t much more for him to lose, and the other gamblers said as much between laughs and chugs of spoiled rice wine.

“There’s one more thing I can bet,” Hatch thought to himself. He then thought of Grandpa and of all the training and memories they shared together in that training hall. He had to keep it, and to do so…“I have to be willing to risk it all!”

“You guys know the Ken Raijingu Dojo, right? It’s a few blocks west of here. Whose willing to put up a price for it? Come on, let’s place a bet!”

Though the wager was a pittance for its actual worth, Hatch had to take what he could get and accepted the gamble. He called for ‘han’—odd—and left the rest to the hands of fate. Unfortunately for him, those hands belonged to a cheat who was intent on robbing him blind.

When the bones came up even the old gamblers began to holler and slap their knees in excitement. Hatch clenched his teeth and his fist, the former clattering while the other shook with rage. His world and everything he loved was in that dojo. He couldn’t...he wouldn’t lose it.

The street fighter looked across the room. They were six old men, three of them little more than skin and bones. Hatch easily shadowed over them, stronger than all of them put together. While he soaked in their laughter and jeers, he outstretched a fist and—for the first time since his grandfather scolded him for stealing dango years ago—thought about using his fist to get what he wanted.

But before he could decide, a hand closed over his.

It belonged to a monk, who appeared at Hatch’s side with a knowing smile and a shaking head. He was Bhuddist: his head was shaved and his robes were bright orange, exposing his right shoulder. Monks like these weren’t uncommon—though they usually kept away from the slums and certainly from dens of sin like this one. But this fellow wasn’t a typical monk; the evidence hung around his neck.

“A cross?” Hatch gasped as he stared at the odd necklace. “Where have I seen that before?”

“It would appear I’ve interrupted some excitement,” said the monk, who spoke in a polite yet foreign accent. “This game reminds me of Hazard, though simpler, perhaps more akin to Highest Points? In any case, I shall make the next wager at this young gentleman’s behalf. For his home,” the monk said as he pulled out a pouch of coins and pushed it forward, “I shall take a gamble. Though,” he turned to Hatch, “I will require something in return for—”

“Sure! I’ll do anything!” Hatch yelled, jumping for joy. “You heard the holyman, roll up another pair! My luck is about to change!”

The gamblers looked at each other with unease. Hatch was an easy mark, about as easy as they got when it came to locals. This well-spoken monk was something else, not to mention it was probably bad karma to cheat a member of the clergy. But in the end their greed and the large pouch of ryō won them over. They nodded and agreed.

Though that wasn’t ryō in that pouch, it was florins: a foreign currency no Hyugan had seen before. This monk was more than he appeared, and his eyes stared into the very soul of the dealer. Unable to control himself nor cry out for help, the dealer became no more than a puppet. He took the dice and put them into the cup with awkward movements, before shaking it and asking Hatch to make the call.

“Chō! It’s gonna be even, I just know it!”

And with a bit of suggestion and perhaps some magic too, the dealer raised the cup from the floor and a pair of ones were revealed. Regaining control of his voice, the dealer gasped out the result. “One and one makes two! It’s chō!”

“Yatta!” Hatch jumped in joy, punching the air and nearly the monk beside him. He snatched his partner’s purse from the floor and handed it back to him. “A pair of snake eyes means we win. Thanks a ton, pal!”

“Snakes eyes...very fitting,” said the monk, who took his earnings in hand. He then outstretched his other in front of Hatch. The street fighter looked at it, puzzled, unsure what to make of the odd gesture. The monk eventually realized his mistake and corrected himself by bowing instead. “My name is Ro...Rokuhara. I’ve need of an able-bodied warrior.”

Hatch scratched the back of his head. “I dunno about being a warrior, but I can hold my own. I’m guessin’ you need some muscle? Heard talk of someone stealin’ the faces off monks around here.”

Rokuhara let out a smile as the two made their way out of the gambling den. Hatch owed this man for bailing him out, though as for what the monk wanted in return...it wasn’t his services as a bodyguard.

