Chapter 2

The Ironsmith's Mandate

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Chapter 2

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“Flavio San Vicente is the heart and soul of this town.” - unnamed San Luis Vicente resident

***

As I open the door to the restaurant and walk in, I catch a glimpse of the large old man commanding the Southern Cross combat sports team, leading them towards the conference room, where our lunch was reserved.

Once I rejoin the group, we are all making our way towards our seats, and I move on autopilot as I think about our coach.

Coach Greg Ocampo is what you’d call a gentle giant: Jaric once told me that growing old enough to look like that and have all of the stories to tell meant that it was a life well-lived.

They didn’t look alike, but the way they carried themselves – oh, and the stories.

Our practices up to the tournament only consisted of Coach Greg having us spar, and dissecting the entirety of the spar afterward: how you moved, why you did this thing, that thing, what were you anticipating, how did you adapt when things didn’t go how you expected… those sorts of questions.

Those didn’t take long, and soon after that, we’d get to the really nice part of Coach Greg’s practices: his stories of his youthful adventures with my grandfather, the Maestro – though he wasn’t called the Maestro back then, he was simply called “Flavio”.

Even though we won our respective bouts, there seemed to be a pall cast over the entirety of the restaurant, and when I looked at the menu, where Grandfather was at the ribbon-cutting ceremony of Lacey’s, I remember that this was one of the businesses he helped put together.

That was one of Coach Greg’s favorite stories: how he turned the owner of his favorite fish ball stand into a restaurateur, the very place we were about to have lunch now.

I was brought back to Earth when Jaric motioned to me to hand him the menu, as I already made my choice to go for the sisig, which this place was also famous for.

As the waitress took our orders, I look around to see familiar faces in the conference room: first, there’s me and Jaric from the weapon combat team. The basis of our combat sports was based on arnis, but the tournament rules were changed from disarms to touches, no doubt influenced by the Japanese kendo disciplines.

Also, because Grandfather wanted everyone into arnis to treat their weapons as if they had a lethal edge and point; it was the kind of discipline he lived and taught all throughout his life.

That aside, there was our assistant coach, who was supposed to be our coach, except Coach Greg pulled every string he could to stave off retirement until my graduation; last I heard, Assistant Coach Buenaflor was already doing most of the coaching duties. As Coach Greg was mentoring the much younger man to succeed him, he was also teaching us students that the way of the sword isn’t just a sport or a way of life, it was life itself.

Our underclassmen in the unarmed combat team haven’t quite gotten it yet, but I still have one year here, after this. Coach Greg should be around long enough to show it to them; I’m sure of it. Besides, they also won their bouts today, which is why we’re all here.

Rounding out the cast is the fashionably-late Salve, who was here by Coach Greg’s invitation, most likely, and the young man sitting in the corner, looking around like he was still a fish out of water here.

That’s our teams’ sports physician: Dr. Harald Capistrano, though he insists he be called “Dr. Harry”.

And yes, one of his talents is an uncanny Clint Eastwood impression when a reference to that movie is made about his name.

I had seen him around during my days in Southern Cross Elementary School, running errands here and there while he was going for his medical degree, and it was only when I made the combat sports team that I saw him again – this time, he had already gone through medical school and was taking a double specialty in sports medicine and infectious diseases, in between handling boo-boos of rowdy middle and high school kids and doing the prerequisite sex education classes.

I’m going to have to save that story of Dr. Harry giving us The Talk for a later time, because the food is here.

Platters of standard Filipino fare are placed on our table: sizzling sisig (my order), prawn sinigang, kare-kare, choice cuts of lechon kawali, rows of delicately spiced and fried fish (this one was courtesy to my grandfather), and the dish that Lacey’s was now famous for: adobo-marinated chicken that was also fried with little oil, its skin glistening from the sauce used on it.

Once upon a spar, Coach Greg said that Lacey’s daughter Evangeline picked it up somewhere in the American South on tour, but he didn’t quite remember where. I’ll have to ask him about it sometime, or our Home Economics teacher during cooking class.

Before we dug in, our coach prepared a toast, in memory of my grandfather.

One of the teaching assistants was trying to keep him from “spoiling” our victory with some maudlin words about his late friend, but Coach Greg was obstinate, and because of his age, he would be able to speak out in tribute to his dear friend, come hell or high water!

