Chapter 3

The Ironsmith's Mandate

***

Chapter 3

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“Flavio was cut out of a different cloth than us ordinary folk. He was, and I do not use this phrase lightly, a living legend, during his seven decades of life in this world.” – Mayor of San Luis Vicente, during his eulogy for Flavio San Vicente

***

“Even if the inter-school is going on, I still have to keep you guys working at academics, somehow,” our math teacher said with a smile as Jaric and I walk into the classroom. “By the looks of things, you two took care of business.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“You should’ve seen it. Max was kung fu fighting, his moves were fast as lightning!” Jaric said, and the classroom chuckled at the accuracy of his imitation of that singer. “Did we miss anything, sir?”

“Nothing much, just going over what we’re going to be taking in the upcoming midterm. Modular lessons are useful like that – take a seat, we’re going through factorials again.”

The whole classroom groaned as one, but Jaric and I were still riding the high off our win, so we went over to our seats and brought out our worksheets.

Five minutes into the lesson, Jaric and I were groaning just as badly as everyone else. Calculus is evil like that.

Halfway through the lecture, I got called.

“San Vicente, it’s good you’ve won, but learning calculus is also a worthwhile exercise for the brain,” our math teacher said with some amusement. I had barely gotten over my surprise when I realized my hands were on autopilot while I was looking outside, going back to the match earlier, wondering why I suddenly gained either enhanced speed or perception.

“Apologies, sir,” I replied as I stood up.

“What’s the solution to this problem?”

I looked to the doodles I had been doing, and I am once again surprised by myself, as my idle hands had apparently been listening to the lecture.

“Nicely done,” the math teacher told me after I took a moment to walk myself through the solution, and his attention returned to my classmates.

I sank back into my seat with relief and more confusion – it’s probably some kind of perception, allows me to pay attention to classes while my mind is busy elsewhere.

Good for multitasking, if nothing else – maybe that’s how I won my last match?

That bears consideration.

***

We’re dismissed early, as the next round of the combat arnis tournament will be at the same early time tomorrow, at 9 in the morning.

As I’m preparing to leave, Jaric walks up to me.

“Max, you’re leaving already?” he asked.

That was when I remembered.

“Oh, right. The spar,” I said, sheepishly scratching the back of my head. “I could spare one point or two.”

“That’s the spirit. Come on, let’s get at it before Dr. Harry or our coaches get on our case.”

A smile split my face as I followed him to the combat sports dojo.

***

Right now, I’m facing Jaric, with both of us holding the foam-lined sticks the sports arnis team uses for practice.

“On three?”

I nod at him, and the few students here hold their breath.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Jaric moved in immediately, taking huge strides as he aimed to take the initiative of the spar immediately.

The first strike will always be either a side or overhead strike. Jaric’s style is shock and awe – if the first strike hits or is blocked, he will have a massive advantage in tempo, that he will leverage for the first point.

True to form, as soon as I saw him swinging the sticks down, I was already immediately planning my counterattack.

Wait, I can see the sticks coming – that hasn’t happened before.

The best part of Jaric’s arsenal is the way he uses momentum to give his strikes both speed and power. Heck, he even taught me how to strike with force that belied my wiry frame!

And now, it seems the world has slowed down to a crawl once again; it’s like everything’s moving in super-slow motion, causing me to plainly make out Jaric’s sticks as he’s attacking.

Should I try and counter it?

Defend?

Evade?

What can I do, to show I’ve somehow gotten stronger overnight without making Jaric look like a chump?

I took too much time thinking of it, and now I have to make a decision.

I crossed the sticks, and prepared to weather the storm.

Time returned to normal, and the sheer power of the strike rattles my entire body, but somehow my guard holds fast.

“Well,” Jaric said as he stepped back and lowered his sticks. “I think I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

The tension goes out of the dojo like air from a deflating balloon.

“Wait, what?”

