The grit of the dirt road, churned by countless carts and hurried feet, dusted Tomba’s worn leather boots. After weeks of arduous travel, a kaleidoscope of new sights and sounds, India was a distant echo, replaced by the bustling, alien symphony of China. The air, thick with the scent of spices and unknown incense, pressed around him as he navigated a narrow, winding alleyway. Amidst the mundane chatter of merchants and residents, a sudden cacophony of shouts ripped through the air, sharp and urgent.
He rounded a corner to find a scene that transcended any language barrier. A group of burly young men, their faces contorted in sneering mockery, were circling an old, frail man. The elder, hunched and seemingly helpless, his long, wispy white beard trembling slightly, clutched a dusty satchel to his chest. The thugs jabbed at him, laughing, their intentions clear even to Tomba's foreign eyes. Humiliation and violence hung heavy in the stale alley air.
Without an ounce of hesitation, Tomba moved. His movements were swift, a blur of practiced precision honed in the remote villages of Manipur. He didn't understand the taunts, the threats, but he understood the predatory gleam in the thugs' eyes. The first one, a broad-shouldered brute who had just lunged for the old man's satchel, suddenly found himself airborne. A powerful, precisely placed kick to the chest launched him backward, and he landed with a sickening thud, coughing raggedly in the dirt.
The others turned, startled, their sneers faltering. Tomba was a formidable figure, lean but powerfully built, his dark eyes burning with a quiet, lethal intensity. He moved like a dancer, each strike purposeful, economical. A block here, a parry there, a blur of fists and feet. He didn't use his Yek weapon, not yet. This was simple justice, a swift, brutal lesson. Within moments, the alley was littered with groaning, defeated men, their bravado shattered like cheap pottery.
Tomba stood, breathing steadily, his gaze sweeping over the scene. The old man, though clearly shaken, was remarkably composed. Tomba offered a hand, a silent gesture of aid.
The old man slowly straightened, brushing dust from his simple robes. Then, his voice cutting through the alley's renewed quiet, he spoke. "Hey, brat! You think I'm old and weak? A thousand punks like them are nothing to me!"
Tomba froze, his hand still extended. The words, sharp and clear, resonated deep within him. It was Manipuri. His own tongue, spoken in this distant, foreign land. His jaw dropped. The old man, with his distinctly Han features, couldn't possibly be from Manipur.
"Sorry, mister," Tomba stammered, retracting his hand, "how… how come you know my language?"
The old guy threw back his head and laughed, a rich, booming sound that echoed off the ancient walls. "Kid, you think you're the only one who travels around the world? I’ve been in your land plenty of times!"
As he spoke, a flicker of recognition, a distant memory of a traveler’s tale, passed through Tomba's mind. The old man chuckled again, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Back in the day, I knew your land's troubles well. Even knew Khamba, the old owner of your Yek weapon."
Tomba’s breath hitched. Khamba. The name was a legend, intertwined with his own destiny, the very reason he held the mystical blade. "Mister," he pressed, his voice tight with anticipation, "how do you know Khamba?"
"Because we were friends," the old man said simply, his eyes twinkling with ancient knowledge.
Tomba's face tightened. He couldn't speak, could only stare, a torrent of questions swirling in his mind. The old man, sensing his shock, extended a hand, a surprisingly firm grip. "My name is Pang-Min. One of the Three Great Masters in China."
Tomba swallowed, regaining his composure. "I… I'm Tomba. And I'm Khamba's… sorry, I'm the new owner of Khamba's Yek weapon. Given by God." He gestured slightly to the sheathed, intricately carved blade at his hip.
Pang-Min's smile softened, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Ah, so the blade chose well again. Tell me, how is he? Khamba?"
Tomba's heart ached. He remembered the stories, the betrayal, Khamba's final, tragic stand. His eyes welled up, and tears began to trickle down his face. "He… he was pushed away by the very people he protected," Tomba choked out, "He… he died alone."
Pang-Min’s wizened face hardened, and a single tear, like a slow-moving river, traced a path down his own wrinkled cheek. "That fool!" he murmured, a raw edge of pain in his voice. "I told him! I told him to come with me, not to be stuck to his ways, bound by their petty squabbles. But no, he went and died alone. That fool! Here, all people train, fight, and hunt for themselves. But there, he was a hope for his people, so he couldn't leave." Pang-Min shook his head, a profound grief settling over him.
Tomba, feeling the oppressive weight of the moment, wished to escape. "I… I will be leaving now, mister Pang-Min."
Pang-Min’s brow twisted, a flicker of his earlier sternness returning. "You think you can survive with your skills? You call that a joke?"
Tomba was caught off guard, stung by the insult. "What did you say, old man?"
Pang-Min let out a short, sharp laugh. "Heh-heh. Defeat me, and prove me wrong, kid."
Without another word, Tomba drew the Yek weapon, its ancient steel gleaming ominously, resonating with a low hum. He charged, a whirlwind of precise strikes, each aimed at a vital point. But Pang-Min was not one of the Three Great Masters for nothing. He moved like smoke, deflecting every attack with effortless grace, his hands like blurs, his movements minimal yet devastatingly effective. Tomba's shock grew with each parried blow. Why was this happening? Why wasn't his blade, chosen by God himself, connecting?
In the meantime, the old man wasn't just defending; he was striking back. A precise jab to the ribs, a sharp rap to the forearm, a sudden, jarring kick to the knee. Tomba, still reeling from the emotional revelation and the sheer surprise of Pang-Min’s skill, found himself being systematically beaten. He stumbled, confused and dazed, his Yek weapon clattering to the ground.
Pang-Min stood over him, his expression unyielding. "Follow me, kid. You are not leaving anywhere until you beat me."
Tomba tried to argue, a frustrated protest forming on his lips, but Pang-Min silenced him with a swift, playful punch to the head. "You are not good enough to walk around with that sword if you can't even defeat me, kid!"
Tomba rubbed his head, his mind still trying to process the magnitude of the old man’s power. "But… why? Why did the weapon choose me, then?"
"You are far from complete, kid," Pang-Min stated, his voice now laced with an undeniable authority. "Follow me, kid. You need me to look over you until you are ready."
"But—" Tomba started, still defiant.
Pang-Min cut him off with a glare that brooked no argument. "Don't make me repeat myself, you punk."
Like a small, chastened puppy, Tomba finally capitulated. He picked up his Yek, sheathed it, and nodded. "Okay, mister Pang-Min."
"Don't call me 'mister'," Pang-Min scoffed, turning and striding down the alley. "Call me 'Master' from now on, you brat. And this way."
And so, under the stern, all-knowing gaze of one of China's great masters, Tomba's new adventure in a new land truly began. An adventure not just of travel, but of arduous training, of self-discovery, and the long, hard road to truly wield the power that destiny had bestowed upon him.
