Maohden Vol. 1

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  “Of course I do. I was the first one to see your face. Your real face. The first to hold you, before your own mother. You could have become the ugliest man in the world in the meantime and I wouldn’t forget. My, my, that look on your face—you seem to have something on your mind.”

  Azusa smothered a laugh. Even Setsura couldn’t hide a wry smile as she led them into the living room.

  It was clear that Miyako lived alone. She was well into her seventies. She said she was living on social security and a pension. Now and then a child she’d delivered long ago would show up on her doorstep to show her a child of her own. The kind of thing that made life worth living. No one need feel sorry for her in her present state.

  Setsura assured her he did not. They sat down on the dusty tatami mats. He explained that they were looking for more information about the seal.

  “Sure,” she readily agreed. It wouldn’t have been unreasonable to expect that her mind would have begun to yield to the inevitable ravages of age, but this was not the case with Miyako. “The story begins with the night you were born. That day, a tremendous gale was blowing through Shinjuku.”

  A small man, bearing the vibe of a wild animal about him, his body bent forward almost to the horizontal, came to visit her. He asked her to come take a trip with him. Miyako thought at first he must be kidding. There were hardly any midwives left in Japan these days, medical technology being fully capable of handling every aspect of the delivery process.

  The man shook his head. Miyako and only Miyako would do. This was a child upon whom the fate of the world depended, not the kind of baby who could be trusted to machines.

  She didn’t understand what he meant by all that, but if her experience and personal touch was all that important, she might as well accompany him.

  At the time, Miyako weighed close to two hundred pounds, but the little man flung her over his shoulder and dashed off at an alarming speed.

  “He was faster than a car, and less bumpy, and didn’t slow down in the slightest, even climbing hills. I could imagine myself riding on the back of a tiger.”

  With the wind whistling in her ears, almost an hour had passed when a mansion the size of a small mountain rose up before them. There wasn’t a single servant to be seen inside or on the grounds of this strangely modern-looking castle.

  The man led her into a room the size of a tennis court covered with tatami mats. An ornate futon was spread out in the very center. Next to the pillow, an old man in traditional Japanese dress directed his solemn gaze down at the person lying on the futon.

  A woman with long hair and a pale, waxy complexion. What must have been a once slender face was puffy and swollen. Miyako knew at once that the woman was in dire straits, suffering from a severe case of preeclampsia.

  Catching the old man’s attention she indicated this with her eyes. He nodded. Do what you have to do, was his silent answer.

  That was when they introduced themselves. He was Renjo Aki. He looked to her like a great chess master struggling to claim victory from the jaws of sure defeat.

  With no time for small talk, Miyako set to work. It proved to be the most difficult delivery she had ever been confronted with. The birth canal was narrow, the baby’s head large. And then just when the mother pushed with all her might and the baby’s head appeared, a gust of wind and lightning tore through the room.

  The roar filled her ears. The tide of blue fire swept through the room. It seemed that the room itself was being swallowed up by the black clouds and looming darkness outside. Miyako had to repeatedly stifle the impulse to jump up and flee.

  Were it not for her determination to bring a new life safely into the world, she would never have accomplished something so strange and wonderful.

  The head and shoulders appeared, and with a moist, alive sound the child separated from his mother. Eyes like flowing water, a face that froze Miyako with its sublime beauty.

  A flash of electric blue illuminated the room. Shadow and light eclipsed a visage that evinced no sorrow at the inexorable parting nor fear of the brave new world. Not a cry escaped his mouth.

  “At that moment, I knew that baby would become an extraordinary person. Every mother believes her child is adorable, but we must always wonder what sort of soul we have brought into the world. What midwife brought Hitler into the world? Surely if she had known beforehand, she would have killed the mother and child rather than give them life.”

  She passed the baby to the embrace of Renjo Aki. Renjo told the small man at the rear of the room to put the baby in a crib in the back room. The man’s name was Hyota.

  Miyako thought he should be given to the mother, but when she turned back, the pale face indicated that she had quietly passed over to the great beyond, so peacefully that Miyako felt the calm in her own heart as well.

  She glanced at her watch. Over two hours had passed since her adventure began.

  Without pausing to mourn, Renjo led Miyako to an equally large room. There awaited a resplendent repast, cuisine of a caliber she had never set eyes on before.

  Renjo spoke for the first time since he’d introduced himself. He said the boy’s name would be “Setsura.” The house itself had been completed the day before, built big to accommodate a big boy.

  Despite the uncanny atmosphere, Miyako thought it beneath her to flee his presence at this juncture. Instead she asked him what kind of person he wished the boy to be.

  That was something he would have to decide for himself, Renjo answered. Only Heaven and Hell could know for certain. All he could say was that Setsura should search out the “seal.”

  When Miyako asked him what that was, he turned to her with his deep and dark eyes and wondered aloud if perhaps she could be the one to tell him.

  “This seal is apparently a human being, pure and unblemished. When the time comes for it to fulfill its duty, your father said that signs and omens would surely manifest themselves. Have you found it yet?”