Jaric just laughs, but before he did, he sported an inscrutable expression.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow morning, while we’re waiting at Dr. Harry’s office. Besides, I remembered I have chores to run, my folks are going to kill me!”

As I saw him leaving for the day, I wondered – what did he see that caused him to end the spar that early?

And with these new… gifts of mine, why couldn’t I?

I saw that Salve was waiting for me outside school when I emerged from the main hall, and everything she had been talking to me about was reduced to background noise as I replayed everything that happened earlier today in my head on the trip home…

***

“Something bugging you, Max? You’ve barely touched dinner.”

I sighed.

“I don’t know… something happened earlier with Jaric. He said he wanted a spar, but after one hit, he called it off, said he had something to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, maybe I did something that caused him to run off like that? After this inter-school, there will be a two-on-two combat arnis exhibition, and this might put a damper in the team chemistry and…”

“Max, relax,” Salve said with a smile. “You’re overthinking things. If you’re not sure about it, ask Jaric tomorrow.”

I sighed again.

“I… well… why is this so complicated?” I asked, using my fork to take out my frustration on an errant chunk of potato.

“Your grandfather also had a habit of doing that,” Salve said, her eyes twinkling as she remembered the old man. “He didn’t do it as often, but when he did, he always told me that in order to get out of it, he had to keep in mind that ‘things are only as complicated as we let them become’.”

“Did that help you through law school and the bar exam?”

“Sure did. Now finish your dinner, you still have three rounds to go to win it for your grandfather, right?”

I nodded, and she gave me another one of those smiles of hers right as I returned to my dinner.

***

“Earlier than usual, huh?” Dr. Harry asked as I entered the school clinic. “Jaric said he’d be a bit late; his uncles had him take care of something last-minute… you seem troubled.”

“Well, Doc,” I answered, “something seems to be changing in me.”

His reply had the singsong tone of rote.

“Well, when you reach a certain age, your body starts producing the hormone testosterone, leading to dramatic physical changes…” and as soon as he saw my eyes rolling at his flat attempt at comedy, his voice trailed off. “Pretty sure that wasn’t it, though. What kind of changes do you speak of?”

“Ever felt like time started slowing down upon you?”

“Many times,” the sports medicine specialist said. “It’s when you’re in the zone and focused that your senses and perception become amplified to the point where you think time has slowed down. Why, is this the first time it has happened to you?”

“…started yesterday. I think Jaric also noticed when we sparred. He just hit me once, and I guarded, and that was it.”

“That’s funny,” Dr. Harry said. “Jaric told me the same thing before he went home yesterday.”

“Really?”

“Yep. He said he now knows you’ll win the tournament, because of it.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“He also said he’ll need more work so that he won’t slow you down in the two-on-two exhibition.”

I shrugged.

“Well, that won’t be a problem.”

“Doc!”

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

“Good timing, Jaric. So, what do you think of Max’s chances of winning the tournament since yesterday?”

“He’s going to win it. Because he’s awesome. Isn’t that right, Max?” he asked as he put a huge arm around my shoulder.

“Of course,” I replied in a strained voice, as Jaric’s good spirits meant his one-armed hugs had extra pressure on them.

“Great,” Dr. Harry said as soon as I had extricated myself from that hug of Jaric’s. “Third round is in an hour. I’m sure the both of you have had your preparations taken care of, so we can head on over to the arena.”

“Yes, sir!”

The trip to the arena was a lot lighter than my drive earlier to school, because of one less worry, and because it was time to put my game face on.

***

“Your opponent is from San Luis Vicente National High School,” Coach Greg told me as I was getting ready for the upcoming third round bout. “Scouting reports say he’s a real bruiser, and wields the sticks like a madman – a real natural at combat arnis, probably because he’d been in some trouble before, and sports got him off the streets.”

“What is this, some underdog story where the plucky street kid pulls an upset victory over the rich and privileged mansion-living kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth?” I asked facetiously, as I pulled on my Southern Cross combat uniform.

