Reggie sat alone in the small dojo he’d rebuilt with stolen money and stubborn will. The walls were still bare drywall, the floor cold concrete he swept every morning, the loft bed above him barely wide enough for one person. The steel bat rested against the crate he used as a table. The hannya mask hung on a nail in the wall—red and black, horns curling, mouth frozen in rage. Too big for his face. He hadn’t worn it in days. Didn’t need to.

  He stared at the ledger. Thirty names. Twenty-four crossed off. Six left.

  The remaining four were high-tier. Corrupt officials. Black-budget ties. Names that matched fragments of his own past. Names that tied back to the orphanage. To the lies. To the system that had told his parents he was dead and told him they didn’t want him.

  He knew now.

  Major K wasn’t the enemy.

  He was a symptom. A virus. A hired blade for the machine that kept spinning.

  Reggie closed the ledger.

  Stood.

  The dojo was quiet except for the faint drip of water from the roof seam he still hadn’t sealed.

  Then he heard it.

  Creak.

  Creeeeak.

  The sound came from the rafters.

  Reggie froze. Hand drifted toward the bat.

  A flash in the dark.

  He caught it with the bat—steel meeting steel. Sparks flew.

  A figure dropped from the shadows.

  Mask like his—blue instead of red. Two sai in his hands. Black tactical gear. Silent.

  Reggie didn’t speak.

  He attacked.

  Deadline Swing.

  Steel bat compressed charge in mid-arc. Lightning snapped along the barrel. The figure parried—sai crossed, caught the bat, slid it aside. Reggie pivoted. Swung again. The figure ducked, sai tip stabbing toward Reggie’s wrist. Nerve strike. Reggie jerked back. Felt the sting. Arm went numb for a second.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The figure didn’t press.

  Just waited.

  Reggie lunged again. Full kendo stance. Powerful overhead strike. Lightning arced. The figure side-stepped. Parried with one sai, struck with the other—tip to Reggie’s elbow pressure point. Arm went limp.

  Reggie growled. Switched hands. Swung low.

  The figure jumped. Shadow step. Reappeared behind Reggie.

  Sai to the kidney—shallow, just enough to hurt.

  Reggie spun. Bat swept wide. Lightning crackled. The figure ducked under. Sai to Reggie’s thigh—another nerve point. Leg buckled.

  Reggie dropped to one knee.

  The figure stepped back.

  Waited.

  Reggie pushed up. Rage building. Lightning surging. Tier 3 power rolled off him in waves. He charged.

  The figure parried every strike. Read every move. Blocked every kendo technique Reggie had learned from Kenji. Countered with precision—sai tips hitting pressure points, numbing limbs, slowing Reggie down.

  It was a long battle.

  Reggie was the aggressor. Relentless. Powerful. Lightning arcing. Bat swinging with enough force to shatter bone.

  The figure was defensive. Fluid. Patient. Parried. Evaded. Struck only to disable, never to kill.

  Reggie’s arms burned. Legs trembled. Vision tunneled.

  The figure was tiring too. Breathing heavier. Older. Less endurance.

  Reggie saw it.

  Dug deep.

  Pure will power.

  He roared. Lightning exploded outward. Bat glowed white-blue.

  The figure staggered.

  Reggie pressed.

  Swing after swing. Lightning after lightning.

  The figure blocked. Parried. Slipped.

  Then Reggie landed one.

  Bat cracked across the figure’s ribs. Lightning surged inward. The figure gasped. Dropped to one knee.

  Reggie raised the bat.

  The figure threw a smoke bomb.

  Cloud exploded.

  Reggie coughed. Vision blurred.

  When the smoke cleared, the figure was gone.

  Reggie spun.

  Too late.

  A hand clapped once behind him.

  Reggie turned. Bat raised.

  The figure stood there. Sai dropped. Hands up.

  “It’s ok, young man,” the voice said. Smooth. Warm. 70s jive still in it. “You must be Reggie, right?”

  The figure pulled the blue mask off.

  African American man. Late fifties. Short graying hair. Wise eyes. Scar on his cheek.

  “Name’s Deshaun Washington,” he said. “Kenji’s step-brother.”

  Reggie lowered the bat. Slowly.

  Deshaun smiled—small, real.

  “Kenji’s father moved to America years ago. Married my mama. Took her last name to hide from some old debts back in Japan. Kenji and me… we grew up together. Acted like blood. He taught me kendo. I taught him a few tricks from the streets. That blue mask? Family heirloom. Different color, same meaning.”

  Reggie stared.

  Deshaun stepped closer.

  “Heard the dojo burned. Heard Kenji passed. Heard some kid with lightning was tearing through the yakuza like a storm. Figured it was you. Came to check on what he left behind.”

  Reggie didn’t speak for a long moment.

  Then he pulled the mask off.

  Looked at Deshaun.

  “Why the fight?”

  Deshaun shrugged.

  “Had to see if you were worth it. Kenji always said you had heart. I needed to see it for myself.”

  Reggie looked at the bat. At the mask. At the dojo walls he’d rebuilt with his own hands.

  “They burned a legacy,” he said quietly.

  Deshaun nodded.

  “Then we make sure they don’t burn yours.”

  Reggie looked up.

  Deshaun smiled.

  “Got some ninpo tricks that might help with that Major K problem. You interested?”

  Reggie clenched his fist.

  Lightning sparked along his knuckles.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “I’m interested.”