Profile
Name: Wake Trekker, “The Lost Master”
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Height: 5', 11"
Weight: 175 lbs
Rank: Pending Citizen
Basic Appearance: Wake has dark brown hair that is in a shaggy mess. Though he normally keeps it tied back in a leather thong, his hair is not quite long enough to keep the bangs from his face. When pulled back the resulting tail resembles more a wolf’s than a horse’s, and so he calls his hair style a wolf’s tail. His eyebrows are broad, but not thick, and arch above his orbits majestically. The lashes below are long but are blonde tipped, and so appear to be a bit shorter than they truthfully are. Despite their blonde tips they are so long that it is noticeable.
Wake’s eyes are a dark green ringed and flecked with a golden brown that causes them to glow brightly in the sun. Framing these mischievous eyes are high cheekbones and an arrow-straight nose that leads to pink, almost thin lips that curve upward a small amount at the edges and make him appear on the edge of a smile. His cheeks are not gaunt, but neither are they full. Instead they are somewhere between and fit his face perfectly.
Physically he is in perfect health, a specimen of fitness an athlete would appreciate. Without a single iota of fat on his body he is composed purely of compact muscle, bone, and sinew with tawny skin that seems to be stretched over his frame as if it were a bit too small. Every corded limb shows his fitness in high relief, though this effect increases when he physically exerts himself. A large scar in the shape of an x marks the center of his chest, a souvenir from a fight with a bandit who had found his lucky day.
Wake’s style of clothing is composed of several colors of the same garments, all showing the wear and tear of his travels. None of his clothes have sleeves, and most have many patches to their credit. Upon Wake’s shoulders, the back of his neck, and the backs of his hands are mysterious symbols known only to the order in which he trained, each representing a different mantra and style which he has learned.
Combat Credentials
Combat Style: Wake’s combat style is a unique martial art known as Mangin Tai, a lost art of which he is the last practitioner. This style is composed of four different styles which allow him to shift combat tactics seamlessly against different opponents. From solid powerful strikes to shifting redirection, in combat Wake displays incredible flexibility and adaptation.
Abilities: After years of training Wake is capable of impressive speed and strength. With razor sharp reflexes and dense muscle he is both difficult to hit and resistant to physical damage, but his training was not only of the body. In his training Wake has also learned to defend against attacks of different energies as well, using his own internal energy as both an enhancement to his physical abilities and a defense against those of others.
His martial focus grants him a resistance to mental manipulation, though a large part of that may have something to do with the simplicity of his mind. When utilizing his internal energies he can project concussive force a short distance from his body, but it loses power quickly the farther away it becomes. When shielding his body from magical attacks his internal energy is dependent upon his metabolic and physical energy as well as his mental. Should he become tired, disoriented, or hungry he is unable to properly use the techniques he has mastered.
Wake is fully trained in the art of stealth, but he does not use it often. Instead he uses his knowledge to ferret out whether he is being followed and to counteract assassination attempts should one be made. With this skill he also possesses a knack for sleight of hand, a talent that is more likely to be used to make a few extra coins through entertainment than in actual combat.
-Domestic Abilities: Wake also possesses several talents that cannot be applied to combat. His most practiced skill is his cooking. Through his travels he has gathered many different recipes that dazzle the taste-buds. His use of spices and the most basic ingredients is honed over a lifetime, and he often uses this skill to earn a meal or two for himself.
As evidenced by his clothing and bags, Wake is decent at sewing and repairing clothing. He may not be able to create new clothes from raw material, but he can greatly extend the life of those few clothes that he does buy.
Weapon(s): Wake owns no weapons and would not purchase a weapon should he have the funding to do so. Though he is more than capable with a number of weapons he does not deign to keep them on his person. Only if faced with a multitude of opponents without hope of survival without them will he allow one in his hands. The only item he could conceivably use as a weapon is his pack.
Gear: Wake carries a pack upon his back that is as worse for wear as the spare clothing within. This pack is heavy with collected stones and novelties as well, some items given and others found but most simply useless. The weight, however, serves as a tool for Wake to keep himself in shape.
Worn Coat- Wake owns three coats whose sleeves have been removed and used for the purpose of repairing his pack. One of these coats is black, one white, and the other blue, and each are trimmed in a dull orange that was once a red-gold. Their fabric is thin both by design and by wear, no thicker than an average blouse, and each sports a deep hood that hides his face from sun, snow, and rain. The hem of these coats reaches just past mid-calf.
Tattered Trousers- Well worn from years of travel, Wake owns seven pairs of trousers that are bound at the waist and ankle by cloth the same dull orange that his coats are trimmed in. These trousers also match the colors of his coats, white, black, and blue. Deep pockets on each leg adorn these pants, and patches decorate them with slightly darker hues in each color.
Weathered Tunics- Also matching the trousers and coats that Wake owns are seven tunics whose sleeves were also cannibalized for the purpose of patching his pants. Each is trimmed, unsurprisingly, in that self-same dull orange that trims all of his other articles of clothing. Though threadbare, these tunics have far fewer patches than the trousers he wears. This may be due to his tendency to strip down to only his pants when in battle, eating, sleeping, walking, or randomly out of a sudden whim. The only guarantee one has that he will remain fully clothed is when it is incredibly cold outside.
Reinforced Gloves- With only one pair of black gloves whose fingers have been worn down to the second joint Wake wears these at all times in case he needs to defend himself. These gloves boast steel plates in the backs and chain mail in the palms to protect against damage while fighting armed opponents. Several places have been sewn or patched, but their material is string and well taken care of.
Background:
Honor.
A small word it may be, but it was one that carries the weight of the world in the land of Sarina, a small land far to the east. There were three ways to be honorable in Sarina; you must have been born with honor, you must live with honor, and you must die with honor. Those without honor were used as slaves, and even the dishonored dead were believed to be slaves to the more honorable who had passed. It was an unforgiving land to bastards, thieves, murders and their ilk, and injustices existed there as with any other nation.
Enter the child, abandoned at the massive doors of the Temple of the Fist, the path all warriors took to become honorable fighters for the name of Sarina. Half dead from starvation and cold, this child, a male, was taken in as a slave and raised for seven years by the assorted dishonorable slaves that served there. They said it took a village to raise a child, and in this case he was more than well taken care of. At least, he was well taken care of by the other slaves.
Cursed by a wandering mind, the boy named Wake was always mucking up his assignments despite his best efforts. These mistakes, no matter how small, would result in brutal beatings that would leave him bloodied and bruised. The life of a slave held no sick days, however, and for several years Wake was duty bound to clean the floors, walls, and ceilings of the massive Temple of the Fist.
One could not blame the wistful lad for his flights of fancy, surrounded as he was by prospective warriors and great Masters and unable to learn from them as an honorable son of the nation would have been allowed. Even while climbing the vaulting walls and ceiling Wake would look below and dream of a day that he would be able to learn those secret techniques and maneuvers that would forever erase his name of “No Man’s Son” and give him a title worth bearing.
Dreams led to nightmares for a slave, no matter their age. It was during the middle of the night, late after a particularly vicious beating for dropping a feathered duster upon a Master’s head whilst he gave his lessons, that Wake met the old man who would change his life.
Moonlight filtered into the temple through the tall slits that served as windows as he wearily dusted the wall in a long abandoned wing. Cobwebs stuck to the boy as he leaned his head upon the wall and half-heartedly swept the small feathered duster across the stone, gathering far less dust than he would have hoped. He had never spoken in front of people before in his seven years; a slave was not to be heard, though enough whispers were spoken in the privacy of their cramped chambers that he knew the words were he allowed to speak. Despite the knowledge, signs were the way to communicate to other slaves.
In this abandoned wing, though, no ears would hear his words, and his voice ached within his throat in a desperate need to be loosed. Unable to resist the urge Wake whispered; as he had heard those who raised and taught him do so many times before. His voice was soft and deeper than he had thought it would be, but even he could not make out the words that he spoke.
“One day I will become a Master!” he exclaimed, his c=voice still no louder than the average spoken voice. It cracked as his volume increased, rising sharply in pitch and echoing against the bare walls to return to his ears an extra time. A small smile spread across Wake’s face as he heard himself, a dream spoken certainly must carry more weight than one left in one’s heart. He inhaled deeply, the dust he had stirred filling his lungs with the air and causing him to cough before attempting another deep breath. With all of his heart he let his voice ring out again, speaking his truest heart’s desire.
“One day I will have honor! One day I will become a Master!” The sound echoed several times, causing Wake to quickly slump in fear. He had already been beaten once that day. Would he so soon receive another?
“Is that so, little stick?” the dry voice said from behind Wake, causing the boy to start and turn around quickly. From the shadows beneath the window a twisted old man stepped into the light, a small smile upon his illuminated lips despite the furrowed brow and intense eyes that seemed to betray it. “Just how will you do that, child?” the man asked.
Wake could not speak, seven years of training as a slave overriding the newfound voice he was so proud of mere moments ago. He prostrated himself against the ground, thumping his forehead on the ground. His body shook with fear, the bruises on his back and legs sending fresh new waves of pain as if they were being lashed at again. After the stunt he had just pulled they might well be.
A “tch” of disappointment came from above Wake and the man spoke again, this time with a hint of anger. “Stand up, boy, and answer my question. How would you venture to become a Mater when you are nothing but a young slave?”
An order could not be disobeyed, and Wake stood as he had been ordered. He could not bring himself to look at the man, though, knowing that standing was enough to lose his meal privileges for the month. Worse yet the man had ordered him to speak, violating a rule that could have seen him executed. It was an impossible situation that left Wake with few options.
