A gentle breeze blows through the gates of the walled city. Through the nooks and crannies in the old wooden gate. It comes from an easterly direction, blowing along the fragrant pink buds of the cherry blossom. They swim through the pull of the breeze, touching its vivid force and briskly sweeping through its tangible cool. There is no howl in this wind, instead it whispers reminiscing with everything it passes. With the bricks and the concrete, the twigs and the insects, reminding them of times long ago, times beyond the gates, times of contentment.

It blows into a street, a road that is unusually strident with the voices of consumers rummaging through the fruit stalls and looking for souvenirs to take back, to show off, to tell others of the walled city; Kowloon. The breeze blows past the stalls picking up speed, past the houses of Dragon Street, and to the far corner. It combs the concrete and brick ground, sweeping along with it the stones and pebbles and twigs, mementos of a time when people brushed along against them. Its call, calls nobody, but like an ancestral spectre its searches, with its eye it looks at the sky, at the grey clouds, at the drizzle. Prevailing electricity boils around the path; a chilling claw of illumination dances around, and the wind stays on its course. Comprehending the situation is impossible and somewhat pointless, for the situation and the moment are not to be understood, but to be what they are, simply. The resonance of a fiddle plays its haunting tune in the background. A tune, which by now many have heard. The man playing it is dressed in pale green and red satin. With his eyes closed and mouth shut he too feels the wind and smiles, in his mind's eye he too can reminisce with content. The wrinkles on his face for a moment seem to be ironed out and the wind for a moment seems to dance to the tune, for the melodic spell captures even nature's messenger.

The breezy jester finds himself going down a small flight of stairs, its follows not knowing where to go. The concrete stairs pull it in, but there is no magnetism in the iron bits and pieces, which lay around the seemingly dilapidated building. It reaches the door and slowly seeps through the holes in the door. The room is dark and misty. A smoky haze fills the atmosphere covering the two figures in the room. An abhorrent odour leaps through the vicinity and the realisation that this room is actually not in frequent use sets in. The silence is awkward yet justified, and the only light present is that which dares to stretch in through the broken window, which overlooks the green forest that surrounds the walled city. One figure sits on a wooden chair, which obviously hasn't been bought for comfort's sake. The person rests their head tucked in their arms on a round wooden table. Beside them a cassette player and some tapes. The figure seems to be a man. The clouds outside move away giving room to the glorious sun who finds himself out of use in these autumn months. The virgin rays with anticipation trickle down into the rooms just managing to clear the haze revealing an essence. The eye makes out trainers, white with a blue trim. Used often it seems for they are worn and muddy, as is the hem of denim jeans whose blue leads up to a brown leather jacket. He has fairly tanned skin, with black spiky hair, a head with thoughts that dissolve with irregularity, and emerge with unsettling pain. Ryo Hazuki sits motionless however here in Ren's hideout.

The reminiscent wind hears it's call and with a motherly hand touches Ryo's head, to comfort, to remind, to regain. He remembered, master Zhu, the man whom he tirelessly searched out, with a burning passion he continued his pursuit, and in the end it all came down to Zhu telling Ryo what his ears bled hearing and his mind dared not remember. He was now to go to a place called Guilin, a village, but for him it was just another chapter in his exodus. The things he had seen where incredible, but the truth he had heard was ludicrous. The thoughts evoked memories of His last Birthday. Across the sea in Japan, back in the Hazuki Residence where the air was crisp and the wind out on the streets of Yamanose howled like a wolf marking it's territory. There within the Dojo the dark figure who took away his purpose and being in one blow stood looking down on him. There among the black suits and the scrolls on the wall Landi had struck Ryo with such a mammoth force. Now months later in China the blow came back. The fiery pain rushed through his limbs, pumping anguish at an immense rate, ripping apart his being and plaguing his mind. His eyes burned, he clenched his fists to release the pain but what he didn't realise was that it wasn't in his body. The pain couldn't be vented though he clenched his fists so hard the veins in his hands began to throb. His world and his life and his education had been a deception; the fact that his father could kill wasn't worth judgment. His mind wondered. He found himself breathing in a sweet fragrance; an accommodating aroma whooshed up his nose. Water vapour materialized flooding his mind and the dust of a million years swam like a team of synchronised swimmers fighting to gain his attention. The aroma sent messages to his brain, which the poor thing couldn't comprehend. Outside the rain came down as the sexy sky split into a storm. In Ryo's mind however, he was ignorant of the breaking tempest. The now concrete vapour began to form an image there in front of Ryo's eyes. The darkness gave way to light and as the soft, misty vapour pulled apart the curtains of