Coach Buenaflor, Dr. Harry and Salve managed to get the teaching assistant to back down, and Coach Greg started to speak.

“Right before we dig in, let me start by saying this: it’s not about you. This is just the first step in a long journey you’re taking. Yeah, we kicked butt out there, whoop dee do, congratulations. That was just the round of 32. Let’s celebrate that on Friday.”

He raised a glass of water to the air.

“This… is for my old friend Flavio. To you, he was larger than life. To me, he’d always been the same guy I met as a shy kid in San Luis Vicente, grew up together, got into adventures together, and became men together. Always thought I’d go on ahead of you, but…”

Everyone saw his lip quiver and his eyes moisten, but he soldiered on, regardless.

“Hope wherever you are, you’re finally taking a damned day off,” he said with a chuckle. “Because you’ve done so much for us, this town, your family…”

“Cheers.”

Everyone in the conference room applauded, and then Dr. Harry stood up.

“Nobody wanted to take a chance on a street kid too smart for his own good…” he began. “The Maestro was getting long in the tooth when he ran into me. Said I reminded him of his son, or something. Before I knew it, I was being hustled to exams, sent off to college, going through medical school… heck, the reason I’m here is to pay my debt to him forward. He loved this town, and I can easily see why. This gig might look like a break I’m taking between my double majors… yeah, I think it sounds really good if I come back here and put my roots down. It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Another smattering of applause, and this time Salve stood – when did she get here? I must have been so absorbed in thought that I didn’t see her.

“I will always regret never having the chance to thank the Maestro,” she started. “I ran away from home, he gave me a place to live, a way to make something more of myself. I was barely out of my childhood when fate brought me to him… and then I resumed my education, made it all the way through law school, and now, not long after they published the bar exam results…”

She sighed.

“When he saw it, he said that I didn’t need to thank him, just becoming a lawyer was thanks enough. But… I was insistent, which was why he put me in charge of taking care of his affairs after this tournament is over, and the memorial trophies given to the best of the best here. Godspeed, Maestro. Everything I am, I owe to you.”

More applause. And then, my body betrayed me as I stood up.

“My grandfather was larger than life. All I saw was the old man who taught me how to climb trees, fish, live off the land, read, write, defend myself… I don’t know,” I said, and instead of frowns at my halting delivery, I saw sad smiles and twinkling eyes across the faces of everyone in the conference room.

Why?

“As I grew and as the old man knew the end was coming for him, every story he told me taught a lesson of sorts, and I still remember all of them.”

I sighed.

“Even wrote them down, because… I don’t know, I thought it was important, and I could come back to it at a later time. And now… my grandfather has passed on. When I hear Coach Greg, Dr. Harry and Miss Salve talk about him, it’s like he’s the heart and soul of San Luis Vicente… and we now have to build on his legacy, be the kind of person that would make him proud. I don’t know… I’m rambling. I just won a bout earlier, he told me to win it all, and I don’t even know if I’ll make it.”

I scratch the back of my head.

“You know what? The old man never raised his voice at me or struck me. He just gave me that look – the kind of look that tells you ‘I’ve been here before, made the same mistakes you did, let’s get that cleaned up’. I never knew what it was like to be strong, because I was already being molded to be strong, even back then. He’s always been the strong and gentle grandfather… and now he’s gone…”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and felt some of the sadness go away with it.

“…well, I might not make it, but I don’t care. I’m going to tear through that tourney and raise the memorial trophy, because not only would it be a fitting tribute to the old man, but as a fulfillment of his final wish. I’ve never been any good fighting for myself, but now? I hope that with someone worth fighting for, I can make a better showing. Thanks a lot.”

More applause, and I could see some of the teachers rubbing the corners of their eyes after I spoke.

Lunch began, and instead of melancholy, the mood was festive, all of us sharing stories about the Maestro.

“You know, the old man told me to be strong for you,” Jaric said as he returned to the table with his second plate of food. “Can’t believe you would call him ‘gentle’; I could feel him coming from some distance away back then, he had this… what do you call it… aura, that he was The Man™ and I’m a dude that’s just lucky enough to be in his company.”

“Really?” I asked. “Never saw him that way.”