“I am, you see, in town to meet with my sister. Sister of a sort, anyway. But she is a difficult woman to reach—though she certainly stretches far enough! Har-har!” Rokuhara laughed while Hatch furrowed his brow. The street fighter couldn’t understand the monk’s humor, and understood even less after he pulled out a parchment with words and an illustration of two men kicking each other.

“What’s it say?”

“It says ‘Kumite.’ There’s to be an underground tournament, ran by the Yamagata-gumi. You’re going to enter it for me.”

Hatch should’ve been worried or at least skeptical. But instead, he was beside himself with excitement. “A tournament...a chance to show off the Ken Raijingu-Ryū! This is just what I need! I’ll get tons of new students this way. I’ll do it!”

Rokuhara looked Hatch over and nodded. “First I’ll need to see what you’re capable of.”

■■■■

“Behold the Ken Raijingu-Ryū’s special technique: Palm—uack!” Hatch’s cry was interrupted with a quick jab to his stomach. Rokuhara was faster than any middle-aged monk had the right to be. Dodging, weaving and striking with immense speed.

“Quit announcing your attacks before you strike! I cannot imagine a worse habit for a combatant to possess!”

Hatch took the monk’s advice on the chin—almost literally, as a wicked left hook whiffed just in front of his jaw. Rokuhara’s stance was unlike any Hatch had seen, and he had seen plenty in his young lifetime of street fighting. The monk kept both his arms high in front of his face, bobbing them up and down while keeping his legs mostly straight.

“He’s not even usin’ his legs at all,” Hatch noted. “Guess they don’t know how to kick where he’s from.”

“This style is called prizefighting, quite popular in...Tonogasha,” the monk said after giving it some thought. “I believe ‘boxing’ is another term for it—though I highly doubt you’ve heard of either.”

Hatch whiffed a roundhouse kick that was meant for Rokuhara’s shoulder. “What the heck does punchin’ have to do with boxes?!”

Missing the kick left the young man’s back exposed, prompting the monk to close distance with a lunge forward. Hatch turned in time to see an uppercut sailing right under his chin. He winced and braced his teeth for impact. It wasn’t the first concussion the martial artist had taken.

But the hit never came; Rokuhara halted his fist right under Hatch’s chin.

“The Hyugan style of kicking is flashy, I’ll admit, but it leaves one too open to being rushed down. There’s much you’ll need to work on.”

Hatch spat out a wad of blood. He had bitten down on his own tongue while bracing for the punch that never landed. He was in a sore mood, and though he was still on his feet his pride as a martial artist had just suffered a knockout. 

“You talk like you’re not a Hyugan yourself! Who taught you this style, anyway?” Hatch asked, adopting the raised-fist stance to get a feel for it. “And if you’re such a capable fighter, why don’t you join the Kumite? Why bother with me?”

At that moment, for but a blink of the eye, something on Rokuhara’s face moved. It was as if all his features shifted and blurred, like the stroke of a painter’s brush across canvas. Hatch couldn’t believe his eyes.

The monk turned around and muttered under his breath. “I can’t keep up this...form very long. By that I mean endurance, of course. I’m older than I look,” he turned back to face Hatch and grinned, his features back where they belonged. “Now then, do you wish to learn what I know or not?”

Hachirobei was already starting to shake his head out of stubborness, until the words from Grandpa repeated inside his head. “Keep an open mind. To one style, never limit yourself.”

Hatch looked up and smiled, up into the heavens where he knew his grandfather was. The heavens answered with a raindrop. Hatch shook it off and returned his gaze back to his opponent, this time with a grin.

“Alright, monk! The Ken Raijingu-Ryū has no limits—and neither do I!”

■■■■

Tanjiro, also known as Tan-kun, hadn’t seen his pal Hatch around in days, and with the week closing in he was beginning to worry. The odds of paying off such a steep loan with Chō-Han were low, especially when he didn’t know how to look for cheating.

“Poor guy is going to lose his home. The least I can do is offer him a bottle of Eguchi’s watered-down best,” Tanjiro thought aloud on his way to the dojo. The two used to hang around there all the time when they were younger, before Tan-kun joined Shibuya & Sons and became an overworked shipwright.

