The Devil and Kanji’s Soul
Grinding his teeth he glared at the shadow of his opponent. He had been in the ring for only a few minutes and had gone down twice. He had one chance left or it was the Pits for him. Trying to calculate a series of moves that could win him this match, he couldn’t help but think of how horrible the Pits were. How he had literally fought and bled his way out of the drudge and into the ring. Now just as he was one knock-out away from his first title match, the behemoth he was put up against was knocking him around like an old rag doll. He had already lost two matches and one more would force him to retire his new earned life.
A bell tolled, forcing him back to the match. Stepping up to the center of the ring, he looked up at his overly sized opponent.
" There’s no way this is a fair match," was all he could think as the second bell rang. His opponent quickly took up fighting stance and, though he attempted to dodge as much as possible, he caught a blow on his left shoulder painful enough to distract him as he was hit again by an upward thrust and knocked down. His head spun as he heard a rhythmic pounding near his ear. A loud cheer rang out as the pounding stopped. He had lost.
He was barely aware of the blood trickling down his chin as he was being dragged by a pair of paramedics towards the locker rooms. "He had lost," was the only thought that could penetrate his barely conscious mind. He lost his grip on consciousness and blacked out.
He awoke in a dimmed room. Taking his surroundings in check, he realized he hadn’t been moved from before. He was still in the locker room. They had left him to tend to his own wounds as they celebrated his opponent’s eighth title win since his first match. Feeling shamefully alone, he rose from the dust covered tile. Using the open lockers as handholds to pull himself up, he rediscovered the throbbing pain in his shoulder.
A thin layer of constant pain issued through his circuits to his brain as the throbbing continued. He gritted his teeth as he stood, leaning against the few closed lockers he was near. The cold metal against his forehead was barely soothing enough to compete with the pain. Thoughts of the Pit returned as he began beating his fist against a locker. A slow, steady, beat, he mimicked the referee’s count after he went down. With each blow, he added more force, ignoring any pain that shot through his arm.
" I CAN’T GO BACK!!" He screamed to the air as he smashed his fist into the locker with enough force to break off of its hinges and fold within itself. He felt a chill run down his spine as a soft, melodious laughter floated across the room.
Turning slowly, he came to face a woman. She sat leisurely on a paramedic table across the room. Just under the small, block, windows, he noticed she wore nothing. Not knowing how to respond to this, he stared. The mysterious woman cocked a half hearted smile in his direction. Tilting her head, she seemed to study him: his features, his injuries, his pain; it was hers to take in. Feeling suddenly uncomfortably vulnerable, he cleared his throat in attempt to break the silence. Her eyes lit up, but her mouth still held shut. He was forced to speak.
" Um… excuse me? You-" he didn’t get the chance to finish.
" You want to win right?" she spoke sharply, an unnatural tone to her voice, "You want to be the best?"
The question made him wince. Of course he wanted to be the best. Hadn’t everyone? Hadn’t that been what he had been training for, for the past two years?
" Yes..." He answered, his voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled strangely at him. Gracefully rising from her table, she moved toward him. She seemed to glide across the tiled floor, her feet never making the dust impressions common in such low classed fighting arenas. His eyes widened as she pressed a stone cold hand against his cheek.
He shivered at the touch, it felt…wrong. Every bad memory he had ever had (and even some that weren’t his own) rushed back to him at that touch. Looking into her eyes he froze. They were too dark to be human. Her smile widened as she watched his reactions.
"You… you…you’re not…human!" he stuttered, forcing words out across his lips.
She laughed that soft, melodious laugh.
"I can make your dreams come true."
The statement itself knocked the wind out of him. Oddly enough, he believed her. She was just too inhuman to lie, as to lie would be a human’s trait.
"You do want to be the best…right?" she lifted the area where an eyebrow should have been. Her lack of human details disturbed him.
"…yes." He answered slowly, almost shocked at his own response.
She smiled again. This time showing a row of teeth that shone like diamonds in the pale light.
"I’ll make you a deal…"
"You want me to sell my soul." It was more of a statement than a question, but he locked her eyes with his.
"… clever child…" She said with a disapproving resentment.
"And in return, you make me the best?" It felt as if he were dancing with the devil himself… herself…
"…very clever…" her mouth scrunched into a tight pout. He had taken away her game. Now he smiled.
"So how does this work? Do you own my soul now? Do I just give it to you? Do I have to sign anything?" It was all a game, and he seemed to currently be in the lead. Reluctantly she gave in.
"Yes. You’re signature…carved in blood…but first. A contract: In return for your soul, you loose all ability to feel pain, thus allowing you to win your so called title. In the event that you die in the ring, I shall so forth collect what is rightfully mine and the contract shall be null in void. Upon signing your mark, you henceforth abide by such contract and it CAN NOT be broken under any means." She held out a sharp, bladed quill and her blank arm.
"You…you want me to sign your arm?" He enunciated to show his surprise.
She nodded and continued to hold out her arm. He held the quill to her cold skin and scratched his signature. As soon as the quill receded from her skin, he felt a burning sensation on his own arm and found the same signature cut into his own skin. As quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared again and looking up, he found no one. He was alone…again. Looking at his arm, he grabbed up a knife from one of the lockers and slowly cut the length of his arm. His blood flowed freely as the gash was opened, yet no pain issued in his mind. A smirk quickly spread across his face.
Some months later, Kanji was as well known as the son of England. His name rang through the arenas as win after win was witnessed by an awestruck audience. He realized his dream of becoming the greatest fighter to ever live. His life couldn’t get any better… so he thought…
"One last fight!" his manager beamed as he prepared.
Taping his hands and ankles, Kanji smiled. It was true. This had been decided to be his final match before he retired. They thought him too dangerous to keep in the ring much longer and was being forced into an early retirement. Only seven years after his first title win, he obtained the reputation and adoration he had so longed for. Still smiling, he started off towards the arena.
He entered within viewing range of the crowd and ripples of cheers echoed through the building. Banners waved with his name as women swooned at his passing. Jumping proudly into the ring, he started his warm ups, his opponent glaring from the other corner. At the tone of the bell, both fighters entered the center of the ring. Shaking hands, both bowed their head in respect to the other. The second bell sounded and the fight began.
Easing into his fighting stance, Kanji left no side vulnerable for attack. His opponent bounced side to side attempting to find a starting point. He threw the first punch, aiming below Kanji’s neckline. Blocking with a lift of his arm, Kanji returned the punch with an upper cut to his stomach. A cheer rang through the already deafening audience. Knocking the guy into the ropes, Kanji took his advantage and jabbed across his chin. The opponent staggered.
Confused by the strength of the blow, he escaped his reach and swung a round house towards his better. Kanji twisted into the air, avoiding the incoming swing.
A gun shot was heard during Kanji’s flying flip. Convulsed, Kanji came down hard. Blood pooled around his middle as fans screamed in terror. The shooter was quickly taken down, but Kanji’s blood flowed too fast. Without pain, he lay in confusion. He had heard the gun fire, but no one seemed to be hurt. Paramedics and sirens came, collecting him from his unmoving pile on the ring floor. A burning sensation filled his arm and he cried out in pain… pain he had not felt for the past seven years.
Looking down, he saw the visible signature scribed on his left arm. Carved into his blood. The pain of the bullet hit him hard as he regain his original senses. Fighting back tears from the long forgotten pain, he gritted his teeth. Frantically tearing his eyes away from his arm, he looked up for a paramedic’s help, only to find none. He was alone…
The soft, melodious laughter floated towards him once again. He starred wide eyed at the familiar woman standing over him. She bent low to his ear and whispered so that he barely heard:
"Time to collect…"
