When the dwarf woke up next, he saw a short figure above his pot at his fireplace, stirring slowly and methodically. The fire’s red glow illuminated a heart shaped face with golden eyes behind curtains of dark green hair.
Dwindle sat up, attempting to recall past events that led him here, certain he had been in the Fruitless Forest earlier.
“Dwindle!” Poly enthused, dropping the ladle in her hand then rushing to the dwarf. “Are you alright?”
“…what happened?” Dwindle asked.
“One of the people in Red made you go to sleep,” Poly frowned, “After, the real Red came out and carried you home.”
Dwindle could only feel fear when recent memories of falling into Red’s grasps emerged. He gulped as his button shaped eyes searched the room.
“He isn’t here,” Poly answered his shifting gaze, “He ran off after placing you into your bed.”
Dwindle was quiet a moment before he said, “…we have to find him.”
Poly simply nodded, but she wasn’t sure if her dwarf companion felt ready to interact with Red. The elf could see trepidation in him.
Red, Poly thought, I hope you can wrest control from all those who are controlling you.
Red had recently left the healer’s in the Classy Slums. The healer had nothing to say after checking Red except that he found Red to be one of the healthiest patients he’s had in the slums. The young brawler wished to have bad juju cleared from his mind, but such work fell outside the healer’s expertise.
When Red exposed his empty pockets, he found himself promptly kicked out. His manager handled such dealings, so Red never bothered carrying money. When he thought about the red-nosed dwarf, Red became overcome with guilt. He clawed at his chest and punched his body. His head would’ve been his target, but he couldn’t afford to have his mind invaded by more foreign memories.
At that moment, he had four sets of memories not his own: boxer, kickboxer, and the new ones, wrestler and BJJ practitioner.
Among these memories, there was a wrestler who was known as an "Olympic Wrestler" who won top prizes throughout his life. The wrestler was from a simple town where people did not worry over fancy things, nor did they have dreams of anything larger than their simple lives. His parents were farmers and did not value schooling, seeing as it would take time away from work on the farm. The wrestler became successful by happenstance when he was supposed to pick an athletic field at school and chose wrestling. From there, his legend thus unfolded in accomplishing great things in his sport. But with no other avenue to make money and having sparse intelligence, the wrestler became what his world called a "Pro Wrestler" and used his martial art for entertainment. He then led a life entirely focused on his fans, even diving so deeply into his role that he never got out of it, remaining in character even when he wasn't performing.
The Brazilian jiu jitsu practitioner came from even humbler means in a place what the memories called a favela, the slums of his country, Brazil. He did not bother going to school or learn the ins and outs of daily life. He dedicated everything he had to learning the grappling art of jiu jitsu, the art of combat that twisted and contorted the limbs of opponents making them submit, sleep or leave with a broken limb. The practitioner did not have much family and those that he did have were committing crimes. He would've lived the same crime ridden life as well if he did not find Brazilian jiu jitsu. He used it to get out of poverty and save his family from life as criminals.
The jiu jitsu practitioner did not have a strong personality in Red’s mind. But as was shown with Dwindle, an exposed neck or limb would trigger a reaction from the Brazilian fighter’s memories.
Red dragged his feet to The Hole, where men and women huddled together in groups and spoke in whispers, stopping at the sight of a burly young man of muscle and height trudging too closely to their dealings. Eyes focused on him, the dregs of society staring at him like he was a lone lion without its pride that had wandered into the hyena's den. He did not belong here. Red had abandoned his once thin exterior, tearing through the identity of a slum dweller, and now in a form of a man that stood out too much.
“Red, my old friend!” A voice rang. Tatters had appeared, along with Vicious and other men in black that wore scaled white diamond shapes on their clothes which glinted in the dimming light of the setting sun. From afar, across the sky, the roll of thunder rumbled, promising to end the day with rain.
Red didn’t hear the voice, lost in his thoughts, preoccupied with begging his mind to deny the call of the foreign memories. A calloused and dirt stained hand grabbed a hold of his wrist.
“We need to talk, Red,” Tatters said with a grin, his vermin features more noticeable when he showed joy. Vicious and the men clad in black began to circle the rather large young man with rust colored hair.
Before Tatters could react, Red vined his arms around the arm connected to Tatters’ gripping hand, locked it, then twisted it backward into what his BJJ memories called a "Kimura". Tatters’ face contorted into pain as he let out a scream.