“I-I do not know, Sir. I should not have spoken. I beg your mercy.”
The old man stepped closer, his fine robes trimmed in gold coming into Wake’s field of vision as the old man placed his gnarled hands on Wake’s shoulders. “You will not receive mercy from me for speaking, little stick. You will follow me now, and see what is in store for you.”
Terror tore through Wake like a hurricane. What sort of punishment had this strange old man ordered him into? There was nothing he could do but follow the man’s orders, however, and as the blue robes trailed of and out of his vision Wake was forced to follow them. His eyes remained upon the tail of those magnificent robes and paid little heed to where his body took them. For hours they walked, through halls whose floors were so thick with dust that Wake could barely see his own feet and the air seemed thin. Though he could not be sure it felt at times that they were walking down a slight incline. After some time the old man stopped, and turned so that the edge of his robes swept from Wake’s sight. Reluctantly Wake raised his head, only slightly enough that he could peer through his hair at the wall which his gnarled guide had turned to face.
There was nothing remarkable about it, only dull stone and dust accompanied by a skittering spider that fled from the new guests. The old man raised his arms and seemed to salute the wall, inhaling sharply before his voice erupted explosively.
“In the name of the First Master Blaize I require admittance!”
Even though he had seen the man inhale and knew he was going to yell, Wake was startled by the volume and echo of his voice. He crouched down, covering his head with his hands. Suddenly feeling silly Wake stood abruptly and looked back towards the wall. It seemed that the old man had startled it as much as he had startled Wake, for suddenly a crack split the wall in two. Slowly it began to slide inward as the gap between the two halves of the wall began to widen. Brilliant light spilled from the gap and almost blinded Wake before he could cover his eyes.
The light spilled through the abandoned hall as the doors finished opening, and Wake removed his hands to let his eyes adjust to what lay beyond. Slowly he made out jagged rock and a flash of gold the size of a boulder. As his eyes finally adjusted to the light Wake gasped his head leaning back slowly as he took in the sight of the enormous golden statue in the brightly lit cavern. It depicted a man, possibly in his mid forties, in a fighting stance completely different from any Wake had seen before. His hands were outstretched, knees slightly bent with one foot behind the other. In detailed relief Wake could make out each fold in the fabric of the man’s tunic and trousers, as well as the braid of the rope that cinched the two together. Even despite its size the statue was a magnificent work of art, and Wake was overwhelmed by the beauty of its craftsmanship.
“That is the First master of Mangin Tai, Grandmaster Blaize. In the early Tenshu period he protected the people from the warlord Sinzin. It was he who founded our order and created this temple.”
Wake heard the man’s words, but he could not have spoken even if he had not been a slave. Like an automaton he walked into the cavern chamber, his eyes glued to the statue with an expression of awe. He didn’t flinch when he felt the old man place his hands on his shoulders, but his eyes remained locked on the statue for several moments even while the old man spun him to the right. Slowly Wake registered the large doors carved into the cavern wall and he looked up at the old man quizzically.
“The bath house is through there. You smell like a dusty pig. Bathe and put on the robes inside before you meet the others. When you have finished meet us on that ledge.” The old man pointed above him. Jutting out from the wall several meters was an outcropping of solid stone. It was impossibly high, higher than even the tallest ceiling that Wake had cleaned in the Temple, and he could not see a ladder leading up to it.
“But how am I-“ the boy said, looking down from the ledge and discovering that the old man had vanished. How could an old man move that fast and that quietly? Wake glanced about the cavern, seeing no way that the old man could have escaped without his notice. He tapped the walls, walked around the statue, and could see nothing indicating another hidden door either.
“Did he say there were others?” Wake asked the empty cavern, enjoying the sound of his voice as he did so. His previous fear of punishment had vanished upon sight of the statue, a strange occurrence he chalked up to some kind of magic. With a shrug Wake did as any slave would do, though he followed his instructions here a bit more happily than he had done any before in his life.
He walked to the large double doors that lead to the bath house and shoved against them, throwing his entire weight into the action. To his surprise they sprang open at his touch, banging against the wall with a loud boom. Steam billowed into his face as he stepped into the bath house, rising from the massive pool in the center and the heated water within. The scents of cinnamon and lilac wafted through the air as the doors closed of their own accord and left Wake in the dim light left by assorted candles.
Quickly Wake stripped off his clothing and dove into the pool of water, the warm water immediately soothing the ache of his bruises he had nearly forgotten. Holding his breath Wake dove deeper into the water, swimming the length of the pool and returning by floating on his back. More relaxed than he had ever felt before the young boy continued to float, letting the water wash away all of his worries even as it rinsed away the filth. A slave was lucky to get a single bath a month, and even then it was never in such wonderfully warm and beautifully scented water as this. He felt as if he were in a dream, but reality came crashing down around him as his eyes caught sight of the mottled purple blue of his newest bruises mixed with the healing ones on his legs.
He was a slave, and he had been given a task by a man who was clearly his superior. Coming to his sense Wake scrubbed away the rest of the filth with a nearby cloth, stepping out from the more shallow end of the pool of water into the cool air. Shivering slightly Wake cast his gaze about the room and realized that he had no cloth upon which to dry his body, a small delay to the task he had already procrastinated. As he waited for his skin to dry Wake searched the room, which was much larger than he had originally thought, and found the robe the man had instructed him to put on. The robe was a deep blue, trimmed in gold like the man had worn. Matching trousers were folded within the robe, and quickly Wake pulled them on, reveling in the feel of the soft fabric against his skin. The robes were also so soft that Wake had felt they were made of clouds, but despite the length of the robe being correct the length of the arms was incredibly misgauged.
A few feet of material heaped upon the floor from Wake’s extended arms as he desperately tried to pull them up. After several minutes of folding and tucking Wake finally managed to expose his hands, though he couldn’t lower his hands and touch his sides. Unfortunately Wake couldn’t find another robe to change into, and so he stepped out of the bath house feeling a fool for his strange garb.
He looked up at the ledge he was instructed to reach with trepidation, unsure how he was going to make his way up. After several searches he attempted to climb the wall, but to no avail. With no ladders, no steps, and no visible ropes Wake felt sure that here was no way for him to reach the ledge when the statue of the First Master caught his eye. From this angle, opposite the ledge, the outstretched hands of the statue seemed to make a perfect platform several feet below and a few feet away from the edge of the rocky outcrop. Like lightning the realization struck Wake what he would need to do and he walked to the base of the statue to get a better idea of what it would entail. First he tried climbing the right leg, making it only a few feet before falling to his rump.
After trying the same with the other leg and experiencing the same result Wake stopped to rethink his approach. If he could make it to the golden rope around the statue’s waist he would be able to use the folds in the tunic to climb to the shoulder, but he had to find a way to scale the leg first. Another bolt of brilliance struck him as the sleeve of his robe slipped over his hand, and with his idea firmly in mind the boy let both sleeves unwind completely. Stepping up to the right leg of the statue Wake tied the sleeves of his robe around it, leaning back to test how well the material would hold his weight. Surprisingly the material stretched a bit and held fast, creaking a bit as it strained against its seams. Confident that it would hold his weight, and suddenly glad he had lived the meager life of a slave, Wake braced against the leg with his feet and shifted his weight backwards. He took a shaky step and smiled as he made it, taking another and another after that.
Slowly Wake made his way up the leg, stopping occasionally to rest while leaning back against the robe. As he neared the waist he realized that his plan was not quite as well thought out as he had thought. The statue thickened a good distance before the rope he had intended to reach, and so he needed to find a way to make it there. After several moments only one idea came to mind, but it was a once shot attempt. If he failed he would fall to his death.
Inhaling and preparing himself mentally Wake leaned back against his robe and twisted within it, finally positioning himself so that he could do what he needed to do. Gathering all of his strength Wake thrust against the statue with his legs and threw his weight back toward the statue. The sleeves of the robe strained and ripped at his shoulders as his momentum just barely sent his feet into the air. With the momentum of his weight also throwing him backwards Wake’s feet caught the edge of the golden braid above. If he had not had to use this position before to clean the chandelier in the main hall of the Temple of the Fist Wake might have fallen, however this experience he tensed his legs and managed to keep himself from slipping. Now it would only be a matter of pulling himself within reach.
Slowly, maintaining his balance, Wake bent his legs and managed to get within reach of the ledge the rope belt made. Finally grabbing the edge he flipped back into an upright position and pulled himself up. He was halfway there and already his muscles seemed to be screaming in agony that far exceeded that of his bruises. He struggled to catch his breath, once again glad that he had survived so long on the meager rations of a slave and been so light, before he reluctantly began climbing the folds of the tunic.
To say that the going was easy would be a lie, but in the end Wake made it to the shoulder and flopped onto his back to stare at the ceiling of the cavern that was dotted with stalactites. As the sweat poured from his body Wake wondered why he was being required to accomplish the ridiculous task of reaching the ledge, his breath coming in gasps. Resolving himself to completing the task, considering that he had already come so far, Wake struggled to his feet. His goal was in sight, and with his last vestiges of energy he forced himself into a run across the outstretched arm of the statue and leapt for the ledge.
Wake sailed through the air with his hand outstretched and reaching for the very edge. Just as he thought he was going to make it with the empty air beneath him, gravity did its work and he felt himself drop with his fingers mere inches from the ledge. Suddenly a gnarled hand appeared and grasped his wrist, pulling Wake to the top of the ledge easily. Once again Wake lay gasping, but he recovered quickly as the old man spoke.
