Warriors of the Way-Pentalogy Read online

  Warriors of the Way

  Book 1

  The Spiritual Warriors

  Book 2

  The Ascendants

  Book 3

  The Fallen Warrior

  Book 4

  The Warrior Ascendant

  Book 5

  The Master Warrior

  The Warrior’s Creed

  I will train my heart and body for an unmovable spirit.

  I will pursue the true meaning of the warrior’s way,

  so that in time my senses may be alert.

  With true vigor I will cultivate a spirit of selflessness,

  I will observe the rules of courtesy,

  respect my elders and refrain from violence.

  I will follow my spiritual principles, never forgetting the true virtue of humility.

  I will look upwards to wisdom and strength, forsaking other desires.

  All my life, I will seek to fulfill the true meaning of the Warriors Way.

  BOOK 1

  THE SPIRITUAL WARRIORS

  PROLOGUE

  A PORTAL OPENED and two figures stepped out. The younger of the two looked down at his master with reverence and care as they walked into the park. It was a cold winter morning and he gently adjusted the older man’s scarf.

  “The lake has been poisoned for a long time, Wei,” said the old man as they walked down the path. The old man took slow measured steps as he held onto his student’s arm. His cane tapped the stones as they walked. His wispy hair blew in the slight breeze as he stopped to admire the trees.

  “I know, Samadhi. I have a stone whose ripples will impact us all.” said Wei. “He will be the catalyst we need.”

  “Sometimes it is better to cut down the tree than to fight to straighten it, especially when the roots have been twisted and corrupted.”

  “The cost would be too great, Samadhi,” said Wei.

  “Very well, the three align with you. Cast your stone and prepare,” said the old man.

  PROMOTION

  IT WAS 11:30p.m. The special promotion began at midnight. I found the small dojo almost by accident, walking by the entrance three times before locating the right door. Despite the fact that I had the address, it was almost as if the entrance was intentionally hidden. I didn’t discover until much later, that this was indeed the case. It was located in the basement of a nondescript building on Mott Street in lower Manhattan. The stairs leading to the entrance were an old steel set and creaked every time I stepped on them.

  The dojo itself was the definition of minimalism. I had trained in other dojos over the years, with the mirrors, and the characters drawn on long scrolls adorning the walls. Most had modern reception areas with computers and seating areas for guests. It seemed to me that visitors were actually discouraged in this dojo, since there was no seating area for people. A large wooden wall blocked the view of the dojo floor from the entrance. There was a desk and behind it sat a young woman of mixed ancestry. Her jet black hair framed her face, which seemed to be a cross between East Asian and something else I could not identify.

  She was thin and wiry, with a presence that radiated incredible strength. She was impeccably dressed in a white blouse that offset her bronze skin. She never spoke, at least not that I had heard and her face remained impassive as each person entered. What I noticed the most were her eyes. They were a deep green, which at first I figured for contacts. I didn’t know her name, and I got the feeling that I wouldn’t get that information anytime soon. She was stunning. I figured she was a gatekeeper of sorts and that she knew everyone who belonged or trained at the dojo.

  Once past her, there was a narrow hall that led to the dojo floor. There was a door on either side of the dojo that led to small changing rooms. The dojo itself was a large room devoid of columns. There were no windows. The floor was a polished hardwood. After the repeated knuckle pushups and poundings I took on it, it was my impression that the wood was petrified. I took off my shoes at the reception area and headed to the changing room.

  The changing room was as sparse as the rest of the dojo. There were no lockers, only small cubicles for your clothes. I dressed quickly; being late to a training session wasn’t an option. I changed into a white dogi, or uniform, which signaled my status as a beginner. It was made of a lightweight cotton material that absorbed sweat and became increasingly heavy as the training session progressed. In total there were eight students in the class that night. We lined up according to our ranks; those of us with white uniforms in the rear, and the most senior students in black uniforms in the front line. All of us were facing an older gentleman who must have been in his sixties, dressed in black with red trim. We bowed to each other. Then we stood and began the drills. The training session began like any other. We punched, kicked and moved in stances until my body felt it couldn’t move any more. Then we paired off. Those of us in white uniforms, the four of us, each faced a senior student dressed in black. It was customary to introduce ourselves prior to fighting, so we bowed to each other. The senior student extended his hand to me and I took it and we shook. It felt like gripping warm steel.