“You grew up with him,” Jaric explained. “I remember it, clearly as if it was yesterday, the old man and his lawyer – though she looked like she was still in high school back then – fetched you from school. Oh man, I thought I was tough, my brothers were tough, my dad was tough, my uncles were tough, but your gramps just had that something that had them beat.”

“Was that why you joined the combat sports team?” I asked.

Jaric took a moment and then nodded.

“Yeah. He was the guy who split our arnis curriculum in two, right? General arnis and combat arnis. Had a whole syllabus and everything from fifth to twelfth grade.”

“Pretty sure Coach Greg helped him make it.”

“Yep, he did. Asked him about it before. Say, you sold yourself short again, during that little speech of yours.”

“I just don’t want to give people unrealistic expectations.”

“Dude, I saw the way you wrecked that United Academia guy. You’re guaranteed a spot in the semifinal at worst, and you’re only going to get better.”

“All right, but I’m hoping I don’t disappoint…”

“Forget that! Just go into the tourney like you’re doing in sparring! Styling and profiling, kicking butt, taking names! That sort of thing.”

Great. Now Jaric’s fired up. Pretty soon, he’s going to ask for…

“When you and I beat the stuffing out of those two unlucky chumps matched up against us, I want a spar!”

…yep, good old predictable Jaric.

I just gave him a grin as I dig into my own lunch.

And yes, Coach Greg was in a very festive mood after that, as everyone got to have a little wine with lunch… even if our share was just a thimbleful of red dissolved in our soda.

***

“…all right, our pre-game assembly will be at 0900h tomorrow, because the next two rounds are at 10am, you and Jaric are on deck!”

“Roger that, Coach,” Jaric and I replied singsong.

“Great! Now head on home, get some rest, and prepare for tomorrow. Saint Georgios got some firepower last year, so they are not to be underestimated!”

Those were the Coach’s last piece of advice before we separated, and I still couldn’t believe how lunch started so sadly, and ended as a party.

I grinned. Grandfather had a certain charisma, even after he had passed on, to make what’s supposed to be a time for grief into an occasion to celebrate his life and work.

“Will be taking a trike home now,” Jaric said as he waved goodbye to us.

“I know,” I answered. “Just around the way. Still, be careful.”

“Always,” he replied, and then turned to the street, where tricycles were passing by.

Salve and I, on the other hand, were walking towards her car.

“They’re contesting the will,” Salve said on the way. “He’s hasn’t been buried, the will hasn’t been opened yet, and they’re already setting up the ground work for a long and bloody legal dispute.”

“Why?”

“I’m a lawyer, not a mind reader,” Salve deadpanned as she opened the door of her car and got in.

I was over the laughing fit by the time I was on the seat opposite hers and putting the seatbelt on.

“But really, they’ve been running the show on grandfather’s businesses and estates, why do they have to grab this one, too?” I asked my grandfather’s lawyer as we pull into traffic.

“If you ask me?” Salve thought aloud. “I think they’re sore at what your grandfather did, wanting to spend his last days with you instead of them… or they could just be greedy.”

“Fair point,” I said. “But if this is just greed, why go through all the effort? They’re going to have all of grandfather’s business interests, stock options, everything. The house and land up here total to only about 2.5% of his total net worth.”

Salve gave me a look as we pulled to a traffic stop, and turned her eyes back to the road.

“Sometimes I forget that the Maestro used to talk about his second family to you,” she said as the lights turned green. “Anyway, you should put that aside for now. Don’t worry about a thing, as I am going to make sure the Maestro’s last will and testament will go through, despite their objections.”

I decided that when as soon as we got home, I would meditate for half an hour before taking a nap.

With that much rest, I could probably wrangle Salve to let me hit the sack at an hour before midnight; I had to catch one of my favorite e-sports teams competing, and I couldn’t miss that.

***

As it turned out, I didn’t need to do any wrangling; Salve knew about the team I was a fan of (who wouldn’t, I was wearing their shirt for a week when they won the biggest prize pool in e-sports history), and I was able to get in enough sleep and wake up on time to get ready for the next round in the tournament.

Salve dropped me off at school, and told me to do my best, as I would be facing off against the new acquisition of Saint Georgios Technical School.

And just as she pulled away, I felt a friendly pat on my shoulder.

