This white-haired, turbaned old man—estimated to be a good one hundred and thirty years old—had instructed the president for twenty years from sacred ground in India. He was a yogi and esper of incomparable power. Since the president moved to Earth, Master Rai was often seen in the president’s company, doubling as a bodyguard.
Nowadays, his research into psychic powers and telekinesis continued. Not only the aforementioned criminal gangs, but others rode the waves of discord in the world, including religious cults springing up from the always fashionable worship of the devil. They plotted the assassination of the president, and had no qualms about using voodoo and paranormal techniques like remote manipulation.
Unfortunately, the night before the incident, Master Rai had teleported to India to take part in an annual interstellar seance held on the peak of Amne Machin in Tibet. He had appeared in the hospital room after his supernatural senses detected a change in the president’s condition.
Seeing the president on the verge of suffocating, the mark of the hand on his throat, Master Rai knew at once this was the work of black magic. While performing an incantation to stay the accursed wizardry at work, he said, “Before departing for India, I erected a psychic wall around him that should have repelled the strongest curse or spiritual attack. Why was this apparition able to break through?”
At length, the gray-faced vice-president described what had happened. After viewing a video record of the incident, the old sage nodded. With a severe expression, he stated that a Demon Realm monster called a Nidom had attacked the president.
“When the android secretary began reading the ancient script, the conjuration shattered my shields and called forth the Nidom. The sender went to the trouble of relaying the message through a communications satellite as a diplomatic cable, knowing that its effectiveness depended on it being read to the recipient. It is a good thing that I left a holy dagger for his self-defense. I will understand better once we determine why the president had his secretary read the cable in the first place. How it was able to reach him precisely on the day I would not be there? I cannot believe the timing was coincidental. Whoever called forth that monster must have read my movements.”
After a moment of quiet contemplation, the Master met with the vice-president and the Federation High Council in another room and explained the situation to them in terms that left them all pale.
“Unfathomable dangers are assaulting the planet as we speak. Should the president die, the world—well on its way toward its most promising future since recorded history began—will slip back into another dark age ruled by war, doubt and suspicion. If things are left to fester in their current state, the curse will surely kill the president. Even with all the power at my command, I cannot hold it back for long. If the warlock who commands this black magic, or the hex itself, is not destroyed in three days—by one o’clock in the afternoon on September twelfth—the president will lose his life.”
The council members erupted in consternation, and all the more so those who, like the president, knew the extent of the old man’s considerable and inexplicable powers. They couldn’t help but recognize the gravity of a world ruled by evil sorcery should the president die.
As the room descended into panic, the Master said in a kind but stern voice, “The World Federation and the intelligence apparatuses of all the affiliated Federation states should exert every effort to locate the Egyptian shaman Rebi Ra. And if they do ascertain his location, make no attempt to detain him. He employs demons as his guards that no conventional weapons can harm. I would go, but unless I attend to the seals and the incantations strengthening them, I fear the president will succumb. I shall say this only once again—my powers will last only to the twelfth at one o’clock. Best you hurry.”
Having seen the video record of the assault, the council members were uniformly persuaded by the Master’s remarks. They jumped to their feet and rushed out of the room. The vice-president remained behind when the Master called to him.
“There is somebody else I wish you to find,” he whispered. “For the time being, I wish to keep this from the president’s political opponents. But there is one other person who possesses the skills I have taught him.”
“And that’s me?” said Kyoya. He was sitting on the sofa slurping the last of a glass of orange juice through a straw.
Section Chief Yamashina’s explanation and the video of the attack on the president had just ended, but he asked the question as if he and they were entirely unrelated.
“To be precise, your father Genichiro. Three decades ago, he was taught the mysteries of yoga at the feet of Master Rai.”
“Huh. News to me. Not bad for a hard old nut like him. Unfortunately, he died of pneumonia four years ago.”
The section chief nodded. “That is why we are turning to you. According to our investigation, a month after you were born, your father took you to Mt. Daisetsu on the island of Hokkaido. It seems he and your mother had divorced. He must have been fully committed to the course he was taking. Mt. Daisetsu is one of Japan’s thirteen holiest sites. A place to sharpen the will and the mind. There your father trained you in the martial art of nenpo. I can hardly begin to imagine such skills—practiced from the time you were a child—but they must be terrific.”
