by Nikita Thorn
Table of Contents
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Bushido Online
*The Battle Begins*
A Work by Nikita Thorn, for LitRPG Freaks
Bushido Online: the Battle Begins
Copyright © 2017 by LitRPG Freaks
Cover Art by Pindurski
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
Chapter 01
The quiet buzz of the air-conditioning could barely cover the clamor of the crowd outside. The locker room was empty if not for a young man in his early twenties sitting with his eyes closed, his breathing deep and calm.
The door opened and, for a brief instant, the thunderous cheers pierced through as a middle-aged man of large stature walked in. It was not until the visitor was in front of him that the young man finally opened his eyes.
The middle-aged man smiled. “Ready for the big match?”
The young man’s eyes were bright with determination and conviction as he gave a slight nod.
“You’re never one to talk much before a fight, huh? Let’s go, boy. This is your big day,” the older man said.
As soon as they stepped out of the locker room into the long corridor leading to the stadium, they were assailed by a swarm of over-eager photographers.
“Mr. Kinnaman, how confident are you?” shouted one of the reporters as he tried to thrust his microphone forward. Another one was pushing through the crowd. “How do you feel about being one of the youngest participants ever to reach the semi-finals?”
“No questions until after the bout please,” said the older man as civilly as he could manage. The fighter gave polite nods to the news crew. Cameras continued to flash all the way down the corridor.
Noises from the enthusiastic crowd enveloped them as they entered the stadium. The sloping seating area was a tightly packed audience that appeared as thousands of shifting dots. The stage in the middle was brightly-lit, and metal cranes with cameras swooped freely above it. The young man took a deep breath at the sight, which did not go unnoticed by his companion.
“This is your biggest event yet. Remember the plan: keep your calm and be careful of his ground game,” the older man said, just loudly enough to be heard above the crowd. “And watch out for his signature lunge.”
A small appreciative smile stretched on his lips as the fighter turned to look him in the eyes. “Thanks, coach.”
His coach clapped him on the back. “You can do this. Now go show them what you’ve got!”
The announcer, who was wearing a bright red suit, was jumping up and down in the middle of the stage like a dog in heat without any restraint. “Ladies and gentlemen, like I’ve said before, it’s been a really strong year! From over a thousand participants, we now are left with only four: four of the best fighters we have ever seen!” He then spotted the young fighter and shouted into the microphone. “And here we have first-time semi-finalist, the crowd-favorite rising star: Seth Kinnaman!”
Applause and cheers erupted as Seth took to the stage. His opponent had already made his entrance, the famous Edson Caio Rizzo. Rizzo, who was now shadowboxing and playing to the crowd, had been one of the top eight in last tournament, three years earlier. Seth’s coach had tried his best to spare him the discouragement, but Seth knew that betting odds were four-to-one—in favor of the Brazilian.
“Both of these men have shown remarkable form over the past three weeks and remain undefeated!” The announcer was stating the obvious, as MMA World was known for its ruthless immediate elimination rule. Still, the crowd kept on cheering and hooting. The gigantic screens all around the stadium flashed with fancy effects and quick camera cuts.
Seth never cared much about such theatrics. For him, it had always been about the art. The fights served as a focal point in which all his hard work and training could come together to decide often a split-second outcome between a win and a loss.
The referee was now in the ring. Unperturbed, the announcer still allowed no silence; he kept on and on, recounting Rizzo’s last bout where the fighter had managed to knock his opponent out in fifty-eight seconds. Seth kept his body warm and his mind empty with a few lazy punches. He sealed his ears against the deafening crowd and turned his focus to his adversary, the muscular Brazilian who was now glaring at him, mouthing something like an obscene word—most likely for a camera close-up.
It was all show. Seth inhaled and exhaled. Now that the moment was approaching, he was calm. His muscles remembered their training. He was ready. He had always been.
The bell sounded.
It started like most fights do: the two men, bouncing on the balls of their feet, circled each other as they sized each other up and looked for an opening. Despite his relative inexperience, Seth had the advantage of still maintaining the mystery of his full range of abilities. In his past fights, he had remained on the safe side, only using his regular techniques. But for this one, his coach had advised a surprise plan.
Seth lunged forward, throwing a jab. Rizzo blocked and countered with a punch of his own. Thankfully, Seth was well-prepared; he kicked up his right leg, scoring an early hit on Rizzo’s torso. The Brazilian had a strong base and held his ground. Seth dodged to the left as his opponent swung both fists at him. His right hand shot out and caught Rizzo again on the side.
The crowd roared at this early excitement. The announcer could be heard crying, “… might be camera-shy but he’s certainly not shy in the ring!”
The Brazilian had recovered and was now pressing in with quick successive attacks. Seth knew he could not face him directly, so he kept him at a distance with kicks and dodges. However, Rizzo was relentless and allowed him no rest. Suddenly, Seth dropped his guard. Taking the bait, Rizzo threw a right, which Seth ducked under before sweeping his fist at the man’s body. His opponent’s reflex was quick; Rizzo leapt back, avoiding the full force of the attack.