  “I’m Devin,” he said and smiled.

  I bowed. “Dante,” I said.

  “Stay alert, Dante. Tonight the Master is selecting who will move to the next rank. Whatever happens, you must not give up. Understand?”

  I looked at him with a question in my eyes. “Yes, I understand,” I said.

  Even though I had no way to prepare for what came next.

  The Master took a staff and tapped it on the floor: the signal to begin.

  At six feet and 210 pounds, I towered over Devin, and clearly outweighed him. I figured with my size and weight advantage, I only needed to hit him a few times, to make it easy on myself.

  I figured wrong.

  One of the basic principles of fighting is to hit without being hit. Devin had mastered this principle. Barely reaching five feet, he was a small, muscular shadow. Every time I punched, he evaded and peppered me with two or three punches, which I shrugged off. Initially, my kicks—which I considered to be fast—appeared to be moving in slow motion as he sidestepped them, only to fire off kicks of his own. Each time he connected, it felt like I was getting hit with an iron bar. At three minutes, I was breathing hard. After five minutes, it was all I could do to keep my head from being removed from my body by his kicks and punches, which just kept getting faster. After ten minutes, I was prepared to reconsider my decision to train at all. The Master tapped the staff signaling to stop.

  “Don’t quit, Dante,” Devin said.

  All I could do was keep breathing. My gi was soaked and clung to me like a second skin. Out of the other three white-uniformed students, it seemed only one was doing badly. Robert was his name. Streaks of blood covered his uniform. One of his eyes had been punched shut, and he was standing gingerly on one foot. I took this all in in a matter of seconds and realized that if we kept fighting, he was done. Another of the students—I think he called himself Zen—seemed to be doing about the same as I was.

  There was no clock in the dojo so I couldn’t tell how much time had passed. After what seemed like ten minutes, two students came out with staffs in their hands. Each of us was given a staff and faced our seniors. We all stepped back and only Robert and his senior remained. Robert looked about as bad as I felt. I didn’t think he would make it through the weapons portion of our particular torture. I made a move to go over to him but Devin gave me a look that rooted me to the spot. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, I understood that each of us would stand or fall on our own.

  “Focus, Dante,” Devin mouthed.

  I took a moment to center myself and breathe. Forcing all m
y energy into my lower abdomen, my breathing slowed and I was able to focus. I felt the moisture of my uniform and the hardwood under my feet. The weight of the staff in my hand was familiar, comfortable. My awareness expanded to include the other students; I sensed each one of them around me, we were connected.

  Robert stood in the center facing his senior. They bowed to each other and entered a fighting stance. Robert chose a stance that allowed him to compensate for his lack of vision in one eye. I could tell he was an accomplished fighter just from his stance. The senior facing him, I would later discover his name was Yoshiro or Yoshi as I heard him called often, stood about five-eleven. He was of average build and seemed unassuming—the type of person you would underestimate as an easy target. Yoshi assumed a neutral stance with the staff in his left hand. The master tapped the floor with his staff.