“I sure miss those days,” he sighed as he looked over the Ken Raijingu Dojo. The door was already open so he let himself in. Then he sneezed—the culprit was the white fur littered across the tatami floor. “Just great, a cat must’ve made its home here. At least it’ll keep the rats away.”

But even disregarding his allergies, the sight inside the training hall was enough for Tanjiro to stagger a breath. Hatch was hanging in the air, tied in ropes—one on each arm and each leg—attached to two columns across the hall. His legs were outstretched into a painful split while his face contorted in pain as he grunted and held back a cry.

The Bhuddist monk, Rokuhara, sat beside a water clock—a crude device involving water buckets to keep track of time. “Two hours have passed! That’s enough,” the monk said, concern growing in his voice. “Let me get you down from there before you get hurt.”

“No!” Hatch yelled through clenched teeth. “I can do it! Aaaaah!”

Hatch roared out to summon what strength remained in him, pulling at the ropes to lift himself up. Suspended into the air, his entire body trembled. And it was more than just him: the columns trembled, too, shaking from the force pulling against them. Tiles from the roof came falling down as Hatch wailed out his warrior’s cry.

“Don’t do it, Hatch! It’s too dangerous,” Tanjiro yelled. “The dojo is falling apart!”

The martial artist couldn’t hear his best friend nor pay any heed to the danger he was in. Hatch was the sole practitioner of the Ken Raijingu-Ryū and the only student of his grandfather. This was to honor Choe Yeong. Hatch had to become stronger if he was going to save his home!

“So this is the resolve of a Hyugan,” the monk whispered between coughs. The fighting hall had become filled with dust from the fallen tiles. “The samurai spirit is quite a sight indeed.”

“The Ken Raijingu-Ryū...lives through me!” Hatch roared as the column attached to his left arm and leg collapsed, his leg hitting the ground hard in an agonizing split against the floor.

Yet Hatch didn’t scream or cry. He didn’t even blink. He stared out at the monk and when the dust settled, he nodded.

“I’m ready.”

■■■■

It was midway through the afternoon when Hatch, Tan-kun and Rokuhara made their way towards Jijinto Temple. Though that wasn’t its official name, it had earned the title: it was the largest temple in the city and sat at the top of the tallest hill. It was a holy site in an otherwise sinful city, though even it possessed a dark underbelly beneath the surface. Literally, in its case.

“You tellin’ me this hill has been hollow all this time?” Hatch asked as the three made their way through an entrance into the dirt mound, the opening flanked by yakuza checking for weapons on either side. Even beneath the ground you could hear the yells of merchants hawking their wares above. The wives of fishermen were trying to sell what remained of the day’s catch.

“We’re at the center of the busiest marketplace in the city,” said Tan-kun. “Crazy as it is, some folks would pay handsomely to live in a location like this. I guess it’s—”

Just then, a group of bats flew by the rafters overhead. The two Jijinto locals looked and each other and gulped.

“Nevermind the ambiance,” said Rokuhara, gesturing them forth. “The cavern opens up ahead. That must be where the Kumite is being held.”

The monk was on the mark and sure enough, a swarm of tough-looking men and women sporting tattoos were up ahead. Above them was a hole in the ceiling, allowing enough sunlight to light up the arena floor. It was made of clay and reminded Hatch of a sumo wrestling ring, though this ring was many times larger than what wrestlers used.

The walls were braced with wooden logs and an extensive series of rafters were crisscrossed overhead. Hatch had feared he’d be cramped down here but the ceiling stretched higher than any the street fighter had seen before. The only comparison that came to him was a temple, but instead of worshipping spirits...they worshipped violence instead.

A scream a spray of blood shot through the air as a gang war threatened to spark inside the underground cavern. This was a meeting of the toughest criminal groups Hyuga had to offer. Hatch and his companions began to realize that the greatest danger they faced wasn’t a cave-in.

“Alright, next!” Barked a yakuza holding a long scroll of papers. “To every contender waitin’: get ready to strip and show your ink. You need tattoos and an invitation for a shot in the ring.”

