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Nanda Parbat, The Himalayas
Years Ago
Master Jiro Kuwata had lost his purpose. He could feel it in his bones as the cold, brittle air flowing across the mountaintop passed through them, longing for him to embrace death's sweet release. Kuwata was sixty-seven years old, his spirit had grown frail, and he could scarcely remember a time when his soul felt at rest. And while death was tempting, it did not entice Kuwata in his current state of profound aimlessness. Looking upon the scene below, he remained as affixed to the mountaintop as the frozen snow, fulfilling the position bestowed upon him many decades before. Nanda Parbat was a sacred place, hidden just beyond the mountain itself, that few could enter alive even if they wanted to. And those that dared to tread upon it's ground had to endure a grueling, seemingly endless test that Master Kuwata was chosen to personally oversee to it's end - or his, depending on which came first.
In over twenty years, none had emerged this test victorious. It's rules were simple enough. Once a challenger reached the point of the mountain and inscribed an ancient symbol within the snow, their life would be forfeit to the test. With the aid of no weapons, parlor tricks, or other advantageous effects on their person, the challenger would then have to go against every other challenger whose corpse was not sprawled out across the battleground and try to survive. Some had remained camped on the mountain for days, but never longer. There were those slept in between bouts, while there were others that didn't. The ones that did often died quicker as a result of the elements, unable to see that the rush of adrenaline was what had kept the others alive.
But they would each inevitably fall, bloodied and only barely clinging to life in a desperate chance to enter the holy city. Master Kuwata was never to stop them, only to observe. He had personally witnessed thousands of men, women, and even children on the rare occasion, try and prove their worth to that which myth and legend had built up to be a place of spritual tranquility. Some of them were turned away at K'un L'un in pursuit of the power wielded by The Undying. Many others had descended from The Ancient One's monastery of Kamar-Taj, hoping that their lack of aptitude in the ways of sorcery would lead them to a different path within Parbat. Whatever their intentions, the rules were the same. Survive until permitted entry.
Kuwata sighed to himself as another man went down, in the midst of a brawl between five. Hypothermia had set in upon the poor soul, and his body was past the point of recovery. Jiro had seen it enough times to know the signs. What's more is that the other five didn't seem to care, their bodies mashed together in brutal combat while stepping onto the dying man's body. They each simply wanted to bring the other down, mistakenly believing that the point of the test was to emerge the victor. This was not a fight, though the number of challengers who were convinced otherwise vastly outweighed the pacifists. This was about something more, a purpose that they had to discern for themselves. Kuwata was still waiting to find that out for himself, having journeyed to Nanda Parbat in his youth following exile from Japan.
"<American dog! You have no place here!>", he could hear one shout, grappling his arms around a staggered, bloodied white man in his early twenties. "<You bismerch these lands by tainting them with your homeland's greed and filth! Run back home, or I will send you there in pieces!>"
The American seemed unphased. Kuwata's eyes narrowed as the younger man made no attempt to fight back at first, allowing his opponent to believe that he'd gained the upper hand. But when the opportunity presented itself, the American didn't hesitate to exploit an opening made by his enemy's arrogance. Throwing his legs up and pressing against the jagged wall of stone ahead, the white man let out a growl as he turned his own body weight against his attacker, thrusting the back of his skull into the other's nasal cavity. Blood went flying as the larger man fell onto the frozen ground, along with the American, who weakly tried to push himself up just as soon as he had landed.
Kuwata had watched this younger man for days, ever since he had climbed the mountain to inscribe the symbol into the snow, emerging from god knows where. His black hair was unkempt, his beard was long, his clothes ragged and torn. But his most distinguishing feature was the sense of determination that radiated off of his very being. Kuwata had never seen anything quite like it, and remained intrigued after four days of this. The American had not slept, and barely eaten. He had been fighting off hypothermia himself, but was doing a far more admirable job than most. When he wasn't fighting, the young man was meditating. And when he stopped, he immediately resumed battle. Many had fallen to his fist, but he didn't seem to fight with any maliciousness. He wasn't looking to win. He was only looking, Kuwata noted, to survive.
"<Get up and fight, outsider!>", another taunted, kicking the American hard in the ribs as he tried to stand. "<That one was just a warm-up! He knows nothing of these lands, or any of us! But he is at least one of us, which is more than can be said for you!>"
The American spat blood of his own, rubbed it away from his swollen lip, and stood to his feet as his new opponent assumed a defensive stance. After four days of an apparent passiveness, there was an anger behind his eyes that was unplaceable. Finally, someone had managed to piss him off.
"<If you're all so concerned with where I'm from...>"
With a surge of energy that both frightened his opponent and surprised Master Kuwata, the American charged forward and dove head-first into the other man's gut, bringing them both hard into the snow. Pulling himself up, the American raised his fist and began to wildly punch into his opponent's face, his strength growing fiercer with each connecting blow.
