The air in the room was old and stale, yet still the static could be felt between the two combatants as the tall, muscular Alphonso stood against the club-wielding Fox.

“Fight with your fists, eh?” Fox laughed. “Having honor like that is an easy way to end up dead.”

Alphonso spat upon the stone tile. “Ha! You turn kids into orphans! Yer insults make me laugh!”

“You talkin’ about that stupid brat, Dalt?” Fox laughed. “His father was a coward and an idiot!”

“I can’t stand lowlife scum, that’s one thing.” Alphonso said as he raised his fists to fight. “But a man who would laugh at another man’s honor?! That’s the lowest form of life!”

“Ha!” Fox said. “Keep thinkin’ that! All your stupid honor will get you is a knife in the back!”

Alphonso was quiet for a moment. He thought of his father. In his mind, he could see his father’s bloody face; he remembered his lifeless eyes.

Knife in the back, huh?

“Enough talk!” Fox exclaimed as he rushed forward, club brandished above his head.

In a flash, Fox was upon Alphonso, the spiked bat coming down fast. Sudden pain surged through Fox’s jaw as Alphonso’s uppercut arced through his chin, sending him flying backward, air leaving his lungs as he slammed onto the ground.

“Tell me somethin’,” the muscular Alphonso began as he walked forward, cracking his knuckles.

“Like...” Fox coughed, rubbing his chin. “Whaddya mean ‘tell me something’? We’re in a fight here.”

“Nah.” The other shrugged. “This isn’t a fight, at least not in my book. You’re too weak for me to consider it that way.” Alphonso paused. “Now tell me, do you know of a man with a snake-like left eye?”

“What?” Fox said as he stood once more, taking his bat in his hand again.

“Don’t try it again,” Alphonso said, sighing. “Just answer the stupid question!”

“Look,” Fox said as he raised the bat once more. “I don’t know what you’re on about, but now you’re dead—”

Fox swung the bat head level. Quickly, Alphonso stepped forward, closing the distance. Fox felt panic fill his veins as his opponent’s grip wrapped around his wrist. It happened so rapidly. Before he knew it, Fox felt his feet leave the ground.

There was a weightlessness, then searing pain as he felt his body slam onto the ground so hard it cracked the tile. There was silence. Stars filled Fox’s eyes as he felt himself begin to fade into unconsciousness. He looked up to see Alphonso staring down at him.

“Zhin’sai.” Alphonso began. “My name is Alphonso Augusto, son of Caesar Augusto, and inheritor of the martial art Zhin’sai.” He put his foot on the ruffian’s chest. “That’s the power of my honor!”

“Ha...” Fox wheezed. “Big deal martial artist, huh?” He gasped, feeling himself begin to fade. “I heard what happened to your old man! The whole world knows it! He lost the duel! Lost his life! You might be his son, but his honor is dead...”

Alphonso clenched his fists as his opponent lost consciousness.

The day was mild and overcast, yet the martial arts school of Grandmaster Caesar Augusto was thriving as usual. The school was humble, but its instructor was widely known throughout the Outskirts. Caesar was a tall, sturdy man, his body lined with the scars of any opponent unlucky enough to cross his path in combat.

This quaint school, named aptly and oddly “The Mind’s Hand,” was merely the size of a shop, and was placed beside the corner on 12 Apocrypha Avenue, which worked in its favor. Everyone who came to Burns’ Coffeehouse had to pass by the humble school on their way to get their morning cup of coffee.

Caesar was a practical man, and his martial arts academy mirrored this with its quaint decor and simple signs. The people of Apocrypha were as fearful of him as much they respected him. And rightfully so. The prospect of being taught by the most mysterious and famous fighter in the Outskirts was as thrilling and enticing as it was mysterious and daunting.

For the Grandmaster’s young son, however, well, Alphonso didn’t understand the fear that made the people timid. Only at the age of eight, young Alphonso had found out early the power that he possessed and had quickly taken the road to greatness. Only a boy, he was larger than the other students his age, and to his father’s surprise, he had taken easily to strength training.

To the further surprise of Caesar, Alphonso had made fast friends with Pal Burns and his grandsons that worked in the coffee shop next door.

Caesar Augusto watched his son learn the techniques of Zhin’sai, and he hated himself for it.

Because he knew that he was lying to his son. He knew that his own son was his second greatest pupil.

And he knew the first was born of blood.

Because what begins in blood, well, it often ends equally as bloody.

The weather was fair and sunny on the day that Alphonso’s father died. Alphonso opened the door to Burn’s Coffeehouse and stepped outside. The air was crisp and light, the sky above a sapphire blue, covered loosely by wispy, stark-white clouds.

Despite the favorable atmosphere, rumors of a reaper were carried along the brisk breezes, whispers that defied the wind’s calming caress.

He was in town: a man of no common name but widespread infamy...

The one they called “The Conqueror of the North.”

Everyone knew who he was, and everyone knew what he did. He was the strongest martial artist in the world, and he was on a warpath to prove it. The tales of his conquests were vast among the peoples of the Outskirts, and everyone knew that he went from school to school, challenging the masters and grandmasters of the world—all to prove that he was the best.