“That was the most interesting test I have ever seen anyone pass. You are the first to attempt to make it to the ledge in that manner, and at such a young age, too.” His voice was filled with respect, and perhaps a bit of pride, as he praised the young boy for his success. Wake remained prone, a small smile played across his lips as he realized the unfamiliar tone. He had never been praised before, even by the slaves that raised him, and it warmed his heart to know that he could do something right.
After several minutes of silence the old man held his hand out to Wake and pulled him to his feet. “Are you ready?” he asked the young man with a slight expression of concern.
Wake nodded and his gaze remained glued to the floor beneath him, firmly affixed to a point directly between his feet. He heard the old man sigh but didn’t shift his gaze, the bravery and independence he felt while climbing the statue evaporated now that he was in the direct presence of a superior. After another second the old man walked away, his footsteps leading Wake deeper into the ledge.
It seemed that the ledge sank into the stone it projected from into another cavern of smaller dimensions. Sneaking a peek at his surroundings, Wake noticed a large fire burning in the center of the room with four figures surrounding it. The old man walked directly towards the crackling flames and took his place in the center of the four mysterious people. Wake followed his footsteps for a short distance and stopped with his hands clasped in front of him. With his gaze still affixed to the ground he stood where he was, waiting for whatever the old man had in store for him next.
“Oh, he is so adorable!” came the sound of a woman’s exclamation, startling Wake with its beauty and tone. Never before had he heard such a mellifluous sound from the human throat, and he thought immediately that the owner of such a voice must certainly be an angel. “I can’t believe he didn’t use the rope!”
“There was a rope?!” Wake cried out objectively, realizing that he had made his task more difficult by not finding it.
“Of course there was a rope, kid. You ripped my best robe.” This voice was as deep as an avalanche and clearly came from the shadow to Wake’s far left. The very power of it sent a tremor through Wake and stunned him to complete silence.
“Your name, little stick. What is it?” came the gravelly voice of the old man from his silhouette.
“W-Wake No Man’s Son.” His voice was shaky and weak, as it had been the previous times he spoke.
“Wake, we are the last Masters of Mangin Tai. I am Grandmaster Xiao, and I have chosen you to be our disciple. Do you accept this responsibility? Be warned that our training will not be easy. It will take everything within you to survive.”
Wake considered the development, realizing that he had suddenly become very lucky. A slave like him, offered a chance to train with not just one master but five and be treated like he was worth more than a pet. Tears welled in his eyes and he wiped them away, and for the first time in his life Wake held his head up proudly before clasping one fist in the opposite hand and bowing as he had seen Disciples in the Temple of the Fist do before their masters.
“I would be most honored to be your Disciple, Masters.”
Unlike the other initiations that Wake had witnessed the Masters here bowed back to him, though he still could not make out their faces with the light of the fire behind them. As one they straightened and the old man, Grandmaster Xiao, clapped his hands loudly. One by one torches lit around the cavern, lighting it as the room with the statue had been. He stepped forward, spreading his arms wide.
“Allow me to introduce you to your new masters, Wake.” Xiao dropped his right hand and the first Master stepped forward. The largest of the four who had spoken earlier had dark hair and darker eyes, but what made him most notable was the fact that he was a mountain of muscle.
“ Fina Morus, Master of Tatian Tai. His role will be that of your guardian. Every waking hour he will watch over you and ensure that you are safe.” The giant man stepped back as the Grandmaster finished his introduction and the man next to him stepped forward.
“This is Monta Beru, Master of Jungai Tai. He will be teaching you culture, reading and writing, and the other arts of the mind.” Master Beru was of average height and seemingly average weight, but beneath his robe corded muscles could be seen. His eyes were so blue they were nearly white, and his hair was the color of hay. He smiled kindly at the boy and mumbled something before he bowed and took his place before the fire.
The Grandmaster lowered his left arm and raised his left once more. The smallest of the four Masters stepped forward, his movements lithe and full of energy. An exuberant smile was plastered across his face sending wrinkles cascading throughout his skin. He must have been nearly as old as the Grandmaster, but somehow he seemed decades younger and had energy to spare. His grey hair and moustache nearly reached the floor.
“Master of Verai Tai, Canai Blain. He will be teaching you the art of stealth and subterfuge. Just… Don’t let him corrupt your young mind.” The old man sighed as Canai gave a mischievous laugh and took his place.
“My turn.” The sultry voice came from the final Master standing before the fire, a buxom woman clearly the youngest of all of the gathered fighters. She was gorgeous, with long, flowing blonde hair and sparkling green eyes that seemed to glow with mirth.
“This is the master of Linal Tai, Master Mirria Veri. She will be teaching you the art of weaponry.” She bowed gracefully and stepped back.
“Of course, all of them will also be teaching you their respective styles of fighting. I will oversee your training, Wake. Welcome to the Temple of the Heart.”
~
The first days of training were hell for Wake. As it turned out the Temple of the Heart lay beneath the Temple of the Fist. In the past the Temple of the Heart was the most prestigious martial arts academy in Sarina and Disciples flocked to its halls in droves simply to learn their arts. However, after several centuries the Temple’s competition flourished as it declined, and in their triumph the Temple of the Fist was built directly on top of their old rival’s halls. The Temple of the Heart did not allow this to keep them down, though, and their art continued in secret from under the Fist’s very nose.
With no disciples coming to the Heart’s halls it slowly suffocated until the Four Masters were all that was left. Upon hearing this Wake pledged his devotion again, driven both by the heartbreaking tale and the indulgence of getting a whole room to himself. It didn’t take long for Wake to realize that he would not be treated like a slave, and his adaptation to the role of a normal child was far more rapid than even he could believe. After a wonderful meal of roasted chicken seasoned with fresh herbs and steamed vegetables he retired to the room assigned to him and promptly fell asleep.
His rest was short lived, however, when Master Fina woke him only a few hours later. He screamed in his booming voice about a martial artist training constantly and took Wake to the largest cavern within the temple. There Wake was put through rigorous exercises that thoroughly exhausted him within only a few minutes. The torture continued for several more hours before he was sent on to work with Master Monta.
The exercise continued, but under the tutelage of Master Monta Wake was required to recite the letters of the alphabet and different spellings of several basic words. When he switched subjects Wake would also switch exercises. Each exercise was composed of several elements that taxed the very limits of his strength and endurance while adding a component of danger. It was the belief of the Master of Jungai Tai that only through life or death situations could one reach their true potential, but Wake felt that he was an extreme sadist to put a child through such trials.
As if an eternity had passed Wake was allowed to rest, a few more hours of sleep before Fina woke him once more. Wake was so sore that he felt he would break if he moved, but somehow he managed to drag himself to the training yard of Master Canai Blain. To Wake’s surprise the old man was also master of acupuncture, and within seconds he had relieved all of Wake’s fatigue. It did nothing to relieve the ache that came after his rigorous training attempting to dodge traps in the cleverly designed room that the Master of Verai Tai had designed and built himself. However, even though the training was brutal Canai held one more lesson for Wake that he would never forget.
“What do you think of Master Veri?” he asked the boy as he gingerly tested the ground in front of him for another trap.
“She is beautiful,” Wake replied truthfully if a bit distractedly.
“She is at that, little stick.” The moniker had stuck with all of the Masters since Wake began, but he didn’t mind. “Do you know what makes her so beautiful?”
Wake shook his head immediately. What did a young boy know of the world? How could he know the secret behind her beauty? A piece of paper was suddenly shoved into Wake’s face as a trap sprang from the ground. Startled but surprised to be uninjured Wake took the paper and slowly made sense of the illustration there.
“Are you sure, Master?” he asked innocently. The old Master of Verai Tai simply nodded and remained silent.
When Wake was then transferred to his training with Master Linal Veri he found himself easily distracted and very nearly dead several times as she attempted to teach him to wield a stick as if it were a sword. Even though the woman would attack him with a real blade Wake’s eyes had trouble leaving following its path without seeing the attributes which Master Carai claimed were the source of the female Master’s beauty. Even as they bounced and jiggled with her movements Wake couldn’t help but disagree a bit with the old master’s assessment. Master Linal was beautiful all over; her chest was just the most distracting.
Ending his second day with significantly more cuts and bruises he began with, as well as less hair, Wake was finally allowed to sleep for six full hours before undergoing the gauntlet once more.
This pattern continued every day for six months and Wake felt himself grow stronger than he thought his frame capable of handling, but he was taught no martial arts in this time. Every day he grew more and more agitated at this fact until he finally visited the Grandmaster about the issue.
“Grandmaster Xiao,” Wake said while bowing in the doorway, “I need to speak with you.” In the several months he had been in training Wake found his voice easily through curses and screams for his life.
“Come in, Wake. What seems to be bothering you?” Xiao motioned for the boy to sit and poured a cup of tea as he did so.
“Well, Master, you see… I was wondering when I was going to start learning martial arts. I have been training six months and still have not learned a single thing. Except that you are all crazy.” Wake muttered the last sentence beneath his breath.
“Do you think you are ready for your training already, little stick? I am sure the other Masters told you that traditionally none of the arts are taught to those younger than the age of twelve. These past months your training has been meant to prepare your body for the maneuvers.”
“But, Master, I am ready to learn. I think I am ready.”
Grandmaster Xiao set his teacup on the tray in his hand and placed both on the table between the two. After several minutes he nodded. “You will begin tomorrow. You have the day to rest. Enjoy it.”
