The Re-Forging of the Blade

Since I can not post ITALICS, in this chapter, the following indicates flashback. ~~beginning/end of flashback~~


**Chapter One**
The Grand Masters Design


Jin awoke with a start, fingers digging into the rain fresh dirt...sifting mud and nutrients with the tips of his nails. The stench of smoldering trees and scorched earth assaulted him as unfocused eyes slowly regained clarity. Forcing himself upward slowly, the Japanese youth drew onto all fours, groaning with the agony of bruised and protesting ribs. The moment of strength met a poor fate and Jin was left crashing down once more onto his torso.

With his cheek pressed against the cool earth, Jin breathed the dirt in, eyes closing once more in defeat as a wracking cough left blood caked lips. The spasms so great with the mass of his body, the Japanese youth forced himself, with every last remaining effort, to roll to his back, where he lay prone and shivering.

The cool silted mud felt like balm against his aching shoulders and slowly Jin reopened his eyes, staring upward into the storm grey sky. The peaks of mountains lay within his sight, hazed by the smoke of this place, casting an almost sorrowful and yet ethereal smog along the edge of his vision.

~~The Honmaru…the iron chains that bound flesh above the altar…the cold sneer in the voice that left a human mouth but spoke inhuman words to his mind. Kazuya and the Devil, integrated into one.

“Give into the anger. Hate me. Curse me!” The words were chanted like a mantra, tormenting the devil within Jin like a schoolyard bully. “Give into the anger. Hate me. Curse me! Think of your poor lover…and his fate…Give into the anger. Hate me. Curse me!”

The tribal ink etched itself against the Japanese youth’s flesh, the devil within stirring in epic battle with Kazama blood. And then, came the sudden jolt of Jin’s head upright…the shattering of chains that crashed the youth to a crouch on the floor…a sickening hue of demonic aura radiating from within….~~

Jin drew his forearm up to shield his tearing eyes, shaking from the cold…shaking from the memory. His lips were bloodied and split, his body aching for food and water as though it had been months since last he found nourishment. “What have you done to me?” His parched throat convulsed, coughing the words with what little spit remained in his mouth….

~~Kazuya Mishima lay in a bundle upon the temple floor as silver eyes regarded the fallen sire. The transformation had been abated…for the moment…and all thoughts turned to Hwoarang…

“Weak and pathetic coward!” Came the wizened bark of a nightmarish voice, the bare foot silence catching Jin’s heightened sense of awareness off guard. Heihachi Mishima nearly spat his words as he looked over the heap of his son, sprawled across the floor by the youngest cub of the blood.

“You will give me what is mine. Vindication. Honor…the devil gene. Ready yourself, boy,” Heihachi hissed, an eerie smile creeping across his lips….~~

Jin rolled onto his side, fighting the tearing agony as another wave of thought came over him. “Please help me.” He curled into a fetal position, his skin aflame as though lit with gasoline from the inside of his very bones.

~~The death blow. Jin’s fingers pressed forward, thumb curled back. His free hand grasped Mishima Heihachi by the shirt as silver eyes darkened with tarnished glow. The ripping sensation of flesh and bone yielding was nearly pleasurable….long black wings curled themselves outward….only to thrust open with majestic dark ambiance, blood dripping from the obsidian feathers…

…and then, in the heat of transformation, the perfect melding of devil and human…the strike of death already cocking back like the barrel of a pistol…that was when he saw…her.

The image was fleeting and white, ephemeral and incorporeal. The dark almond eyes of his mother, so forgiving and so loving…an angel of light before a demon of darkness….

…and just as quickly, she was gone.

“You have my mother to thank for your life. Kazama Jun.” The words pressed through elongated canines and the hand that gripped Mishima Heihachi released, letting the elder crash to the floor.

With amazing speed, Jin leaned down on his haunches, fingers pressed to the ground to steady him, and leapt upward. Inky wings expanding like a vulture, flapping with automatic response to the breeze that met him….carrying him into the night.~~


Jin breathed heavily and forced himself once to look around the smoldering clearing. The pain of his body wracked in heavy spasms as breathing became so difficult, his lips expelling the smoke of burnt down trees like one of Hwoarang’s cigarettes.

