Unconventional Warfare [Dance of the Fuma Shiruken Training]

It was a warm September day, the sun was high in the sky, and most people were resting or working indoors to avoid the hottest part of the day soon to come. This left the training area all but empty as ninja took a break to eat or do whatever it was they did. Young Ken Ishikawa simply shrugged his jacket off his shoulders, leaving him in his black t-shirt and a pair of jeans.. and the harness he wore underneath the jacket, containing nearly all his ninja tools. There were kunai, shiruken, and running down the length of his back from shoulder blade to hip there were fuma shiruken or windmill shiruken. One for each shoulder for a total of two.

His jacket fell down into the dry, parched, and cracked earth underneath him with a slight thud. Metal plates. What? Chuunin and Jounin weren't the only ones who knew the virtues of flak. He just didn't go around announcing he wore armor. It mas much more fun to watch someone break their hand on it first. He took a step forward, leaving the jacket behind him as he reached across his chest and under his arms, lifting the fuma shiruken free from the hook that they hung from. He let his arms swing down and then out to his sides, making a snapping motion with his wrists which caused the two windmill shapes to snap into place, the four large blades protruding off in the four cardinal directions.

As much as he knew the final goal of this training, he knew better then to start with both, flinging the left fuma shiruken off to the side to plant into the ground. He would go get it when he had first mastered the one handed throw. The one handed throw was dangerous enough in itself. He was going to be catching a moving fuma shiruken... he could lose a finger, a hand, or an arm in the blink of an eye. He had to be careful.

Now to begin. He had to throw the shiruken without twisting his entire body. He had thought about bracing his body so that he couldn't use it at this stage, but knew that would only cause him more trouble when he stopped using the braces. He drew his arm back, the muscles in his back flexing against the black material of his t-shirt. With his arm all the way back he looked forward at a target that was placed down range from him. His goal was to hit that target at a precise point in the arc he would be using to get the shiruken to return to him. He wanted the shiruken to strike at a 90 degree angle, taking the target from the side. The target would represent the point farthest out in the arc to be thrown.

Now he had to gain the arc. His throw would begin obtuse, traveling away from him and out before the twist he would have to put on it would take over and pull the flight pattern inward. He had to use a shorter arm motion and rely more upon the motion of his wrists to create the spin and speed of the throw. He knew that. The trouble would be in perfecting the exact amount of spin and where to release to strike at a particular range. The advantage to a straight throw was that a thrower need only adjust for altitude over longer or shorter distances. This technique would trade that advantage for an element of surprise. A pincer attack that would strike from an unexpected angle. It could be very effective. A throw from a concealed location could draw attention in the form of rustling leaves or other sounds.. but by the time a person realized that the threat wasn't coming linearly from the sound they would be being cut in half. The cover would make sure the attack launched without being seen, and in the act of keeping the eye on the enemy they would ignore the larger scene, thus opening themselves to the lethal pincer.

He gave it a shot, letting out a stream of condensed air to ensure maximum power as he whipped his arm forward and snapped his wrist to impart the spinning motion before making a clean release. The deadly windmill shot away, quickly leaving the area between him and the target. At first glance it would appear a botched throw. That was until it whiped back around as the power of the spin overtook the power of the throw, sending it careening back in and slicing the target right off the post it was mounted on without slowing noticeably.

That was right before it came spinning back around to the thrower, to Ken. He had miscalculated. Instead of arriving off to his side, the shiruken was now on a direct course to cleaving him in two! His eyes widened instantly as he dove off to the side, entering into a roll which brought him back up to his feet in time to see his shiruken cleave through a small tree before deflecting off a rock with a [t]PING![/t] and embedding into the ground. Well that certainly was effective..

And so his training continued until he could throw and catch one, and then two. Then of course came the variation.. instead of striking from the sides, it would strike from behind. The only change here was the lack of it returning to him. He had thought about attaching wires to retrieve the fuma shiruken when used in this manner but decided against it as it could reveal the lethal sneak attack to an attentive shinobi.

At the end of the day he walked away from the training field knowing that he would need much more practice, but that he no longer need fear being cleaved in half by his own technique. That was good enough for day one. By day five he expected to be able to do it blindfolded and with his feet tied together. But that was for another day.

The day he became bonded to Rakshasa was forever burned in his mind. It was a decade ago that he had begun down the road that his father had before him. Six years old and in a new village. The samurai that he was so used to seeing every day were gone, replaced by ninja with no sense of honor. Even then he knew of honor. It made him lonely, mostly. No one but his family to associate with, no friends.. he was miserable that day. Perhaps it was those feelings that drove him to Rakshasa, to become a gangster.

Sneaking into the room was easy enough, everyone was in town selling their wares. Still, he got the feeling of being watched as he entered the room with his father's swords and armor. This was a sacred place, his father would have never let him be in here like this.. but he would never know. That's what he thought ten years ago, the day that he became the next host. What a fool he had been.

One thing more then anything else called to him, the mask his father wore into battle. It was a silver oni, a demon meant to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies. He held it by the eye holes, twisting it around to bring it up to his face. The mask seemed to hold to his small face without any need of straps, that's when a whisper interrupted his thoughts. He would have dropped the mask right then had it not adhered to his face. The whisper in his ear just continued though, asking the young samurai if he wanted to be strong like his father. It was almost like the voice of an elder, nothing insidious about it.

"Well, yea!" , he replied with too much enthusiasm. He heard a chuckle, seemingly far off, before the whispering began once again, this time telling young Ken that he could help him become strong, if he wanted... All he had to do was agree to accept the power the voice had to give him.

"And I'll be stronger then my father?", he asked.

~With my strength you will be stronger then he ever was.~ the voice responded, seeming to grow closer yet.

"Then I accept.", he said with firm resolve, trying to sound like an adult.

~I knew you would... Haha!~, came the voice one last time before the mask started to contort. It rippled as it shrunk until if fit the face of the six year old, melding onto his flesh until it seemed like it had become part of him, firmly plastered to every inch of skin on his face. A sudden burning sensation shook him. It was a sensation that seemed to return even as he remembered that fateful day. His temples were on fire, feeling as if a million needles had been thrust into his skin all at once.

He clawed at the mask, trying to remove it desperately. It took him a few seconds to get his fingers between the mask and his skin before he ripped the mask free, feeling warmth on his brows. His head was a bloody mess, and from his bloody brows stuck out two black tattoos that sat high upon his temples, just at his hair line. The mask clattered down onto the floor as Ken stumbled from the room, his hands upon his head.

~When you are ready to receive my strength all you have to do is prove you fear neither pain nor death. A simple act of jūmonji giri will do. Then just dip your hands in the blood and press it to my marks. I'll be waiting, Ishikawa Ken!~

That was the last thing he could recall from that day. He had since grown out his hair over the tattoos. His father knew what the tattoos meant, as he had his own set. No one else had any idea what being had made Ken his new host that day. He was bonded till death with the Oni Rakshasa. Perhaps one day he would do as the oni asked and summon his power. Perhaps one day when he would no longer fear pain or death.