“That kind of stuff only happens in television dramas,” Dr. Harry remarked as I finished getting ready.  “The really crappy ones – this is real life, though.”

“Not according to Mr. Reyes,” Coach Greg chimed in. “He and his school turned this into some social media narrative about the overpowered rich kid vs. the poor underdog from the streets.”

“Do they really think I’m some kind of rich, entitled kid?” I asked incredulously. “Southern Cross isn’t even that affluent a school!”

“Tell that to them,” Dr. Harry answered with a chuckle. “They’ve been running this story through social media for some time now, and it’s good you haven’t been caught in it – it would have interfered with your combat ability.”

“I only pay as much attention to social media as needed, which is not much at all, Coach,” I said as I grabbed my sticks. “But that’s not going to stop them from keeping this story going, huh?”

“That’s so.”

“I’m going to give that story one of those shama-lama-ding-dong twist endings, then,” I uttered, even as I bounced on the balls of my feet several times to start the adrenaline flowing. “Watch me.”

Everybody in the waiting room seemed to be sporting the kind of smile that said “I know something you don’t”, and it worried me a bit until the crowd outside roared.

“…and Southern Cross’ Jaric Cruz takes the match convincingly!” I heard the announcers say, and I had to smile at that.

Jaric and Coach Jim are going to be able to see just how good I really am, too.

My hands’ grip on my sticks tightens just a little bit as my smile grew a tiny bit predatory, and I barely heard the organizers calling for us to the arena floor.

It’s only when I’m face-to-face with Rattan Reyes that I realized that I’ve been grinning a death’s-head all the while.

Even my opponent looked a little cowed.

Ah, who gives a hoot, a little psychological warfare wouldn’t hurt anyone. Besides, none of this is deliberate. I’m just happy to be able to try and honor my grandfather’s final wishes – though based on the look of Rattan Reyes over there, I’m guessing that he thinks I’m out to make him pay for the way he generated hype for this match.

Well, that’s not my concern; my grandfather’s memory is.

I’m not planning to be a jerk about this, even thought about holding back a bit – but now, it looks like my course is set. I AM going to put on a show of force and send a message to my would-be semifinal opponents: this is what I can do.

***

“Max, listen to me,” Dr. Harry told me, giving my cheeks a light slap to get my head back in the game. “You’re down one set, and Rattan is up two points on you. Match point is his. This is our last timeout.”

“What…?”

“You’ve been fighting pissed off for the last eight points. Last timeout, Coach Greg asked you to center yourself. Didn’t really stick. This is the last timeout, and after these one hundred and twenty seconds, you’re on your own out there.”

My eyes widened.

Was it really that bad?

“No, it’s worse,” Dr. Harry answered. “And yes, you have been thinking out loud. Listen, Max. Rattan Reyes has your number. He’s got you fighting sloppy, fighting angry.”

“Are you telling me to relax at a time like this?”

“No,” Dr. Harry replied. “What I’m telling you is to get angrier and angrier. You’re sloppy because your mental energy is being spent keeping yourself from flipping out completely. That didn’t work, now let’s go with the opposite approach. Don’t think, just feel.”

“Doc, this isn’t the wu shu team.”

“I know. What I want you to do is to get angry – angrier than you’ve ever been, so far past the point of angry that it loops back around to calm. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know…”

“I do. He’s going to make you look like the world’s biggest loser in social media. He’s got clout, streamers, and bloggers singing his praises, forgetting what a spineless thug he really is. You really want a piece of gutter trash like him defeating you, and putting an end to your grandfather’s wishes?”

When Dr. Harry mentioned my grandfather, the rage that I had been subconsciously keeping from boiling over came roaring back, and my whole body started to shake.

“Come on. Thirty seconds left before the timeout’s over. This guy’s already blowing kisses to the crowd and taking selfies like he’s already scored the upset,” Dr. Harry told me, and that was the last straw.

“Coaches out!” the referee called, and my voice surprised even myself with how I called back.

