One.
Deep.
Breath.
Master Nonga leaned against the chilled stone of the mountainside and steadied himself. The icy wind tore at his lungs, which strained to draw in oxygen from the thin mountain air. Though his body was cold, his senses remained alert. He looked up to the summit of the mountain, where he heard the faint sound of laughter.
One deep breath. Then another. Like all Masters of the ancient House of Sinanju, Nonga’s power resided in his ability to breathe properly.
His assignment had been easy: assassinate an acolyte priestess from a rival Indian temple. They spent a considerable amount of time trying to justify her death. Nonga nodded, even though their gold was all the justification he needed.
With fear in their eyes, the devotees had warned him of mountain gods. Nonga nodded intently in concern, though he privately scoffed. Even though gods had been mentioned in the scrolls of Sinanju, he had always believed they were used to hide the failures of previous Masters. After all, who could be blamed for losing to a god?
Nonga waited where the devotees told him the procession would pass; a long valley connecting their two territories. It was not long before three ornate white carriages appeared on the horizon, surrounded by a small entourage of soldiers on horseback. Nonga noted the men carried ceremonial swords, giving him plenty of time to strike.
When the entourage entered an area darkened by shadow, he struck, dispatching the soldiers in front. Their screams animated the soldiers in the back, but they fell as quickly as those in the front.
Of the three carriages, Nonga only detected heartbeats in the center wagon. As he approached, a cleric burst from the door, armed with a curved dagger. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Nonga called out, and a girl exited the carriage. Her face was plastered with a thick, white paste, making it difficult to determine her age. That was the only part of the contract that had troubled Nonga. Despite their assurances that the target was not a child, Nonga had been lied to before, and Sinanju never harmed children.
The girl slowly exited, seeing the men who had sworn to protect her sprawled dead on the ground. Upon seeing the dragon on Nonga’s robe, the girl began screaming warnings in her native tongue.
Secure in the fact that she was not a child, gently rendered her unconscious and placed her on the back of his horse. The acolytes who had hired him said that the girl had to be killed at a specific river in the east of the Himalayas, but winter had come early and the river had frozen. Nonga instead carried her to the top of a nearby mountain. None of the superstitious acolytes would ever find her body.
“Leave while you still can!” the young girl pleaded upon regaining consciousness. She strained at the ropes binding her to the horse.
“Do not fear,” Nonga said. “Your end will come swiftly and without pain.”
“You don’t understand!” the girl yelled, continuing to struggle. “You are in danger!”
Nonga ignored her screams, but when they reached the top of the mountain, the air grew colder, compressing around him like a shroud. It became difficult to breathe. Nonga stepped back from the girl as an unnatural feeling swept across his body.
“Who has awakened Kali?” the young girl asked in a deep, ancient voice.
Nonga knew that vocal tricks were commonly used by amateurs to distract the weak-minded. But the girl sat up, snapping the ropes that had bound her like thread. It was no amateur foot that connected with Nonga’s mid-section, sending him sprawling back into the mountain wall. The girl’s foot moved faster than his own defenses — faster than he had ever seen a human move. Nonga landed on his feet and returned to attack the acolyte, only to find himself knocked onto his back. The girl walked toward him, a grin stretching across her face.
“I have heard of your kind, Master of Sinanju,” the ancient voice said. “I thought you would be more formidable.”
It only took a moment for Nonga to notice the thin layer of air that surround the girl’s skin like vaporous armor. Then, beneath the jasmine perfume worn by all acolytes, he noticed a scent that had not been there before: death.
Nonga attacked the girl without pity, without mercy…and without success.
“My host warned you,” the ancient voice said. “But you only see through mortal eyes.”
Kali grabbed Nonga by the throat and slammed him against the mountainside, knocking the air from his lungs. She pulled a small curved knife from a pouch at her side. As she inched the blade toward his face, it burst into flames.
Nonga unsuccessfully tried to strike the hand holding him. Each blow bounced off the thick air surrounding her. Kali raised the blade, carving through the skin of his cheek bone. She planted the tip of the fiery blade deep into the meat of his right eye.
Then she twisted the blade.
Nonga had enough control of his body not to scream. Screaming would only waste his remaining breath, and if he were to survive, he would need every bit of air he still possessed.
Kali pulled the blade out and then slowly traced it across his face, tearing skin and scorching bone. Just before the blade pierced his left eye, Master Nonga used all of his energy in a sudden burst, striking her chest with both hands.