  Setsura shook his head.

  “Well, you’d better be going, then,” she said. “I know at last that your father spoke the truth. That is what led you here as well. God has shown you the way. I cannot say what will happen after this, but you must soldier on regardless. I will pray for your safety and your soul.”

  She showed him to the door. Setsura bowed. The eastern sky was tinged with red. A cool breeze washed over their faces. They had gone a few steps when Setsura glanced over his shoulder. The bent-over old lady was still on the front porch looking back at him.

  As if she would stand there looking out for him until the sun set for certain.

  Azusa leaned against the side of the road buggy. “So, what next?”

  The street ran along the West Fifth block. The reconstruction efforts here had fallen behind. Piles of brick and rubble dotted the landscape.

  “We start searching for these signs.”

  “You got a better clue than that?”

  “Not right now. But there are other ways of finding things out in this city.”

  “Such as?”

  “That’s my secret. I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways.”

  “Hold on a second. You trying to give me the slip or something?”

  “Don’t see what the slip is. Seems I’m being rather obvious about it.”

  “We’re in this together. Sink or swim.”

  “I would have thought you’d plenty of material by now.”

  “That? You think you got what it takes to do this job?”

  “Naw.”

  She hiked up her shapely eyebrows. “God, you’re annoying. Hey, that’s right!” She clapped her hands together. “I completely forgot. You owe me! It’s payback time.”

  Setsura put on a pained expression.

  “Bet there’s a hotel not far from here.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “All the same to me. We’ll just have to ask around. C’mon. You know, I could always find this Gento Roran chap and have a good long chat with him.
”

  She scanned their surroundings and headed for a convenience store next to a pile of rubble. Setsura grimaced but followed her.

  “I need to make a call,” he said, stopping at the pay phone in front of the store.

  “Don’t go running away, now,” Azusa said with a menacing glare, and stepped into the dim interior. “Anybody home?” she called out.

  A stern-looking middle-aged lady appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She seemed to be in the middle of making dinner. “What do you want?” she asked sweetly.

  “There any hotels around here?” Azusa said bluntly. “Love hotels?” Not the sort of thing she had any hang-ups about.

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Like I would know about that.”

  “Well, no problem.” Azusa declined to press the matter, and the woman quickly retreated to the back. It shouldn’t be that hard to find one.

  Setsura was just hanging up the phone.

  “Where are you going.”

  “The hospital.”

  “You not feeling well?”

  “Yeah. Bad case of the clap. I guess sex is right out.”

  Azusa snorted. “Ha, ha. The more you dawdle, the higher the price. Let’s take it to the Hilton.”

  “Sorry, but I’ve got other business. I’ve got to head to Kikuicho. We can tend to your wishes afterwards.”

  The touch of seriousness that crept into Setsura’s voice brought a gleam to Azusa’s eyes as well. “What’s up? I’m not in the mood for grandstanding. This about money?”

  “More or less.”

  In the face of Setsura’s cool disregard, Azusa turned on the faucet. “Go ahead,” she whimpered. “Do whatever you like. Mark my words, some day you’ll end up buried beneath all this rubble just like the owner of this here store.”

  Setsura furrowed his brows. “The owner of this store?”

  “That’s right. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  “What is?”

  “She hurried out from the back of the store, in the middle of doing something else. She had a bit of dirt stuck to her forehead. Her apron was turned inside out. She must have been digging a hole and didn’t have the time to wash her hands thoroughly and the apron was stained brown. Not to mention her brushing me off so fast. Yeah, she’s definitely burying bodies back there.”

  “What are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

  Setsura took Azusa by the hand and headed to the buggy.

  “Hey, what’s with the rush all of a sudden? A girl likes a little foreplay, don’t you know.”

  When Setsura said, “Enough already,” she shrugged and went along for the ride as he pushed her in behind the wheel. He climbed into the passenger’s seat and said, “Drive around for a while.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  “If you say so.”

  The buggy took off. With no indication of what he was thinking about, Setsura haphazardly directed her right and then left and then straight ahead.

  They turned onto the road that led to Waseda Boulevard, and passed by a funeral home, its recently-completed construction marked with a line of flower bouquet stands.

  “Hey, where are we going?”

  “Kikuicho.”

  “You figure out where the seal is?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Then what are you looking for in all this rubble?”

  “Who says I’m looking for anything?”

  “You think I’m an idiot? We’ve been down every road through and around those ruins. You got some sort of treasure buried in there?”

  “Somebody just might.”

  “Gento Roran,” Azusa said in a low voice. She gripped the steering wheel.

  Setsura didn’t answer, only stared ahead, as still as a statue.

  The spectators had been streaming in all evening. It was six o’clock and the stands were full. Eager and expectant eyes focused on the playing field at the base of the bowl-shaped coliseum.

  The vast majority had the look of made men, menacing figures in gaudy suits of black and white, radiating an aura of inquisitiveness and a thirst for blood.

  Three thousand pairs of eyes were trained on the circular plot of ground. Several yards beneath that, a man in black walked along the reinforced concrete corridor of the subterranean cell blocks.