“One second, ref. Just getting my head screwed back on right.”

The clout-chasing crowd around Rattan Reyes laughed at my attempt at comedy, but right then, I was seeing everything in a haze of burning crimson, and it was only growing worse…

But as I step onto the ring, I hear a whisper clearly, above the commotion.

You’re a moment away from realizing one truth about the school of combat I introduced here.

Grandfather?! I ask back.

Quiet! You hear your blood pulsing, don’t you? That’s not just anger; that’s rage. You’ve been going at all of this half-assed this whole time.

I took another step towards the ring, and it’s only now I notice that time slowed down again.

You haven’t quite understood yet.

But you will, soon.

Don’t think about beating him.

Just remember your promise.

I’m still angry.

I never told you to stop. Just let it flow freely. You’ve been keeping it from running through you, and rightly so – but this is one opportunity where you can let loose.

I…

What’s stopping you?

Grandfather, I…

No, and if this little piece of pond scum knocks you out of the tournament you promised to win for me, it will be a cold day in hell before I answer you when you call out ‘Grandfather’.

Fine.

Fine.

FINE!

The haze around my eyes only grows stronger as everything comes into sharp detail.

“Match point. Two-zero, lead SLV National. Southern Cross, ready?”

I nodded.

“SLV National, ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“Then go!”

***

Rattan Reyes is a dirty fighter.

He uses hooks, locks, and dirty parries to get his opponent off balance.

If that’s what he wants to do, I’m going to show him something he hasn’t seen before.

I seized the initiative and dashed immediately as soon as the word ‘go’ was uttered, and stepped in my opponent’s guard immediately.

Here comes the lock. Don’t think about it, just feel it out.

This guy’s a slimeball.

Wait.

Wait a moment.

I can perceive his slimy aura snaking around him.

It is telegraphing where the lock is coming from.

It’s like he announced what he was planning with a marching band and a parade.

Just like that, I encircle towards the aura of the lock, but twist in the opposite direction, so that his lower back is exposed.

The resulting smack sends him skidding across the arena floor.

“Critical hit. Kidney strike. Point to Southern Cross.”

My smile only stretched even wider.

***

I take the first set back easily, but during the first point of the final set, Rattan Reyes does another one of his dirty tricks: grabbing my stick with his fingers, pulling on it to get me off-balance, and then feigning a swing in the same motion as he yanks the stick out of my grip.

Fucking shit! I shouldn’t be falling for these elementary school level tricks!

The referee turned to me, not seeing the foul committed by my opponent.

“Disarm. Will you concede the set?”

I’m still filled with rage as I’m about to answer, but Dr. Harry pre-empts me.

“Hell no! He’s still got a stick, he’s still in this fight!”

The haze of anger wavers for a moment as I see our sports doctor and assistant coach defending my last attempt at this match, asking for a stay of execution.

“Acknowledged,” the referee said. “You will continue the bout with one stick, San Vincente?”

“Yes,” I answered. “The stick I was disarmed was on my off-hand anyway. Is the hand lost?”

The referee’s eyes briefly widened.

“I will consult with the judges for a moment.”

As he went to the judges’ table to confer, I turned to see Rattan Reyes already being congratulated by his coach, his teammates, and his hangers-on, and I can feel the simmering anger within me rise to a boil once more.

He thinks this is a show.

I’m going to leave him a lifetime reminder: something to remember me by.

***

“The judges saw footage of your last point. The hand is not lost, San Vicente. You are allowed to two-hand your remaining stick.”

The referee turned to the crowd and made his announcement.

“Southern Cross lost the left stick via disarm. The off hand remains. Southern Cross appealed for two-handing, as the hand is not lost. I repeat, the hand is not lost. Two points awarded to SLV National for a disarm. Combat continues. Participants, to your places.”

Once I walked back to my spot in the arena floor, I see Rattan Reyes’ smug face.

“How did you like that? You made me look bad with that last back hit. Payback sucks, huh, rich boy?”