  Robert yelled and attacked with an overhead strike. Yoshi stepped… no, stepped would be the wrong word. He glided to the right, which was Robert’s blind side, and thrust at Robert’s left side. Robert barely had time to deflect the thrust before Yoshi moved again. This time closer, Yoshi used a thrust to distract Robert. As Robert again deflected the staff, staggering back, Yoshi smashed Robert’s thigh with his shin. Robert’s left leg folded and he fell to one knee. It’s over. I thought. I moved to get Robert and felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to look at who it was and saw it was Zen. He shook his head and pointed with his chin. It wasn’t over. Yoshi was still circling and preparing for another attack. It was at that moment that I understood that this was no regular promotion. Something deeper was going on here. Robert got to his feet as Yoshi unleashed a barrage of attacks. At some point in the attack, Robert lost his staff, and still Yoshi pressed on. Robert was done. Yoshi attacked and attacked until Robert could no longer stand. He collapsed face first onto the floor, his body making a wet, thudding sound as he crashed forward. Yoshi bowed and stepped back. Two students dressed in red uniforms came in with a stretcher and carefully placed Robert on it. They carried Robert out another door that I had not noticed earlier. The Master tapped the floor again and Zen’s senior student stepped into the center. Zen was a big man. He easily stood six-foot-four and weighed close to 250 pounds. His dark brown skin glistened with sweat. He wiped his bald head and smiled as he stepped into the center.

  Zen’s senior, Marcus, was considerably smaller. Compared to Zen, though, we all were. I had learned by this time not to assume anything about the seniors. Marcus was heavyset, although nowhere near the size of the junior student facing him. He faced Zen and began a series of deep breaths that I knew were called Ibuki. With each breath it seemed his muscles tensed more and more. They bowed to each other. The Master tapped the floor and Zen slid in. Marcus stood still, waiting. Zen lunged in with a thrust and connected squarely with Marcus’ midsection. As I followed Zen’s staff, I noticed that it had indeed connected and was resting against Marcus’ abdomen.

  Marcus flinched and sent the staff in Zen’s hand back towards him, a look of surprise and admiration racing across Zen’s face. He was no longer smiling, but had set his jaw. Marcus stood waiting for him.

  “Tell me that is not your strongest strike,” said Marcus.

  “It’s not,” Zen answered.

  Zen began striking Marcus, Zen’s staff hitting Marcus time and again, hitting legs, arms and torso. One blow landed squarely on Marcus’ head, and I thought Zen had killed him. Marcus merely smiled but Zen was spent. More than the actual physical exertion, it was the knowledge that his strength was useless against Marcus, who was clearly stronger and impervious to his attack.

  “Now we begin, junior,” said Marcus. He took a step forward and I could feel the vibration through the floor. Marcus moved slowly, but gracefully. His strikes were efficient and precise. Each time he hit Zen, I heard him grunt in pain. Zen wasn’t used to being hurt. Marcus, holding the staff one-handed, brought it down in an overhead strike. Zen raised his staff to deflect Marcus, who at the last second changed direction and crashed his staff squarely into Zen’s right side. I heard the crack of bone from where I stood. Zen inhaled sharply, fighting the pain. Zen took a step back and began to breathe deeply in Ibuki. His muscles began to tense like Marcus. Unlike Marcus, though, the tension rippled across his body, moving from area to area. I could see him try and concentrate the tension across his midsection, and for a few seconds it looked like he had done it. Still deflecting the attacks from Marcus, the ones he missed seemed to do little damage. Marcus smiled and then he intensified his attack. The air in the dojo was hot and had a sweet smell to it, like boiling honey. I must have been fatigued from all of the exertion because I could swear that the staff in Marcus’ hands began to glow a deep gold. At that sight, the fourth junior— I never got his name—dropped his staff and ran out of the dojo. I guess that confirmed I wasn’t imagining things.

  There was no way to rationally explain it so I didn’t try. Marcus was attacking faster now and connecting more often. Zen began to show signs of exhaustion. Frankly I was amazed he had lasted this long for such a large man. That was the moment everything shifted. Zen rolled back, recovering his balance. Then his staff began to glow as well. It wasn’t really a glow, more like a flicker as if the connection wasn’t entirely complete. It was the same color as Marcus’ staff. The fight was now more of an intricate dance, each missing the other by fractions of an inch as they covered the dojo floor. They moved faster and faster until it was all a blur. I could see that Zen could not keep the pace for long. He was drenched in sweat, and he grimaced in pain any time Marcus connected with his midsection. Marcus, on the other hand, looked fresh and had barely broken a sweat. He was pressing the attack. As he stepped towards Zen, I saw a wave of gold energy travel from his feet, up his body, down his arms and into the staff. He placed the staff lightly against Zen’s chest and the room exploded in yellow light momentarily blinding me. Zen flew across the dojo and landed in a heap on the far side of the dojo floor. I ran over to him not caring what would happen to me. Where were the students in red? I made it to Zen’s body, he was unmoving. Marcus stood behind me.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  I stepped aside in silence. It wasn’t enough he killed him, he had to gloat, too?