This was a risky, unorthodox move that Seth suspected would earn a frown from his coach but, since they had agreed on surprise, he was going to give them surprise!
Wasting no time, he threw himself at the man, knocking him onto the ground. He managed to land a punch on his cheek and the crowd went wild as the bell rang loud and clear, ending the first round.
Seth lifted both his hands. Rizzo—either too dazed to take notice of the bell or simply taking advantage of this opening—struck up with his fist. Luckily, Seth had not let down his defense and he blocked it in time before leaping off the man as the referee rushed in to prevent further blows.
The crowd, in high spirits after the eventful first round, was buzzing alive. In his corner, Seth wiped the sweat off his face.
“He’s most likely going to go for his special move now,” his coach and manager said. “Watch out.”
Seth nodded. He knew what to do. The bell rang, signaling the second round.
Rizzo seemed to realize the only chance for him to win was to end this match as quickly as p
ossible. After a few fierce set-up jabs, he spun around in a high kick. Seth recognized this as part of Rizzo’s famous combo that had won him many victories. His coach had studied this move beforehand and came up with the conclusion that there was no good way to get out of it. Seth could opt to take damage and trade a punch, or he could retreat back and allow an opening for Rizzo to complete his combo and bring him to the floor.
They had long decided that the latter was the better option. Rizzo let out a roar as he lunged low and both men slammed onto the canvas. The crowd burst out in cheers.
Although he couldn’t avoid this combination, Seth had found a means to break it. Even before they touched down, Seth’s left hand shot up, his palm aiming at Rizzo’s left shoulder. The direct fall turned into a twisting fall, and they landed on their sides instead of Rizzo on top. With his right biceps, Seth trapped the man’s arm under him. Rizzo, although surprised by this move, was a man of quick reflex; he jabbed his free elbow at Seth’s face, which Seth caught before it could rearrange his nose in some weird abstract sculpture. Both fighters were now locked in an awkward position.
Renowned for his flexible ground game, Rizzo brought up his right knee. Seth twisted his body out of the way, his hand pushing the man’s elbow back. Rizzo’s other arm was writing under him as he struggled to free himself.
Seth had no intention of letting him go. He pushed himself up, his limb still pinning Rizzo’s left arm to the floor. Rizzo straightened his other arm as he tried to liberate his elbow. In a practiced move, Seth contracted his right knee and used it to hold Rizzo’s arm in place as he grappled for a better position.
Rizzo’s elbow slid off his grip, and the Brazilian brought down his fist. Gritting his teeth as he took the blow, Seth suddenly yanked his opponent’s body toward him. He turned him on his side once more, his free arm wrapped around the man’s neck in a choke-hold.
Ten seconds, Seth thought, flexing his stomach muscles to avoid as much damage as possible as he ate a right knee. Rizzo’s free arm was now raining down strikes on his back. Seth only needed ten seconds before the man passed out or the referee called a win.
Rizzo’s knee hit him again in the same spot. Seth winced. Five seconds. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, louder than the crowd. Suddenly, he could feel Rizzo’s hand raise up high, so he braced himself for another shot to his midsection.
But then, with what sounded like a stroke of lightning, Seth felt a sharp pain coursing through the back of his neck. He screamed, and everything faded to black.
***
There were voices. There was light, in flashes of different colors, that was either real or memory, and a sea of nausea and pain. Seth felt as if he was being dropped from a high cliff, and unpleasant sensations seared across him. If what he heard were words, he could not make them out. Then there was that dizzying blackness that subdued the pain, yet made it feel like he was trapped in a bottomless pit that kept on closing in.
Seth did not know how much time had passed when he finally felt his consciousness returning. It was dark and heavy, with the spinning feel of the worst kind of drunk. At least, he did not feel like he was drowning anymore.
The air was cool, a bit too cold, perhaps. His body ached. Someone touched him on his arm. “Seth? Seth, can you hear me?”
The voice sounded familiar. Seth tried to answer but his throat was dry like the dead skin on his knuckles. His second attempt got out a word. “Coach?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
Seth turned to look at him, but it was still pitch black. He tried raising his right hand to his eyes. The older man caught his arm, probably to avoid him pulling on the saline drip. With his left hand, Seth tried to pull off whatever was covering his eyes. Unfortunately, his fingers only brushed across bare skin.
A moment of confusion set in, before turning into panic. “I...”
“It’s okay,” said his coach. “The doctor said it’s temporary. You were hit in the back of your neck and suffered from brain trauma, but you’re safe now.”
Still trying to piece together what happened, Seth struggled to feel his surroundings. He was lying on something soft, with a blanket over him. His left hand hit the cold metal railing on the side of the bed. There was a splitting headache that made it difficult to think. His years of mental training seemed to escape him right now as he was flooded with a sense of dread.