~
Seven years went by with Wake training day in and day out, finally leaning the techniques his Masters had held from him in the beginning. He gobbled up the knowledge eagerly and progressed through their lessons far faster than they had imagined him able. He had not been allowed to leave the Temple, the fear of discovery too sharp to ignore until there was little chance that he would be recognized as a missing slave. Finally, halfway through his fourteenth year, Wake was allowed to venture to the market. Using his acquired stealth to sneak into the Temple of the Fist Wake adopted the role of a Fist Disciple and ventured into town for the first time in his life.
He had never known how large the city he lived in actually was. From the outside the Temple of the Fist seemed ten times larger than it looked from within, and Wake spent several minutes simply staring at the building. Realizing how conspicuous he must have seemed Wake reluctantly turned away and ventured into the market with his list in hand. His goal was to purchase the food the Temple of the Heart would need for the coming week, but as he walked through the assorted stalls Wake couldn’t help but be distracted. He had been given a small amount of money that he was allowed to spend on himself, and it seemed as if the entire market knew to target him for their wares.
In the end Wake could not help himself and bought a pair of “fighter’s gloves,” as the vendor described them. Their fit was perfect, and despite the fact that Wake was skeptical their design seemed sound. After tugging them on he continued to purchase the food needed for the Temple and began the return home within a few hours. He had not realized how far he had travelled in his search for the items on the list, and the sun began to set as long before he made it to the Temple. It had been a perfect day, and when he made it home the Masters praised him for a smart purchase of the gloves. Master Linal even showed remorse that she did not own a similar pair.
This ritual continued for several weeks before issues began to arise. Slowly Wake began gaining the attention of assorted thugs within the village. Fist Disciples moved in groups despite their training, and Wake was always alone. There were several occasions in which Fist Disciples would attempt to fight with Wake, and though they were fully allowed to fight by their Masters Wake was bound by a different set of rules in order to protect his identity. As if that weren’t enough for him to gain the attention of the unsavory Wake also purchased a lot of food at a time. The Temple of the Heart consumed more in a week than one would expect.
It only took a few brave thugs to shatter the peace that Wake had been experiencing. He didn’t fight them, but unfortunately a Master of the Fist happened upon the situation just as Wake sidestepped their attacks. He had not used anything complex, only a basic stepping maneuver that he had learned in his first week of study, but apparently the Master of the Fist was able to discern where he learned it.
“Where did you learn that step, boy!” the old master had cried out as he rounded the corner, startling the thugs into flight.
Wake tried to escape, but the old master was adamant to gain answers. He grabbed Wake’s arm and his training kicked in. With a simple shifting of his weight Wake sent the old man hurtling to the ground, catching his head on his foot at the last instant to protect him from harm. It was more than enough.
“Mangin Tai!” the old man exclaimed from his back. Wake heard nothing further as he ran back to the Temple of the Heart.
~
That night the Masters and Wake sat around a squat table. The tone of the meeting was serious, and it was the first time that Wake had been allowed within one of their clandestine congregations. Despite the tension in the air he could not help admiring Master Linal’s bosom as it strained against the flimsy robe she had rushed to the meeting in. Master Carai had taught him well.
“Wake, are you even paying attention?” Master Linal asked him, breaking into his fantasy.
Wake jumped up from his seated position and bowed to hide his flushed face. “Apologies, Master. I must be tired.” It was clear from the looks on the faces of the Masters that his flimsy excuse was not believed. Master Carai nodded with a knowing smile.
“You are no longer permitted to go into the town, Wake. It is too dangerous. Already they are searching for you, and we cannot afford to lose our only Disciple.” Grandmaster Xiao left no room for argument, and so the conversation ended. Wake was sent back to his training with Master Fina as the others discussed “other matters.” He was no fool. Wake knew that the Masters were worried and did not want to continue speaking about the dangers with Wake in the room.
Fina was not going to let him sneak away. The Master launched attacks at his Disciple without reservation, forcing Wake to devote his full attention on the large man for several hours before he collapsed in exhaustion. Wake passed out from his exertion and was carried to his cot by Master Fina. When he woke he may have been upset about missing out on the meeting, but he had little time to devote to the disappointment.
For the next year Wake was trained harder than ever before. Not a day went by that Wake was able to do anything more than learn the techniques taught to him and employ them in his defense against the suddenly reclusive Masters. Nights passed in silence and the atmosphere of the Temple of the Heart grew strained. The Masters were constantly tense, and the loss of meaningful conversation between them and their Disciple left a bitter taste in his mouth. He considered them to be his family, and the lack of communication made him feel sadness that slowly grew to anger.
Late one night after a suspiciously lighter day of training Wake utilized his skills to sneak away from the Temple and into the town. The night brought a new face to the city that Wake had never seen before. The underbelly of Sarina’s society became the rulers of the streets, and more slaves than Wake even knew existed came out to enjoy the momentary illusion of freedom they craved.
In his dark, angry mood Wake felt like he had come home. He was a slave in his childhood, learning to walk while learning to serve without question. He may have been freed from slavery and released into a prison, but these people were his kith and kin. As he wandered the streets his anger grew. He had been promised something that could never be.
“Well well, what have we here?” the knife wielding man said to his group of friends that had gathered around Wake in his musings. The air filled with the stink of alcohol and unwashed bodies as the man continued his attempt at intimidation.
“Is that a lost sheep, a lone Disciple, wandering our streets in the dead of night? How about you give us everything you have and no one gets hurt.”
The anger that had been building up in Wake for a year let itself loose in that instant. The ruffians had no time to react as Wake unleashed his training upon them, most of them falling without realizing what had happened. The leader was not one of those lucky men, however, and by the time that Wake was through with him he was unrecognizable. The anger fled Wake as fast as it had come, and he found himself surrounded by moans of pain and seeping blod pooling around those whom he had taken extra time with. The leader was so mangled that Wake vomited at the sight of him.
Wake ran, then. Blindly he made his way back to the Temple without knowledge of the pursuit that had seen his rage. Ignoring the questions of his Masters Wake made it to his room and vomited again, the image of the men he had nearly torn apart haunting him as he cried in fear of himself and his anger. He had not wanted to become this, but staring at his own work made him realize that he was walking a path that could lead him to darkness. He slept fitfully that night, dreams haunted by shadowy assailants that bore his face. Far later than usual Wake crawled from his bed and washed his face before the Mangin Tai Masters cornered him and brought him into their meeting room.
“Tell us what happened last night, Wake,” Master Monta commanded.
“Like you care. Shouldn’t we be training?”
The rage that crossed all of the Masters’ faces would have sent the most seasoned veteran cowering. Wake, understandably, confessed everything immediately, including his animosity at the silence that had led to his anger. Guilt riddled the Masters upon hearing his story, and despite their disappointment they begged his forgiveness. They explained that, due to his discovery, Wake had been distanced because the Masters had been conducting covert operations to find out the extent of the damage caused by the Fist Master who had spotted him.
As it turned out, the Fist Master had been branded as insane after obsessively insisting that the Mangin Tai style had somehow survived. In the year since his discovery of Wake he had established his own small temple and made it their goal to ferret out the remaining practitioners of Mangin Tai. The Masters had planted misinformation and directed him in the wrong direction consistently, but after Wake’s rampage the night before they felt sure that it was only a matter of time before they were found. Unfortunately none knew how right they were.
That night the rogue Fist Master and his Disciples attacked the Temple of the Heart. While Wake had raced home a single Fist Disciple had followed him and reported back to the sect whose sole purpose was to remove Mangin Tai once and for all. Though the gathered Masters were an unstoppable force they fled with Wake.
The next two years were filled with tears and fear as the Masters kept on the move with their Disciple constantly. The Temple of the Fist accepted the existence of the lost art and hunted them relentlessly, and because of their overwhelming numbers the Masters slowly fell to them one by one. Master Carai sacrificed himself first within the first four months. After being caught in the middle of the night by hundreds of Fists Disciples and several gifted Fist Masters the elderly man begged for the others flee while he took care of their enemies. When he did not catch up several hours later it was clear he had been killed.
Masters Fina and Monta sacrificed themselves a year later, taking nearly three hundred of the enemy’s men with them as they bought time for Master Linal and the Grandmaster could drag Wake away. The young man had tried his best to save them, even breaking away and facing the Fist Master that had finally taken their lives, but after defeating him he realized that there were far more enemies than any one man could take on and reluctantly fled with the remaining Masters.
When Wake reached seventeen Grandmaster Xiao took him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes without word for several minutes before finally embracing the young man.
“This is where we part ways, little stick. I would like to be able to stay and protect you, but after watching you defeat so many of our pursuers I can say with certainty that you are a Master in your own right. At my age I will only slow you and Master Linal down, and we all have a better chance separately. I am proud of you, Wake, and I hope to see you again in the future.”
There were no words to be said, and with a tearful wave Grandmaster Xiao disappeared down the road. For several months Wake and Linal continued traveling, moving farther and farther away from Sarina until finding a small farming village that took them in. The man who allowed them to stay in his home understandably fell head over heels in love with Linal, not knowing her past, and spent several weeks wooing her before she finally gave in to his advances. Wake, however, was restless in the small village and left shortly after their wedding.
Wake has traveled for some time and had many adventures, though he still craves combat with more and more powerful opponents. His wandering nature and the drive to become the greatest warrior that has ever existed propels him forward into many lands and many worlds with ever the curious mind and rumbling belly.