Hatch did a double-take. He hadn’t realized that only yakuza would be able to compete in the event. Rokuhara was also surprised, pulling the street fighter aside and getting the group into a huddle. He spoke with hurried whispers, and ordered Tan-kun off to fetch a squid for ink.

“I’m a rather accomplished artist, if I may brag. Enough to trick them into thinking it’s a tattoo,” said the monk after Tan-kun left. “What design would you wish me to paint upon you, Hachirobei? A tiger? Or a dragon, perhaps?”

It was then that Hatch caught another glimpse of the monk’s necklace, which he now kept hidden under his orange robes. Though it had taken him this long, Hatch finally recalled where he had seen that cross before.

“Rokuhara,” Hachirobei said, sounding serious, “tell me about that cross you’re wearin’ around your neck. What does it mean?!”

The monk coughed and only then did Hatch realize he had grabbed the man by the collar out of instinct. He released his grip but not the grimace on his face. “Mother...why did you leave Grandpa and me? I need to know!”

Rokuhara pulled out the necklace from within his robes for a better view. “This...this means a lot of things to a lot of people.” He traced his finger over the man bound by stakes, and over the unfamiliar letters inscribed above him. “It means resurrection and salvation. Liberation from—”

“Use some easier words, damn you! Just tell me what it means!”

Hatch yelled loud enough to quiet the chamber. He didn’t care that he was getting unwanted attention, nor was he concerned by their stares and sneers. He just wanted to know why his mother left him. Why she had abandoned him and Grandpa all those years ago.

Rokuhara closed his eyes and nodded. “It means to be saved. If not in this life...than the one after.”

Hatch didn’t know a thing about being saved, or of any life other than the one he had now. It didn’t make any sense and maybe it wasn’t supposed to; as far as he figured, there was no reason for a mother to run out on her kid. Hatch nodded to himself as Tan-kun arrived with a fresh squid in hand.

“Alright then,” Hatch said, taking the squid and looking it in the eyes. “Paint the cross on me, monk. If it has any meaning—I’ll find it myself!”

Rokuhara’s eyes went wide, wide beyond what any Hyugan’s were capable of. After giving it ample thought, he nodded, chuckling as he did so. “To bear such a symbol...you are the oddest Hyugan I’ve ever met, Hachirobei.”

“I don’t know what you were tryin’ to save, Mother,” Hatch said to himself. “But I’m gonna save the dojo and all the memories Grandpa and I shared!”

■■■■

The tournament had a problem aside from bat droppings and a lack of restrooms: there was an odd number of combatants. The yakuza decided the solution was a three man free-for-all, randomly selected among the entrants.

Unfortunately for Hatch, his number was called along with two fighters from the Yamagata-gumi. They weren’t just the biggest yakuza group in Hyuga—they were the hosts of the Kumite and had their leader, Lord Yamagata, watching down from a throne above the arena. That they had the home-field advantage went without saying.

“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” said a muscled woman who swaggered into the ring. She cracked her neck and her knuckles, and looked intent on cracking Hatch, too. “What sort of dumbass walks around with a giant cross on his face? Not to mention that karate getup. What a joke!”

Because the squid ink was painted atop his skin and not stained inside it (like an actual yakuza) the only place Rokuhara could put it was on his face. The cross went across his eyelids and down his nose, reaching down to the tip of his chin and up to his red headband. Though the ink had dried enough not to run, Hatch thought it best not to take any blows to the face just in case.

“As if I needed another reason to keep my guard up,” Hatch thought to himself as his second opponent made his way to the ring.

This one didn’t swagger so much as lumbered. He was a bald giant of a man yet he carried himself much smaller than one would expect. The reason, Hatch realized, had everything to do with the woman who was giving him a sneer.

“Daisuke. Last time we fought was back in Yamato, ain’t that right? I went by a different name back then—still gonna kick your ass, though!”

Daisuke nodded. “T-that’s right, Nishi. Back then, you’s were called Norik—ouch!”