“Have I ever mentioned how much I envy you, living with someone as hot as Miss Salve?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Fifth time you’ve told me this week, thirtieth time this month,” I answered with a chuckle. “So… who’s your dance partner later today?”

“Coach Greg told me; he’s one of those ringers from Lafayette Magisterium. Tough, but his previous combat experience makes him good with knives, not with sticks. I’ll outrange and outpoint him easily. You?”

“The new guy from Saint Georgios,” I said, thinking out loud. “They say he’s a really big shot at sports arnis, though.”

“Hah,” Jaric laughed. “Sports arnis and combat arnis are two separate creatures by now. Show him that he’s no longer the big fish in this small pond.”

I shrugged.

“So, whoever wins first gets to watch the other?”

“You’re on.”

Since we got there at half past eight, there was nothing to do but wait in the school clinic, where Dr. Harry was either taking a nap, or chatting with students, so that was where our footsteps led.

***

“That’s the second time this month Tuazon came in here for RSI on his wrist. Damned mobile games, oh, it’s you two. So… what can this lowly cleric do for Ornstein and Smough?”

Jaric actually laughed out loud at that nickname.

“Actually, we’ve got half an hour until Coaches Greg and Jim take us to the arena, sir,” I replied as Jaric was still too busy keeping himself from laughing even louder. “Thought we could spend it here.”

“Well, I’ll be going with you anyway,” Dr. Harald “Harry” Capistrano (our school’s sports doctor) replied, bleary eyes with darkened circles under them snapping into activity.

“Why not? At least you two aren’t insistent on having the air conditioning on – honestly, it was a waste putting it up here, I never open it up,” he continued. “Anyway, I’ve been doing a little scouting of my own. Lafayette’s combat arnis team are a bunch of switchblade-wielding thugs, no grace or elegance in their moves whatsoever. They grew up on the streets, and no amount of self-defense classes is going to take that away from them.”

“Right, right,” Jaric answered. “Is this what Coach Greg said about how we need to learn martial arts early, because that’s what we default to in times of panic, sir?”

The doctor nodded.

“Yep, you got it,” he said. “That’s exactly why, in a fight, you need to keep your composure more than Ornstein here, Smough.”

Jaric laughed again.

“You, on the other hand, don’t have that problem. The old man probably trained you since you were old enough to walk,” Dr. Harry said, pointing at me. “You already know that the guy from Georgios is a sports arnis lifer, with all that entails. Just keep yourself from being disarmed, remember how predictable going for the disarm is, and make him pay. Shouldn’t be any complications from that.”

I nod.

“Good. Okay, if this is going to keep me from making any more of ‘The Talk’ with you guys, I’m going to keep on the sport medicine specialty.”

This time, Jaric and I both laugh.

“Right, laugh it up, you two aren’t the ones on the spot and being asked questions like ‘can I get pregnant if I do anal, Dr. Capistrano’…” he grumbled; right then, a knock on the door interrupted him.

“Knew you were there,” Coach Jim Buenaflor declared as he stepped in. “We’re all here; I see you guys are also on standby. Let’s get cracking! Conquest waits for no one.”

I heard unintelligible grumbling from Dr. Harry as he pushed himself up off the comfortable chair in his office, picked up his mug of coffee off the table, chugged it in one go, and stood up straight.

“Right, let’s get this party started. Cruz, San Vicente, let’s go.”

“Roger that, Doc!”

“Yeah, let’s go give them the business.”

***

I don’t quite remember the name of the guy from Saint Georgios.

Scratch that, I do – but it’s his last name that stands out.

As much as I didn’t want to laugh when I first heard it, I did.

His last name was “Ban-o”, and I made a valiant effort to not simply break down laughing when I first read it on the announcement table.

That traitorous teammate of mine, though, broke my concentration, as I had elbowed him repeatedly to stop laughing, because the guy was just a few feet away.

Even had to make myself scarce so I could laugh in private.

Hope the guy appreciated my discretion, but judging by the way his eyebrows are rumpled as I walk onto the arena floor, it doesn’t seem like it.

The name comes back to me, and I have to keep my shoulders from shaking.

“Sorry,” I told him as soon as I was in earshot. “Didn’t do a good job keeping my teammate from laughing, you know how it is.”