“Tap,” Red demanded in a strange accent. Tatters shrieked louder, feeling his arm being cranked further and further.
"Let him go," Vicious snarled, dipping low into his leather boots and producing two hidden daggers, which he released in a throw.
Red moved his head back and forth, evading both daggers, one after the other. After he heard a crack of a limb, he released his hold. Tatters fell to the cobbled stone below with a limp arm, writhing in pain before crawling away and demanding for the surrounding men to enact vengeance upon the tall dead brain idiot.
A flash of lightning erupted above, casting a brilliant whiteness on the combatants fighting in the middle of the street within The Hole. Under the bright light, faces of malcontent filled with snarls and bared teeth went forward while hands wielding weapons swung and thrust at a burly young man with a blank expression.
Red suddenly disappeared and one of the men in black fell to the ground. When Red reappeared, the man that fell did not, only his agonizing scream came up from the ground. Half the man’s leg dangled listlessly as he tried to hold it in place. Red had used what his memories called a “Kneebar”, a submission technique that has the BJJ practitioner hold a leg while using his hips as a fulcrum to ruin his opponent’s knee.
One man leapt at Red only to be caught under one of Red’s arms as his body was used to block oncoming attacks. Red held him in a technique called a “Standing Guillotine” where the BJJ practitioner puts the opponent’s head under an arm then captures the neck to apply a squeeze on either the carotid artery or the windpipe.
The man being squeezed became motionless before Red threw him into the attackers still coming at him. As Red and the men dressed in black collided, more limbs were snapped and more men fell asleep. Some unlucky few lost the use of more than one limb. The sickening sounds of bones breaking coincided with the crack of thunder, sounding almost as if a wrathful god was using Red’s BJJ to smite the faithless.
Red was no longer there. He commanded that his limbs and body stop hurting others but was refused, as if another entity had control over him. His horror grew as more men fell to the techniques from another world. Blood flowed as limbs became detached completely. The BJJ practitioner had stopped releasing after breaking and begun to instead rip off what he could like a ravenous dog.
“Stop it!” Red screamed into the void of his mind. A figure materialized within the space there that Red recognized. Running up to it, Red shouted, “You must stop this! Remember Dwindle! Remember what you did to my friend!”
The figure forming settled into that of a man with obscured features, as if his face were a portrait that a painter had wiped away. He wore what the memories referred to as a "gi," which seemed to Red to be a cloth robe tied with a black belt.
The figure turned to Red and with a heavy accent, apologized, “Desculpa, but I cannot stop now. I have to win.”
“You hurt Dwindle,” Red charged, his eyes wild and his teeth bare. He would never forgive this man.
“I must win,” the figure spoke with vigor and slight desperation, “I will show Brazil that the favela are not just filled with criminals, but that there are still good and honorable men that come from there. I will show the children of the favela that there is a way off the street that doesn’t involve guns and drugs.” His eyes lit with passion, “All I have to do is win!”
The figure's ambition grew into a blaze that swallowed Red completely and threw the young brawler into darkness where he lost identity, where he lost control.
Red regained his senses as the first drops of rain wet his head. He was covered in blood. A cacophony of groans and weeping rose from below by his feet. Looking down, he could see more than twenty men lying in blood, their limbs contorted and turned in impossible ways. Some no longer had heads while others were still as sacks of of flesh, blood gushing from stumps where legs or arms used to be.
Red ran off. He had to get back home. His feet stopped moving as his brown eyes stared in the direction of the Classy Slums. Dwindle wouldn’t want Red back in his home. Why would he? Red was a dumb brute with no sense and someone who would hurt his friends. Why would anyone want to be around someone with such an addled brain and no skill at life?
Red turned and went the opposite direction. He had a home, a home where his mother had kept him safe and sound for years.
He soon found himself in the Reeking Valley.
Men and women laid about like corpses in their own filth while their eyes were opened, yet they stared at nothing. None noticed the brawny young man stepping over them, their vacant expressions unflinching and unresponsive. Past the muck and the motionless bodies, Red saw home. The once-mighty oak stood there with outstretched limbs like arms spread in a welcoming gesture.
“Mama…” Red murmured, seeing a woman in the tree that wasn’t there, calling to him.
“Little Red,” the illusion sang, “We get to sleep in the tree again! Did you want to draw something in the stars before bed?”
Red climbed the tree and sat where his mother had hugged him to sleep night after night. Here, she would shield him from rain, and she would sing him songs. She would draw from the stars a future he could get excited for. Home, land, food, a fireplace—she would draw anything in the sky just to make him smile.