obscurity. There Ryo found himself looking in, amidst a green kingdom. The shrubbery and the plant life the glow of the sun and the blue breathtaking sky grabbed Ryo's imagination as his mind took him further and further into this epitome. The glow of the green forest captivated his tired eyes welcoming his weary mind and comforting his worn-out body. The countless plant species and the elegance of the supple petals in all their splendour appealed to an exhausted soul, all the beauty of the world was summed up in the grace of this forest. The ground was moist as if it had only just rained and the wood shavings and old leaves, which covered the ground, were a suitable carpet for even in death they served a purpose. The smell again hit Ryo as it slapped his face, but there was no pain rather the smell was like the playful call of an old friend. Behind, far back he could hear the trickling of water, there must have been a stream near by. That's where the water vapour must have come from, it cooled the air, and there was a perfect symbiosis. The welcoming atmosphere greeted the senses and he experienced full awareness. In his mind Ryo was in Guilin. As his mind's eye explored the surroundings he noticed the foliage being disturbed. A closer glance revealed a swift wind quickly but gently moving the leaves. Ryo recognised the swift movement, the movement like a bird, light on its feet. The principles and teachings flooded back, his drained mind become anxious, became excited. The swift movements were just like; he looked around and there stood the spirit, the man he once knew, the man he loved. Bare foot he moved on the soil like a rapid cheetah after it's prey. There was no time to stare or to understand where and when and how, but just to admire the grace and elegance by which this man moved. His hand would strike with the poise and agility of a lizard's tongue. His eyes were not technical in their manner but instead sheltered a passion. The velocity and authority this man held, Ryo would not and could not even begin to mimic. He struck and only then would the cotton clothing that covered him follow that direction. It was Iwoa Hazuki. Ryo saw him, as he hadn't for a long time. He looked much younger, resembling Ryo and his poise and posture were of a master. He looked much like he did in the tattered picture Ryo had found in the basement of the dojo back in Japan. As Ryo recollected his thoughts and marvelled at this aura, Iwoa stopped his grandeur and wiping off the first sign of sweat with his hand he made his way out of the picture. Ryo craving then to once more sight his departed father followed him. As Iwoa gently shifted the vegetation to get through Ryo couldn't help but notice the wooden house in the foreground. It resembled the dojo back home. The same magnificent architecture and splendour possessed this house, and the same lingering smell of burning incense roofed the surroundings. He remembered how with daily compulsion his father would light the sticks of incense and meditate, his room always had a unique glow and it seemed all was at peace. Now the smell became stronger as Iwoa walked up the wooden steps. Ryo heard the creek as his father approached the door; he looked up at the slate roof and admired the divine serpent like dragonheads, which stuck out from each of the four corners. Their green and red heads complimented the red lining on the roof and their ferocious teeth gave him a sense of protection. In their eyes he could see a hurricane reaping a blinding illumination. He rubbed his eyes and progressed forward. Iwoa had now made his way into the room, a massive hall where martial arts was the dominating theme. To the corner he saw swords and kendo sticks. He saw ancient move scrolls on the walls and he saw a golden gong, which he had seen in karate tournaments. Ryo was amazed at the devotion to combat. His own dojo at home was merely an attempt to recreate this majesty. The floor shined; newly polished he could see his face in it. The walls were wooden maroon and dark brown. And as he peered up to behold the sight in front of him he was truly taken back. His breath became stuck in his throat hindering him to gulp or even sigh at the spectacle. There on a wooden cabinet with a glass door he saw a celestial glow, an emerald green and heavenly blue blaze covered the inside of the cupboard. The only thing preventing the diving light to escape was the glass door, which sealed it shut for all to see. There before it Iwoa stood staring at the two Phoenix and Dragon mirrors. Not one muscle in his body was tense not one thought in his mind was concerning anything else but the sight before him. Ryo saw his father like a child lusting for and wanting this object unwaveringly. Just then Ryo heard someone call out, "Iwoa!" Ryo turned at once with the same speed he saw Iwoa applying earlier. His arms swung around him his feet were as light as a bird, in his mind he was ready to strike anyone dead, but he had no idea why. With such velocity did he turn that his eyes followed after his body and there Ryo stood, with every bone in his body placed to perfection and every muscle in his body ready to strike. The voice stood before him. He looked familiar, his eyes and his smile and his silk green jacket and trousers. Ryo had seen this man, and wondered, and struggled. Then as if someone had whispered the secret to him he knew. For some one had gotten his attention. They had placed an arm on his shoulder and playfully moving aside the hair that covered his ear and whispered it to him. The man standing before him was the same