In the Duwamish there is a small island close to the west bank, where the spider lilies bloom. In Seattle’s city bounds, fighting is only permitted in sport or defense; but even in an abode of Amadi there comes a time where two parties ask not for a fight, but demand war. Seattle preferred peace, and harmony with nature, but nature is savage and so are the men made demonic by hate. For the clashing of demons,
Shura-ba Island was set aside, and the graveyard on its eastern tip has grown ever since.
***
Ken Saltchuck, the Ninth Manager of Daiso Fist, had the honor of setting foot on the Island first. During his induction into the upper ranks of the society, he stopped a rival applicant’s heart with a two-finger jab, demonstrating for the first time a frightening skill with that quantity known to some as the Force, and to others as Ki. But a society is only as strong as its weakest link, and the honor of a society is a delicate thing. Lately a middle-aged stranger had taken to provoking young Daiso Fist practitioners in taverns and temples alike, and his repeated “self-defense” threatened to destroy the reputation of the style, a reputation built up through careful tailoring of messages to particular audiences (promising to treat the merchants’ sons with kid-gloves, or to give the soldiers’ sons a proper education) and the projection of a general air of invincibility even in a scrap with the Jedi. Ken was persuaded to deal with this himself, and though it was a dishonor in itself to be so concerned about a single unaffiliated stranger’s challenge, to deal with this problem personally was a manly thing. And if there was a way to conceptualize an act within the relations of honor and penance, it would be done. On the back of Ken’s uniform, patterned on the black tracksuits of the Ancients, were the totemic words embroidered in red: SHIFT STARTS WHEN YOU CLOCK IN, SHIFT ENDS WHEN THE JOB’S DONE.
The stranger arrived second, ferried across the river by kayak. Behind him, a crowd of two hundred spread out along the banks, finding comfortable stumps and patches of grass to sit and watch the show. Twice as many had come to see the match between Ken and the… dearly departed former head of the Nijiya-Do; but that was a match between affiliates. This, however, was an execution of a promising talent, who might have been a great man if only he’d been a bit more respectful. The stranger introduced himself to the city guard as “Reese”, but as far as Ken was concerned the only man who needed to know that name was the gravestone-carver.
Reese’s loose and simple flax tunic flapped slightly in the wind; he cracked his neck, and echoes of the sound stirred the birds out of the nearby trees. The two men circled among the spider-lilies, waiting for the call from across the river to begin the match. After ten tense seconds, a sharp whistle rang out from the banks, and Ken lunged first.
The game-ending blow was delivered… and missed, as Reese darted back. He leaned forward again, and blood dripped from the tip of his nose. It had been sanded flat, as if put against a lathe. Ken exhaled slowly, and his forearm smoked gently from the exertion.
Reese caught the next punch in his own palm. A third of the crowd had run off to grab their friends; those who remained drowned out the rushing river with their wild whoops and cheers. The unfolding match was like the story of the Park-Ranger and the Bear, but who was the Ranger and who was the Bear changed with each passing moment, as each fighter turned from poised hunter to whirling storm of sinews and back again. The drums of war sounded in Ken’s ears, but still he devoted whatever thought he could spare to figuring out his enemy’s style. Here was the grappling of Tacoma; there, the weightless leaping of Victoria; again, the bone-conditioning of Bella Coola; and amid it all, something that seemed to be Reese’s own, a sort of drunken stumble, an excessive movement which drew in and confused the eyes, redirected at the strangest moments into perfect stability or overwhelming force. A neat trick, turned into something useful by speed and good judgement. There was something familiar about it, something unnerving, but for all that Ken gave as good as he got. Surely Shura-ba Island had been named in expectation of a fight like this, surely it had risen from the Duwamish for just this moment. But as the fire rose, the humor burned away. Both were growing exhausted, but each was the other’s jailer.
Reese was the first to lose his cool. Sucking in his breath, he thrust his arms out to either side, and inflated to over twice his size. As Ken put his arms out to grapple with this apparent monstrosity, Reese— who had merely appeared to grow larger— slipped between Ken’s arms and slammed his forehead into Ken’s jaw. Ken retreated to a safe distance, cradling his head, but to keep him dazed Reese yelled out. “You like that? Learned it from a peasant out in the Yukon, and he learned it from the moose. I thought I’d let you know— after all, it was you who paid for my training!”
The first words spoken, and the last link in Ken’s chain of thought. How had he failed to recognize such an enemy, even after twenty years’ absence? “No, it can’t be… Lu Pasiuk? What would you want with me? It was the City which exiled you for breaking the Jianghu Code!”
The man formerly known as Reese barked out a laugh. “All I did was make a wholesaler’s son run a few extra laps. But then you and the Eighth Manager went and tweezed the judges’ ears a bit, and just like that I was on a boat to nowhere.”
Ken wiped away at the sweat on his brow. “So, what now? You’re going to start the society you dreamed of? You’ve only got five more years of fighting left in you, and then you’ll be an invalid with his head stuck in another age.”
“I’ll do more in two years than you did in twenty, and you knew it even back then, Saltchuck. Let’s call it like it is. You pushed away a problem you couldn’t solve, and now that problem is ten times harder, and a hundred times more ready to kick your shit in. I’m going to tear down everything you built and everything your mentor left you.”
A step too far. “
You half-Mormon dog!” Lu raised his arms but Ken batted them aside. “
Just who,” and with this he drove both of his thumbs into Lu’s upper chest, right between his collarbones, “
do you think you are?” Lu was blown back a distance wholly disproportionate to the force of Ken’s prodding, but as he rose back to his feet his knees buckled and he coughed up a gob of blood.
Ken stood over his dying enemy. “You should have read up on me. I’ve attacked your Ki itself, Lu. I’ve reversed the direction of your blood flow, and it will destroy your body from within. You should have just curled up and died in the northern wastes, but instead you’ll cough up your life here.”
The unnatural flow tore through Lu’s veins, robbing him of his breath. His head pounded until he could hear nothing else. His nose filled up, his mouth was dry, his stomach churned. Every part of him screamed out for relief or else for a quick end, every part but a hard core deep within, built up over his odyssey along the islands and inlets. Nearly dying in on some guano-crusted rock, being rescued by Haida fishermen, waking up among the scholars in Joono, recovering his good sense and resolve, meeting people as he had never seen living lives as he had never imagined; the memories spooled out like a rope, and he held tight. His heart worked determinedly to still the flow of blood, though it would surely kill him if he took too long. With the last of his life he struggled, moment by moment, to the future beyond.
Ken’s greatest skill was undone before his eyes. “What? No, that’s impossible! How could any person have this much vitality?” Ken wanted to move, wanted to swim back across the Duwamish, but terror clenched his feet and set his hands shaking.
Lu was breathing so hard he could barely speak, but speak he did. “
You idiot… You might as well have tried to turn back the sea!”
He closed the distance in a kind of unconscious tumble, but as his eyes shot open he swung his leg, and it connected with Ken’s side like an axe splitting a tree. The last Manager of Daiso Fist screamed as his spine twisted and splintered, and two massive gashes tore open in his twisting torso, spraying hot giblets across the Duwamish and onto the unfortunate crowd. The spider-lilies accepted this offering more quietly, their rustling like quiet laughter amid the yelps of surprise and disgust from the opposite bank.
Ferried back across the river, Lu Pasiuk announced the founding of the All-Under-Heaven Society, founded on the principles of constant experimentation, openness, and equal treatment. Those who had not already left to clean their clothes became its founding generation.
— From “Duel in the First Turn of Nirvana,” a short story distributed by All-Under-Heaven practitioners to attract new members.