  As he knelt towards Zen, Marcus’ hands began to glow. They were a warm orange, the color of the setting sun. He placed his hands on Zen’s chest and the glow travelled from his hands into Zen, who began to stir. That was when I was aware of the students in red with the stretcher.

  “I’m okay, Dante,” said Zen with a half-smile on his face. As the students placed him on the stretcher, he winced in pain.

  “That last attack really packed a punch,” said Zen. You be careful, Dante. I heard stories about your senior.”

  “Indeed, he is the strongest of us all,” said Marcus.

  I turned to see Devin waiting for me in the center of the floor. I made my way there, staff in hand. It no longer felt comfortable or familiar.

  “Are you ready, junior?” asked Devin once I assumed my fighting stance. My head was screaming “No! You are not ready!” I took a deep breath, centering and grounding myself and eliminating every distraction. Only Devin and I existed.

  “I’m ready,” I said and bowed to my senior.

  The Master stepped forward to Devin. I couldn’t guess his age; he seemed made of a dark wood, hard and gnarled. He looked at me impassively, which unnerved me more than if he had dismissed me. He faced Devin and said something in a language I couldn’t quite understand, and then Devin bowed to him. Once Devin finished his bow, the Master stepped behind Devin and produced a silk sash that he tied around Devin’s eyes. The sash itself was beautiful; the colors it contained seemed alive and coruscated along the material. Deep reds and blues followed by greens and yellows chased each other around the sash. The Master with an imperceptible nod called Marcus and spoke to him in that strange language again. Marcus stood next to me and spoke.

  “This is the dragon’s tail,” he said, pointing
at the sash covering Devin’s eyes.

  “Dragon’s tail?”

  “Yes, this is as much a test for him as it is for you. He will not be able to use his eyes to attack or defend.”

  “Why not just a regular bandana?”

  “Because any other material would not have stopped the Senpai, your senior, from seeing.”

  It never crossed my mind that the seniors were being tested as well. I looked down at the staff that Marcus was holding and noticed it was twice as thick as the one in my hand. He looked at me and smiled knowingly.

  The Master looked at me and said,” You must have a strong spirit.” His voice was deep and resonant.

  I bowed and readied myself as the Master stepped to the front of the dojo floor. Devin stood before me; a rainbow of color covered his eyes. Once again we bowed and waited. The Master raised his staff, looked at me, and brought it down, signaling the start of our fight and the end of life as I knew it. Devin stood still, and for a moment I contemplated not attacking—after all he was blindfolded. That moment quickly passed as Devin disappeared and reappeared behind me in the same time it took for me to blink. To my own credit, I reacted instantly and attacked with a rear thrust. I succeeded in deftly hitting the space behind me. Devin, now in front of me, tapped me a few times in my chest and abdomen. I breathed through the pain. Each time I attacked I was two steps behind, hitting empty air.

  “You’re too slow, Dante.”

  I said nothing, slowly seething at my inability to hit him. How slow could I be? I tried anticipating where he would strike, which didn’t work. I tried stepping back and creating distance, but nothing worked. I couldn’t attack. I couldn’t defend. As the seconds passed, I got angrier and angrier. I lunged in a rage, frustrated at fighting a wisp, humiliated by my lack of skill.

  Devin stepped back and gave me a moment’s respite.

  “I may be blindfolded, but you are the one who is blind.”