“Coach? Tom?” Seth gasped.
Tom was holding him down gently and hushing him. “It’s all right. I’m here. It’s all right. Your parents are on the plane right now.”
The voice was soothing. Seth felt nauseous, either from his current physical condition or from panic. He tried to breathe.
“It’s all right. I’ll be here.”
Seth wanted to scream but could find no energy. His body felt weak, the side of his skull throbbed in pain as if caught between the jaws of some invisible trap, and he fell back into darkness.
He must have woken up a few more times afterward, but it was difficult to tell apart nightmares and black wakefulness. He heard voices, and soon bits of information trickled through. Voices. His mother crying. Cortical blindness. It’s temporary, they said. Most people recover, they reassured him. Someone was reading him encouraging text messages from his friends. Talks about insurance. Agents from MMA World. Rizzo had been banned for life for using an illegal move. They asked him if he wanted to press charges. At least, they managed to keep the reporters out.
As he slowly adjusted to his new world in the perpetual darkness, soon he could hear the acute footsteps down the corridor, and the constant beeping of the monitor beside his bed. He could smell the potent hospital cleansing liquid and the flowers in his room. Soon, he could eat oatmeal and drink broth, and they removed the drip.
He had very vivid dreams of the places he had been to. Most of all, of sunlight, the kind that lit up the backstreet of his old dojo over in Toronto, that reflected on the waves lapping against a beach in the South of Thailand where he had spent several years training, and even that on the blades of grass in the backyard of his childhood from memories long ago.
It had not been long at all, but now they seemed distant. Days blurred together into one long stretch of confused sounds and smells, and as hard as he fought it, he could feel despair creeping in closer and closer.
It was on the afternoon that they finalized his living arrangements that Seth finally forced himself to think about what lay ahead. His parents had already left, unable to get more time off work.
“I went to see it this morning. It’s quite nice,” his coach was saying, referring to an apartment they would move him into. It was in the same city, so doctors could still keep an eye on him and the physical therapists could come in twice a week until he was steady on his feet again. Everyone else seemed to have been greatly relieved that his insurance would cover all the expenses. MMA World even gave him a generous offer of monetary compensation out of good will, with a clause that conveniently protected them from any future lawsuits. Seth felt he should be relieved, but found it difficult to make himself care.
Tom was still trying to cheer him up with the thought of the apartment. “It’s compact, breezy—”
“Handicapped-friendly,” interrupted Seth with a bitter laugh he could not help.
Tom sighed. “Seth—”
“I know, coach. I’m all right.” The young man took a deep breath to suppress his dark thoughts. “You’re right. I’m sick of this place. It will be a nice change.” He wished what he said was true.
The apartment turned out to be truly handicapped-friendly, a fact that Seth secretly appreciated. It was a studio with an attached bathroom. All four walls equipped with metal railing and designed in such a way that he never had to walk across open space if he did not want to. Seth did manage to rely less on the railings within a few days. It was ten paces from his bed to the pantry, six to the left to the bathroom. The buttons were labeled with basic Braille, which he quick
ly picked up. Even the television remote control had Braille on it, something he found quite ironic. Learning to use his phone without sight was a little trickier, but he made it his agenda to master it, like everything else he had ever done. His body had not recovered enough to resume any of his martial arts training, and he was often troubled by bouts of dizziness and severe headaches. All he could do was work as hard as he could at physical therapy.
Still, he would dread whenever night approached, when the world quieted down around him. He often lay awake listening to the faintest sounds, marveling at the very fact that this was to be his life from now on. His apartment had light switches, nicely labeled in Braille like everything else, since his visitors would still need light. Once he flicked one of the switches on and off, again and again, just to spite himself, and barely managed to fight the urge to smash it in.
He hated everyone for being so understanding, and he hated himself for feeling so. But as months passed, even that slowly faded into the darkness, and he did not even have the energy to hate anymore.
It was on one of those days that he did not get out of bed that his phone rang. The voice assistant helpfully told him it was Tom. He grudgingly picked up.
The man’s voice sounded a bit more jovial than usual. “Are you still in bed?”
“No,” Seth lied. “I’m listening to the TV.”
“Good,” said Tom. Seth knew his former coach did not believe him one bit. “Because you’ve got visitors.”
“What?”
“You heard me. So you’d better be dressed when they show up.”
“What? Wait, Tom—”
The older man had already hung up.
Ten seconds later, the doorbell rang.
Seth had no idea what Tom was up to and no desire to find out. “Go away!” He shouted. He had given up on manners a long time ago.
It was a man’s voice. “Mr Kinnaman, I’m from VerCo, the leader in virtual technology. I’m here on the recommendation of your friend Mr. Tom Hudson.”
“Not interested.” Seth slid back into his blanket.