Name: Wake Trekker, “The Lost Master”
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Height: 5', 11"
Weight: 175 lbs
Rank: Pending Citizen
Basic Appearance: Wake has dark brown hair that is in a shaggy mess. Though he normally keeps it tied back in a leather thong, his hair is not quite long enough to keep the bangs from his face. When pulled back the resulting tail resembles more a wolf’s than a horse’s, and so he calls his hair style a wolf’s tail. His eyebrows are broad, but not thick, and arch above his orbits majestically. The lashes below are long but are blonde tipped, and so appear to be a bit shorter than they truthfully are. Despite their blonde tips they are so long that it is noticeable.
Wake’s eyes are a dark green ringed and flecked with a golden brown that causes them to glow brightly in the sun. Framing these mischievous eyes are high cheekbones and an arrow-straight nose that leads to pink, almost thin lips that curve upward a small amount at the edges and make him appear on the edge of a smile. His cheeks are not gaunt, but neither are they full. Instead they are somewhere between and fit his face perfectly.
Physically he is in perfect health, a specimen of fitness an athlete would appreciate. Without a single iota of fat on his body he is composed purely of compact muscle, bone, and sinew with tawny skin that seems to be stretched over his frame as if it were a bit too small. Every corded limb shows his fitness in high relief, though this effect increases when he physically exerts himself. A large scar in the shape of an x marks the center of his chest, a souvenir from a fight with a bandit who had found his lucky day.
Wake’s style of clothing is composed of several colors of the same garments, all showing the wear and tear of his travels. None of his clothes have sleeves, and most have many patches to their credit. Upon Wake’s shoulders, the back of his neck, and the backs of his hands are mysterious symbols known only to the order in which he trained, each representing a different mantra and style which he has learned.
Combat Credentials
Combat Style: Wake’s combat style is a unique martial art known as Mangin Tai, a lost art of which he is the last practitioner. This style is composed of four different styles which allow him to shift combat tactics seamlessly against different opponents. From solid powerful strikes to shifting redirection, in combat Wake displays incredible flexibility and adaptation.
Abilities: After years of training Wake is capable of impressive speed and strength. With razor sharp reflexes and dense muscle he is both difficult to hit and resistant to physical damage, but his training was not only of the body. In his training Wake has also learned to defend against attacks of different energies as well, using his own internal energy as both an enhancement to his physical abilities and a defense against those of others.
His martial focus grants him a resistance to mental manipulation, though a large part of that may have something to do with the simplicity of his mind. When utilizing his internal energies he can project concussive force a short distance from his body, but it loses power quickly the farther away it becomes. When shielding his body from magical attacks his internal energy is dependent upon his metabolic and physical energy as well as his mental. Should he become tired, disoriented, or hungry he is unable to properly use the techniques he has mastered.
Wake is fully trained in the art of stealth, but he does not use it often. Instead he uses his knowledge to ferret out whether he is being followed and to counteract assassination attempts should one be made. With this skill he also possesses a knack for sleight of hand, a talent that is more likely to be used to make a few extra coins through entertainment than in actual combat.
-Domestic Abilities: Wake also possesses several talents that cannot be applied to combat. His most practiced skill is his cooking. Through his travels he has gathered many different recipes that dazzle the taste-buds. His use of spices and the most basic ingredients is honed over a lifetime, and he often uses this skill to earn a meal or two for himself.
As evidenced by his clothing and bags, Wake is decent at sewing and repairing clothing. He may not be able to create new clothes from raw material, but he can greatly extend the life of those few clothes that he does buy.
Weapon(s): Wake owns no weapons and would not purchase a weapon should he have the funding to do so. Though he is more than capable with a number of weapons he does not deign to keep them on his person. Only if faced with a multitude of opponents without hope of survival without them will he allow one in his hands. The only item he could conceivably use as a weapon is his pack.
Gear: Wake carries a pack upon his back that is as worse for wear as the spare clothing within. This pack is heavy with collected stones and novelties as well, some items given and others found but most simply useless. The weight, however, serves as a tool for Wake to keep himself in shape.
Worn Coat- Wake owns three coats whose sleeves have been removed and used for the purpose of repairing his pack. One of these coats is black, one white, and the other blue, and each are trimmed in a dull orange that was once a red-gold. Their fabric is thin both by design and by wear, no thicker than an average blouse, and each sports a deep hood that hides his face from sun, snow, and rain. The hem of these coats reaches just past mid-calf.
Tattered Trousers- Well worn from years of travel, Wake owns seven pairs of trousers that are bound at the waist and ankle by cloth the same dull orange that his coats are trimmed in. These trousers also match the colors of his coats, white, black, and blue. Deep pockets on each leg adorn these pants, and patches decorate them with slightly darker hues in each color.
Weathered Tunics- Also matching the trousers and coats that Wake owns are seven tunics whose sleeves were also cannibalized for the purpose of patching his pants. Each is trimmed, unsurprisingly, in that self-same dull orange that trims all of his other articles of clothing. Though threadbare, these tunics have far fewer patches than the trousers he wears. This may be due to his tendency to strip down to only his pants when in battle, eating, sleeping, walking, or randomly out of a sudden whim. The only guarantee one has that he will remain fully clothed is when it is incredibly cold outside.
Reinforced Gloves- With only one pair of black gloves whose fingers have been worn down to the second joint Wake wears these at all times in case he needs to defend himself. These gloves boast steel plates in the backs and chain mail in the palms to protect against damage while fighting armed opponents. Several places have been sewn or patched, but their material is string and well taken care of.
Background:
Honor.
A small word it may be, but it was one that carries the weight of the world in the land of Sarina, a small land far to the east. There were three ways to be honorable in Sarina; you must have been born with honor, you must live with honor, and you must die with honor. Those without honor were used as slaves, and even the dishonored dead were believed to be slaves to the more honorable who had passed. It was an unforgiving land to bastards, thieves, murders and their ilk, and injustices existed there as with any other nation.
Enter the child, abandoned at the massive doors of the Temple of the Fist, the path all warriors took to become honorable fighters for the name of Sarina. Half dead from starvation and cold, this child, a male, was taken in as a slave and raised for seven years by the assorted dishonorable slaves that served there. They said it took a village to raise a child, and in this case he was more than well taken care of. At least, he was well taken care of by the other slaves.
Cursed by a wandering mind, the boy named Wake was always mucking up his assignments despite his best efforts. These mistakes, no matter how small, would result in brutal beatings that would leave him bloodied and bruised. The life of a slave held no sick days, however, and for several years Wake was duty bound to clean the floors, walls, and ceilings of the massive Temple of the Fist.
One could not blame the wistful lad for his flights of fancy, surrounded as he was by prospective warriors and great Masters and unable to learn from them as an honorable son of the nation would have been allowed. Even while climbing the vaulting walls and ceiling Wake would look below and dream of a day that he would be able to learn those secret techniques and maneuvers that would forever erase his name of “No Man’s Son” and give him a title worth bearing.
Dreams led to nightmares for a slave, no matter their age. It was during the middle of the night, late after a particularly vicious beating for dropping a feathered duster upon a Master’s head whilst he gave his lessons, that Wake met the old man who would change his life.
Moonlight filtered into the temple through the tall slits that served as windows as he wearily dusted the wall in a long abandoned wing. Cobwebs stuck to the boy as he leaned his head upon the wall and half-heartedly swept the small feathered duster across the stone, gathering far less dust than he would have hoped. He had never spoken in front of people before in his seven years; a slave was not to be heard, though enough whispers were spoken in the privacy of their cramped chambers that he knew the words were he allowed to speak. Despite the knowledge, signs were the way to communicate to other slaves.
In this abandoned wing, though, no ears would hear his words, and his voice ached within his throat in a desperate need to be loosed. Unable to resist the urge Wake whispered; as he had heard those who raised and taught him do so many times before. His voice was soft and deeper than he had thought it would be, but even he could not make out the words that he spoke.
“One day I will become a Master!” he exclaimed, his c=voice still no louder than the average spoken voice. It cracked as his volume increased, rising sharply in pitch and echoing against the bare walls to return to his ears an extra time. A small smile spread across Wake’s face as he heard himself, a dream spoken certainly must carry more weight than one left in one’s heart. He inhaled deeply, the dust he had stirred filling his lungs with the air and causing him to cough before attempting another deep breath. With all of his heart he let his voice ring out again, speaking his truest heart’s desire.
“One day I will have honor! One day I will become a Master!” The sound echoed several times, causing Wake to quickly slump in fear. He had already been beaten once that day. Would he so soon receive another?
“Is that so, little stick?” the dry voice said from behind Wake, causing the boy to start and turn around quickly. From the shadows beneath the window a twisted old man stepped into the light, a small smile upon his illuminated lips despite the furrowed brow and intense eyes that seemed to betray it. “Just how will you do that, child?” the man asked.
Wake could not speak, seven years of training as a slave overriding the newfound voice he was so proud of mere moments ago. He prostrated himself against the ground, thumping his forehead on the ground. His body shook with fear, the bruises on his back and legs sending fresh new waves of pain as if they were being lashed at again. After the stunt he had just pulled they might well be.
A “tch” of disappointment came from above Wake and the man spoke again, this time with a hint of anger. “Stand up, boy, and answer my question. How would you venture to become a Mater when you are nothing but a young slave?”
An order could not be disobeyed, and Wake stood as he had been ordered. He could not bring himself to look at the man, though, knowing that standing was enough to lose his meal privileges for the month. Worse yet the man had ordered him to speak, violating a rule that could have seen him executed. It was an impossible situation that left Wake with few options.
