Tokyo, Japan
Bunkyo Special Ward
Kodokan Judo Institute
"Ladies and gentlemen. Please rise for our four guests of honour for this evening."
It was the autumn of 2017. Michiru Irodori, then twenty one, was the star of Ryōgoku University's judo team, having won a silver medal at the Summer Olympics a year ago. Perhaps as a result of his dominant performance, and no doubt partly due to his good looks too, he had been requested to participate in an exhibition match at a very important event.
The main dojo of the Kodokan was packed with spectators - the media, important cultural figures, the odd member of the public (or so they seemed, at least) - interspersed with men in sunglasses and dark suits posted all over. On one end of the venerated hall, standing stoically in the corner of Michiru's eye as he got to his feet, was the empty chair that had belonged to Professor Jigorō Kanō, whose portrait hung above; from the other end of the hall came a group of four men, accompanied by a large entourage of ominous bodyguards and by an old man in a tuxedo, who escorted the four to a row of chairs laid out in front of the mats.
"Mr Charles F. Langley, President of the United States of America." The voice of the emcee echoed and reverberated through the room. "Mr Woo Seong-eui, President of the Republic of Korea."
Applause rose from the audience as the four guests of honour entered, all waving jovially at the crowd. Michiru felt his head spin, as he turned to face them, standing amidst a group of other young judoka.
"Mr Hsiao Chih-yue, the President of the Republic of China. And Mr Daigo Imura, the Prime Minister of Japan."
Michiru remembered this day well. It was widely-known that the recently-elected US President, Charlie Langley, was a judo practitioner. Him visiting the birthplace of judo was an inevitability - and how lucky Michiru had been, that the Kodokan had asked him to participate in an exhibition match during the President’s visit. Not that Michiru cared much for politics - but such events were always nice.
He had expected, however, that he would have recovered from the concussion he had sustained in December 2016. Most people he knew recovered fully within a month or two. But even nine months later, Michiru still felt the spinning in his head, the occasional lapses in his memory. He had never been the same after that bastard Motoo Kashiwagi insisted on forcing a throw he didn’t have.
“Good morning!” As Michiru watched from the sidelines, President Langley took to the podium. He was a robust and dignified man of sixty, his silver hair parted smartly on the left and styled into a mane. “Prime Minister Imura. President Woo. President Hsiao. I’m very happy to be here today, with all of you present. This is a historic moment for us all. A historic meeting.”
The President’s speech went on and on. Michiru sat by the side, his gaze drifting between the four world leaders at the front, ninety degrees from the chair of Professor Kanō, and the secret service agents stationed all over the place. Now and then, there were breaks in the speech, each interruption accompanied by applause. And then suddenly, it seemed, the speech was over, and the voice of the emcee took over from that of the President.
“For the first exhibition match of today”, said the emcee. “2016 Olympic -73kg silver medalist Michiru Irodori, versus 2014 Asian Games -73kg gold medalist Teruhiro Fukui.”
“Irodori.”
Michiru’s vision suddenly became more and more blurry. His surroundings began to warp, and the faces of the spectators ebbed and morphed into a strange and amorphous mass. A voice began to call his name.
“Hello, Irodori.” It was a smooth, jazzy voice. One that had a mesmerising purr to it.
“Who are you?” Michiru looked down, and saw that his judogi was now gone. He was now dressed in a plain white shirt and trousers. “How do you know my name?”
“My name is Beleth”, said the voice. Michiru could not see who it was who was speaking, but just from the sound of the voice alone, it was clear that Beleth was grinning in glee. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, Irodori.”
“Who are you?” Michiru demanded.
“A friend of yours, actually”, Beleth replied. “Though you don’t know it, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a bit lately. You, and all the other people.”
“You mean the others who appeared in the restaurant?” Michiru, now snapped out of his old memory, was beginning to recall where he had just been.
“Indeed.” Beleth purred. “You’re seeing these visions now, because this is the first time you’ve come into contact with the Otherworld. No doubt, some of the other folks you met in the restaurant will have experienced some visions of this sort too. Replays of old memories, or maybe glimpses into your own psyche… You have Henry Saladass to thank for that.”
“You know Saladass?” Michiru asked.
“He’ll do his best to send you back to your world once everything’s settled”, Beleth continued, ignoring Michiru’s question. “The gates of Dayan City, like any permanent gates anywhere, are very powerful things. Sending you back home should be no problem.
“What I can’t guarantee, Irodori, is that everything will be the same when you go back.”
…
Dayan City
Ascot Beach
Night
“He’s not breathing!”
Suddenly, Michiru Irodori’s senses returned to him, and he found himself standing on a wooden pier by the beach, along with the half of the group that had gone through the portal leading to the beach, as opposed to the one leading to the park into which Chevalsky had gone. The moon, gigantic and blood red, hung above the sea, its crimson light glowing against the dark tides. The pier stretched on indefinitely into the distance.
Tayfun lay on the ground motionless, the front of his white shirt now soaked in blood. Tommy was desperately performing chest compressions on the old man, while Gregory, his eyes brimming with tears, hunched over Tayfun’s face, blowing air into his mouth each time Tommy stopped to rest.
“Tommy. Let me take over.”
Michiru walked up to Tommy, kneeling beside him and lifting up Tayfun’s hand to feel for a pulse; no matter where or how he pressed, however, Michiru could not feel any.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Tommy’s reply was brusque, but Michiru could hear the desperation in his voice.
Near the side, Takahaguro stood in solemn silence, his arms folded to his chest. The pier was illuminated by rows of lamps glowing with a hazy white light. From the sea, a wailing wind blew, whipping up the billowing folds of Takahaguro’s haori.
“Tayfun…”
Michiru gazed at Tayfun’s face. His eyes were closed, and his expression still, as if he was merely asleep. Each desperate round of chest compressions Tommy performed came with the sickening crackling sound of Tayfun’s ribs breaking - one of the unfortunate side effects of properly-performed chest compressions.
Tadayoshi had said something to Tayfun. An offer of nanomaterial transformation, to repair his body. But Tayfun by now could not respond.
“Tayfun!” Gregory wailed. “Please, come back.”
Takahaguro shook his head, as Michiru got back up and looked at him knowingly. Did Takahaguro hear Beleth’s voice too? Perhaps now was not the best time to ask.
“What now?” Michiru asked quietly, his scratchy voice dampened.
Takahaguro shrugged and shook his head sombrely. That same moment, a portal opened again, from which appeared Henry Saladass, crossing over quickly and shutting it off. He had a gash above his forehead, and blood dripped down his bushy blonde eyebrows and down the side of his tanned cheeks. The number on his watch suddenly went down by one - from 93/800 to 92/800.
“The gates are at the end of the pier”, he said, before suddenly falling silent and observing the scene before him.
