The Prince of the Shadow Warriors

By Russell Pennwright

Korihu Kawashima comes to America to seek a new life. But when a relic that kept the ninja sects united for many years is stolen, he is forced into a fight that leads into bloodshed unseen for years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 26, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467817585

Russell Pennwright

Russell Pennwright writes novels and screenplays with special interest in the action genre. He enjoys spending time with family and friends. The Prince of the Shadow Warriors is his first novel. He is currently working on his second novel.

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© 2007 Russell Pennwright. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 6/18/2007

ISBN: 978-1-4259-9317-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-1758-5 (ebk)

Contents

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

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31

32

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37

About The Author

PROLOGUE  

During a time unknown, a disillusioned samurai warrior, tired of following his master’s orders, went to the mountains to seek enlightenment from the visiting monks from China. The Chinese monks taught him how to disappear into the shadows, how to seek enlightenment by emptying the mind, and how to kill with efficiency.

The grandmaster trusted the samurai and considered him a son. What he didn’t know of was his pupil’s instability and plan to spread the knowledge of the art. When he discovered the plan, he became furious and ordered his pupil to be killed. But the samurai escaped.

Five years passed. The search for the samurai became futile. The monks became paranoid, worrying that such knowledge would create hostility in the feudal system of government. The Japanese had already been unhappy with their presence. Should their pupil become troublesome to the government, they would have to answer to the lords.

What happened on that night on the mountains remains unclear. My grandfather told me as a seven-year-old that version of the birth of the ninja. As much as I didn’t want to believe him, I told myself that the story must’ve been true.

The pupil, after years of running away, finally came face to face with his master. He held a sword to his master’s neck, in tears as his master insulted him in words that truly hurt him, calling him a traitor and a disgrace. Before delivering the blow that severed his master’s neck, he gave him a kiss on the cheeks and said, I loved you, my master. Why can’t you understand me? He then took his master’s head, went out from the temple, and showed it to a few of his followers.

To victory! he shouted.

Dozens of monks died that night. It seemed that the way of the ninja, led by the first ninja, would soon overtake the samurai. But it didn’t happen. The way of the samurai continued to become the majority armed force of Japan, forcing the ninja to hide in the shadows of their greatness.

Many battles between the samurai and the ninja took place during those years, but none truly stood out in history, partly because it was something that wasn’t written on paper for future generations to read about. Who knows what truly happened? Even I don’t know…

My ancestors were very secretive. They had to be, because if they weren’t, the superior samurai forces would easily subdue them. At that time, the young ninja way of life remained vulnerable to betrayal within its own corridors. The leaders didn’t know how to stop it from happening, so the very first ninja, whose name I’d prefer to keep secret, divided the group into four sects, which had one leader for each.

Another five years passed. It seemed like everything had finally been organized; the main four sects were thoroughly watched over by the four leaders whom the first ninja trusted, who held annual gatherings in the forests.

The forest was the home for the ninja. Many considered it the key to life, since it was the only place where the samurai couldn’t beat them; thus, only the bravest of warriors dared to roam in the woods alone.

There were many misconceptions concerning the ninja that truly bothered me, including the belief that the ninja had mystical powers. It only amounts to stupidity. Who would believe such tales? Humans just don’t turn into beasts and turn invincible. I mean, people believed this. It’s absurd. But who am I to say that? People at the time had a different mindset than the people of today. So, I couldn’t claim that I may not have believed such tales if I had lived in that era.

The ninja claimed world fame through the mystique and mystery of its history. The true history didn’t have that sweetness and reward that Hollywood often portrayed in the 1980s when ninja movies were made in abundance. They claimed that the ninja had a code of honor. No, they didn’t for most of their history. To the ninja, survival was the only thing that was important.

The stories of myth about the ninja having mystical powers were often encouraged by the ninja themselves. My grandfather told me of a tale about a ninja disguised as a samurai warrior whose main responsibility was to spread word that the myths were true. Even today, the descendants of the ninja hailed him as a savior and a hero.

Hundreds of years later, the ninja increased in number. Many historians believed that the numbers only ranged into the thousands. My grandfather told me that during that time, when the ninja was in its prime, the numbers ranged more to the hundreds of thousands, some of whom were samurai warriors themselves.