“I-I do not know, Sir. I should not have spoken. I beg your mercy.”
The old man stepped closer, his fine robes trimmed in gold coming into Wake’s field of vision as the old man placed his gnarled hands on Wake’s shoulders. “You will not receive mercy from me for speaking, little stick. You will follow me now, and see what is in store for you.”
Terror tore through Wake like a hurricane. What sort of punishment had this strange old man ordered him into? There was nothing he could do but follow the man’s orders, however, and as the blue robes trailed of and out of his vision Wake was forced to follow them. His eyes remained upon the tail of those magnificent robes and paid little heed to where his body took them. For hours they walked, through halls whose floors were so thick with dust that Wake could barely see his own feet and the air seemed thin. Though he could not be sure it felt at times that they were walking down a slight incline. After some time the old man stopped, and turned so that the edge of his robes swept from Wake’s sight. Reluctantly Wake raised his head, only slightly enough that he could peer through his hair at the wall which his gnarled guide had turned to face.
There was nothing remarkable about it, only dull stone and dust accompanied by a skittering spider that fled from the new guests. The old man raised his arms and seemed to salute the wall, inhaling sharply before his voice erupted explosively.
“In the name of the First Master Blaize I require admittance!”
Even though he had seen the man inhale and knew he was going to yell, Wake was startled by the volume and echo of his voice. He crouched down, covering his head with his hands. Suddenly feeling silly Wake stood abruptly and looked back towards the wall. It seemed that the old man had startled it as much as he had startled Wake, for suddenly a crack split the wall in two. Slowly it began to slide inward as the gap between the two halves of the wall began to widen. Brilliant light spilled from the gap and almost blinded Wake before he could cover his eyes.
The light spilled through the abandoned hall as the doors finished opening, and Wake removed his hands to let his eyes adjust to what lay beyond. Slowly he made out jagged rock and a flash of gold the size of a boulder. As his eyes finally adjusted to the light Wake gasped his head leaning back slowly as he took in the sight of the enormous golden statue in the brightly lit cavern. It depicted a man, possibly in his mid forties, in a fighting stance completely different from any Wake had seen before. His hands were outstretched, knees slightly bent with one foot behind the other. In detailed relief Wake could make out each fold in the fabric of the man’s tunic and trousers, as well as the braid of the rope that cinched the two together. Even despite its size the statue was a magnificent work of art, and Wake was overwhelmed by the beauty of its craftsmanship.
“That is the First master of Mangin Tai, Grandmaster Blaize. In the early Tenshu period he protected the people from the warlord Sinzin. It was he who founded our order and created this temple.”
Wake heard the man’s words, but he could not have spoken even if he had not been a slave. Like an automaton he walked into the cavern chamber, his eyes glued to the statue with an expression of awe. He didn’t flinch when he felt the old man place his hands on his shoulders, but his eyes remained locked on the statue for several moments even while the old man spun him to the right. Slowly Wake registered the large doors carved into the cavern wall and he looked up at the old man quizzically.
“The bath house is through there. You smell like a dusty pig. Bathe and put on the robes inside before you meet the others. When you have finished meet us on that ledge.” The old man pointed above him. Jutting out from the wall several meters was an outcropping of solid stone. It was impossibly high, higher than even the tallest ceiling that Wake had cleaned in the Temple, and he could not see a ladder leading up to it.
“But how am I-“ the boy said, looking down from the ledge and discovering that the old man had vanished. How could an old man move that fast and that quietly? Wake glanced about the cavern, seeing no way that the old man could have escaped without his notice. He tapped the walls, walked around the statue, and could see nothing indicating another hidden door either.
“Did he say there were others?” Wake asked the empty cavern, enjoying the sound of his voice as he did so. His previous fear of punishment had vanished upon sight of the statue, a strange occurrence he chalked up to some kind of magic. With a shrug Wake did as any slave would do, though he followed his instructions here a bit more happily than he had done any before in his life.
He walked to the large double doors that lead to the bath house and shoved against them, throwing his entire weight into the action. To his surprise they sprang open at his touch, banging against the wall with a loud boom. Steam billowed into his face as he stepped into the bath house, rising from the massive pool in the center and the heated water within. The scents of cinnamon and lilac wafted through the air as the doors closed of their own accord and left Wake in the dim light left by assorted candles.
Quickly Wake stripped off his clothing and dove into the pool of water, the warm water immediately soothing the ache of his bruises he had nearly forgotten. Holding his breath Wake dove deeper into the water, swimming the length of the pool and returning by floating on his back. More relaxed than he had ever felt before the young boy continued to float, letting the water wash away all of his worries even as it rinsed away the filth. A slave was lucky to get a single bath a month, and even then it was never in such wonderfully warm and beautifully scented water as this. He felt as if he were in a dream, but reality came crashing down around him as his eyes caught sight of the mottled purple blue of his newest bruises mixed with the healing ones on his legs.
He was a slave, and he had been given a task by a man who was clearly his superior. Coming to his sense Wake scrubbed away the rest of the filth with a nearby cloth, stepping out from the more shallow end of the pool of water into the cool air. Shivering slightly Wake cast his gaze about the room and realized that he had no cloth upon which to dry his body, a small delay to the task he had already procrastinated. As he waited for his skin to dry Wake searched the room, which was much larger than he had originally thought, and found the robe the man had instructed him to put on. The robe was a deep blue, trimmed in gold like the man had worn. Matching trousers were folded within the robe, and quickly Wake pulled them on, reveling in the feel of the soft fabric against his skin. The robes were also so soft that Wake had felt they were made of clouds, but despite the length of the robe being correct the length of the arms was incredibly misgauged.
A few feet of material heaped upon the floor from Wake’s extended arms as he desperately tried to pull them up. After several minutes of folding and tucking Wake finally managed to expose his hands, though he couldn’t lower his hands and touch his sides. Unfortunately Wake couldn’t find another robe to change into, and so he stepped out of the bath house feeling a fool for his strange garb.
He looked up at the ledge he was instructed to reach with trepidation, unsure how he was going to make his way up. After several searches he attempted to climb the wall, but to no avail. With no ladders, no steps, and no visible ropes Wake felt sure that here was no way for him to reach the ledge when the statue of the First Master caught his eye. From this angle, opposite the ledge, the outstretched hands of the statue seemed to make a perfect platform several feet below and a few feet away from the edge of the rocky outcrop. Like lightning the realization struck Wake what he would need to do and he walked to the base of the statue to get a better idea of what it would entail. First he tried climbing the right leg, making it only a few feet before falling to his rump.
After trying the same with the other leg and experiencing the same result Wake stopped to rethink his approach. If he could make it to the golden rope around the statue’s waist he would be able to use the folds in the tunic to climb to the shoulder, but he had to find a way to scale the leg first. Another bolt of brilliance struck him as the sleeve of his robe slipped over his hand, and with his idea firmly in mind the boy let both sleeves unwind completely. Stepping up to the right leg of the statue Wake tied the sleeves of his robe around it, leaning back to test how well the material would hold his weight. Surprisingly the material stretched a bit and held fast, creaking a bit as it strained against its seams. Confident that it would hold his weight, and suddenly glad he had lived the meager life of a slave, Wake braced against the leg with his feet and shifted his weight backwards. He took a shaky step and smiled as he made it, taking another and another after that.
Slowly Wake made his way up the leg, stopping occasionally to rest while leaning back against the robe. As he neared the waist he realized that his plan was not quite as well thought out as he had thought. The statue thickened a good distance before the rope he had intended to reach, and so he needed to find a way to make it there. After several moments only one idea came to mind, but it was a once shot attempt. If he failed he would fall to his death.
Inhaling and preparing himself mentally Wake leaned back against his robe and twisted within it, finally positioning himself so that he could do what he needed to do. Gathering all of his strength Wake thrust against the statue with his legs and threw his weight back toward the statue. The sleeves of the robe strained and ripped at his shoulders as his momentum just barely sent his feet into the air. With the momentum of his weight also throwing him backwards Wake’s feet caught the edge of the golden braid above. If he had not had to use this position before to clean the chandelier in the main hall of the Temple of the Fist Wake might have fallen, however this experience he tensed his legs and managed to keep himself from slipping. Now it would only be a matter of pulling himself within reach.
Slowly, maintaining his balance, Wake bent his legs and managed to get within reach of the ledge the rope belt made. Finally grabbing the edge he flipped back into an upright position and pulled himself up. He was halfway there and already his muscles seemed to be screaming in agony that far exceeded that of his bruises. He struggled to catch his breath, once again glad that he had survived so long on the meager rations of a slave and been so light, before he reluctantly began climbing the folds of the tunic.
To say that the going was easy would be a lie, but in the end Wake made it to the shoulder and flopped onto his back to stare at the ceiling of the cavern that was dotted with stalactites. As the sweat poured from his body Wake wondered why he was being required to accomplish the ridiculous task of reaching the ledge, his breath coming in gasps. Resolving himself to completing the task, considering that he had already come so far, Wake struggled to his feet. His goal was in sight, and with his last vestiges of energy he forced himself into a run across the outstretched arm of the statue and leapt for the ledge.
Wake sailed through the air with his hand outstretched and reaching for the very edge. Just as he thought he was going to make it with the empty air beneath him, gravity did its work and he felt himself drop with his fingers mere inches from the ledge. Suddenly a gnarled hand appeared and grasped his wrist, pulling Wake to the top of the ledge easily. Once again Wake lay gasping, but he recovered quickly as the old man spoke.