\Hwoarang. Seung Roh. \


~~Though the transformation from human to devil had been complete, Jin retained his control. Heavy boots perched atop the roof of the building in the Yurei district like a guardian gargoyle from an old horror tale. It mattered little that it was daylight, that any number of eyes could see the flesh and blood demon some five stories upward, Jin feared nothing more than he feared the pain of losing the one he loved…

…and that fear had become reality. Lifting his head into the sky, spiraling horns awash in sunlight, silver eyes looked to the distance as his senses tried to find the mate of his blood. There was blackness still…as there had been blackness before….and Jin, still wearing the guise of the demon, felt the salt of his eyes run down the tribal ink of his cheeks….~~

Jin felt the tears running down the sunken in hollows of his cheeks as fingers curled into the ash laden dirt before him. Devil or youth, the agony was like a sword into his flesh, cleaving his heart in two. “Seung.” He heaved the name of his dead lover like a prayer, holding it so sacred the very formation of the letters spoken aloud was nearly enough to shatter him, completely.

~~….in the midst of a devil’s tears, Jin jolted his head up to the sky. Lost in darkness, lost in sorrow…the snap of his spirit was like a twig beneath his boot. Something awoke…something stirred…something made the devil twitch inside the shell of the Japanese youths remaining strong hold over the beast…

…an explosion to the west, on the Honmaru…

Weakened by the sorrow, Jin felt himself slipping as far seeing eyes beheld the fires on the Honmaru. The struggle for supremacy against the rising strength of the demon took a shocking twist. A heavy scream left Jin’s mouth as elongated nails dug into the roof of the apartment building he shared with Hwoarang. “NO!“

“Yes.“ The demon let a cold smile form over shivering lips, banishing his former captor into the realm of subconscious, where the being himself had lurked for too long.

With a sudden bolt upward, powerful wings took flight into the sky like a creature of folklore. Darkness surged through the reborn demon as a chilling laugh left sneering lips.

//My time…has come.//~~

**

Hwoarang cracked his neck to the side, relieving the pent up tension welled at the base of his collar. Deft fingers clamored over the chords of his guitar; unplugged from the electric current, the vibration of the strings still echoed as loud as an amphitheatre in his mind. Amber eyes beheld the newspaper clipping he kept on the nightstand he shared with his upper bunk mate, even as his fingers moved with wild abandon over the strings.

“Heihachi Mishima Dead; King of Iron Fist Tournament 5 Announced”.

The barracks were empty at this afternoon hour, the soldiers that shared quarters were dining in the mess hall, enjoying whatever slop the cooks had thrown out onto eager trays. But not Hwoarang. Today was the day he had earned his freedom. And plotted his revenge.

“Hwoarang,” came the intrusive voice that shut down the wild concert of his thoughts. Instinctively, the Blood Talon set down his guitar and stood at attention.

“Do San,” Hwoarang replied, showing his Master respect. For no one else would he dare perform like a well trained monkey.

“Your last helicopter SpecOps and field maneuvers were impressive. The cadets are sorry to see you go.” Do San said, leaning in toward the other side of Hwoarang’s bed to run his fingers against the steel cords of his students axe. “I did not know you still played.”

“When I have a chance, yeah.” The Blood Talon eased up his stance and brushed a hand through tied back tendrils, releasing the shock of copper. At least the military didn’t make him cut his trademark tresses this time around.

“So,” Baek said, drawing upward as a faint sad smile crept across his lips. He looked to the clipping on the nightstand between double bunks, the black lettering still as sharp here as it was in his own personal quarters, “returning to Japan?”

“I have some...unfinished business there.” Hwoarang said with a cold lilt to his voice.

“I know…And I am still trying to figure out exactly what business that is, Seung.” Do San said with a slight heave of his shoulders. “You know Chang is well and has recovered. He would not want to see you in this blood sport, again and sit at your side as you did for him.”

“You have competed before; you know there are a lot of reasons to put your life on the line.” Hwoarang said with that flippant august fire. “Chang wasn’t in the fucking tournament. Completely different situation.”

“Why else would you return to Japan? You’re 21 years old, Seung. What do you know about truly putting your life on the line for something besides your country? The Military is willing to offer you a substantial income to remain here and train. This could be the break you have always wanted, the security wouldn’t be such a bad thing either. The Military competitions in the arts are fierce and the rewards are plenty. Think of what you could do for yourself and for your country,” Baek said, his tone fatherly.

The Blood Talon tapped a cigarette from his pack, nodding his head to Do San, even as the lighter was brought from his pocket. “You mind?” he asked, second handedly, eyes lingering along his Masters through the already sparked flame.

“You know I do. That habit is the one I just can’t seem to break you of.” Baek shook his head and waved his hand onwards.

“That’s only the half of the habits you would break if you knew about them,” Hwoarang snickered and inhaled nicotine delight. “This isn’t just about Chang. And it really doesn’t matter how fucking old I am. Maybe I can fill you in when I win this thing, set things straight once and for all.”

