![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"The Mountain of Iron"
Apr. 25th, 2023 10:11 am"The Mountain of Iron"
7/4-7/5/1977
I.
Shiro Mitsuru was, if anything, even more ready for trouble than usual. Xiao-sing's narrow waterfront streets were still and shadowy in that hour before dawn when he left the docks. The widely spaced street lamps gave insufficient light. There was a clatter of feet on the cobblestones down an alley to his right. Then came the sounds of a heavy fall, scuffling, a choked-off scream for help.
Clearly, no one with any prudence would have not hurried away. But Shiro quickened his pace and raced around the corner to nearly fall over a writhing, struggling mass on the cobblestones. The dim light of a street lamp showed what was going on. Two men fought there in grim silence. One was a slim young Chinese in European clothes, pinned down on his back in the wet muck. Kneeling on his chest was an assailant in tradional knee-length robe over loose trousers. He was much bigger than his victim, with a grinning face like a demonic mask. One talon-like hand clutched the throat of the smaller man and a wavy-bladed knife flashed in his other hand.
Shiro had seen his type hundreds of times before. Since birth, he had been the target for assassins of the White Web. This was one of the bloody hatchet-men the Tongs and secret societies use for their deadly work. Without hesitation, the Tiger Fury plunged closer and knocked the man senseless with a front snap kick under the chin. The hatchet-man remained stretched out without a twitch and the young Chinese sprang up, gasping and wild eyed.
"Thank you, my friend," he gurgled in English. "I owe his life to you. Here, take this..." And he tried to stuff a wad of green banknotes into Shiro's hand.
"You owe me nothing," Shiro scoffed, stepping back. "I'm glad to fight scum like that."
"Then at least please accept my humble and sincere thanks," the victim persisted, seizing his hand to shake it. "I know you, do I not? You're the new Tiger Fury?"
"Not yet," Shiro answered. "I've just begun studying Kumundu. If Teacher Chael does give me that title, it's at least a year away." Despite his pretense of humility, Shiro had complete confidence he would succeed and he had already begun to think of himself as a Tiger Fury.
"I will not forget," he said. "I will repay you some day. My name is Fong Yung-Tao, of the prosperous family Fong. Be wary, the society will not forget you either. But now I must not linger. This is my one chance of escape. If I can get aboard the British ship that is anchored in the bay,I will be safe. But I must go before this animal revives. Better that you go too. May good fortune reward you. But now beware of STIGMA."
The next instant he was racing down the street at full speed. Watching in amazement, Shiro saw him sprint onto the docks and dive off, without the slightest pause. Surprised, the Tiger Fury heard the splash as the man hit the water and a little later he saw, in the brightening pale dawn, a widening ripple aiming toward the British S.S. RESOLUTE, which lay out in the bay. Shiro was wondering what it all meant, when the hatchet-man moaned scrambled uncertainly to his feet.
"Ashamed of yourself, aren't you?" demanded the Tiger Fury. "Any good assassin would have finished a mere office worker off before I showed up."
The only answer was a glare of such venomous hatred that even Shiro felt alarmed. The killer limped painfully away into the shadows. Watching him hobble out of sight, Shiro was tempted to grab the man and administer a thorough beating to make him harmless for a few weeks. But really, the whole business was not his concern. Shiro dismissed the affair from his mind and continued down the street.
He was so innured to danger that he took it for granted.
His father and mother had stolen a fortune from the treasury of the White Web, an act of either incredible daring or utter foolishness. That centuries-old network of assassins had immediately launched a hunt for the couple that lasted fourteen years. Their newborn son grew up hiding in motel rooms, rented apartments and in cars on the road, never knowing a real home. As soon as he could walk, the parents had spent their wealth on having Shiro train under every available martial arts master in every style possible. He never knew if this had been their goal for him all along or if they just thought it was the only way he could survive the unending attacks from everything from ninja to brumal to Dacoits to snipers.
Just before his fifteenth birthday, Shiro returned to a secluded cottage in the New Territories of Hong Kong to find the White Web had caught up with his parents at last. He had only been able to mourn them briefly because he still had to stay on the move. Then he had met an elderly sifu who had sponsored him to apply at the Order of Tel Shai. Shiro had been accepted as a student by the legendary Teacher Chael and broke all odds by successfully qualifying as the new Tiger Fury.
For the moment, he decided he would get a little sleep in preparation for the day. He had come to like the turmoil of this disputed island, and felt determined to explore it. He entered into a seedy boarding house kept by a Portuguese man named Pasqual, went into his rented room and flung himself down on the ancient single bed for a few hours slumber.
He was awakened by the faintest whisper of sound. Instantly ready for an attack, he glared at the locked door and saw something protruding under it. A piece of stiff paper the size of a playing card. Shiro used a washcloth to pick it up, not touching it with his bare skin. No message was written on it, either English or Chinese, just an inked drawing of a bright yellow human skull with an X through it. That was all.