“That was the most interesting test I have ever seen anyone pass. You are the first to attempt to make it to the ledge in that manner, and at such a young age, too.” His voice was filled with respect, and perhaps a bit of pride, as he praised the young boy for his success. Wake remained prone, a small smile played across his lips as he realized the unfamiliar tone. He had never been praised before, even by the slaves that raised him, and it warmed his heart to know that he could do something right.
After several minutes of silence the old man held his hand out to Wake and pulled him to his feet. “Are you ready?” he asked the young man with a slight expression of concern.
Wake nodded and his gaze remained glued to the floor beneath him, firmly affixed to a point directly between his feet. He heard the old man sigh but didn’t shift his gaze, the bravery and independence he felt while climbing the statue evaporated now that he was in the direct presence of a superior. After another second the old man walked away, his footsteps leading Wake deeper into the ledge.
It seemed that the ledge sank into the stone it projected from into another cavern of smaller dimensions. Sneaking a peek at his surroundings, Wake noticed a large fire burning in the center of the room with four figures surrounding it. The old man walked directly towards the crackling flames and took his place in the center of the four mysterious people. Wake followed his footsteps for a short distance and stopped with his hands clasped in front of him. With his gaze still affixed to the ground he stood where he was, waiting for whatever the old man had in store for him next.
“Oh, he is so adorable!” came the sound of a woman’s exclamation, startling Wake with its beauty and tone. Never before had he heard such a mellifluous sound from the human throat, and he thought immediately that the owner of such a voice must certainly be an angel. “I can’t believe he didn’t use the rope!”
“There was a rope?!” Wake cried out objectively, realizing that he had made his task more difficult by not finding it.
“Of course there was a rope, kid. You ripped my best robe.” This voice was as deep as an avalanche and clearly came from the shadow to Wake’s far left. The very power of it sent a tremor through Wake and stunned him to complete silence.
“Your name, little stick. What is it?” came the gravelly voice of the old man from his silhouette.
“W-Wake No Man’s Son.” His voice was shaky and weak, as it had been the previous times he spoke.
“Wake, we are the last Masters of Mangin Tai. I am Grandmaster Xiao, and I have chosen you to be our disciple. Do you accept this responsibility? Be warned that our training will not be easy. It will take everything within you to survive.”
Wake considered the development, realizing that he had suddenly become very lucky. A slave like him, offered a chance to train with not just one master but five and be treated like he was worth more than a pet. Tears welled in his eyes and he wiped them away, and for the first time in his life Wake held his head up proudly before clasping one fist in the opposite hand and bowing as he had seen Disciples in the Temple of the Fist do before their masters.
“I would be most honored to be your Disciple, Masters.”
Unlike the other initiations that Wake had witnessed the Masters here bowed back to him, though he still could not make out their faces with the light of the fire behind them. As one they straightened and the old man, Grandmaster Xiao, clapped his hands loudly. One by one torches lit around the cavern, lighting it as the room with the statue had been. He stepped forward, spreading his arms wide.
“Allow me to introduce you to your new masters, Wake.” Xiao dropped his right hand and the first Master stepped forward. The largest of the four who had spoken earlier had dark hair and darker eyes, but what made him most notable was the fact that he was a mountain of muscle.
“ Fina Morus, Master of Tatian Tai. His role will be that of your guardian. Every waking hour he will watch over you and ensure that you are safe.” The giant man stepped back as the Grandmaster finished his introduction and the man next to him stepped forward.
“This is Monta Beru, Master of Jungai Tai. He will be teaching you culture, reading and writing, and the other arts of the mind.” Master Beru was of average height and seemingly average weight, but beneath his robe corded muscles could be seen. His eyes were so blue they were nearly white, and his hair was the color of hay. He smiled kindly at the boy and mumbled something before he bowed and took his place before the fire.
The Grandmaster lowered his left arm and raised his left once more. The smallest of the four Masters stepped forward, his movements lithe and full of energy. An exuberant smile was plastered across his face sending wrinkles cascading throughout his skin. He must have been nearly as old as the Grandmaster, but somehow he seemed decades younger and had energy to spare. His grey hair and moustache nearly reached the floor.
“Master of Verai Tai, Canai Blain. He will be teaching you the art of stealth and subterfuge. Just… Don’t let him corrupt your young mind.” The old man sighed as Canai gave a mischievous laugh and took his place.
“My turn.” The sultry voice came from the final Master standing before the fire, a buxom woman clearly the youngest of all of the gathered fighters. She was gorgeous, with long, flowing blonde hair and sparkling green eyes that seemed to glow with mirth.
“This is the master of Linal Tai, Master Mirria Veri. She will be teaching you the art of weaponry.” She bowed gracefully and stepped back.
“Of course, all of them will also be teaching you their respective styles of fighting. I will oversee your training, Wake. Welcome to the Temple of the Heart.”
~
The first days of training were hell for Wake. As it turned out the Temple of the Heart lay beneath the Temple of the Fist. In the past the Temple of the Heart was the most prestigious martial arts academy in Sarina and Disciples flocked to its halls in droves simply to learn their arts. However, after several centuries the Temple’s competition flourished as it declined, and in their triumph the Temple of the Fist was built directly on top of their old rival’s halls. The Temple of the Heart did not allow this to keep them down, though, and their art continued in secret from under the Fist’s very nose.
With no disciples coming to the Heart’s halls it slowly suffocated until the Four Masters were all that was left. Upon hearing this Wake pledged his devotion again, driven both by the heartbreaking tale and the indulgence of getting a whole room to himself. It didn’t take long for Wake to realize that he would not be treated like a slave, and his adaptation to the role of a normal child was far more rapid than even he could believe. After a wonderful meal of roasted chicken seasoned with fresh herbs and steamed vegetables he retired to the room assigned to him and promptly fell asleep.
His rest was short lived, however, when Master Fina woke him only a few hours later. He screamed in his booming voice about a martial artist training constantly and took Wake to the largest cavern within the temple. There Wake was put through rigorous exercises that thoroughly exhausted him within only a few minutes. The torture continued for several more hours before he was sent on to work with Master Monta.
The exercise continued, but under the tutelage of Master Monta Wake was required to recite the letters of the alphabet and different spellings of several basic words. When he switched subjects Wake would also switch exercises. Each exercise was composed of several elements that taxed the very limits of his strength and endurance while adding a component of danger. It was the belief of the Master of Jungai Tai that only through life or death situations could one reach their true potential, but Wake felt that he was an extreme sadist to put a child through such trials.
As if an eternity had passed Wake was allowed to rest, a few more hours of sleep before Fina woke him once more. Wake was so sore that he felt he would break if he moved, but somehow he managed to drag himself to the training yard of Master Canai Blain. To Wake’s surprise the old man was also master of acupuncture, and within seconds he had relieved all of Wake’s fatigue. It did nothing to relieve the ache that came after his rigorous training attempting to dodge traps in the cleverly designed room that the Master of Verai Tai had designed and built himself. However, even though the training was brutal Canai held one more lesson for Wake that he would never forget.
“What do you think of Master Veri?” he asked the boy as he gingerly tested the ground in front of him for another trap.
“She is beautiful,” Wake replied truthfully if a bit distractedly.
“She is at that, little stick.” The moniker had stuck with all of the Masters since Wake began, but he didn’t mind. “Do you know what makes her so beautiful?”
Wake shook his head immediately. What did a young boy know of the world? How could he know the secret behind her beauty? A piece of paper was suddenly shoved into Wake’s face as a trap sprang from the ground. Startled but surprised to be uninjured Wake took the paper and slowly made sense of the illustration there.
“Are you sure, Master?” he asked innocently. The old Master of Verai Tai simply nodded and remained silent.
When Wake was then transferred to his training with Master Linal Veri he found himself easily distracted and very nearly dead several times as she attempted to teach him to wield a stick as if it were a sword. Even though the woman would attack him with a real blade Wake’s eyes had trouble leaving following its path without seeing the attributes which Master Carai claimed were the source of the female Master’s beauty. Even as they bounced and jiggled with her movements Wake couldn’t help but disagree a bit with the old master’s assessment. Master Linal was beautiful all over; her chest was just the most distracting.
Ending his second day with significantly more cuts and bruises he began with, as well as less hair, Wake was finally allowed to sleep for six full hours before undergoing the gauntlet once more.
This pattern continued every day for six months and Wake felt himself grow stronger than he thought his frame capable of handling, but he was taught no martial arts in this time. Every day he grew more and more agitated at this fact until he finally visited the Grandmaster about the issue.
“Grandmaster Xiao,” Wake said while bowing in the doorway, “I need to speak with you.” In the several months he had been in training Wake found his voice easily through curses and screams for his life.
“Come in, Wake. What seems to be bothering you?” Xiao motioned for the boy to sit and poured a cup of tea as he did so.
“Well, Master, you see… I was wondering when I was going to start learning martial arts. I have been training six months and still have not learned a single thing. Except that you are all crazy.” Wake muttered the last sentence beneath his breath.
“Do you think you are ready for your training already, little stick? I am sure the other Masters told you that traditionally none of the arts are taught to those younger than the age of twelve. These past months your training has been meant to prepare your body for the maneuvers.”
“But, Master, I am ready to learn. I think I am ready.”
Grandmaster Xiao set his teacup on the tray in his hand and placed both on the table between the two. After several minutes he nodded. “You will begin tomorrow. You have the day to rest. Enjoy it.”