Do San gave that disapproving sigh that could cut through the heat of Hwoarang’s gaze like blade made of water. “Your years have not been easy ones, Seung. I have tried to guide you the best I can and I understand your secrets are yours to keep. I wish you would reconsider.”

“This is just something I have to do before I become any more unhinged.” The Blood Talon paced, his words hanging in the air between them like an archaic holy relic proved to be truth. Two months in Korea had been two months in hell and not because of the regimented training or the completion of his service. He could not recall the last time he truly slept, or felt real thirst and hunger…the Blood Talon could not recall a time when he felt so out of control, raging beneath his own skin….

Do San knew there was truth in his student’s words. Hwoarang had always been a raging inferno, barely contained by stone or brick, by strength or authority. But things had changed drastically over the past two months and day by day it was as though the Blood Talons very life force was in challenge with a deeper, more deadly darkness. “Have you seen a Mudang?”

Hwoarang paused his movement. “Did you follow me there when I was on my weekend pass?”

“No, Seung. I did not follow you. I do not need to skulk about in shadows to know when something is wrong with you,” Baek said, with the strength of tenderness in his voice.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m doing alright. Just have some shit to work out. Now, when is my transport arriving?”

**
(Flashback)
The Back alleys of Seoul were nothing like the touristy, Olympics sold village of old. It was a place so filthy, so ripe with the stench of poverty and drugs that it nearly made the Blood Talon wistful for the days of his youth.

Hwoarang had acquired the address from a recruit he trained, a young man he had taken interest in when he saw just a bit of himself in the boy. Abandoned, left to the streets, running with gangs…at least this kid figured out the military was better than a prison cell…or selling bruises on the street to hustle down some extra cash. The boy had said the spiritual leader, the Mudang, had helped him find his footing.

Now, the Blood Talon pushed past prostitutes and dealers to find the address he had written down on a piece of paper. The smell of human sweat and human excrement was so strong it was nearly overpowering as he moved deeper down the alleyway. How far he had come from these days and yet how hyperaware he was of his surroundings; now more than ever.

Hwoarang stopped his movement without so much as glancing at the paper scribbled with directions that he carried. There was no number on the building he stood before and yet, he could feel the pull of energy leaking out from between the very stones themselves. His feet carried him forward and the hand that should have knocked politely, was already turning the door handle.

The Mudang was dancing, moving to the beat of the drums behind her with another person seated before a small table when Hwoarang entered, without so much as a knock. Yet never did her eyes move or the stomp of her feet pause. The Shaman was a middle aged woman, made older by the play of shadows…dark eyes lost in another world did not bother to behold the one who entered so blatantly…even as the Blood Talon closed the door behind him.

The room was dark with the exception of the flicker of what could have been 50 white candles….the haze of burning incense from what Hwoarang believed were the corners of the room converged at a central point above the dais. The energy of this place was calming…and somewhat overwhelming.

“You enter here as foretold, Blood Demon.” She said, causing a weary look from the male who sat, patiently awaiting the proverbial bridge to be built from spirit world to the mortal realm, in order to make peace with the deceased.

“You mistake me for someone else, Mudang.” Hwoarang snickered. Obviously this was a charlatan, not the real thing.

“Charlatans would state the obvious, not the unseen.” The female came to a stop and looked to her client, redirecting her attentions. “There is tea prepared for you. The Bridge is ready but you must cleanse and purify before the next stage is complete. Excuse us now and prepare.”

The awaiting male rose and bowed his head, casting a sideways glance to the intruding Korean with outlandishly dyed tendrils. He said nothing and moved into the ante chamber but not before viewing an upraised middle finger from the Blood Talon.

“Place your offering,” the Mudang spoke, coming before the dais even as Hwoarang drew forward.

“I bring no offering,” he said with a cool snicker, hardly believing he was wasting his time on this nonsense - even if his hidden spiritual self told him otherwise.

“Open the mark and give your offering.” She said with a cool voice, nodding for the hasty youth to take to his knees before the small table.

“I don’t know what you mean.” But he did. He knew full well what the Mudang referred to.

The Shaman drew a small copper bowl from the surface of the dais and placed it above a burning flame. “Now is not the time to play coy. Now is the time to face what challenges you know to be truth.” (end flashback)

**

Jin staggered upright, walking as far as his legs could carry him, thankful that the strength of the forest remained...and the area of burnt down tree corpses had only been a small radius of the whole.