His head went up, and he peered across the sky in search of stars, but there were only dark clouds with flashes of lightning. The rain picked up as more water poured out of the sky, drenching him and washing off the blood that clung to him. The need for training began to grow in him. The boxer in him assured that training would solve all of his problems.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“No…” Red grumbled, hugging his knees to his body.
The kickboxer demanded that Red go train and find green herbs to smoke.
Red shook his head vigorously.
The wrestler wanted to train and to see his fans, but again, Red denied the urges sent into him.
The BJJ practitioner yearned for Red to train and to win at all costs, but Red cursed him and kept still.
“Just leave me alone,” Red began to sob. “I don’t want any of you anymore.” His tears streamed down his cheeks as he wallowed in grief. He wasn’t violent. His mother didn’t teach him that. These men in his head were bad juju, Red was sure of it now.
The sound of footsteps stepping through puddles awoke Red from his depression. A young man his age was standing in the rain, staring at him through thin spectacles. He wore sparse metal armor over silk garb. A lengthy but narrow sword was attached at his hip. His armor, along with the lenses of his glasses, appeared to be glowing as a result of a lightning strike, which illuminated them with a flash of light.
“I’m a swordsman,” the young man stated.
“Leave me be,” Red groaned, his head falling back down as his tears fell endlessly.
“I have to show you my sword techniques.”
Red remained silent save for his sobbing.
“You hurt my brother’s men,” the young man went on, “I have to show you my sword techniques because my father said I have to listen to my brother, and my brother said to show my sword techniques to the man who hurt his men.”
Red had no reaction and uttered no response, remaining still as rain doused him unceasingly. Sharp silver light suddenly flew in an arch toward Red. The young brawler reacted by back flipping off the tree, his brown eyes holding a fierce expression as he saw a few limbs of his mother and son tree become cut from the light and fall off.
The ringing of metal was in the air.
“That technique is called, ‘Cresting Swallow’,” the swordsman informed Red.
The foreign memories of the fighters rushed to take control of Red, but he held them back. “I don’t want to fight,” Red grunted, his face veined from strain of keeping the fighter memories in check. “Stop hurting my tree and stop trying to fight me.”
The young brawler made to move pass the swordsman only to see two silver lights cut through the air toward him. He bobbed and weaved each cut with the grace of a pro boxer. Red then shifted backward from stance to stance and created distance between him and the hostile stranger.
“I’m leaving,” Red declared. He felt good in that moment. He had fought off the memories and used their techniques without them taking over. Maybe he didn’t need them after all.
“That was ‘The Soaring Swallow-tailed Kite’,” the swordsman replied, “And this is ‘Falcon Piercer’.” His blade gleamed in his hands as he struck out with lightning speed, producing streams of silver light that swept aside the rain in their path as the light flew to Red.
Red responded with fleet of foot footwork and attempted to evade. He kept on the balls of his feet as he bounced around. When the silver lights all but dimmed, Red stood there with a cut going across his stomach. His mind panicked as his hands fumbled to keep his blood in.
“Those are some of my sword techniques,” the swordsman said, tilting his head up with pride. “Now, you have to come with me to see my brother.”
“I have to win,” Red replied, his voice filled with desperation. The BJJ practitioner couldn’t allow Red to lose and seized control of his body.
The swordsman sped forward and cut with silver light as Red fell to the ground and swept up the swordsman’s legs, taking him down in the process. Red leapt like a jaguar onto the nearest limb and found himself wrapped around the swordsman’s legs. He was out of position for the “Kneebar”, but he still had the ankle.
He applied what his BJJ memories called an “Anklelock”.
Red cradled the ankle in an arm, and he cranked it, producing a snapping sound. A sword was then thrust in his face, forcing the young brawler to release the hold. Another cut was emerged on Red's chest. The pain allowed Red to retake control of his senses away from the BJJ practitioner, but a series of silver lights that resembled a blooming flower erupted around him, causing him to panic and withdraw inwardly.
“Humph,” the swordsman huffed, a bit peeved. His blue eyes locked onto his throbbing ankle. He could tell his speed would fall drastically with such an injury. “Your techniques make me angry. But you are cut to pieces. That makes me the winner.”
“Did you think Red Rumble would fall down from paper cuts?” Red growled, his voice rumbling loudly. His muscles began to dance as he flexed.
“What?”