But, to young Alphonso, today was but another day. Whoever this man was, he was just like the rest. No one could defeat his father!

As per his usual schedule, after morning practice, Alphonso walked the gray cobblestone to the coffeehouse next door. Pal had always been kind to him, and after three years of being in the city of Apocrypha,  Alphonso had fostered a deep connection with the old man’s grandsons and adoptive daughter and pet dog.

“Mister Burns!” Alphonso called as he opened the glass doorway and entered the shop.

The breakfast hour had just ended, and Pal Burns was behind the bar, his old hands expertly washing down the espresso machine to prepare for lunchtime. The old man turned and smiled. He pointed to his grandchildren at the far table.

“Philos!” Alphonso exclaimed. “Uri! Vylet!”

The kids at the table looked up. “Fonzie!” they said in unison.

“I told you already!” Alphonso threw his arms up. “It’s Alphonso!” He scanned the table. “Where’s the stupid dog?”

“Joseph is a cat—”. Philos began as Vylet raised her hand to stop him.

“Don’t fight it,” she said, sighing, pushing her lavender hair from her eyes. “I’ve tried already.”

“Did you guys hear?” Alphonso began. “A really strong guy is in town! Everyone says he wants to challenge my father!”

“Woah!” Uri said, his large, round glasses magnifying his green eyes behind the lenses.

“Yeah!” he’s gonna challenge him right now! I came to get you guys!”

Philos jumped from the table, his reddish eyes wide and expectant.

“A real duel!” he said.

Uri’s eyes seemed so sparkle behind his spectacles. “Like in an adventure book?” he asked.

“Yeah!” Alphonso said, flexing his arms. “This guy’s gonna lose big time!”

“Well,” Vylet began, shrugging, “I guess it might be cool to see.”

Alphonso ran his fingers through his short brown hair. “C’mon guys!”

The crowd had gathered around the city square, all eyes on the two combatants in the center. Alphonso—followed by Philos and Uri, who were trailed by Vylet—pushed his way through the crowd to get a better view.

Before them, a circle had been drawn upon the cobblestone in black chalk, keeping the citizens from interfering with the duel that was about to take place.

Alphonso stood behind the black lines and looked out at his father. Caesar was a tall man, muscular and strong.

But his opponent?

The enigmatic challenger was tall, much taller than Caesar. He wore ripped clothes through which one could see scars and burns of battles fought and won.

“Caesar Augusto.” The man’s voice was a rippling growl. “The Fist of the South.”

Caesar dropped into a fighting stance, his old, leathery hands raised in front of him. “A name I’m sure you know well,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

Alphonso’s eyes watched with such intensity. To the young boy, the world around him seemed to dissolve into nothing, blowing away like sand for all but the arena before him.

His father wouldn’t lose. His father never lost.

The air stilled, all eyes upon the two martial artists as they began to circle each other.

Suddenly, Caesar’s opponent shot forward, his fist speeding toward Caesar as if propelled by a massive explosion. Caesar quickly evaded to the left, stepping to the man’s backside.

“Foolish boy!” Caesar exclaimed as his fist struck true.

Pain flared in the man’s face as the fist dug into his side, shattering several ribs.

“You’re ignorant, just as you’ve always been. A stubborn student, reluctant to embrace the tranquility of Zhin’sai!”

“Tranquility?” the other laughed. “There is no tranquility in war!” The man roared a battle cry as his foot arced upward in a rapid crescent.

There was no sound as the dust between the stone ground was swept up in a great cloud. All who watched, waited with frozen hearts as the dust cleared. Upon the ground, the man who challenged Caesar lay on his back, defeated.

Alphonso felt his heart leap. He knew it! His father, he was unbeatable!

“You strike with anger and emotion,” Caesar said as he turned away. “And your clouded mind blinds your strikes.”

“Yeah, Dad!” Alphonso yelled from the crowd.

It happened so fast, yet to Alphonso, it lasted an eternity. He could see it over and over. There was a yell as Caesar’s former student leapt from the ground in a burst of psychic energy. Alphonso watched in horror as the man’s strong hand shot through Caesar’s back, his fist blasting through Caesar’s spine. There was a loud cracking noise, then Caesar fell limp upon the ground.

“Father!” Alphonso screeched in horror as he rushed to his father’s body, shaking it. “Wake up, Father!”

Alphonso stared into his father’s hollow eyes. His body was growing cold. Alphonso could hear the crowd as the cheers and boos and shrieks of women and cries of children faded into the distance. No. None of that mattered. There was only this.

Caesar was dead.

“You bastard!” Alphonso roared. “He beat you, fair and square! Yet you struck him in his back?! Where’s your honor!”

The man spat upon the ground. As Alphonso stared upward, he saw it: the man’s left eye was slit like a serpent’s.

The man turned away.

“You want revenge?” he asked as the crowd opened fearfully for him to pass through. “Get strong, and we’ll settle the matter.”

Alphonso watched the man walk away. He told himself to move; he told himself to fight. No. He was frozen. His friends rushed to his side, but it was all a blur. All he knew was now. This moment.

Today was the day his father lost his first match. And Alphonso would never forget how helpless he felt.