Irritated at not getting a full sleep, Shiro rose, still dressed, and shouted for Pasqual. When the manager hurried up, the Tiger Fury said, "Look, Pasqual. Someone stuck this under the door. Do you know what the meaning of it is?"
He took a single look. Then he leaped back with a gasped, "It means Death. it's the murder notice of STIGMA."
"What do you mean?" Shiro demanded. "Who is this STiGMA?"
"A new secret society," gasped Pasqual, shaking visibly. "International criminals, murderers. They are tied to Winter Snow and the Black Mantis. Once I saw a men receive the sign of the yellow skull. He was dead before the sun rose again. Get aboard any ship you can, Mr Mitsuru. Hide aboard it, stay out of sight until she sails. Maybe you can escape."
"Slink away and hide myself like a kicked dog?" Shiro growled. "You still don't know me at all. I'm feared myself wherever fighting arts are practiced. I've never run from any man yet. Tell me where I can find STIGMA and I'll smash it flat."
But Pasqual was obviously gripped by intense fear. "I'll tell you no such thing," he gasped. "I'm risking my life talking to you at all. Get out, quick. You mustn't stay here. I can't have another murder in this house. Go, please, sir."
"All right," the Tiger Fury snapped. "Don't give yourself a heart attack, Pasqual. I'm going."
Shiro traveled light, with only a canvas knapsack holding some clothes and toilet items. Sewn into his loose trousers were various bank cards and bundles of money. He normally carried no weapons at all. Annoyed at the situation, Shiro stalked stiffly out into crowded streets to get some food. While he ate roasted meat on skewers from a street vendor, the Tiger Fury reviewed the situation and realized that he had somehow blundered into the sights of still another mysterious gang of shadowy cut-throats. As if being marked for death by both the White Web and Winter Snow wasn't bad enough!
Grabbing two oranges and an unbroken bottle of water, Shiro strolled out into the streets again, with their filth and glamor, sordidness and allure going hand in hand; throngs of people buying and selling, bargaining in a half-dozen languages, sailors and merchants and outcasts of all nations rolling through the crowds...
He began to have a familiar sensation that he was being followed. Again and again Shiro wheeled quickly and scanned the crowd, but in that boiling swarm, it was impossible to tell whether anyone was trailing him or not. Yet the sensation persisted. A life spent on the run had taught Shiro to trust his instincts. Where any normal civilian would have been frightened or at least uneasy, he was used to the sensation of being followed. Let killers do their worst, he thought. They would meet more than their match.
( the rest of the story )
7/4-7/5/1977
I.
Shiro Mitsuru was, if anything, even more ready for trouble than usual. Xiao-sing's narrow waterfront streets were still and shadowy in that hour before dawn when he left the docks. The widely spaced street lamps gave insufficient light. There was a clatter of feet on the cobblestones down an alley to his right. Then came the sounds of a heavy fall, scuffling, a choked-off scream for help.
Clearly, no one with any prudence would have not hurried away. But Shiro quickened his pace and raced around the corner to nearly fall over a writhing, struggling mass on the cobblestones. The dim light of a street lamp showed what was going on. Two men fought there in grim silence. One was a slim young Chinese in European clothes, pinned down on his back in the wet muck. Kneeling on his chest was an assailant in tradional knee-length robe over loose trousers. He was much bigger than his victim, with a grinning face like a demonic mask. One talon-like hand clutched the throat of the smaller man and a wavy-bladed knife flashed in his other hand.
Shiro had seen his type hundreds of times before. Since birth, he had been the target for assassins of the White Web. This was one of the bloody hatchet-men the Tongs and secret societies use for their deadly work. Without hesitation, the Tiger Fury plunged closer and knocked the man senseless with a front snap kick under the chin. The hatchet-man remained stretched out without a twitch and the young Chinese sprang up, gasping and wild eyed.
"Thank you, my friend," he gurgled in English. "I owe his life to you. Here, take this..." And he tried to stuff a wad of green banknotes into Shiro's hand.
"You owe me nothing," Shiro scoffed, stepping back. "I'm glad to fight scum like that."
"Then at least please accept my humble and sincere thanks," the victim persisted, seizing his hand to shake it. "I know you, do I not? You're the new Tiger Fury?"
"Not yet," Shiro answered. "I've just begun studying Kumundu. If Teacher Chael does give me that title, it's at least a year away." Despite his pretense of humility, Shiro had complete confidence he would succeed and he had already begun to think of himself as a Tiger Fury.
"I will not forget," he said. "I will repay you some day. My name is Fong Yung-Tao, of the prosperous family Fong. Be wary, the society will not forget you either. But now I must not linger. This is my one chance of escape. If I can get aboard the British ship that is anchored in the bay,I will be safe. But I must go before this animal revives. Better that you go too. May good fortune reward you. But now beware of STIGMA."