The battle had begun with a stiff kick to the giant’s shin. Nishi spat on the clay floor before smacking her fist into an open palm. “Forget that name you oversized idiot! Boss wants a show for his new wife—we’ll give him one. First, go take out ‘Crossface’ over there. After he’s gone we’ll get the real battle started!”

A gong sounded after Nishi’s order was given, and Daisuke charged forward at Hatch like a wild boar on two legs. He was about as steady as one—the kick to his shin made his running awkward, but he didn’t have to run far to reach Hatch on the other side of the ring.

“Don’t let him push you out of the ring, Hachi! You’ll lose if he does!” yelled Tan-kun from the stands. It was good advice but had also taken Hatch’s attention away from the present moment. Not good when that moment involved a giant ball of sweaty force in his direction.

“Hya—argh…” Hatch let out a welp as he braced himself against the giant’s weight. Daisuke was shirtless and sweaty, which didn’t make it easy nor appealing to grab hold of him. With the yakuza’s large stomach pressed against him, Hatch had to crane is neck not to get a facefull of the man’s blubber.

“Get ‘em outta there!”

“Break this wimp into pieces!”

“Go on, Daisuke! Sit on him!”

The crowd wasn’t on Hatch’s side and neither were the forces of gravity. Hatch’s knees threatened to buckle as he felt his back heels on the ring’s outer line. He knew one step backwards would be the end of not just him, but the Ken Raijingu Dojo.

And though knowing was half the battle, he didn’t have the power within his limbs to step forward. In a competition of brute strength, Hatch would never win. But the martial artist had been in enough fights to know strength wasn’t everything. He had to remember his training. He had to get down deeper than any man felt comfortable—literally!

“Eiiyaaah!” Hatch roared, falling into a split and punching Daisuke in his gut. Though he was aiming for his stomach, the sudden maneuver had toppled the giant forward, towards and over him. The punch ended up connecting in a decidedly more sensitive area below the belt.

“Oh! Oh…!” Daisuke let out a series of high-pitched gasps as he clutched his privates and flopped over Hachirobei, squirming in pain as he landed outside the line.

Hatch expected anger and boos from the crowd for downing one of their comrades. But the yakuza, for all their faults, had a wicked sense of humor. Case in point was Nishi, who was bent over in amusement, pointing and laughing at Daisuke’s crumpled figure.

“Hahahaha! Right in the nuts! Could’ve sworn I heard one pop—that’s too good!”

The crowd’s attitude towards Hatch had shifted tremendously as the laughter continued to echo across the underground chamber. A bit of humor was more than welcomed in such a tense environment. Though there was at least one yakuza who didn’t appreciate it.

“Cease thissss circus!” Shouted a middle-aged woman who sat at Lord Yamagata’s side. She wore a white silk wedding kimono and was covered in so much jewelry Hatch doubted she could stand. “I, Shiroyama, sssshall not have my wedding ceremony be made a farce of! I demand you fight!”

The mood was killed as the chuckles turned to murmurs. Hatch recovered from his split and prepared for round two. He had a hunch that the same technique wouldn’t work so well on the foul-mouthed woman.

“Well screw me sideways! You’re flexible, Crossface, I’ll give you that much. But there’s somethin’ you don’t know about this tournament.” Nishi raised out a hand and let out a whistle. A wooden staff came hurling in her direction. She caught it and pointed it towards Hatch’s face. “Anything goes!”

The yakuza charged forth with her staff overhead. It was too long for Hatch to dodge—he had to block, and brought his arm above his head to do just that.

*WHAM*

Hatch retreated and cradled his blocking arm. It stung as if it had just gone through a hornet’s nest and ached as if it was nearly broken. His opponent was remarkably strong—and wild, too, swinging her staff about in a frenzy. The crowd cheered her on, and she was more than willing to bask in the applause.

The street fighter went into the monk’s boxing stance with his hands raised. The swings of the staff were not so different than kicks from the legs—there was an opening afterwards. Hatch saw one and charged forward, no differently than Rokuhara had done against him. Nishi’s front torso was complete exposed to an attack, though the torso itself proved to be a problem.