Kali fell back down the mountain.
Nonga looked around, blinking futilely. He could see nothing from his right eye, and the flames had badly scorched his left eye. Nonga quickly scaled the side of the mountain. From below, Kali’s roar announced her approach. He could hear her climbing ever closer to him, tearing rock from the mountainside as she ascended. Reaching the top of the mountain, Nonga knew that he did not have time to survey the mountain for a safe landing spot.
He jumped.
Kali screamed with triumph as she reached the summit. She reached out with a deadly sweep of her hand, but her fingernails only shredded the bottom of Nonga’s robes.
Nonga’s leap pushed him too far away from the mountain. He squinted, trying to find a safe place to land. He reached out, trying to slow his fall. The jagged stones tore into his hands and arms, but he was able to grab a small piece of stone jutting out from the mountain. Nonga used his momentum, twisting his body into the mountainside to slow his fall, but he was moving too fast and the rock snapped.
Nonga landed hard on an outcropping of rock, forcing out his remaining air. Glancing back up, he only heard Kali’s laughter echoing off the mountain walls. Had he really just battled a goddess?
Nonga forced air into his lungs. Tearing a strip of cloth from his robes, he wrapped it around his head, trying to staunch the blood that poured from his right eye.
After slowly making his way back to the base of Mount Kailash, Nonga entered the Temple of Shiva, where the men who had hired him sat in silent prayer. They noticed his presence too late, and soon lay dead in the central chamber. As he walked into the back of the temple, the priest of Shiva noticed the blood covering Nonga’s face.
“You did not take her to the sacred river!” the priest yelled.
“Summon your master,” Nonga said coldly.
“The Auspicious One is not so easily intimidated as we,” the priest said. “He will not respond kindly to the killing of his servants!”
The priest sat on the floor and began chanting.
This time, Nonga paid attention. He was taught some of the priest’s ancient language by his father, Master Pyo. Some of it was still confusing as the priest was using the words “creator” and “destroyer” as if they were the same.
The chamber began to groan, and a sound lower than human hearing filled the chamber. Nonga felt the same increase in air pressure he had earlier noticed and immediately bowed.
“I am created, Shiva the Destroyer!” the priest said with a bellow. “Death, the shatterer of worlds! Who is this dog meat who stands before me?”
“I am Nonga, reigning Master of the House of Sinanju.”
The air compressed around him as Shiva walked toward him. It took every bit of Nonga’s concentration to remain bowing.
“Yes,” Shiva said in recognition. “The dead night tiger shall be made whole by the Master of Sinanju.”
Nonga remained silent as he recognized one of Sinanju’s oldest prophecies. When he was still a pupil, he thought that too had been nonsense. There had not been a night tiger — the ancient, tribal fighters of Korea — since the Great Wang discovered Sinanju nearly two thousand years earlier.
“I seek your aid in defeating Kali,” Nonga said.
“What care have I what Kali does?” Shiva asked. “Mortals live and die every day. The world continues.”
Nonga stood and looked at the priest. He was no longer the feeble cleric that cowered before him only moments earlier. Where the priest once slouched and meekly shuffled his feet, his stance now was one of arrogance and power. His feet slid forward, as if to claim the ground under each step as his own. His eyes were pits of black, inviting Nonga to look deeper, but Nonga averted his gaze.
“If Kali is not stopped, she shall consume this world,” Nonga said.
“Kali only seeks the dance,” Shiva said. His laugh was like gravel. “When this world is consumed, it shall be at the hands of the Master of Sinanju.”
“I do not understand your words, Auspicious One,” Nonga said. “I am only here to discuss your price.”
Shiva slowly walked until he stood directly before Nonga. “Such a petition cannot be paid by the gold or trinkets you hold so dear, Master of Sinanju. My price is eternal.”
A vision burned itself into Nonga’s mind, and he suddenly understood the true price of the bargain. To survive in a world of mountain gods and river gods, every Master of Sinanju would house the essence of Shiva. As long as there was a Master of Sinanju, the bargain with Shiva would remain.
“A great cost indeed,” Nonga said humbly.
Nonga’s mind raced with all of the possibilities facing the future of his village. Sinanju could not operate in a world run amok with unchecked gods. But Nonga realized that he could not defeat Kali without with the aid of Shiva.
