Notes:

The 2nd episode of my post-Requiem series starts here.

ATTENTION! This is a violent story, this first part in particular - lots of fights for the next few chapters, lots of broken necks and other bones. Be warned!

- The fights are diligently inspired from the movies 'Fist of Legend' and 'The White Crane Chronicles', as well as the author's own imagination.

Note: I have sought inspiration from other places for some character descriptions used in the Prologue and in the Epilogue. No copyright infringement intended!

And in the end, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you MY take of Peter Caine, which is quite different from his 'classic' fan fiction image and aims nothing but to pay respect to the Shaolin order and what its preasts are actually capable of. Peter Caine is a Shaolin priest now, he no longer needs to be saved or babysat. He kicks butt now. A lot.

PROLOGUE

San Francisco, California, 1964

The door opened with a bang and a young woman fled out. Two men were after her. The older one was anxious; he was almost running, trying to get hold of the determined girl ahead of him. The other one, in his mid-20s, was more dragging along. This was becoming humiliating for him, and he didn't intend to tolerate the insult any longer.

'Wait right there!'

'Try and stop me.'

'You will not defy me!'

She turned abruptly and gave him a proud, piercing look.

'You're nothing for me, even if misfortune has made you my uncle.'

The man came closer and slapped her through the face.

'The State has made me your father.'

Being well accustomed to much heavier beating, the woman smiled victoriously and with head up, continued her way out of this cursed place.

'Try… and stop me.'

The older man intended to do that when the younger reached him.

'May I know what's going on?'

'I'm really sorry, Thomas, this is only a tantrum. It's her temper…'

'I see that temper leaving days before our engagement.'

'I promise, I'll bring her back.'

'And how do you plan to do that, Max?'

'Laura!' The older man was now running, severely hindered by his beer belly and the strong heat. 'Laura!'

The woman, around 19-20 years of age, had promised herself not to run. She regretted it the moment her uncle grabbed her arm. He was about to hit her again when a grip tight as a bench clamp grasped his hand and twisted it behind his back. The movement was so abrupt that Max had to fall to his knees to protect his arm from breaking. Next thing he felt was the press of a foot kicking him to the ground. The other man stopped, and stared amazed.

It was afternoon and the sun slowly heading west was shining right in their eyes. However both Max and his intended son-in-law distinguished the silhouette of a tall man with longish dark-brown hair and exotic features. He should not have been older than 30.

Laura had sought refuge behind the stranger's back. Thomas, her former almost-fiancé, reached to hit with his cane, but he didn't even realise how it passed in the hands of the tall stranger. He only heard it swinging in the air and then felt the deep sharp pain from the stick hitting the back of his hip. He, too, fell helpless to his knees. The stranger threw the stick and leaned over the older man.

'You'll forget about Laura, and leave her alone!'

He was furious, and threatening. Anyone witnessing the event would have thought that he was going to finish what he started, but he didn't. He only leaned for the second time over the stunned and quite scared men and said with a deep voice, 'That was not a request.'

In that moment a red Pontiac arrived. The tall stranger and the young woman got inside it without turning back. A man in his late-40s, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, got out of the car to open the door for them. Then he turned towards Max and Thomas. They didn't say anything, only got up and tried to clean their modern and quite expensive suits. He made few steps, and stood still, with hands on his hips. He was a man in good physical shape, with broad arms and imposing posture, honed by his experience as a soldier. Without any further display his appearance seemed to make enough impression on the two gentlemen, and they didn't dare go any closer. When he made sure that his message had been understood clearly, the man went back to his car and left.

'I want my money back, Max.'

'L-let's not rush with it, shall we? ..Sh-she's young, restless…'

'She's not even your daughter.'

'In paper she is.'

'In paper I'm Cary Grant.'

'Thomas, be reasonable…'

'I was promised a prize, Max, a gorgeous wild beast with red fur. Turns out you don't even own the goods you're selling.'

'But...'

'Shhh… Max, Max… It's OK, it's OK. …Now, you've got 48 hours to give me my money back.'

'You'll be sorry for this!'

'Oh, many people will be sorry for this, but I shan't be one of them.'

X

34 years later

Ketonna made few steps back, ever closer to the roof's edge. He tripped and fell. There wasn't a trace left of his confidence; the madness that made him feel invincible had melted, succumbing to unabashed fear. He was afraid of what he didn't understand, and the man standing in front of him was something beyond his comprehension. Such powerlessness he had felt only once before, when he was young, back in San Francisco…

He tried to defend but it was pointless. The tall man leaned and pulled him back to his feet, using only one hand. The enigmatic calmness his eyes had emanated for this past week was replaced by something wild and fierce.

The strong hand was holding Ketonna by the shirt so tight that he began feeling serious obstruction of air.

'Wh-who are you?' was all Ketonna managed to whisper.

The wild eyes came closer.

'You want to know who I am? ...I am Fate.'

'Wha…'

'Look at me. Look at my face… look at my eyes… Look at me!' growled the man. 'Haven't you seen them before?'

Ketonna's red, oily face was wet. He blinked through foggy eyes and explored the features which, indeed, seemed oddly familiar. But it was the gaze that finally spoke to him. He stared intently and gulped. Suddenly his eyes opened wide, then welled with tears.

'That's im…p-possible!'

The wild eyes grinned with an evil sparkle.

'Afraid it is,' came a quiet, deep voice. 'Your Fate has come for you, Thomas.'

'You're d-dead… You h-have to be,' coughed the criminal.

'That's right, I died twenty years ago. Wanna know how Hell looks like?'

Kettona tried to pull and kick, but the man only held him slightly further away. The laws of physics claimed this wasn't possible, yet Ketonna felt his feet slightly off the ground; the man had actually lifted him. With one hand. The realization was horrifying.

The man moved a little and then opened hand, allowing his victim to drop on the ground. Ketonna got quickly to his feet; he was coughing and trembling with the uncontrollable rush of adrenaline. He found himself holding the stranger's armband and automatically searched for the burned forearm that had been wrapped in it. Instead of severely burned flesh, however, he saw a hanging peeled layer of skin. A bright red mark was showing from bellow.

The wild eyes came closer.

'Look here, Thomas, magic.'

The man exposed his forearm and pulled sharply the whole layer. Ketonna gasped. His nightmares started rushing back, only this time they were real.

'No… No!'

'See this?'

Ketonna took a step back, the man followed. He spoke very low, very slowly, with deep, hoarse voice.

'It seems the Tiger and the Dragon have finally come to collect their dues. You will pay… for every… single life… you have ever ruined...'

'It's Doomsday, Thomas Ketonna!'

There was nothing Ketonna could do. He saw the man preparing his hand and quietly laughed at this naïve approach. He, in turn, prepared to welcome the punch.

But it was not meant to be punch in the face. The man took his time to condition his hand. The attack was short and impossibly fast. He landed in a dragon stance, and stumped his right fist in Ketonna's solar plexus. Sound of crushed bones blended with the gunshots and explosions echoing around them. The criminal didn't move, didn't blink. Stream of blood slid down his mouth and nose.

The punch was so powerful that the attacker's fist landed inside Ketonna's chest. The ribs caved in and pierced everything they were otherwise meant to protect, liver, lungs, heart… It had been a punch by one single man, but it carried the weight of hundreds of destroyed lives and countless tears.

The punch was for the dead.

For the scarred.

For his mother…

He sensed a presence and got up. From behind he heard the clicking of a loaded gun.

XXX