“Oh, you’re in trouble now, brother. I’m going to break you upon these two pythons of steel that are my arms, oh yea.”
Red lunged forward in a crouch with his hands out, ready to grapple. The swordsman burst with mana as he met Red with blinding speed. His sword cut sideways, sending silver light in a horizontal cut. Red had gone low, making the cut miss, and hugged his chest to the swordsman’s hip while wrapping his arms around the swordsman’s legs. Red then propelled forward while lifting then dumping the swordsman on his back.
His wrestler memories called the technique a “Double Leg Takedown”.
Red's hands fell like meteors as he punched downward on his fallen foe. The swordsman’s sword began to glow, and when Red’s punches landed upon the light, they ricocheted harshly off it, giving the swordsman time to rise. His sword cut again, this time in a vertical line. Red rushed past it as he crouched low to dip under. Another light of silver grew, this time in a vertical slice that sped toward the young brawler, but it missed.
Red’s hands were near their target, but the swordsman had already noticed Red's intentions. The swordsman cut where Red was headed toward, but Red maneuvered in the last minute and ended up at the swordsman’s back. Red’s bulky arms wrapped around the swordsman and heaved him upward.
Red then bent backwards and threw the swordsman over in a “Suplex”.
The swordsman swerved his head away from the point of impact and allowed his shoulder to take the brunt of the attack. He could feel the temporary loss of his arm from the injury. The swordsman swung his sword as soon as their momentum halted. Red could feel the metal of the sword cut into his hip.
He leapt away, gripping tightly at his injury. His body was bleeding now from various lacerations crisscrossing his flesh. Red could feel his mind begin to slip into unconsciousness, but he suddenly felt relaxed in the next moment.
“Dude,” Red said to the swordsman with a disappointed look, “You’re far from chill, homie. Why not allow a dude to rest his exterior on that there tree of motherly love?”
“I don’t speak this language,” the swordsman admitted, which bothered him being as a self-proclaimed procurer of knowledge. He heard familiar words from Red, but they were in an order that expressed meaning he could not fathom.
“Bra, everyone speaks love. It’s like weed, man. It’s all natural.”
“I am not good at speaking this language, so I will continue my sword techniques.”
A burst of rain water and dirt flew up as he attempted to blind Red with his speed, but Red threw a jab as soon as the distance between them closed.
“I have your timing already, bra,” Red chuckled, “I’d be, like, stupid if I didn’t have it by now, chea.” His blows were blocked by the strange glow of the swordsman’s sword and bounced him backward. “Whoa, gnarly.”
With the space created, the swordsman attempted another attack only to become face to face with another jab. His sword jolted upward to create the same glowing defense.
“Made you look, bra,” Red cheered and instead of a jab, used a low kick, kicking out the swordsman’s lead leg and unbalancing him. Red then spun in place and used a spinning kick to hit the swordsman’s abdomen, sending him hurtling toward the once-mighty oak where he crashed.
Red wiggled a hand with a pinky and thumb out. “That there’s a wipeout, man.”
A silver streak of light tore up the tree, dirt and soil as it careened in Red’s direction. Red could barely move, in shock by the tree he and his mother had always slept in being suddenly destroyed. A memory took hold of him and moved his body for him.
Dust and debris fell with the rain in the wake of such a devastating attack.
“That,” the swordsman said, breathing heavily, exhausted from spent mana, “that technique is called ‘Flight of the Mythical Roc’.”
“And in this corner,” Red’s voice rang across the Reeking Valley, “standing at one hundred and eighty pounds, the reigning and defending gypsy brawling champion: Red Rumble!”
As the dust settled, Red could be seen hopping in place with boxing footwork. He threw punches into the air. The swordsman couldn’t help but become astounded seeing that Red’s punches seemed to be as fast as his sword techniques.
“But father said my sword techniques are the fastest,” the swordsman worried.
Red hugged both fists to his chin as he sped forward with his “Peek-a-boo” style of boxing. With the perpetual rocking of his torso, he gained power. One swing hit a glowing barrier the swordsman erected and bounced the young brawler backward, who then shifted into an opposite stance to rebalance and immediately dipping low to throw an overhand punch that went through the air in an arch, landing heavily on the swordsman’s glowing defenses.
The recoil pushed both combatants apart this time.
What power! The swordsman thought with amazement. My blocking technique is only supposed to repulse one way. Is he overpowering my mana with pure physical might? Impossible.