"<Then do a better job of removing me!>"
The other challenger fell limp quickly, succumbing to unconsciousness after the tenth consecutive punch. Having trained in many forms of martial arts himself, Jiro recognized where the punches were landing. They were targeting precision points designed to trigger the body's own natural need for preservation, sending out blood to affected areas in too many directions for the victim to be able to stay alert. Combined with the harsh terrain, and there was absolutely no chance of the challenger being able to remain in the fight. It was the first time that the American had shown any aptitude for any real method of fighting beyond a mere instinctive hand-to-hand combat.
That sort of precision had to be learned and practiced over a period of months, if not years. And if he knew of such a technique, he had been holding back for four entire days. Despite having come to blows with nearly a hundred different opponents, the American had fought back with the full knowledge that he could bring each down in a matter of seconds, but chose to endure. Despite the obvious pain, despite the open gashes and bruises that covered his bare skin. Despite everything that threatened to kill him.
Kuwata suddenly knew. This stranger had somehow deciphered the meaning of the test, and was enacting it out. He wasn't here to beat anyone, he was only waiting for what came after. Whether that was entrance into Nanda Parbat or something more, Master Kuwata suddenly felt a chill in his stomach as the American turned around, shaking the blood from his wrapped fists and staring down three others that hoped to take him out.
Needless to say, he wasn't giving up anytime soon.
"<If I had not intervened, I was convinced that you were never going to stop.>"
Within Jiro's wooden shack, just off to the side of the mountain and well hidden from the potential challengers, the American gratefully accepted a boiling hot cup of water to help bring his body temperature down. He did not look up at Master Kuwata, instead momentarily glancing at his own reflection in the liquid before consuming. Bundling his body within the blankets provided to him, the stranger violently shook as he tried to get warm with little to no avail. Kuwata sat across from him, stoking the flames of a fire built on a stack of wooden sticks. It was quaint, but enough for a solitary man to have made a living watching over those who would kill themselves over opportunistic pride.
"<If you hadn't, I would've died. Thank you.>"
Kuwata raised a corrective finger.
"<Do not thank me, and do not mistake this as some form of pity. There are many who have sat where you find yourself now, all with the same story. All with the same purpose.>", Kuwata replied, hiding disgust. "<I simply wish to know how your's variates. You're seeking to gain entrance into the city, yes?>"
The American looked up.
"<No.>"
Kuwata raised an eyebrow.
"<I was told... that is, I was led to believe that these mountains were a place for therapeutic meditation. A self-imposed isolation, in a cave somewhere along the path to Nanda Parbat.>"
Jiro looked away as he stood up, facing the fire.
"<You speak of the Thogal ritual.>"
The American's eyes widened with recognition.
"<Yes! The trials of the Thogal, deprivation of the senses for thirty days. I was told...>"
"<You were mislead.>"
With a solemn look upon his face, Master Kuwata looked back at the confused stranger.
"<If Thogal is what you seek, I cannot help you.>"
The young man looked to be at a loss.
"<Why?>"
"<What you mentioned was therapeutic meditation. Thogal is quite the opposite of that. What you seek is something that you do not understand, and if you do not understand, I will not help you.>"
The stranger stood, despite his weakened state, and approached Master Kuwata.
"<You don't understand. I've been all across the world, trying to purge something from my mind. Images, flashes of something that haunt me in my waking day and in my nightmares. I've tried everything to rid me of these images, but all of it failed. Thogal is my last chance to find peace.>"
"<And so you seek to rid yourself of nightmares by replacing them with new ones?>", Kuwata questioned. "<Understand. Whatever you were led to believe, Thogal will not heal your mind. It will wound your soul. And if your soul is strong, it will survive the wound. But it will not cast away whatever demon lurks with.>"
The American lowered his head, almost in defeat.
"<Demons.>"
Kuwata tilted his gaze at this correction.
"<When I was a boy, my parents were murdered infront of me. I haven't been able to stop seeing them ever since. When I close my eyes, when I open them. When I try to look past them. It doesn't matter. The memories of them follow me wherever I go. I thought...>"
The American laughs to himself, sadly.
"<I thought running half the world away would help me lose them. I gave up everything. My wealth, my family, the only friends I had. The woman I loved. And every minute I spend away, the city that gave birth to me falls further into desolation.>"
Kuwata notices a single tear roll down the stranger's cheek, just before the defeated man wipes it away.
"<I could make a difference there. I want to make a difference there. But if I can't rid myself of these images and find peace, I won't be able to live with myself. Thogal is my last chance, Master Kuwata. It's my only chance.>"
Jiro looks back at him, barely able to contain his shock.
"<I had never told you my name. What do you know of this place?>", the Master asked, indignant. "<Who are you?>"
The stranger looked back at him, his sadness replaced with the same determination that had kept him alive for four days in the test to enter Nanda Parbat. A test which was never designed for anyone to truly survive, but a test that the American had passed all the same.
"<Just a man who needs your help. But you can call me Bruce.>"