“I’m still going to beat you.”

“Okay, you’re asking for too much, now,” I replied back, my bantering nature now taking over. “Let’s have our sticks decide that now, shall we?”

Well now, he seems like he’s looking forward to this.

“Good idea.”

A different referee shows up and gives us last-minute directions.

“You already know how this works. Touches at critical areas gets you a point. Get three points to win the set. Get two sets to win the match. I want a good, clean fight. Obey my commands at all times. Understood?”

“Understood,” I replied jauntily.

“Yes,” my opponent answered.

“You seem to have gotten him wound up,” Coach Greg told me as soon as I returned to my corner. “What happened back at registration? Jim was handling that with you and Jaric.”

“Saw his name,” I admitted. “Tried my best not to laugh. Jaric didn’t. Ended up having to run to a corner to laugh anyway.”

“Well, whatever you did, it’s working. He’s going to swing wild: harder, but easier to evade. Since he’s too familiar with disarms, and that depends on accuracy.”

I sighed.

“Didn’t want to win like this.”

“All right then, play it out. Make a show of it.”

“That would be insulting to him more, Coach!”

“That’s the kind of thing your grandfather had to deal with. If you’re really that focused on winning it for him, you’re going to have to find a way to beat him and have him thinking he won because he threw his best shot at you, and it didn’t work.”

Something comes to my mind immediately, but I don’t tell Coach. He’ll see it anyway, in the very first exchange.

“Coaches out!”

“Just calm down and play to your strengths, Max.”

“Understood, Coach!”

“Right. Bring it home.”

I tighten the grip of my right hand on the stick, as I switch the stick on my left hand from a reverse to a forward grip, and make my way to the combat floor.

“Saint Georgios, are you ready?”

My opponent answers with a nod.

“Southern Cross, are you ready?”

I nod back.

“Then commence!”

***

My grandfather had, during his adventures, apparently supplemented his massive knowledge and experience in arnis with that of Japanese swordsmanship – it was the basis for his suggested school of arnis he called “combat arnis”, a style that mimicked sword-wielding even more than the common “sports arnis” being used in schools and dojos throughout the country.

Unlike “sports arnis” which focused on disarming the opponent, “combat arnis” treated the sticks as if they were sharp and pointed instruments of death, scoring points on body parts meant to highlight the potential lethality of the martial art.

San Luis Vicente was one of several towns that had both sports and combat arnis integrated into their varsity sports programs, and it was obvious that my opponent hadn’t been to any of those towns yet until now.

As I was facing off against him, I saw that he was in an all-too familiar orthodox stance – he was going to go for the disarm.

“Combat arnis” also gave you the set if you pulled off the disarm successfully, but that was risky to do, as most standard disarming strikes left a huge part of your body open.

Still, if he’s going to go that way, then who am I to keep him from it?

In one smooth motion, I went for the slapdash idea I had a moment ago, and bounced on the balls of my feet before I charged forward, main hand ready for a slash.

I planted my feet for an obvious feint, striking with the right hand, and when he saw my open arm, he went for it.

Oh, you sweet summer child. You couldn’t resist bait this obvious.

Though I clearly planted my right foot for the feint, it took me little effort to redirect my body’s momentum from my right to my left half, and as he’s swinging towards my right arm, my left arm was already in motion.

The tip of his stick is but a few centimeters away from my arm when a stick suddenly came in between them. One abrupt twist later, his arm is sent backwards, the momentum of his swing being used against it as my perfect parry lands.

One thrust of the stick at center mass, and the point is mine.

“Point for Southern Cross!”

He looks incredulously at me, and I just smile.

“Again?” I mouthed to him, and instead of being angry, he only smiles wider.

This was the perfect play to get his mind back into the game.

Now, it’s time to show him what I can really do.

***

“Point, Saint Georgios. Two points to one. Timeout, Southern Cross.”

I walked back to my corner. Looks like this guy is a fast learner, a total opposite of his last name.

“You’re having fun out there, aren’t you?” Coach Greg asked.

“As much as he’s having,” I answered cheekily. “I’m behind two points, but I still have the set, he doesn’t. I’m swinging this one around.”

“All right. Focus, Max. If he wins this point, you’ll be down to a best-of-five.”