man he saw with his father in the picture he had found. Ryo's body began to relax; perhaps the moment with his father was so sweet he didn't want anybody to take it away from him. Maybe that's why his heart raced pumping blood rapidly to his tired limbs, so that if anyone had come to take it away he could stop them and make the moment last forever. He sluggishly dropped his arms and eased his stiff neck. He began to grin at the thought of striking a friend, which he would have if he hadn't realised. His eyes that would not rest were now blinking and shrugging his shoulders he advanced to greet the figure before him. Ryo's eye scanned the man his father had once held and had shared a laugh with. Ryo looked at this man's silk trousers, he saw the golden hand painted dragon and how the green boldly showed off the creature. Ryo who was now engrossed within this vision saw his hand moving as if to shake the man's hand. It moved slowly leaving a trail of silver dust. His veins were still throbbing and pumping blood rapidly, his face took on a new concern. Why was his body still anxious, if his mind was at ease? His temples began to ache and his eyes became teary. Ryo gazed through his watery eyes at the man's face. He fixed his sight on the man's eyes and they were welcoming. Still his mind picked up no trace of malice. Ryo began to think of his father standing behind him, probably still staring at the two mirrors with the same desire. He shook his head focusing his attention back to the man before him. This time however Ryo began to notice wrinkles appearing in the face. These wrinkles were not the wrinkles of age but of change. They began to consume the structure and moulded his now clay like skin into an altered state. The once smiling face began to loose its bliss and took on a sinister mouth. The eyes broadened like that of a hungry viper and the hair, which was then rough and short, began to grow. Longer and longer till it reached his back. A wind from behind Ryo blew with substantial pressure. Ryo felt it on the back of his neck, and it sent a frightening chill down his spine. Ryo's hair began to move around out of place. The face he now looked at wasn't the same as before. The smile wholly vanished and the man had taken on a new appearance, this man was not the one he had seen with his father in the picture. However, he had seen this man. The strong wind, which throughout was blowing from behind Ryo, gushed forward. Ryo couldn't make out who the person set in front of him was. Then in a final huge gust the wind rocketed forward and thumped the man on his face with amazing force. Yet he did not blink, even once. His long hair, which had earlier covered his face making it rather arduous to recognise him, was suddenly blown back.

Ryo woke. In a cold chill he flung his head back off the wooden table as a flood of icy sweat trickled down his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot with the sudden removal Ryo had just faced. His eye had gone through a flash of light as he had abruptly awoken giving them a kind of epileptic convulsion. Ryo shivered, his body shook as his moist head tried to regain some control. The other figure in the room who also was contemplating on what she had heard from Yuanda Zhu ran toward Ryo. Her ginger hair trailed behind her as she ran toward her seemingly ailing friend. She leaned over the chair touching Ryo's shoulder, "Ryo, are you all right" asked the concerned Joy. Ryo now who was semi conscious realised where he was and shrugged Joy's hand off of his shoulder. Her soft feminine hand, which had so tightly griped on to many motorbike handles like a child to their parent, now fell off of his brown leather jacket soft and gently like a feather. Joy was used to Ryo's brash behaviour, but in her heart she was still concerned. Her usually cheeky grin had not returned since she heard the news from Yuanda Zhu. She had sat blankly trying to relate with Ryo, but she knew she couldn't. Now she reserved a troubled frown on her face standing with her hands on her hips, which were wrapped tightly in her blue jeans. Her leopard skin waistcoat, which didn't leave much to the imagination, was her mask, her mask to cover her somewhat noble background. Her often-convincing mask, which had covered her well, today couldn't hide the genuine apprehension. Ryo now regaining some essence of time wiped the arctic sweat from his forehead and with a fidgety movement took a deep breath. Evoking memories of his vision he thought of the man and his father. Advancing a swift hand into his pocket he rummaged around searching for the frayed picture someone once took when his father was but a young man. Joy looked around from her corner in wonder; she hadn't ever fully understood Ryo. Her mind was consumed with the complicated samurai from Japan; she began to shift from her place. Her feet wondered like her mind and she struck the dusty brown couch landing on her backside with a thump. Ryo stopped to look back and saw her giggling at herself. He pulled out a picture in his hand. This was not torn or old but a recent Polaroid. The back of it reflected the rays of light, which seeped through the storm clouds into the room. Ryo held it in his hands for a while waiting for Joy to ask him something about it. She was inquisitive and talkative, but she kept her distance today. Ryo turned it around looking watching as the picture developed in his hand. He remembered it well. It was taken with Nazomi back in Yokasuka. He eyed it for a while and put it back. He smiled as he looked back at Joy and all the fear was gone.