The section chief retrieved a fax from the machine on his desk.
“A report from the maintenance division. The cyborgs have regained consciousness, but their internal circuitry was altered such that they had to be sent out for repairs. No damage at all to the external structure, and no apparent damage to the nervous system. The cause is uncertain. The maintenance division techs are beside themselves. The Master asked that your skills be tested, but the results proved more amazing than expected.”
A cryptic smile rose to Kyoya’s lips. “Whatever. Why did you drag me all the way down here?”
Section Chief Yamashina sat down on the couch in front of Kyoya. He looked him in the eye and said in a heavy voice, “We want you to capture the sorcerer and bring him here. We pinned down his location. The rest is up to you. On the twelfth at one o’clock in the afternoon—the thirteenth at three in the morning, Japan time—that gives us three more days. Are you willing to deploy your nenpo techniques for the good of the world?”
“Give me a break.” Kyoya looked away. “I’m a high school senior, for crying out loud. I was minding my own business, enjoying some ramen, and those two Neanderthals pick a fight with me. I won, so that means I’ve got to save the world? What, I’m just supposed to say, hey, sure thing? We’ve got cops and armies for that sort of stuff. I can’t believe grown men have been running around after a juvenile delinquent like me. Idiots.”
The section chief sighed. “I’m afraid the reality is rather embarrassing. The fact is, as soon as we isolated the target, the main office counseled the Master to deploy esper agents. I shouldn’t have to tell you he vetoed the idea. He illustrated why in a particularly vivid manner. He had three battle espers and military cyborgs sent to the president’s hospital room. In front of the Federation High Council, he told them to attack him in any way they could. The Federal military commander gave the okay.”
“So, what happened?” asked Kyoya, intrigued.
“Nothing. The espers and their telekinesis, the cyborgs and their particle guns—none of their weapons made a dent. The Master, though, with no more than a flick of a finger, rendered them all unconscious, knocked them over like tenpins. Then he declared that their enemy possessed even more power than that. The powers of the Demon Realm are not beholden to the physical laws of this world. Physical attacks are pointless.”
“I see. So it comes down to nenpo.”
“I don’t really know how, but with sufficient training, human thought can elevate ordinary physical energy to spiritual power and perform what are commonly called miracles. Nenpo transforms that ability into a martial art that can destroy sorcery and the demons it summons. I’m only repeating what the Master said. You will be compensated in any case. But the clock is ticking even as we sit here. So the question still stands—will you help us?”
He bowed his head. Kyoya flashed a thin smile. This wasn’t an act. His was a request from the heart, a matter of the utmost urgency.
“No thanks,” said Kyoya. “Any way I look at this, it ain’t a sword I want to pull out of the stone. It’s up to more responsible people than me to save the world. Besides, there’s no guarantee I’ve got what it takes to grab this big bad sorcerer. Can somebody here resurrect me if he turns the tables?”
Yamashina didn’t answer.
“Sorry. It’s not like I’m wanting to screw with you on purpose, but I gotta speak my mind. I hope you don’t think any worse of me for it. First of all, I’m generally up to no good, or I’m simply not trying. I’ve given this nenpo business short shrift. I’d rather party hardy and hit on girls, not spend all day at the dojo. You know the advice my dad left to me in his will? Live free. What the hell, you know? I wasn’t exactly the apple of his eye.”
“I do not happen to think so,” said a low, calm voice behind him.
“Shit!”
Kyoya jumped even more than Section Chief Yamashina. Up to that very moment, he hadn’t detected any other presence in the room. The owner of the voice had appeared in the room in an instant.
He whirled around. A small old man clothed in white stood there. He was wearing a turban that looked like a squashed vase. Only his face, framed by the high collar of his jacket, was dark—as if deeply tanned by the sun—and wrinkled. His white beard reached his chest, further suggesting an advanced age.
Even so, his eyes were as clear as a baby’s, and his frame radiated a vigor that pushed Kyoya back like a gust of wind.