The next instant he was racing down the street at full speed. Watching in amazement, Shiro saw him sprint onto the docks and dive off, without the slightest pause. Surprised, the Tiger Fury heard the splash as the man hit the water and a little later he saw, in the brightening pale dawn, a widening ripple aiming toward the British S.S. RESOLUTE, which lay out in the bay. Shiro was wondering what it all meant, when the hatchet-man moaned scrambled uncertainly to his feet.
"Ashamed of yourself, aren't you?" demanded the Tiger Fury. "Any good assassin would have finished a mere office worker off before I showed up."
The only answer was a glare of such venomous hatred that even Shiro felt alarmed. The killer limped painfully away into the shadows. Watching him hobble out of sight, Shiro was tempted to grab the man and administer a thorough beating to make him harmless for a few weeks. But really, the whole business was not his concern. Shiro dismissed the affair from his mind and continued down the street.
He was so innured to danger that he took it for granted.
His father and mother had stolen a fortune from the treasury of the White Web, an act of either incredible daring or utter foolishness. That centuries-old network of assassins had immediately launched a hunt for the couple that lasted fourteen years. Their newborn son grew up hiding in motel rooms, rented apartments and in cars on the road, never knowing a real home. As soon as he could walk, the parents had spent their wealth on having Shiro train under every available martial arts master in every style possible. He never knew if this had been their goal for him all along or if they just thought it was the only way he could survive the unending attacks from everything from ninja to brumal to Dacoits to snipers.
Just before his fifteenth birthday, Shiro returned to a secluded cottage in the New Territories of Hong Kong to find the White Web had caught up with his parents at last. He had only been able to mourn them briefly because he still had to stay on the move. Then he had met an elderly sifu who had sponsored him to apply at the Order of Tel Shai. Shiro had been accepted as a student by the legendary Teacher Chael and broke all odds by successfully qualifying as the new Tiger Fury.
For the moment, he decided he would get a little sleep in preparation for the day. He had come to like the turmoil of this disputed island, and felt determined to explore it. He entered into a seedy boarding house kept by a Portuguese man named Pasqual, went into his rented room and flung himself down on the ancient single bed for a few hours slumber.
He was awakened by the faintest whisper of sound. Instantly ready for an attack, he glared at the locked door and saw something protruding under it. A piece of stiff paper the size of a playing card. Shiro used a washcloth to pick it up, not touching it with his bare skin. No message was written on it, either English or Chinese, just an inked drawing of a bright yellow human skull with an X through it. That was all.
Irritated at not getting a full sleep, Shiro rose, still dressed, and shouted for Pasqual. When the manager hurried up, the Tiger Fury said, "Look, Pasqual. Someone stuck this under the door. Do you know what the meaning of it is?"
He took a single look. Then he leaped back with a gasped, "It means Death. it's the murder notice of STIGMA."
"What do you mean?" Shiro demanded. "Who is this STiGMA?"
"A new secret society," gasped Pasqual, shaking visibly. "International criminals, murderers. They are tied to Winter Snow and the Black Mantis. Once I saw a men receive the sign of the yellow skull. He was dead before the sun rose again. Get aboard any ship you can, Mr Mitsuru. Hide aboard it, stay out of sight until she sails. Maybe you can escape."
"Slink away and hide myself like a kicked dog?" Shiro growled. "You still don't know me at all. I'm feared myself wherever fighting arts are practiced. I've never run from any man yet. Tell me where I can find STIGMA and I'll smash it flat."
But Pasqual was obviously gripped by intense fear. "I'll tell you no such thing," he gasped. "I'm risking my life talking to you at all. Get out, quick. You mustn't stay here. I can't have another murder in this house. Go, please, sir."
"All right," the Tiger Fury snapped. "Don't give yourself a heart attack, Pasqual. I'm going."
Shiro traveled light, with only a canvas knapsack holding some clothes and toilet items. Sewn into his loose trousers were various bank cards and bundles of money. He normally carried no weapons at all. Annoyed at the situation, Shiro stalked stiffly out into crowded streets to get some food. While he ate roasted meat on skewers from a street vendor, the Tiger Fury reviewed the situation and realized that he had somehow blundered into the sights of still another mysterious gang of shadowy cut-throats. As if being marked for death by both the White Web and Winter Snow wasn't bad enough!
Grabbing two oranges and an unbroken bottle of water, Shiro strolled out into the streets again, with their filth and glamor, sordidness and allure going hand in hand; throngs of people buying and selling, bargaining in a half-dozen languages, sailors and merchants and outcasts of all nations rolling through the crowds...
He began to have a familiar sensation that he was being followed. Again and again Shiro wheeled quickly and scanned the crowd, but in that boiling swarm, it was impossible to tell whether anyone was trailing him or not. Yet the sensation persisted. A life spent on the run had taught Shiro to trust his instincts. Where any normal civilian would have been frightened or at least uneasy, he was used to the sensation of being followed. Let killers do their worst, he thought. They would meet more than their match.
( the rest of the story )