When he asked the question, he saw that even my smile is gone; what he didn’t sense was that the roars of the crowd were nothing but white noise to my ears.

“Let’s just let our sticks do the talking,” I said softly, as I shifted my remaining stick into a two-handed grip.

“SLV National, ready?”

“I’ve been waiting for this!”

“Southern Cross, ready?”

Again, I nod.

“Begin!”

***

When the word was finished being uttered, I had already begun the explosion of motion, and I was flashing forward to my target.

Unlike before, I could now clearly see the slimy black substance surrounding my opponent; he was going to fake a high hit and aim for my shins, as he had scored his fair share of points during the fight using that tactic.

Remember, Max. Combat is a dance.

I remember.

Sometimes your partner wants to make you look bad.

Like right now.

That’s why you have to take it to another level, so it’s your partner who ends up the worse of it.

You can see what he’s doing and what he’s going to do.

I…

He’s ruthless. Paying his treachery with honor is an insult to him. Double down.

I still have two more points to win.

He will lose.

How do you know?

You are my grandson; you are the best of my blood.

At the very last moment, right before his low swing was about to hit, I swerve slightly to the side, so that he compensates by thrusting at my leg, instead of swinging at it.

It’s the opportunity I needed, as when I saw him change his attack mid-swing, my inside foot was already in the air.

His thrust ended up too short for my outside foot, as my inside foot was now on its way down, and once my foot felt bamboo, everything else flowed easily.

I stepped on his lead weapon, and if he did not raise his off arm, he would have fallen down.

All that was left was to strike him in the midsection, and back away once the buzzer sounded.

“Critical hit. Disemboweling slash. One point to Southern Cross.”

I was tempted to smile, but…

No.

Two more points left.

Don’t half-ass it, Max.

He’ll come at you with the whole nine yards after this.

We returned to our places, and I could see the fury beginning to fill Rattan Reyes’ eyes.

“Don’t fight angry”, the saying went, though my grandfather had a different idea: “fight angry until you can’t tell the difference.”

“Participants, to your places.”

Rattan Reyes wants the next bout to start, he can’t wait to get that last point.

I’m going to use that against him.

“Ready?”

We both nodded.

“Then begin!”

It’s his turn to flash forward, but given how my senses have come on during this bout, it looks like he’s only moving quickly, instead of what he thinks is superhuman speed, and as he does, I see how the slimy substance is boosting his movements.

It doesn’t matter, as I surprise him with something I haven’t done the whole match: I backpedaled.

His opening attack hits nothing but air as I push my body backwards, and I grip my own stick with two hands as I go low.

He already saw what I was planning, and tried to hit me with a downward double strike of his own… but it was too late. I was already thrusting, and with a slap of wood hitting padding, Rattan Reyes is flung backwards, and the buzzer sounds.

“Hit. Abdominal thrust. One point to Southern Cross. The bout is tied.”

The cheering from the crowd has come undone, and there is but a faint buzz in the arena as Rattan Reyes and I move to our places for the last point of the match… but that will have to wait, as the opposing coach called their own timeout.

I returned to my corner, still trying to hold onto that bit of focus I had when I scored both those points.

“I didn’t do anything illegal, didn’t I?” I asked, and was surprised at how heavy I was breathing. That was just two points, but it felt like I had just run a marathon.

“No,” Coach Greg replied. “That foot stomp counter is a rare move in combat arnis, but you pulled it off flawlessly. The old man taught it to you?”

My mind wandered back to the times when I was younger; Grandfather and I had to do a perimeter around the property every month or so, and the trail was often muddy.

The way he told me to walk through mud, and take steps in those places…

You are beginning to understand.

I just nodded.

“Well, it’s the last point now. Make it count.”

“Still angry, Max?”

I gave Dr. Harry another nod.

“He’ll be coming at you with everything he’s got.”

“I know. But I’m still going to win.”