~
Seven years went by with Wake training day in and day out, finally leaning the techniques his Masters had held from him in the beginning. He gobbled up the knowledge eagerly and progressed through their lessons far faster than they had imagined him able. He had not been allowed to leave the Temple, the fear of discovery too sharp to ignore until there was little chance that he would be recognized as a missing slave. Finally, halfway through his fourteenth year, Wake was allowed to venture to the market. Using his acquired stealth to sneak into the Temple of the Fist Wake adopted the role of a Fist Disciple and ventured into town for the first time in his life.
He had never known how large the city he lived in actually was. From the outside the Temple of the Fist seemed ten times larger than it looked from within, and Wake spent several minutes simply staring at the building. Realizing how conspicuous he must have seemed Wake reluctantly turned away and ventured into the market with his list in hand. His goal was to purchase the food the Temple of the Heart would need for the coming week, but as he walked through the assorted stalls Wake couldn’t help but be distracted. He had been given a small amount of money that he was allowed to spend on himself, and it seemed as if the entire market knew to target him for their wares.
In the end Wake could not help himself and bought a pair of “fighter’s gloves,” as the vendor described them. Their fit was perfect, and despite the fact that Wake was skeptical their design seemed sound. After tugging them on he continued to purchase the food needed for the Temple and began the return home within a few hours. He had not realized how far he had travelled in his search for the items on the list, and the sun began to set as long before he made it to the Temple. It had been a perfect day, and when he made it home the Masters praised him for a smart purchase of the gloves. Master Linal even showed remorse that she did not own a similar pair.
This ritual continued for several weeks before issues began to arise. Slowly Wake began gaining the attention of assorted thugs within the village. Fist Disciples moved in groups despite their training, and Wake was always alone. There were several occasions in which Fist Disciples would attempt to fight with Wake, and though they were fully allowed to fight by their Masters Wake was bound by a different set of rules in order to protect his identity. As if that weren’t enough for him to gain the attention of the unsavory Wake also purchased a lot of food at a time. The Temple of the Heart consumed more in a week than one would expect.
It only took a few brave thugs to shatter the peace that Wake had been experiencing. He didn’t fight them, but unfortunately a Master of the Fist happened upon the situation just as Wake sidestepped their attacks. He had not used anything complex, only a basic stepping maneuver that he had learned in his first week of study, but apparently the Master of the Fist was able to discern where he learned it.
“Where did you learn that step, boy!” the old master had cried out as he rounded the corner, startling the thugs into flight.
Wake tried to escape, but the old master was adamant to gain answers. He grabbed Wake’s arm and his training kicked in. With a simple shifting of his weight Wake sent the old man hurtling to the ground, catching his head on his foot at the last instant to protect him from harm. It was more than enough.
“Mangin Tai!” the old man exclaimed from his back. Wake heard nothing further as he ran back to the Temple of the Heart.
~
That night the Masters and Wake sat around a squat table. The tone of the meeting was serious, and it was the first time that Wake had been allowed within one of their clandestine congregations. Despite the tension in the air he could not help admiring Master Linal’s bosom as it strained against the flimsy robe she had rushed to the meeting in. Master Carai had taught him well.
“Wake, are you even paying attention?” Master Linal asked him, breaking into his fantasy.
Wake jumped up from his seated position and bowed to hide his flushed face. “Apologies, Master. I must be tired.” It was clear from the looks on the faces of the Masters that his flimsy excuse was not believed. Master Carai nodded with a knowing smile.
“You are no longer permitted to go into the town, Wake. It is too dangerous. Already they are searching for you, and we cannot afford to lose our only Disciple.” Grandmaster Xiao left no room for argument, and so the conversation ended. Wake was sent back to his training with Master Fina as the others discussed “other matters.” He was no fool. Wake knew that the Masters were worried and did not want to continue speaking about the dangers with Wake in the room.
Fina was not going to let him sneak away. The Master launched attacks at his Disciple without reservation, forcing Wake to devote his full attention on the large man for several hours before he collapsed in exhaustion. Wake passed out from his exertion and was carried to his cot by Master Fina. When he woke he may have been upset about missing out on the meeting, but he had little time to devote to the disappointment.
For the next year Wake was trained harder than ever before. Not a day went by that Wake was able to do anything more than learn the techniques taught to him and employ them in his defense against the suddenly reclusive Masters. Nights passed in silence and the atmosphere of the Temple of the Heart grew strained. The Masters were constantly tense, and the loss of meaningful conversation between them and their Disciple left a bitter taste in his mouth. He considered them to be his family, and the lack of communication made him feel sadness that slowly grew to anger.
Late one night after a suspiciously lighter day of training Wake utilized his skills to sneak away from the Temple and into the town. The night brought a new face to the city that Wake had never seen before. The underbelly of Sarina’s society became the rulers of the streets, and more slaves than Wake even knew existed came out to enjoy the momentary illusion of freedom they craved.
In his dark, angry mood Wake felt like he had come home. He was a slave in his childhood, learning to walk while learning to serve without question. He may have been freed from slavery and released into a prison, but these people were his kith and kin. As he wandered the streets his anger grew. He had been promised something that could never be.
“Well well, what have we here?” the knife wielding man said to his group of friends that had gathered around Wake in his musings. The air filled with the stink of alcohol and unwashed bodies as the man continued his attempt at intimidation.
“Is that a lost sheep, a lone Disciple, wandering our streets in the dead of night? How about you give us everything you have and no one gets hurt.”
The anger that had been building up in Wake for a year let itself loose in that instant. The ruffians had no time to react as Wake unleashed his training upon them, most of them falling without realizing what had happened. The leader was not one of those lucky men, however, and by the time that Wake was through with him he was unrecognizable. The anger fled Wake as fast as it had come, and he found himself surrounded by moans of pain and seeping blod pooling around those whom he had taken extra time with. The leader was so mangled that Wake vomited at the sight of him.
Wake ran, then. Blindly he made his way back to the Temple without knowledge of the pursuit that had seen his rage. Ignoring the questions of his Masters Wake made it to his room and vomited again, the image of the men he had nearly torn apart haunting him as he cried in fear of himself and his anger. He had not wanted to become this, but staring at his own work made him realize that he was walking a path that could lead him to darkness. He slept fitfully that night, dreams haunted by shadowy assailants that bore his face. Far later than usual Wake crawled from his bed and washed his face before the Mangin Tai Masters cornered him and brought him into their meeting room.
“Tell us what happened last night, Wake,” Master Monta commanded.
“Like you care. Shouldn’t we be training?”
The rage that crossed all of the Masters’ faces would have sent the most seasoned veteran cowering. Wake, understandably, confessed everything immediately, including his animosity at the silence that had led to his anger. Guilt riddled the Masters upon hearing his story, and despite their disappointment they begged his forgiveness. They explained that, due to his discovery, Wake had been distanced because the Masters had been conducting covert operations to find out the extent of the damage caused by the Fist Master who had spotted him.
As it turned out, the Fist Master had been branded as insane after obsessively insisting that the Mangin Tai style had somehow survived. In the year since his discovery of Wake he had established his own small temple and made it their goal to ferret out the remaining practitioners of Mangin Tai. The Masters had planted misinformation and directed him in the wrong direction consistently, but after Wake’s rampage the night before they felt sure that it was only a matter of time before they were found. Unfortunately none knew how right they were.
That night the rogue Fist Master and his Disciples attacked the Temple of the Heart. While Wake had raced home a single Fist Disciple had followed him and reported back to the sect whose sole purpose was to remove Mangin Tai once and for all. Though the gathered Masters were an unstoppable force they fled with Wake.
The next two years were filled with tears and fear as the Masters kept on the move with their Disciple constantly. The Temple of the Fist accepted the existence of the lost art and hunted them relentlessly, and because of their overwhelming numbers the Masters slowly fell to them one by one. Master Carai sacrificed himself first within the first four months. After being caught in the middle of the night by hundreds of Fists Disciples and several gifted Fist Masters the elderly man begged for the others flee while he took care of their enemies. When he did not catch up several hours later it was clear he had been killed.
Masters Fina and Monta sacrificed themselves a year later, taking nearly three hundred of the enemy’s men with them as they bought time for Master Linal and the Grandmaster could drag Wake away. The young man had tried his best to save them, even breaking away and facing the Fist Master that had finally taken their lives, but after defeating him he realized that there were far more enemies than any one man could take on and reluctantly fled with the remaining Masters.
When Wake reached seventeen Grandmaster Xiao took him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes without word for several minutes before finally embracing the young man.
“This is where we part ways, little stick. I would like to be able to stay and protect you, but after watching you defeat so many of our pursuers I can say with certainty that you are a Master in your own right. At my age I will only slow you and Master Linal down, and we all have a better chance separately. I am proud of you, Wake, and I hope to see you again in the future.”
There were no words to be said, and with a tearful wave Grandmaster Xiao disappeared down the road. For several months Wake and Linal continued traveling, moving farther and farther away from Sarina until finding a small farming village that took them in. The man who allowed them to stay in his home understandably fell head over heels in love with Linal, not knowing her past, and spent several weeks wooing her before she finally gave in to his advances. Wake, however, was restless in the small village and left shortly after their wedding.
Wake has traveled for some time and had many adventures, though he still craves combat with more and more powerful opponents. His wandering nature and the drive to become the greatest warrior that has ever existed propels him forward into many lands and many worlds with ever the curious mind and rumbling belly.