“It shall be as you say,” Nonga said gravely.
Shiva moved toward Nonga and placed its hands on Nonga’s shoulders. Nonga felt a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach, the very center of his breathing. The pressure increased until it shrouded his entire body.
When Shiva stood back, Nonga was able to breathe again.
“Find Kali and finish this,” Shiva said.
The acolyte smiled wider than a human face could allow. His head snapped backwards, and he fell to the floor, unconscious.
Nonga looked around, but could no longer feel the presence of Shiva. He felt foolish, and, for the first time in his life, afraid. Was he to risk his life — and the future of the House of Sinanju — on the dubious words of a foreign god?
Nonga returned to the mountain.
Since his eyesight was nearly gone, Nonga had to rely on his other senses. He reached the spot where he had fought Kali by following the scent of his own blood, which stained the side of the mountain.
He soon felt the now-familiar compression of air. He steeled himself as the goddess Kali approached.
“You have returned for the dance, Master of Sinanju?” Kali said.
Nonga turned and looked at the girl. Her young skin was blanched and cracked, as though her body had begun to consume itself. Nonga began to speak, but the mountain seemed to spin and his bones vibrated uncontrollably. The world grew dark. With his last breath, he cursed himself for trusting the words of a mountain god.
He felt a burning sensation race through his body, and could see Kali’s expression change from triumphant to confused.
Then everything turned black.
The next morning, Nonga awoke with the rising of the sun. He tried to remember what had happened, but could only recall evanescent wisps, like a dream. Kali had tried to stab him in the heart with her flaming blade, but it shattered when it touched his chest. Nonga instinctively felt his body for damage. Any wounds that he suffered overnight had already healed.
Nonga looked at the broken husk of the girl lying dead next to him. Her bones had been crushed inside of her skin.
As he turned to leave, Nonga heard the faint chime of bells in the distance and felt the shimmering of air around him.
When Nonga returned to his village, his eyesight had worsened. It would only be a matter of time before he became totally blind.
As he began to chronicle what he knew had been his last mission, he remembered how he had viewed past Masters who had placed blame for their failures on gods. Knowing future generations would scoff as he had, he would not credit a god for his failure — or his success. So Nonga detailed the mission in the scrolls without any mention of Shiva and Kali. He left only one small clue to explain his blindness. He simply wrote “an accident cost my eyesight.”
The tribute he had brought would have to last until the next Master of Sinanju was able to earn tribute of his own.
Nonga thought of his twin sons, Kojing and Kojong, who were born just before he had left for India, nearly two years earlier.
Nonga’s wife had tried to hide the fact that she had given birth to twins, but while they had been identical in appearance, their heartbeats were different.
Nonga had been standing outside the birthing hut. The first heartbeat to exit the womb belonged to Kojong. The midwife, however, had not been prepared to deliver twins. During the hectic delivery, she had confused the two boys. She tied a ribbon around the foot of Kojing, declaring him the firstborn.
One of central tenets of Sinanju mandated that there could only ever be one Master and one pupil. To follow that principle, Nonga should have taken Kojing from the birthing hut, and drowned him in the icy waters of the Korean Bay.
But Nonga would not give up either of his sons. They were still too young to train, he reasoned with himself. He had already postponed his mission to India for several days, in order to wait for their birth. He vowed that when he returned home to Sinanju, he would come up with a solution to his problem.
Upon his return, the boys had grown old enough for their training to begin. Nonga could feel their mother’s heart leap in her chest as she switched the twin boys each day, thinking that he would not notice. He did.
As Nonga pondered what to do, he found a solution — one that would also solve the problem of Shiva’s curse. He would play along with his wife and train both boys. When it came time to take over the House, Kojong would be sent away. Nonga hoped that by sending his eldest child away, the curse of Shiva would leave with him.
By the time Kojong and Kojing were fully trained, Nonga was ready to retire to the Cave of the Masters. He turned over the House of Sinanju to Kojing, and the village held a feast in his honor.
Nonga left the celebrations early. He walked south toward the hill overlooking the Korean Bay. Below him, Kojong’s solitary figure carried a satchel of food toward a small boat. He heard Kojong whispers of gratitude to the House and his ancestors, before he entered the boat and set sail.
Nonga watched his son disappear over the eastern horizon, proud of the sacrifice that he had made, and hopeful that he had forever banished Shiva from Sinanju.