The Face: Tournament of Death, Chapter Two

“Joseph Bell.” A low voice echoed from the confines of a shadowy basement. The man had a thick, Italian accent, and wore a black suit, fitted with the appropriate attire for that of a mafia member. “You’ll get a big payoff for his head,” he continued, rubbing his chin in an urbane manner. A beautiful young woman, with dirty blonde hair, yet a cold countenance, and wearing a slick red outfit, viewed the picture of the former executive of Bell Corporation. “Hmmm, how ‘big’ are we talking?” She asked, in her sleek, solemn voice. “Let’s go with…one grand,” the man offered. The woman folded her arms in dissatisfaction. “What do you take me for, an amateur? You might as well just hire a child with a handgun for the job.”

The mafiaman’s face grimaced in discomfort. “Fine, five grand,” he offered. The woman turned her head to her side. “Still not enough,” she said. “Eight grand, and provide travel accommodations as well,” she demanded. The man’s face widened in amazement. “Are you crazy!?” he asked. The young lady folded her arms once again. “Fine, then you’ll just have to find someone else…” she said. Out of options, the conceding man finally agreed. “Alright then, with travel accommodations.” He reached down to his suitcase to reach for his dues. “Why do you need him ousted anyway?” she wondered, innocently. The man looked up from stooping down to his luggage. “Let’s just say, that son of a…knows a little too much. If the truth gets out...we could be in some seriously deep water. And if he somehow does manage to win that tournament, and regains his business empire, the mafia will lose control of the city operations.” The lady folded her arms once again in satisfaction. “I see.” She held up one finger to her cheek, and with a smirk on her face, spoke. “Oh, by the way, I like my seats in first class.” The mafiaman grumbled incoherently.

Expecting the money, Elisha reached out her hand to receive it. However, instead of the money, the man pulled out a small piece of paper from the case and handed it to her. Elisha frowned in disturbance. “What’s this?” she asked. The man pushed the paper forward. “Haven’t you heard of a contract? This makes sure you come through on your deal. If not, we’ll get every member of our business out to hunt you down,” he explained. Her eyebrow raised. “Well, where’s the money?” she asked. “The mafia pays for your visit to Hanoi, you get the money once your part is filled,” he conveyed. Feeling cheated, but desperately in need of the money, the deadly woman hesitatingly signed the contract. The mafiaman took the negotiation file back and continued briefing her. “Make sure you enter the tournament, and face him. Then you can kill him. You leave tomorrow. There’s no way this will be traced back to us, so it’s a win-win situation…for the mafia actually.”

“Don’t worry,” Elisha replied. “I don’t intend to get caught.”

A cool, brisk wind washed the air clean as it wisped by a young fighter training between the walls of a secluded mountain. His leg was held high in the air, standing rigidly in the direction he was facing. He began exercising with a series of high kicks progressively forward. A small dojo stood firm nearby, featuring the orderly shouts of an undersized group of martial artists. The young fighter seemed to be filling up time, while waiting for another.

The clouds were gray, yet light could be shown upon the prairie he was in. He seemed to battle the air in synchronization with the wind. As the shouts of the dojo began to decease, he heard footsteps lightly tapping the grass behind him.

“My son, you have become a greatly accomplished fighter, showing skill in overcoming great obstacles and winning many tournaments. I ask of you, why do return?” A man with a drooping white beard, and a cylindrical hat with a Chinese robe had inquired the question. The younger fighter turned to the older, his leg still slanted rigidly in the air. It drooped down below him once again before he spoke. “My father, I was hoping you could teach me more… more of the ways of the dragon.”

The old man held his hands behind his back and proceeded toward his son with his wooden sandals slightly bending the thin grass beneath him. “Ah, Samuel, you have long since surpassed the ways of my teachings. Ever since your time with master Gerry Poteet, I have had nothing more to pass on to you.”