Such doubts about his opponent’s capabilities did not help him as Red swayed his body again to garner momentum and came back with a hook that shattered the glowing light, bursting it into shiny pieces like glass.
The swordsman’s last sight of the battle was four scarred knuckles headed his way before he fell unconscious.
The ringing of metal stopped.
Red raised a hand in victory but faltered. His brown eyes stared down and saw a sword protruding out of his abdomen. It was the swordsman’s last ditch effort at winning.
Red stumbled, sword stuck in him. It was getting late. He had to get some sleep in order to train well in the morning. His eyesight blurred as he tried to focus on the destroyed mother and son tree.
Maybe I’ll draw on the stars tonight, he thought as he fell face first into the dirt.
The glow of a pair of lanterns could be seen moving across the Classy Slums under a heavy torrent of rain.
Two child-sized figures held the lamps as they braced against the storm and plodded forward, step after step. Dwindle and Poly was out searching for the young brawler champion.
“Champ!” Dwindle yelled, but the storm drowned out his voice.
“Red!” Poly screamed with her Siren’s Call. Though the rain and thunder filled the world with unrelenting sounds, Poly’s voice could be heard clearly and from far off. Some slum dwellers cracked open windows to peek out to see who was speaking with such a heavenly voice, though nothing could be seen in this storm.
“I don’t see the champ anywhere…” Dwindle grunted, becoming upset. Though the champ now instilled fear into him, he did not want Red to be left outside during such weather.
“Where did he live before he met you?” Poly asked
Dwindle nodded, “That’s right. He’s from the Reeking Valley.”
Poly nodded back, resolute. She was determined to bring Red home tonight.
The rain and wind battered their small bodies as if denying their attempts at searching. They made sure to huddle together and support one another.
A body showed up, lying on the ground. The body's pale face lifted and turned to them. Poly screamed.
“It’s alright,” Dwindle shouted through the storm, “This is just how people from the Reeking Valley are.”
As the dwarf explained the situation of the worst place in the slums, the person went back to lay flat against the dirt. Poly couldn’t fathom why a person would be content to lie in dirt during a storm.
After an hour, they had searched half of the Reeking Valley, turning over bodies and attempting to communicate with the soulless inhabitants strewn about the place. There was no luck in finding Red.
When they were about to call off the search, Poly could hear a voice. The voice was fleeting, weak as if it belonged to someone dying. The voice called to her, and not just call, but pleaded to her to reach it.
“This way,” Poly said with her Siren’s Call to Dwindle, who was about to turn around to head back.
“I don’t think it’s any use,” Dwindle shouted, “We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
Poly shook her head vehemently. “No,” she said, “Follow me.”
Reluctantly, Dwindle followed her deeper into the Reeking Valley, though neither could see past one another through the rain. The dwarf halted when Poly suddenly stopped at the base of a tree. The tree’s trunk had been cut in two, rather cleanly at that. Splinters were thrown about, its limbs as logs below, scattered around its once mighty form.
“What are we doing here at this tree?” Dwindle shouted, huddling up to keep the rain from soaking him further.
“…I don’t know,” Poly admitted, stressed to find no one.
But the voice, she thought. A voice called me here.
Dwindle shook his head and decided to give the elf a few minutes to accomplish whatever she was attempting.
“…please…”
Poly’s golden eyes widened. The voice was dying by the moment, but she could hear it much clearer than before.
Poly breathed in deep and then let out her Siren’s Call, “Where are you? I will help you.”
“…please help the boy…”
Poly oriented herself in the direction she heard the voice and found herself staring at the tree again. She cocked her head curiously, then stilled. A thought occurred to her that had not before. The elf had grown too accustomed to a land that forbade elf magic. She had never thought to use it here.
Hesitantly, she spoke with elven magic, “Great tree. I am an elf. Can you hear me?”
“…the boy….help the boy…”
“What boy? Tell me. You’re dying, great tree. You don’t have much strength left.”
The tree used the last vestments of power left in it and said, “Help Varza’s son. Help little Red. He has been taken by men covered in black. White diamonds sit upon their chests.”
“Little Red? Do you mean Redyl? Redyl Rombell? Great tree, are you there…?”
The tree began to gray as its magic diminished. It had once dreamed of becoming green again, but it spent its power day after day to help a mother and her son get through the harsh nights. They had treated it well and would come to visit more often than not.
If the tree could have one last wish, it would wish to grow again and, with its limbs, hold Varza and little Red once more.