“Crap, I forgot she’s a girl! Should I really hit one?” Hatch thought as he darted in. His chivalry towards women would prove to be his undoing, as Nishi recovered and whipped the backside of her staff into Hatch’s ribs.

Hatch shot out a glob of blood from his mouth. He was lucky if all his ribs were still in one piece.

“Keep it together, Hachi! You’re going to get seriously hurt if you don’t!” yelled Tan-kun from the stands.

His best friend was right. Hatch had to remain focused, but that wasn’t easy when you were facing down an insane yakuza with a weapon. It didn’t help that Nishi had wizened up to Hatch’s advances; her swings became less reckless, cutting his chances of charging in for another blow.

“I have to get rid of that staff,” Hatch thought to himself and grinned. Though it wasn’t quite a grin—he was clenching his teeth in preperation for pain.

*whack*

Hatch met Nishi’s swing with his leg, as his roundhouse kick snapped up against the wood to stop it mid-swing. It would probably have been less painful to have let the strike land, but the martial artist was nothing if not stubborn. The same could also be said for Nishi, as she continued swinging over and over again.

*whack*

*whack*

*whack*

“What in the hell is wrong with this guy?!” Nishi yelled in frustration. The entire audience went quiet, though upon the sound of each brutal exchange they gasped and cheered for another. The two combatants continued as wood clashed against bone.

*whack*

*whack*

*whack*

*whack*

Hatch could no longer feel his leg, only the tremors that went up it and across the rest of his body as his nerves lit aflame. But he wasn’t going to stop. For the future of the Ken Raijingu-Ryū, he couldn’t!

“Eiiyah!” he roared, sounding more like a stallion than a man. He certainly kicked like one.

*whaCRACK*

The staff snapped and the crowd cried out in excitement. With Nishi’s defenses gone, Hatch wasted no time as he flipped to his other foot, bringing his leg around hard into the side of Nishi’s face.

It landed with enough force to send the yakuza rolling across the clay arena floor. Hoots and hollers and chants of ‘Crossman’ broke out from the audience. Hatch would’ve enjoyed the moment more if his right leg wasn’t screaming out in agony.

The battle wasn’t over, though, as Nishi’s body hadn’t past over the ring. When the street fighter staggered over to her, he found her sniffling and cradling her head in pain. Hurting a girl went against Hatch’s moral code, causing him to forget the match long enough to kneel down and offer a hand to help the yakuza up.

The sniffling became a snicker. Nishi turned over and tossed a fistful of sand into Hatch’s eyes, following up with an elbow directed into the street fighter’s gut.

Hachirobei gasped out in surprise and pain. He could taste his own vomit and smell his own blood; he hear the cheers echoing around him and he could feel the nerves across his body burn. But he couldn’t see a thing. He blinked and scratched his eyes in a desperate attempt to regain his vision, but to no avail.

“Huah!” Hatch cried out as Nishi landed a fist into his neck. The blinded martial artist couldn’t defend himself, and Nishi was more than willing to take advantage. Punches and kicks came at him from every angle; before long, just the anticipation of the strike was enough to rattle Hatch’s resolve. He cradled his arms around his head to protect his skull as the rest of him submitted to Nishi’s beating.

“You landed a good kick on me, Crossman. Think I’ll pay back the favor by turnin’ you into a bleeding punchin’ bag!”

Nishi was true to her word, cutting Hatch’s lips open with a wicked cross across the cheek. Hatch tried and failed to fend her off, swinging wildly out of fear. It wasn’t until he took a nasty conk on the head that his brain and better senses starting working again.

His mind took him to the past, to the words of his grandfather. “Maintain focus you must, Hachi-kun! Engraving the strikes into your mind, the purpose of the form is. Perform them even while blinded, you should be able to!”

*thunk*

Hatch swung out an arm to block Nishi’s incoming kick. It had surprised him as much as it did her, but the martial artist wouldn’t stop now. He closed his eyes—he didn’t need them, not to perform the form Grandpa had taught him.

