It should have been the end of the House of Sinanju. But Wang went out into the wilderness to fast, subsisting on rice hulls and grass, meditating on the fate of the village of Sinanju on the rock-bound coast of West Korea Bay, which for generations had survived only because the cream of its manhood went out into a hostile world to ply the trade of assassin and protector of thrones.
One night a ring of fire appeared in the sky before Wang and spoke in a clear voice.
"Men do not use their minds and their bodies as they should," said the voice of the ring of fire to the Great Wang. "They waste their spirit and their strength."
And in a single burst a flame, the ring off fire imparted the ultimate knowledge that came to be known as the art of Sinanju, then vanished forever.
What Wang had learned he passed down to Ung, and Ung to Gi and on until in the midtwentieth century the last pure Master of Sinanju, Chiun, passed it on to Remo Williams. Remo dismissed ninety percent of the colorful stories and legends that accompanied the teaching of Chiun-especially the ring of fire, which sounded like a medieval UFO sighting-but emerged from his training breathing with his entire body, which in turn awakened his entire brain and unlocked the limitless potential of his body.
Among these abilities were increased reflexes, heightened senses and near-absolute control over his body. It had long ago ceased to be a conscious thing. It had become ingrained. Second nature. Remo no longer had to think about the simple tricks like climbing sheer walls, sensing enemies and dodging what the first Master who encountered them had called "flying teeth" and today are known as bullets. Remo's body performed those maneuvers automatically.
Remo heard the sound of the black-powder explosions before the first lead musket balls whistled toward him. That much was unexpected, because modern rounds fly at supersonic speed and usually reached his vicinity before his ears heard the shot.
Remo had been trained to never wait for gunfire. Instead, the click of a falling hammer or the jacking of a round into a chamber was the trigger for the bullet-dodging reflexes to come into play. There were many techniques. Remo liked to let the bullets come at him, tracking their trajectories until the last possible moment and then casually sidestepping out of their deadly path and back into place so it seemed to a gunman that the bullet had passed harmlessly through his target.
It was easy. Remo's ears might not be able to hear the shot because even supersensitive ears had to await the arrival of the sound, but the eyes read threatening motion as fast as light. So Remo tracked bullets as they came and got out of their way.
These lead balls were to a modern round what a Ping-Pong ball was to an arrow. There was no comparison. His reflexes, accustomed to the supersonic speed of approaching death, hardly stirred.
One ball came toward his side. Remo didn't even have to dodge it. He just leaned to the right slightly, placing his left hand on his hip.
The musket ball obligingly whistled through the open space between his rib cage and his bent left elbow.
Another ball arced toward his head.
Remo bent his knees. The ball grazed the top of his dark hair. Normally that would have been bad form and cause for a severe rebuke from Chiun, but the big lead ball was so clumsy and unthreatening that Remo experienced a playful urge, as if someone had tossed a big blue beach ball in his direction. It was more fun to let it touch hair than do a full evade.
A third ball, probably because it hadn't been rammed down the musket barrel with enough force, dropped desultorily toward his shoe. Remo kicked it back like a golf ball, and it dropped a Zouave, who went down clutching his crotch.
Grinning, Remo turned toward Chiun, and his jaw dropped-
A second volley had been fired at the Master of Sinanju. Remo hadn't been aware of the fate of the first. Only that if he could so easily dodge lead musket balls, so could Chiun.
Four balls came at the Master of Sinanju so slowly they all but announced their arrival.
The Master of Sinanju simply stood there. Remo's grin widened. Chiun was playing, too. But as the balls converged on his frail black-clad form, the old Korean did not move.
Remo's smile froze.
Then Remo was moving in on an interior line-an attack line. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong. The Master of Sinanju was not defending himself.
Remo would have to intercept those suddenly deadly spheres himself. Intercept and deflect-even if it cost him his hands.
Chapter 5
Remo Williams had both arms extended, with hands open to their fullest, to capture the hurtling lead balls before they could impact upon the sweetly wrinkled features of the unmoving Master of Sinanju. Then Remo felt a stinging sensation in the center of his chest that knocked his legs out from under him, along with the wind from his powerful lungs.
I'm hit, he thought wildly, even as his brain told him that was impossible. No slow-moving lead ball could strike a full Master of Sinanju without warning.
But his body told him he was in great pain.
Flat on his back, through the pain, Remo stared up in surprise.
And beheld the Master of Sinanju withdraw the extended arm that had struck Remo in the chest to calmly bat the musket balls back at those who had the effrontery to hurl them at his awesome presence.
Chiun used the heels of his palms. He had formed the kind of half fists most often used for striking short blows, fingers curled high and tight against themselves so that the palm flesh lay exposed.
With quick, sharp motions, Chiun struck glancing blows at the unmoving balls. Two blows per hand, four balls in all.
Caroming off his palms with meaty smacks, they careered back toward the muskets that had loosed them. Not with quite the velocity of the black powder explosions that had sent them winging out of their musket barrels, but still with enough energy to sting mightily when they struck flesh.
A smoking musket shattered along its barrel. A man was thrown back from the bone-breaking impact of a lead ball hitting his shoulder. Another went down with a shattered kneecap. The fourth received his ball back square in the breastbone and flew backward as if mule-kicked.
"That was how Kang fended off the flying teeth when boom-sticks were first inflicted on civilization," said Chiun as Remo climbed to his feet.
"Fine," Remo said tightly. "But that doesn't mean you had to knock me flat."
"You were about to throw away your thick fingered hands for nothing, thick one. Observe and you, too, will be able to duplicate a feat infant masters in training achieve in their first week. Korean masters in training, of course."
"Bull," said Remo, who nevertheless watched closely as a third volley came whistling toward the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun pressed his hands together before his face in an attitude of prayer. Two balls made for his face. Remo had to hold himself back, because Chiun stood completely immobile, with no body vibration warning that he was prepared to dodge or strike back.
Instead, when the lead balls were a scant three inches before his unblinking eyes, the Master of Sinanju made his hands fly apart, knocking the balls away at right angles with dull smacks. They flew toward two other musketeers who were aiming their weapons at them.
The pair yelped and stumbled to the ground, severely chastised.
"Let me try it," said Remo as another small volley was loosed.
He had to restrain himself from moving in to meet the spinning balls. They were just too slow in coming. But when they did arrive, Remo used the heels of his hands to redirect them.