The Japanese youth stumbled as he reached a small, burnt down edifice that had once been a house. Yakushima. Somehow, he had made it to the mountain home he shared with his mother, Kazama Jun, a memory that seemed like a lifetime ago.

Jin entered the scorched earth, grasping onto the charred frames of a house he recalled…falling to his knees some distance inside. The agony of memory was so intense, so filled in this burnt place….so strong that he could still smell the fragrance of his mothers freshly washed hair…

…fingers reached out to the ground when the soft pulse of water splashed against his fingers. A pipe line that had once fed the kitchen area was still pulsing with life, feeding the earth itself as he raised his eyes to see small flowers growing throughout the once proud home.

“Thank you, Mother.” Jin said with a sob, drawing his whet fingers to his lips to lick them clean. He repeated the action again and again until he found the strength to lift himself up and grasp the mountain pipe that ran just beneath the surface.

At first, all the Japanese youth could taste was liquid mud…but once his strength and will to survive the odds turned in his favor, he pulled the fresh water pipe upward, drinking his fill till he could feel the slosh of liquid in his belly.

Sated after several moments, he leaned down and let the cold water wash his face, cleanse his hands and run down the back of his muddy, bloody spine….errant black feathers rushing down the eroded and created landscape with the foaming, fresh water.

**

Hwoarang drew the cigarette to his lips, inhaling sharply as he readjusted the army bag that hung from his shoulder. His Transport was taking forever and if he had to look at the disappointment in Do Sans eyes once more, he might actually reconsider leaving his reborn teacher.

For all of his days in the belief his Mentor had been dead, Hwoarang longed for one chance to do right in Baek’s eyes. There had been no man more like a father to him, no person that singularly changed his life and showed him the path of the destiny….other than Jin. And yet, the Blood Talon was walking away from it all… with one intent: …to hunt down the one responsible for taking Jin from him, once and for all.

**
(Flashback continued)
Hwoarang lifted his right arm, pulling back the sleeve of his black leather jacket to reveal the blood soaked gauze wound around the area just above his wrist. There was pride in the movement of his fingers, lovingly pulling the linens back to reveal the teeth marks…made by his own mouth.

There was little left of Jin’s taste in the blood he consumed, in the flesh he tore open…but every small suckle, each tiny draught…was enough to feed his craving throat and heal his aching body.

Using his thumb nail, Hwoarang reopened the healing, self inflicted bite wound. A heavy hiss of pain and pleasure left his lips as he did so, his imagination recalling his lovers teeth tearing into the skin…pretending to his own thoughts it was that hot, welcoming mouth once more that craved the heat of his skin.

Lifting his hand over the heated copper bowl, Hwoarang moaned as he pressed the tender skin to make the blood rise, desire rising in tight denim as he spilled his essence. “That is my offering,” he groaned, drawing the open wound to his lips to drink back what he could of Jin’s remaining taste.

The Mudang said nothing even as Hwoarang cannibalized his own blood, moaning with the heat of lust as he pressed his tongue into the thin skin. The sizzle of the blood drew her attentions, the smoke that rose far heavier than what should have come.

“When you come, oh gods of eight provinces, come with blessings
to the sons and daughters; around their neck, tie the iron necklace
of long life... We pray and we pray. Please accept our small offerings.
Oh, fathers and gods of the mountains and rivers.” The Mudang chanted the ancient words, her head bobbing from back to front as the scent of boiling blood filled her.

Hwoarang licked his lips, grasping the gauze and retying the opened wound…though he could have re-tasted the heady reminder of his lover for hours and hours, if given the chance.

“The demon is in your blood, infected by the lover who walks in both worlds and yet belongs to none.” The woman’s voice was spoken sing song, as though she saw shadow and light dance and mingle in its fine lines. “You feel its call. Heavy to the spirit…the Blood Demon becomes the Fire Demon…and your fate will be as his.”

Hwoarang breathed heavily, eyes wide as the Mudang gave her prophecy. “He could not have infected me! It’s not possible!”

“The end to your agony comes only with the end of all things between you. Go to the land of the rising sun and meet destiny when the white and red lightning converge. From the whole, two halves have spawned…from two halves the whole can not counter…before it is too late!” The Mudang grasped the boiling blood with her bare fingers, removing it from flame and the substance eerily congealed in her grasp.

“The spirits cry…and that which stirs inside of you will claim hold…as it does now, so will it continue until you are fed on the beast that already consumes you….” From her hand, she tossed the thick substance into a nearby soak of water and salt. “Go now, Cursed as you are, and darken my door no longer.”