  Now and then, an athlete or manager or official passed by with a what the hell glance. It would disappear as they caught a glimpse of his true beauty and they would cast hasty backwards looks at his disappearing figure.

  That this was Gento Roran went without saying—except the question of what he was doing there.

  He once again peeked into the locker room. It’d been empty a short time ago. A malevolent vibe struck his cheeks like a brisk gale. It was absorbed without dispersing, as if perplexed by the beauty it encountered there.

  The vibe died away. The bodies radiating it had taken note of Gento’s true power. These were the top dogs as well. The room held five men. They were sitting on the steel benches bolted to the bare concrete walls. That was the only thing they had in common.

  Judged by outward appearances they were quite different. One was ten feet tall, while another rose no higher than Gento’s waist. An ordinary-looking man sat next to an old geezer with a long, white beard that reached the floor.

  Even without the lockers against the wall opposite, an atmosphere of competitive athletics permeated the locker room, though suffused with a slightly insane gloom and doom that set it apart from the pain and glory that filled the typical sporting arena.

  “What’dya want?” asked a small man with long hair sitting on the bench at the back facing Gento. The rest had averted their gaze at the first glance.

  “Nothing for now.”

  Gento stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Perhaps these strange athletes weren’t comfortable with somebody who maintained such a cool attitude in their presence, for the rest of them looked at the floor, their feet, and into empty air.

  “If you got no reason, then what are you doing here?” said the small man, tying the laces of his high-topped sneakers.

  Nobody moved, not even Gento. The air rippled without any forewarning.

  Gento’s right cheek trembled.

  “Ouch,” somebody moaned, like the small man, the old man, the big man, and the other two had blurted out at the same time, like a disturbance in the sense of place and distance arose among them.

  Gento touched his right cheek. He gazed at the red staining his fingertips. The color of his blood alone he shared with normal people.

  “Smells nice, that.”

  There was no doubt about the speaker this time, the tall, thin man on the bench facing the old man. Arms and fingers like bones covered with flesh-colored paper jutted from the sleeves of his faded cotton suit. He looked more like a living skeleton. His breath was like air being let out of a crypt.

  He slowly turned his head, and it almost seemed that the sound of a creaking hinge should accompany the motion. Gento caught a small flash of light, the two dots of red that were the man’s eyes.

  “We should get together, just the two of us,” he said, as if simply moving his tongue took effort. With the silent scraping of rusty metal, his neck returned to its original position.

  Gento turned his attention to the dark hulk beside him. The steel bench sagged beneath his weight. The upper half of his body was more a square block. The width of his shoulders, the girth of his chest, the thickness of his upper arms were the same, and half of that must be solid bone.

  Get hit by a large truck and the truck would bounce off him.

  His hands were the size of a catcher’s mitt. Compared to the build of the emaciated man, he would be close to ten feet tall. The sheer density of his mass seemed to warp the space around him.

  The big man’s eyes were closed. Without the slightest qualm, Gento leaned closer and peered at his face. He had to look up. Sitting down, the man’s head towered above Gento.

  A h
uman being that was hardly human. If he went on a rampage, King Kong would have a hard time stopping him.

  “Quite a piece of work,” Gento said almost affectionately. “You’ve got a body that looks ready for use. Though what’s in your mind is another matter.”

  For the first time, the small man and the old man and the thin man stirred with actual emotion and raised their heads. The big man didn’t move, his eyes like a sleeping stone statue. What did he mean by use?

  Gento turned to the side, to the bench right next to him and the last man sitting there. He appeared completely out of place. He was the same height and build as the thin man, but with meat on his bones. His features were ordinary and warm blooded. Even his dark blue jacket and faded blue slacks fit him. He was the only man there who could possibly be described as “normal.”

  Gento never got around to addressing him. The big man rose up behind his back and covered his face. Still sitting on the bench, he reached out and without a hint of warning, without disturbing a molecule of air, engulfed Gento’s head with his hand. There could be no doubt about the fate that awaited him.

  From within the huge clenched fist came the cracking of bones. Everybody else was already looking somewhere else.

  “Enough.”

  This voice brought a halt to the inevitable conclusion. The ordinary-looking man spoke like a good-natured old man warning a misbehaving grandson. A chagrined smile rose to his lips.

  The big man’s eyes turned toward him. “Stop it,” he admonished him again, though in tones more appropriate for telling a small child to come here this minute.

  The big man responded with unexpected meekness. Gento’s head appeared like he was setting a bowling ball down on a pedestal.

  “My assumptions were not mistaken. We’ll meet again after the competition.”

  By means of answer, the ordinary man pointed to the door. Gento left. The corridor was dark and deserted. He climbed the stairs to the upper level and the grandstands. The sultry atmosphere veiled the stars above. The strange air of expectation stung Gento’s skin.

  This was the Shinjuku Coliseum. Though it sat only three thousand, it was the place where any meet that mattered was held. That night, the marquee event featured Demon City’s annual hair-raising Death Match.