Though…considering how gorgeous all the women were, he’d probably spill his seed for the first time in seven hundred years and weaken his Essence. And even if he could control it, if modern women were anything like these warriors, their fragile Yin might not even fill his Core.
Around them, the onlookers held up open hands with black circles in the middle of their palms.
It was all coming back to him. In his youth, everyone carried around mobile phones, and recorded everything from their children’s first steps to idiots trying to launch themselves on bicycles over flaming cars.
“Drop the sutafu,” the man yelled.
What was a sutafu? Ryu cocked his head.
With a shout, the warrior charged in. Jab, cross, hook, cross, lead uppercut, rear uppercut, hook…it was a decent combination, which Ryu avoided with Six Harmony bobbing, lest the man hurt his fists on Ryu’s Iron Shirt. On one foot like a crane, trying to balance his staff on the other foot, it was almost like his Second-Rank Earth Path training seven centuries ago! Only that had also included avoiding No-Shadow Kicks and Water Whips.
The warrior disengaged. His expression was as lost as an unranked initiate trying to gather his Qi in his Core for the first time, only to piss over himself. “How are you doing this?”
“May I?” Ryu lifted his hands from his head, slowly, lest his opponent panic and release another barrage of futile attacks. He then pointed at the man’s feet. Sadly, the next concepts were hard to explain in English. “Foot. Must root. Like tree.”
His opponent froze, perhaps trying to absorb the valuable, if rudimentary lesson. “What are you talking about?”
“No root, no balance, no power. Remember you fall?”
The man’s expression twisted, and he was again bouncing on his tiptoes.
Some lessons just had to be taught the hard way.
Ryu kicked his staff into the air, and then, as his opponent tracked it with his eyes, ducked down and used his leg to sweep his feet out from under him, yet again. Ryu whirled back up, and before the man hit the ground, slammed his palm down with a Splashing Hand technique. Unlike the first time, he transferred his force to the surface only, shattering the composite breastplate but not fracturing any bones or damaging any organs.
He reached out and caught the staff.
The onlookers all gasped and pointed.
Smiling, he dipped his chin in a perfunctory bow. He searched his memory for the words in English. “Temple. I go. Temple. You know? Honnoji.”
They exchanged glances and whispered among themselves, fingers pointing in every direction.
Of course. He let out a sigh. Last time he’d been in Kyoto, hundreds of years before the Cataclysm, there’d been hundreds, if not close to a thousand temples, and an equal number of shrines. As soulless as these people seemed to be, they probably didn’t know the difference between the two.
“Ishihara Ryusuke!” a female voice called.
His heart soared.
Someone knew his name. How was that even possible? A descendant of a relative? He turned.
Six men, led by an exquisite woman, marched through the bystanders as they made way. Unlike the first three, who’d worn composite plating, these seven were all dressed in what looked to be grey yoga pants and wicking compression shirts. Holstered pistols hung from their belts, along with several other devices. Three of the men knelt by the fallen warriors.
Ryu closed his eyes and curled his toes through his boots into the pavement. There was enough moisture in the air connecting them all for him to sense their Cores.
All fragile.
In fact, none of the people he’d sensed so far—save for the middle-aged street sweeper— would even rate with the unranked initiates back home.
The pretty leader held up a fist. Her companions halted, drew their weapons, and aimed at him. She opened one hand and raised the other, in a gesture of surrender.
When she spoke, it was in halting, heavily accented Japanese. “I have a translator. May I?” She brushed her hand from her ample bosom toward his feet.
The six others didn’t look as if they planned on doing any translating, and sadly, she probably wasn’t offering what her sign language had suggested. Still, Ryu bowed his head and beckoned her forward. Though her gait remained confident, she extended a tentative hand toward his head. A black dot was attached to her index finger.
It could be just about anything, and considering how weak all the electromagnetic waves permeating the city made him feel, maybe it was a weapon.
He caught her wrist. “What is it?”
There was nothing but sincerity in her tone and expression. “Translator.”
Oh, so it was a technology. AI translations had progressed during his youth, but had not yet made the leap to capture the nuance of human expressions. Ask a computer for basic information, sure; but at least back then, it wouldn’t be able to parse the difference between hardware and what he’d like to do with this woman. But who knew, a lot could change in eight hundred years. Releasing her wrist, he nodded.
She pressed her finger to his ear, then spoke. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
The sounds of her voice didn’t match the movement of her lips, a little like the vintage Hong Kong movies he’d watched as a child on analog VCR technology. It had been those videos that sent him on his journey to the World of Rivers and Lakes, in fact.
“Do you understand what I am saying?” she repeated.
He nodded. “Yes, do you understand me?”
“Yes.” Her tight expression softened, making her look even more beautiful. “I am Captain Oyama Keiko.”
So she had a Japanese name, despite not looking Japanese. He bowed. “I am…”
“Ishihara Ryusuke.”
“Please, call me Ryu.” Grinning in spite of himself, he bowed.
“I need you
