Chapter 16

The training room was better than he expected. Hwoarang had expected a standard "rich, snob" setting with pristine walls that had never had a face scraped off it, fresh foam pads like virgin rice paper which had never had held blood, and the smell of scented wood not yet coated with musky smell of dried sweat. Yet this place looked like it was used and used hard. The silver color on the weights had been rolled off along the center to expose the iron - turning it to a deep brown rust. The mats, although clean to the finger, were stained yellow from the pain that had been squeezed from past trainees.

Leaning against the wall was a wooden dummy. A staple of martial arts training. Its arms, thick and made of hard wood, looked like they could and have withstood a massive amount of damage. Chains draped from its wrists, a strange addition to a Mokujin as the Japanese called them, but when Hwoarang saw the metal rings in the ceiling, it made more sense. The chains were probably looped through the rings and a person behind the dummy could maneuver it like some ungainly marionette.

Hwoarang opened a side door and leaned in the doorway to the outside garden. It was peace in floral and water form. Short bridges arched gently over the ponds of koi and lily pads. The wind, cool and dry, swept over the plants and water and rustled his hair. If he closed his eyes it was almost fast enough at times to feel as if he was riding his motorcycle down the streets of Seoul. With the wind there was always a sense of speed and freedom. Let the other fighters win their little tournaments wearing pads and stiff protective gear - trapped indoors, stifled by their armor, and suffocating from a crowd pressing forward. His tournaments were ones that counted in the back alleys and city streets. It wasn't that he was claustrophobic, but why restrict yourself in life or fighting? If you're going to fight, fight. If you're going to live, live. It was as simple as that. Rules and regulations were for sports, not fighting.

Pushing himself off the door frame, Hwoarang threw a jab at the heavy bag. Lee had been a good opponent for a first match with kicks that matched his own. His only mistake had been to step into the ring with Hwoarang thinking he was better. It was a mistake he wouldn't make again. Still though, he'd have to strengthen his boxing skills a little. Against Lee, he had gotten by strictly on his kicks, but Jin would be different.

Jin must have studied many martial arts, perhaps not enough to practice them but enough to know their strengths and weaknesses. The first time they had fought, Jin had seen through Hwoarang's fake punch knowing that Hwoarang was trying to set him up for a kick. He couldn't give that kind of advantage away or the fakes would be useless.

Hwoarang jabbed twice before stepping forward and spinning off his right foot. He waited until his body had spun 360 degrees and extended his right leg and caught the heavy bag with his instep. The bag swayed in response to his tornado kick. He took a step back and kicked out three times in rapid succession.

'Take that, Kazama,' he thought. 'Everyone else may be afraid to challenge, you, but I'm not. I've already fought you once, and you're not that good. I got sloppy last time is all. That's the only reason we fought to a draw. I'm going to pay you back for that and your cowardly attack on my master.'

At the thought Hwoarang pounded his fist into the bag. They couldn't take on Baek face to face. Especially not with Hwoarang and his gang there. That's why they had waited until Baek was alone and ganged on him. There was no other explanation for the state of the dojang when Hwoarang returned later that night - the overturned training equipment, the knuckle imprints in the wall, the blood.

Baek was a revered tae kwon do master. Nobody in the community would challenge him, but the Japanese - it would be just like those dogs to bring him down as a pack. They were fit only to be collared and chained to a fence. Hwoarang slammed his foot into the bag. Sand seeped from the back of the bag.

Hwoarang traced the trail back to a small patch of duct tape he hadn't noticed before. Someone had busted it open. That wasn't easy, but then if he were a rich boy with nothing to do all day but train he'd be able to do that too. Hell, he could do that now and he wasn't rich. It didn't prove anything. He shivered.

"Wind's picking up," he told himself. Yet there was a prickle at the base of his skull. Something was wrong here.

A sound like a door creaking came from somewhere behind him - a low, pained groan. There was the sound of crackling wood and rattling chains like a dark and hollow laugh. Hwoarang glanced over his shoulder. Something heavy, hard, and round cracked into his cheek like a cannonball. He half-rolled, half bounced off the heavy bag as he stumbled to regain his footing.

The wooden dummy stepped closer, dragging the chains. The features were crude - two round eyes the color of Amaghasa azalea glowing from somewhere within the wood like a candle within a jack-o-lantern, and a nose that jutted out in sections like the end of a telescope. Its whole body was the shape of butcher blocks connected with balls. A single sprig extended from the top of the dummy's head. The eyes flashed as though it was laughing at Hwoarang's awkward attempts to get into a defensive position.