One punch led to another, then a sidestep, a low block and then a front kick. Every movement was crisp; each technique was performed to the standards of Choe Yeong, a master who had come to Hyuga from a foreign land. With each punch and kick Hachirobei let out a kiai—a shout—that commanded so much power that it drew the crowd silent.

Everyone watched as Hatch performed his powerful routine, blocking and striking at Nishi even with his eyes closed. The clay crumpled beneath his feet at every strike. Nishi, getting clever, tossed a stone ahead of Hatch to draw his ears and attention away from her. But he wasn’t listening, and unfortunately for her—the next attack in his form was a reverse stance spinning side kick!

“Shiiit!” Nishi cried out, staggering backwards and clutching her stomach. She had to fall to a knee to recover her breath.

And though she was off her feet, the yakuza boss was on his. Lord Yamagata bellowed from above. “I recognize that technique! It can be no other’s!”

Nishi cursed again as she got back up on her feet. She then let out another whistle. Another weapon was thrown to her—this one, a heavy iron gauntlet. She put it on her right hand and made a fist, grinning all the while.

Hatch could see now, well enough at least to see he was in trouble. He was sore and wobbly and running off adrenaline. But when he saw Nishi charge ahead with her iron fist, he knew he had to meet it with his.

Grandpa’s words once again resonated inside his only grandson and pupil. Hatch put on a boyish grin as he ran forth, determination in his stride. “I know what’s behind my punches now, Grandpa! What matters most...is to protect the people I love and care about! That’s why I fight! ORA!”

The punches collided and the iron gauntlet broke into pieces. The crowd went crazy as Nishi flew backwards, collapsing beyond the line and ending the match.

“Yattaaaa! You did it! Hachi-kun, you did it!” Tan-kun yelled in joy, storming the arena and raising Hatch’s hand high in the air as a sign of victory. Hatch was still in shock from the whole ordeal, but smiled and thanked the new fans that gathered around him.

He then brought his sleeve across his face to wipe the sweat from his brow. It ended up being the biggest mistake he could’ve made.

“Eh? There somethin’ on my face?” Hatch asked before looking down at his sleeve and seeing it covered in ink. He had smudged the cross right off of his forehead.

“Oh, crap.”

■■■■

“I never thought I’d see Yeong-sama’s grandson in my fighting ring, with a smudged Christian cross on his face, no less!” said Lord Yamagata. He had his tattooed arms crossed with an expression on his face that Hatch couldn’t read.

But he could certainly read the scowls of the fearsome yakuza who surrounded him. Most of them looked ready to scalp Hatch alive for wearing fake tattoos and competing in their tournament. When they voiced as much, their boss told them to quiet down.

“Shut up! After putting on such a performance, I’ve decided that I will allow you and your friend to leave. No harm, no foul.”

Tan-kun let out a sigh of relief. Hatch looked around for Rokuhara but the monk was nowhere to be found. His focus turned to the dojo. “I take it you know my grandpa, then. I’ve been meaning to ask about a debt of his…” Hatch went on to explain his situation and of the three thugs who came to the dojo trying to collect.

The news surprised Lord Yamagata, who looked towards his new wife, Shiroyama, with a frown. The woman let out a hiss, remarking that it was an outstanding debt and that she had wanted the books cleaned for their marriage. To that, the yakuza boss shook his head.

“Yeong-sama could’ve taken my place, had he put on the ink. But he preferred a simpler life. May he rest well...and may his dojo live on. Your debts are cleared with us, Crossman.”

Hatch jumped in excitement, before crying in pain from his damaged leg. He collapsed on his back, everyone laughing including him. It had all turned out fine in the end. Looking up into the rafters, into the shadows above, Hatch saw a pair of golden eyes looming over him. The figure looked more beast than human, vile and feral, with a katana at its hip.

“Isn’t that the samurai I saw before?” Hatch wondered, but before he could tell anyone else, the figure vanished. He began to doubt his own eyes.

But the one thing he didn’t doubt was that the Ken Raijingu-Ryū would live on. His grandpa’s legacy was saved, and more than that, Hatch now understood the true power behind his punches.