Alex Archer - Warrior Spirit

Nezuma chuckled and walked back to his edge of the mat. The audience had hushed, aware that both fighters were even in points. One more score would decide the match. Annja could feel their eyes as they leaned in to watch.

She could hear the creaks of the old wooden folding chairs. The scent of sweat tinged the air, and Annja’s thoughts went to what had brought her there in the first place.

After her last adventure, she’d needed a vacation. More than that, she’d wanted to test herself. And the martial-arts newsgroup she sometimes frequented had posted news about the upcoming tournament. It seemed a perfect time to do something for herself, so she made her travel arrangements from her loft in Brooklyn. Within twelve hours, she was hopping a flight bound for Tokyo.

Fourteen hours later, she arrived and went straight to her hotel and fell asleep, trying to get her system in tune with the time-zone change.

And now, here she stood, awaiting Nezuma’s final attack.

Her nerves seemed poised at the edge of a very steep cliff, ready to jump at a moment’s notice. Even the sweat seemed to be still wherever it was on her body.

Nezuma’s eyes glistened like those of a ravenous tiger about to consume an antelope he’d pursued and had cornered. Annja’s stomach still ached, but her breathing had returned to normal.

For the last time the referee stepped between them. Once more, he looked at them both.

Annja nodded.

Nezuma grinned.

“Hajime!”

The crowd roared and hopped to its feet. Shouts and cheers echoed across the cavernous room as Annja circled Nezuma. The Kyokushinkai fighter smiled and then roared as he launched a high roundhouse kick toward Annja’s left temple. Annja stepped inside and started to drop to punch into Nezuma’s groin.

This’ll teach him, she thought.

But in that instant, Nezuma recoiled his kick and then shot his left arm out, clotheslining Annja across the throat in an aikido move known as irimi nage , the entering throw.

Annja felt the pressure on her throat and knew that if the throw finished, she’d be defeated.

Instead, she grabbed Nezuma’s arm and used it to vault herself over like a gymnast. As she spun over, she kicked out with both feet at Nezuma’s chest.

He sidestepped and shot a punch at Annja’s head.

Annja ducked out of the way and the two of them broke apart again.

Sweat poured down both of their faces. Annja blinked through the salt and kept her guard up. Her arms felt like lead weights, dragging her down, but she was all too aware of how prizefighters often tire. Once the guard started to drop, the other fighter usually had no problem finishing them off. Annja was determined to not let that happen. Especially since she’d spent enough time listening to her self-appointed trainer, Eddie, harp on her about keeping her hands up where they could protect her.

Nezuma’s guard had stayed perfectly in position throughout the entire fight. His arms looked like coils of tight sinew wrapped around steel girders. He still maneuvered on deeply bent legs, keeping his center of balance low and steady. Trying to unseat him would be almost impossible.

He screamed again and came at Annja with a series of stomping kicks aimed at her midsection. He looked as if he was taking giant steps across the mat, and Annja had to sidestep them again and again.

This is ridiculous, she thought. It’s time I went on the attack.

She turned and launched a single roundhouse kick at Nezuma’s head. He casually flicked it away and in that instant, Annja went low, driving her elbow toward Nezuma’s stomach.

He blocked that, as well. Annja came up, driving up with an uppercut aimed at the underside of his jaw. Nezuma pivoted out of the way and then dropped unexpectedly to the floor. She felt the crushing instep of Nezuma’s right foot sink into her stomach and then lift her up overhead. When it was fully extended, Nezuma retracted his right foot, but Annja kept sailing through the air, tumbling as she went like in some bad kung fu movie.

She crashed to the floor in a broken heap just as the judges raised their red flags.

Nezuma had won the match.

Annja got to her feet, determined not to lie there like a beaten fool. Even though her stomach ached as if someone had just used a spoon to scoop out her insides, she bowed to the judges and then to Nezuma.

“Next time,” she said through gritted teeth.

Nezuma smiled.

Annja hobbled over to her bag and drank down some of the last remaining water in her bottle. The crowd at the budokan was still cheering Nezuma and he soaked up the adoration. He bowed several times and then left the mat. The spectators left soon after, filing out in the same orderly way as they had come into the budokan .

Annja sat there for another few minutes, catching her breath. She sucked at the bottle and realized that she was out of the precious fluid.

“Here.”

She looked up and into the deepest, darkest eyes she’d seen on a man. He held out a fresh bottle of water and smiled.

Wow, Annja thought. “Thanks,” was all she could say.

“That was some fight. You held your own against him remarkably well.”

“Remarkably well? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held up his hands. “Please, I meant no disrespect. I certainly do not share Nezuma’s viewpoint on the role of women in society.”

“You know what he thinks about women?” Annja asked.

He smirked. “Nezuma has made no secret of his views on women and the martial arts. You can read about them in any number of magazines.” He watched as the budokan emptied out. “Nezuma is an extremely adept opponent, however. But you made him work for that win. And that is something that doesn’t happen too often. You should be quite proud of how well you fared.”

Annja grimaced. “I’ll save that for when I’m feeling better. Right now, my guts feel like they want to stage a revolt in my stomach.”

He offered his hand. “My name is Kennichi Ogawa. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Creed.”

Annja stared at him. “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s not often that this tournament attracts someone of your…professional stature.”

Annja frowned. “You’ve heard of my work?”

“Certainly. You are, in fact, the reason why I am in attendance tonight.” He waved his hand. “This is not my usual scene, I’m afraid.”

“Not a martial-arts junkie?”

Kennichi shrugged. “There’s a difference between sport tournaments and real martial arts. Most people confuse the two, but there are profound differences.” He eyed her closely. “As I’m sure you know.”

“Rules. In the tournaments there are always rules, even if the venue claims that anything goes,” Annja said.

“Exactly.” Kennichi nodded. “But on the street…”

“Anything really does go. Eye gouging, groin shots, knee breaks. Whatever it takes to survive.”

He smiled. “You do know. And the mental perspective is also different. Fighting for survival can never be understood by those who have never struggled for their own life.”

Annja gathered her towel and bag. “So, you took time out of your schedule to come here and meet me?”

“Yes, I did.”

Annja mopped her brow. “Do you make it a habit to pick women up at martial-arts tournaments?”

Kennichi’s eyes widened. “Does this look like a pickup?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Annja slapped the towel over her shoulder. “I might need some time to think about it.”

“Perhaps I might be interested in you for professional reasons.”

Annja smiled. “Professional reasons.”

“To be perfectly blunt, I’d like you to find something for me. Something old and quite priceless. Are you interested?”