"The hell is this!" Hwoarang fired off a hasty side kick as a way to push his opponent away to give himself more time to prepare an offensive. Training dummies were not meant to move on their own. Was this some sort of sick joke?

The dummy swung another punch, whipping the chains. Clearly, it wasn't being controlled through the chains, but who was to say this wasn't a crazy robot like that monstrosity that little Chinese girl wasted? These Japanese were in love with robots, but was this even technologically possible yet?

It stood like Jin Kazama - the same wide, cocky stance like he owned the world. It snapped out two punches from its hips - karate style.

"Oh, is that how it is?" Hwoarang shook his feet as if kicking weight off of them. If this thing fought like Kazama it would be the perfect opportunity to train against his style.

Hwoarang opened with a knife hand strike to the throat; it was blocked. He brought the same hand back around and attempted a backfist strike. Although the dummy's ball hands couldn't grasp Hwoarang's wrist, it was still able to block the second strike and retaliate with a punch to his ribs. Hwoarang batted the punch down and brought his foot up, catching Mokujin in the chin - snapping the head back.

A real person would have experience whiplash from that force, but the wooden dummy seemed unfazed and continued attacking. Hwoarang blocked what he could and struck back when there was an opening, but he began to realize that this would ultimately be a losing strategy against something that never tired and was incapable of feeling pain.

With the right amount of force, though, he may be able to snap the head. Hwoarang spun in a tight circle and lashed out with his left foot. The spur in his cowboy boots embedded itself into the dummy's head.

"Oh, shi-" Hwoarang didn't have a chance to finish his sentence for the dummy was now pulling its head back, bringing Hwoarang's foot with it. Hopping like a flamingo was the only way Hwoarang was able keep from falling and being dragged around the room from his foot. The dummy twisted and pulled back like a horse trying to pull a carriage that was too heavy for it until it seemed to realize that Hwoarang was just as stuck. With metal balls as hands, Mokujin was unable to grapple with Hwoarang and opted to lift its heavy limb high.

Hwoarang jumped and kicked out with his left foot. He couldn't let the hand descend on the side of his knee like Jin had done to him in their first fight. He felt his foot connect to Mokujin's thick chest and used its solidness to wrench the spur free. The ground met Hwoarang's shoulder as the dummy's hand whistled in the space between them. Rolling to his feet, Hwoarang assessed a new strategy: break it. Aim at the joints and take them out. He'd splinter this monstrosity apart like a book of matches.

Mokujin changed styles and began sweeping its legs back and forth behind it as it dipped low in an almost hypnotic dance. It leaned back on its hands and threw a kick aimed at Hwoarang's ankle before arching back and circling the leg up and around to stand on its hands. It spun lazily and dropped back onto its feet and into its swaying movements.

"What the hell is this?" Hwoarang stepped back as Mokujin cartwheeled towards him. Hwoarang sidestep the initial barrage of kicks and retaliated with a low kick of his own. The blow caught Mokujin in the head throwing off its rhythm. Pressing his advantage, Hwoarang brought an axe kick down on Mokujin's shoulder which split the wooden ball that held the limb to the body. Although it didn't seem to feel pain, Hwoarang noticed that Mokujin was structurally unable to use one of its arms, prompting it to switch to another style that didn't depend on handstands and swinging the arms to counterbalance its exotic kicks.

Hwoarang swayed back as his opponent's right fist flew past his face. As expected, the wooden dummy swung the fist back around - just like that giant Gun Jack robot. Hwoarang smiled. If that little stick of a girl could break the robot's style, he sure as hell could too. Mokujin raised its leg as if to kick, but rotated its good arm behind its body like an exaggerated baseball pitch.

'Here it comes,' thought Hwoarang. He retreated a step as the fist approached like a battering ram. Snatching the wrist, Hwoarang kicked the side of Mokujin's leg - shattering it. He chambered his leg and struck the side of the pelvis before bringing the leg one last time to jam his foot in Mokujin's armpit and pulling hand. The right arm was wrenched out of its socket. To finish, Hwoarang delivered a spinning back kick to the wooden head. The dummy went down and did not move again.

Hwoarang whistled. That was a terrific workout if out of the ordinary. 'Next time, though,' he thought, rubbing his sore jaw, 'I can't let my guard down.' It had gotten a free hit on him and against someone like Kazama that could be costly.

"Thanks, dummy," he told the broken wood. "Training with you taught me." That wasn't the only dummy in this tournament. Hwoarang thought of Kazama and laughed. He'd have to find Heihachi. Tomorrow, was the day that he'd set the record straight. Kazama would fall.