“All right, go get it, then,” Dr. Harry said, after I saw his eyes widen for a moment.

He gave me an encouraging slap on the shoulder, and that was when I noticed something similar…

“Participants, to the stage.”

That announcement snapped me out of my reverie, and got me walking onto the arena for the final time today.

Now, though, the old-timers seated near our side of the stage were looking more animated than the students of the public high school on the opposite side, who were still shellshocked at the fact that I managed to bring it back from defeat with just one stick on my hand.

“Match point, Southern Cross. Match Point, San Luis Vicente National. Are both participants ready?”

I nodded.

So did my opponent.

The referee raised his arm… and lowered it.

***

Unlike last time, Rattan Reyes was no longer constrained by his need to win.

He now wanted to injure me.

His sticks were a whirlwind of motion, and I did all I could to not get hit.

The strikes came over and over from everywhere; slowly, the calm that I had gained through my anger was being chipped away, replaced with fear.

Though my defense was holding out, my morale wasn’t, and after a barrage of attacks that had me stepping back, I felt my foot brush against concrete.

I’m cornered!

What the heck?!

Don’t panic. He still has to drive you out of the ring or hit you to win.

I have nowhere to go and nothing to do!

Really, now? Did that last counterattack teach you nothing?

I… can’t…

Yes, you can.

The path has been laid out before you.

All you need to do…

…is take the first… step… forward…

Wait.

WAIT.

THAT’S IT.

It was in front of me the whole time!

Even if the miasma surrounding my opponent was at its highest, and his arms swung unflaggingly with the sticks to try and overwhelm me with sheer volume of attacks, he still had to open with something.

The sludge hovering over him told the entire tale.

He always started his flurries with a thrust to the midsection.

I was so concerned with trying to defend against what came after, that I had ignored this key to victory.

Now, with me a step away from defeat, he was now about to enter the finishing blow, and in his mania, seemed to resort to his default style of attacking…

…and it was the only opportunity I’d get to turn this match around.

It’s a mere matter of timing.

Yes. This is precision. I have to flow.

Flow with what’s coming, and use it to fuel your own move.

Just like the foot stuck in the mud. It’s fluid. Flow with it and your foot will come free. Force it and you will be stuck even deeper.

In comes the thrust I’ve been expecting, and as his hand extends, the foot I nearly stepped out of bounds with is now curling forward, using my momentum to set up the next level of the counter that my grandfather taught me.

My body weaves to the side slightly, so as to give my back foot a better purchase as it moves upward.

The stick came, straight and true, and my foot latches onto the front.

I can feel the power he placed into the thrust, power that he’s now pulling back, since I’ve already countered him.

Instead of going high, though, his second strike is going low, as well, for the foot that’s still on the ground.

I expected that to come, given his style, and right as the swing from his off hand is hurtling towards my other leg, I used the last bit of momentum on my other foot, using his stick as a springboard to take to the air.

Not a moment too soon, because I felt my toenails brush wood as I leaped high, grasping my own stick with two hands.

Rattan Reyes turns his head up too late, as I have already begun descending, passing my weight and gravity onto the stick I’m holding.

One loud crack later, pandemonium erupts in the arena.

“Decisive strike: left shoulder to right hip. Southern Cross wins the match.”

I was still feeling disjointed when the referees called for their medical team to see to Rattan Reyes, and as I looked at his fan club starting to disperse, I saw a pair of familiar yet piercing eyes in the audience, analyzing what I had just done.

“Max! That was beautiful! Never thought the old man had progressed in teaching you that far!” Coach Greg said, tears most manly coursing down his wizened cheeks as he gave me a hug. “Falling behind that bad, you almost gave me a heart attack!”

“I’m sorry, Coach, that guy psyched me out in the first half of the match,” I said, contrite.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll save the lecture when the tournament is done! Now come on, lunch!”

As I was dragged away from the arena, I turned to look at where those eyes came from, only to realize that they were already gone, leaving me with more questions than answers.

***