It's revamp time!... again...
Introduction:
To hell with circumstances; I create opportunities - Bruce Lee
He was just another tall, middle-aged Japanese guy strolling across the airport to most people, but the man knew better. He kept one hand on the hilt of the knife inside his coat, ready to throw. As he watched the target, the assassin paused. The client had sent them a very thin file on the guy, and there were only a few facts on him. Age unknown, height 5 foot 11, weight 138 pounds, relations pregnant daughter and son-in-law, usually quiet but very dangerous.
Very dangerous indeed.
The assassin watched as the man picked his way through the crowd, politely wandering towards the exit. His suitcase, small and grey, matched his frayed but neat look, at the same time being at odds with the sharp look in his eyes. So far he was unaware of the other presence. It would be easy to throw the knife, then run. He was close enough to the exit.
But no. The man would probably meet up with his daughter and son-in-law, and he’d have a chance to take them all out for extra cash. Quick and easy with the handgun holstered beneath the knife.
How hard could it be?
The target moved towards the end of the long corridor, in the direction of airport parking, where a young couple waited. He was tall, muscular, handsome, blond and blue-eyed with well tanned skin, while she was small, pretty, slim, dark hair falling over green eyes. Her hands rested on a slightly swollen stomach, signifying the early stages of pregnancy.
When they saw the man, the two both moved to meet him, smiles wide. The older man, Japanese, also grinned, embracing both of them. As they untangled from the group hug, the assassin slowly unholstered the gun. A quick flick of his wrist brought it out into plain sight. He sighted momentarily, then fired three times.
The older man’s hands flicked, and three bullets fell to the ground. The man whirled around, staring straight at the assassin, unharmed. As people began to run, screaming at the gunshots, the Japanese man slowly marched towards the assassin. His daughter behind him tried to follow, eyes flaring, but her husband held her back, seeming to exert an equal effort not to launch himself at the killer.
The assassin began to panic, to turn and run from a man who had blocked three shots without watching, before he felt something crash onto his shoulders. He fell to the ground, shoulder blades throbbing, and felt cold steel brush under his chin. The guy froze, not even daring to glance down at the kodachi right above his jugular.
When the man spoke, his voice was soft, sinister, deadly. “Tell your client to stop with the insults and send an actual strike force next time. And tell him Excalibur has never died.”
With that, he turned the blade away from the assassin, and tossed him towards the glass leading to the outside. The killer whirled in midair, screaming, unready to feel the hard, unforgiving impact of concrete.
Above him, the man turned back to his family, but stopped and turned back as he felt something scratch at his feet. A single sheet of paper with something written on it in black ink, floated gently to the ground. The man snatched it up, his eyes absorbing the words on the page.
The time of the Inheritor has come.
Behind him, the son-in-law drew in a gasp and a sword sprang to life in his hand, long, broadly built, double-edged. The man turned towards the shattered glass, raising his own weapon.
A man with eyes of glowing crimson floated towards the two, landing lightly on his feet. Tall, lithe, and emanating an aura of power. A sword longer than his arm lay in his nimble fingers, scarlet streaming down its length.
When he spoke, the tall, fair-haired guy trembled and raised his blade higher, only lowering it at the guarded glance from his father-in-law. “Well, well, well. Yoshitsune Minamoto, it’s been a while. I see you’ve brought along the entire family. The brave crusader of Charlemagne, as well as your pretty little daughter. But it’s obvious you’re the greatest prize here, coward. The uncatchable samurai who ran from death five times, even raising his little girl, as well as retaining the legacy of creating much of the Spartan tradition of Feudal Japan.”
The former samurai brought his sword up, tip vertical as if to impale the sun. “And I’m not done yet. Maybe I’ll have the honor of avenging the line of Arthur. Or maybe I’ll bring back Excalibur.” He gave a grin, dark smile, and his eyes flared into the cold, calculating blue of ice.
The floating man growled. “Do not mention that name in my presence!” He swung his sword up, ready to bring it down.
Quick slashes from the samurai brought icy light flashing and forming a single character, a lone Chinese pictograph. An invisible fist smashed the swordsman back out, out into the air above the field, and he floated there, uncertain.
“Who the hell do you think you are? You have no power here,” Yoshitsune Minamoto, the true power behind the fifteenth-century Minamoto clan, one of the most influential and dangerous warriors of all time, a man who had almost single-handedly ousted an entire dynasty of warriors from the royal courts of Japan, a man who had survived direct assassination attempts on him by a half brother who had controlled the throne, a man who had lived through the deepest, darkest parts of over eight hundred years of death, whispered. “You know the rules. By attacking me and mine, you’ve made you and yours forfeit, Clarent.”