Disappointed, Samuel sat down in the soft grass, legs folded atop each other, wind still flowing gently. His father did the same. “Tell me son, what else is on your mind. I can see it in your eyes.” Samuel Lee Kim sat with hands resting comfortably in front of him. “I did come for yet another request, as you know father. I have come to receive your permission to enter the King of Iron Clad Muscle Tournament on the Hanoi Islands coming next week.” A look of shock writhed its way to Master Gung’s face. “The Hanoi Islands?” he wondered, disbelieving his ears. “Why, you’ve heard of the event?” Sam asked.

Master Gung’s countenance grew grave. His eyes lowered and he began to explain. “Yes, son, I have heard of them. In fact, I used to own my own dojo on those islands, until…he came along.” Sam did not understand. “He, father?” he asked. Master Gung continued his story. “He is Master Shran Kazuma. Shran was one of my pupils in my younger days. However, his mind was full of corruption and a lust for immediate power. One day, he grew stronger than I, and challenged me to a fight in front of my very own students. I was severely beaten. However, some of my most loyal followers came to my aid. But Shran was too strong, and he butchered every one of them. I tried to avenge their deaths and defeat him myself, but all I was able to do was dismember his right hand. The remaining members of the temple sided with the most powerful…which was Shran. They exiled me for good from that island, and ever since, Shran built it into his own lavish empire, doing who knows what.” Samuel was astonished at the things his father kept from him.

“Why, why have you not told me this before?” Sam asked him. Master Gung lowered his head in shame. “It was not one of my finer moments,” he explained. “And,” Gung continued. “That is not all that I was trying to block from my mind.” His tone became grievous and solemn once again. “Your elder sister…Mihima, sought to avenge me after hearing this story. She was the only one I told, for you were twelve years of age, and out training with Master Poteet. I forbade her to enter those islands. But one day I grew ill. The caretaker tended to me, while unknown to myself; your mother and sister set off to the Hanoi alone. They were both killed. I never wanted to tell you of this fate, for I knew you would act as impulsively as they did…leading to your downfall.” He raised his face and looked toward his son. “That’s why I must warn you, my son, not to seek revenge on Shran. For he and his men are too powerful to be overcome.”

Sam was outraged. He struck the ground with his fist, ripping the roots of grass and brown soil from the ground, clenching it into his hand. “How can I not seek vengeance!? I must avenge my family! Shran will pay for what he did to Mishima and Mimuru!” He yelled anxiously. His father, however, remained calm, and spoke further. “Actually, Samuel, it was not Shran who killed Mihima and Mimuru. But it was his bodyguard, Huoreh.” Sam could not take this any longer. He stood uprightly and bellowed in fury once again. “Then they all will pay! Huoreh will die by my hand, and so will Shran!”

“Settle down my son!” His father coaxed. “This situation must play itself out. Soon, Shran will die of old age, and the empire will crumble.” Sam stomped on the ground. “How do you know this? He could live much longer than you think! And Hworeh could even take his place! Father, forgive me, for I must defy you in this situation. I will enter that tournament, and I will win. And I will also bring that empire down single-handedly. I will not fail you father. Trust me,” he said.

Master Gung stood silent as the wind blew across his face, sending a rush of soothing coolness against his aging skin. After a long moment of silence, and the passing of a butterfly upon the fingertip of Master Gung, he finally spoke. “All right, my son. I will allow you to go. I do trust you. But remember your teachings in the battle against corruption.” Master Gung stood up to convey his message. “‘The enemy has only images and illusions behind which he hides his true motives. Destroy the image and you will break the enemy.’*” Sam raised his fist and nodded in agreement. Gung continued. “Do not forget… a good fight is like a small play…” Sam interrupted and finished the sentence with his father. “…but played seriously,” they said in unison. Sam continued on alone. “When the opponent expands, I contract. When he contracts, I expand. And when there is an opportunity,” Sam thrust his arm forward like a jackhammer against the solid ground, piercing through the thin air. “I do not hit…It hits all by itself.” Gung smiled and nodded in agreement. “Wise words from one of the greatest martial artists in all history, and the world.” They then both chanted in unison, “Bruce Lee.”

Young Sam Lee Kim walked off into the distance upon the prairie, with wind slowly and silently guiding him.

* - [Bruce Lee, Enter the Dragon]