A thick pole, dug and hammered into the ground, and tied to it a figure wrapped in a ragged assortment of dirty clothes, head hanging and seemingly left to rot.
Mai felt a jolt of dreadful memory strike her. It was as if the clock had turned back two decades and more. The person tied to the pole could have been her, many years ago. That person, she knew from experience, had somehow insulted the Clan. Maybe they had refused orders or struck a colleague out of turn. Maybe they had not listened hard enough. Maybe, if it was a girl, they had refused Gyuki’s nightmare offer.
I will fight you for your body. Winner takes all.
Now Mai felt rage rise like molten magma. The eruption was about to hit, and it would raze this village to the ground.
She launched herself forward, taking no chances and ignoring the tied body for now. Her timing was perfect. Shouts sprang up from the fighting square, shouts which signified Hibiki’s arrival. Mai cleared the temple steps in a single bound and yanked down on the heavy door handle. She pushed and a wedge of darkness was revealed, a path to the inner demon. Mai took the invite and stepped inside, letting her eyes grow accustomed to the gloom. The wooden floor was highly polished and bordered by a square of flickering candles.
Bishamon’s voice rang out hard and cold. “Remove your shoes before entering the temple of the Tsugarai.”
“I am here for my parents. And for you too. If you want my shoes… you come and take them.”
Bishamon rose to his feet, now an old man with long straggling hair and brown wrinkled skin. Mai saw no change in his physical appearance. It was his attitude toward her that was now out in the open. Before, he had always been the kindly granddad, the accommodating benefactor.
“Then you will die today, Mai Kitano.”
“Oh, how you have changed. Oh, how my clear understanding now makes your true colors shine through. The deeds you do are steeped in evil, old Master. The Devil will judge you.”
“How dare you?” Bishamon spluttered, coming across the candlelit square. As he walked, his robes flapped around his bare scrawny ankles, and white spittle flew from his chapped lips. “History has already judged me. I am seventy years old. Did God strike me down? No. Did the Devil send his Grim Reaper? No. My boot heels grind bone when they pass through forest and dojo and city street, Mai Kitano. That is the way of masters.”
“You are no God, Bishamon. Just a pitiless, loveless, bitter old man. The world will not miss you nor ever remember you.”
“Be as it may,” Bishamon whispered. “I will have your shoes. One way… or another.”
Mai had known she would be wasting her time, but she had to try. She would not hurt this man without an offer of repentance, no matter the suffering he had sanctioned. But now that offer was past its expiration date.
“For what you did to me. For what you made me. For the childhood you stole from an eight-year-old girl. For the love you ripped from my arms forever. I give you… this.”
And she leaped like a lion, a tiger, a vengeful warrior of legend; faster than even the old master’s eye could follow. Her flying kick took her across the flickering candles, across the polished square, finishing when the toe of her lead foot smashed Bishamon’s windpipe into pulp. The old master’s hands flew up, but he was already falling, already choking, already dead.
Mai spat on his cooling corpse.
“For all the innocence you have ever destroyed. For all the pure children you have corrupted. You will never get the chance again.”
And then she turned away, tears falling like rain from her eyes. Vengeance was never pretty, and it was hardly ever fulfilling. It never achieved its purpose, never reclaimed the things you had lost. But it was all she could take, and this entire mission had been about achieving it.
She kicked over all the candles and watched the floor set alight. She turned as if in a dream and walked over to the doors. She left the temple behind, a bad memory, her past finally overcome, avenged and erased.
Outside, the scene had changed. The body was still tied to the pole, but beyond it the village arena was in uproar. Hibiki had brought the boys all right, and every one of them was tooled up to the max, fully-vested even as far as face masks, and all were aware that even one of these tricky little Ninja warriors could take out a dozen men. Guns were trained on the students and their chiefs with unwavering dedication, primed to fire, and the highly trained professionalism of the Japanese special agency shone through.
Off the books mission, my ass, Mai thought. Seeing this, it was clear that Hibiki had offered the big dogs the Tsugarai, and they had chomped off not only his hand but his entire arm. But they still couldn’t have done it without her.
Or the sad death of a father and money launderer called Hayami.
Mai’s attention receded as the body tied to the pole struggled. It was time now for Mai to confront the younger version of herself and hope this person had not been corrupted beyond saving. She moved around the pole.
“Hi. You’re safe now. It’s over.”
The face came up, clearly Japanese and covered in dirt, blood and streaks of sweat. The black hair was matted, clumpy and stuck to the sides of her face. She looked to be young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and the look of hope which totally transformed her face lifted the shackles from Mai’s heavy heart.
“What’s your name, pretty one?”
“I am Grace. It’s Grace. But—”
Mai had questions, but didn’t want to ask them here. The sooner they got the victims away from this place, the sooner they could start to heal. “We’ll talk,” she said. “Later.”
“Look out!”
The shriek saved her life, but it wasn’t just the scream, it was the raw, unadulterated terror behind it. The hammered-in mortal fear that the attacker inspired.
Gyuki came at Mai with everything he had: punching, kicking, spinning and leg-sweeping. Mai took two heavy blows in the first four seconds and found herself reaching for that calm spring inside which focused her being. What she needed was something to give Gyuki pause, to make him doubt. He truly believed, possibly correctly, that he was the world’s greatest warrior. A man like that could win with brash confidence alone, but he could be shattered to a shadow of himself if he was made to sense doubt.
Mai spun away. “Bishamon is dead,” she breathed. “What will you do now?”
Gyuki flicked a glance at the burning temple. “I will survive.”
“The outside world will not accept a man like you.”
“It will have to.”
Gyuki sprang, executing a double front-kick. Mai caught both strikes on the palms of her hands and skipped back. Gyuki came in low, spinning and sweeping, but Mai hopped over the extended leg and came down hard as it flashed by.
The sole of her boot smashed his knee, drawing out a grimace of pain. Mai grinned. “I am better than you now. The best. Haven’t you heard?”
Gyuki suddenly stopped in his tracks, surprising her. “So you have accepted the invite?”
Mai narrowed her eyes in utter confused. “What?”
“You have accepted?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“This proposed tournament in the UK. It is all everyone talks about. Even the Clan received an invite. For me, of course. I will go. Some of the greatest warriors, fighters and military people on the planet are taking part. Others,” he eyed Mai speculatively, “Are not being given any choice.”
Mai shook her head in bemusement. “Assembled by who?”