“Will do, Coach. I already saw his weakness. I’m going to attack it for this point, and capitalize on the next point for the set.”

“A good plan. Now go out there and execute.”

“Roger that.”

When I stepped onto the combat floor again, it’s not with pressure or difficulty, but strangely, a sense of ease.

It’s like I have an extra spring in my step, like I’m walking on sunshine, like I’m just here to have fun on the sticks, without a care in the world.

Part of me is wondering why, but that part’s put away for the time being, as there are two points I have to take.

I’m going to earn them with style. Just you watch, Grandfather.

“Commence!” the referee announces, and this time, it’s my opponent who’s on the attack.

He knows that he needs this point to bring the match back even.

But, as he’s taking steps towards me, something seems to be odd.

He’s moving slower than before.

Before, his attempted parries and strikes on my arm were snappy.

Now, as I snake around an attempted parry and tap his stick in acknowledgment, I am confused for a moment.

Is he growing slower? Or… perhaps, I am just going faster?

Worry about that later. Get the point now!

He uses a familiar three-step feint into a wide swing meant to place both my arms out of position, but I see it coming a mile away.

First step, he’ll plant his foot, and feint into a disarming attack on my wrist. I’ll plant my foot into his lead and wreck his positioning.

He’ll use his off-hand to swing at my main hand while I’m worrying about my wrist. I’ll use my close proximity to use my main hand as a wedge to keep his off-hand from reaching mine.

Finally, he’s going to swing wide with both hands. With his momentum stalled, I can use my own off-hand to parry his attack and send him out of position.

The world kicked back into high gear as soon as I tap him on the shoulder.

“Shoulder hit. Point to Southern Cross. Two points apiece.”

As we moved back for the final point of the set, I spared a look at my opponent’s eyes, and I am surprised to see something that wasn’t there before: fear.

It looked like that was his money shot, and I simply stepped into it and negated it completely.

If that was his best move, then what’s coming will be…

“Spaghetti!”

I heard Jaric’s voice, though it sounded so far away, but he’s right.

This guy is at the proverbial end of his rope. He’s going to try anything and everything. Not a moment ago, he was in the driver’s seat and was poised to win the set. Now, if he loses this point, he loses the match.

This last point is going to be interesting!

“Saint Georgios, Southern Cross, ready!”

The referee brings her hands down.

“Commence!”

As soon as she called it, my opponent began to charge at me; at the same time, I bounced on my feet and met his charge with my own.

First swing is always something from the main hand, with the off-hand at the ready for a parry.

However, I defy expectations and switch things up.

The downward strike came, just as predicted, and I found that making my off-hand deflect it was easier than usual.

Here comes his off-hand strike. He’ll go sideward.

My main hand goes back while my off-hand does double duty and intercepts the side strike while his own main hand is recovering.

He goes for the cross strike to continue the attack, but both his sticks are stopped by my own double block.

I saw his eyes widen, and take that chance to blow his guard open from my own block, and as he tries to recover, I see that one of his shoulders is catching up to the other.

It was fun, but I can’t play no more.

The match came to an end as I smacked him a little too hard on the left shoulder in a slanting blow.

“Shoulder-to-hip strike. Match point for Southern Cross. Congratulations.”

My opponent was a bit out of it as he was still seated on the combat floor when the announcement came, but when he realized that he had lost, he got up quickly, gripping his left shoulder with his right hand, sticks hanging limply from his wrists.

“Damn, that’s going to bruise…” he told himself as we went to make the ceremonial bow for swordsmanship.

“Bow,” the referee intoned, and after we did, there was now a big smile on my opponent’s face.

“Looks like the stories were true, you're really that good,” he said, extending his right hand, and I had to smile.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” I replied, as I shook the hand offered to me.

It wasn’t long after, that we were on the school’s e-trike and heading back to Lacey’s, for another lunch celebrating my grandfather, and our advancement in the inter-school tournament.

On the way there, I looked back to the second match, and how my opponent – who wasn’t a pushover – seemed to slow down, the more I focused.

What was that?

I should probably try and figure it out before it inexplicably conks out on me during the final, which these things tend to do… maybe Jaric will be up to that spar later this afternoon or tomorrow morning, shame his match finished before mine, would've wanted to see what how he took care of business…