I’d like to say that they all lived happy lives with their families and friends. But the truth was that most great ninja warriors lived tragically. Some, I was told, relived the assassinations that they carried out. If I was an assassin who had to kill a hopeless young child and saw that before my very eyes, I’d probably feel the same way.

The romanticized version of the story of the ninja, the Hollywood version, shared some facts, but much more often, more fiction. A ninja in the movies would be seen infiltrating a building dressed awkwardly with his camouflage uniform in order to carry out a kill. In the stories my grandfather told me, a real Shadow Warrior would be disguised as a visitor of the building then use that disguise to guide him to the target. In fact, the trademark camouflage suits that made the ninja so popular around the world were only used in special missions, special missions that required ambush.

Every time Iga-Ueno, the city famous for the birth of the first ninja, held one of its yearly celebrations to commemorate the work of the ninja, I asked my grandfather why they even bothered to celebrate.

My grandfather would give me that intimidating stare he always showed whenever he thought I talked about senseless things. Then he’d carry me and say, It’s all for show, Korihu. Don’t worry about it.

I wanted to ask him what was so fun about celebrating professional killers. He was proud of the tradition, unlike me. But, I’m proud to say that my best memories were shared with my grandfather; although, at times, those memories were tough. He disciplined me in every aspect of life, trained me in the deadly art of stealth, and taught me how to absorb pain.

He told me to watch my attitude. I didn’t know what to think of it, since I always considered myself as disciplined. I never did do anything quite risky or against the law. Maybe I did.

According to my grandfather, life was like a straight line. He tapped me on my shoulders and cringed at my question.

Why are we even in this world? I asked. What’s my destiny?

Korihu, from the day we’re born, life already has a plan for us, he said, walking alongside me in the forest, as we always did.

I stopped walking. And when he noticed that I no longer walked along with him, he turned back to face me. I’ve got my own destiny, Grandfather, I replied.

He smiled and walked to me. Then he grabbed my hand to guide me along the forest. Those special memories empowered me when I felt mellow.

The legacy of the ninja was brought upon me just like my ancestors. Their fathers were ninjas; thus, they became ninjas themselves. Hundreds of years later, their dark legacy still lived within me. Hey! It was the family business. So that made it okay. Right?

Many versions of the end of the ninja have emerged throughout the years, but because of the changing society of Japan, the ninja had no choice but to disappear along with their archenemies, the samurai.

The leaders of the large number of ninja sects met at a time unknown and decided it was best if the sects stuck together to ensure the survival of the tradition.

My ancestors voted that the united sects appoint a leader to lead them from the disastrous times, hoping that one day, the ninja would soon have a place in society; however, the future of the ninja depended solely on the sects. My ancestors held up a statue of the Buddha and told the others that the relic would ensure the unity for years to come. They didn’t, however, expect to be appointed the leaders of the united sects.

And now, hundreds of years later, the ninja had awakened at the drop of my blood, as the war fought between them would spark bloodshed unseen for years.

1 

The only thing that I recalled from that day, that horrible day when I fought with my father, was the memory of my soul dying. I declined his offer to take control of the men. It wasn’t for me. I just wanted a simple life. That kind of responsibility fitted more to my brother’s needs. I always considered him as a leader, the man who could lead the Nation of Shadows to the stable peace that it had sustained for the last hundred years or so. I was wrong.

My father chose me for a reason, but I never understood him. I was the weaker of the two siblings. I despised my ancestors’ ruthless ways, their tactics and the assassinations they were known for. I often asked myself why I was born. I didn’t ask to be born. Needless to say, I had no purpose, no clue as to what my destiny was.

My feelings towards my brother, Haru, were mixed. I loved him. I think that deep down inside, he loved me, too. He was my only sibling; thus, it became difficult for my heart to follow the other path.

It was a cold winter night back in Japan when Toei barged into my room, his face dilated, his eyes focused into my own. My lord, he said. We have trouble.

I stuttered with mixed emotions, frozen on my bed. I couldn’t believe that my own brother could even plot using the skills of our followers.

As a young child, I roamed the wilderness to search for a way out of anything. I figured if I could survive the untamed forests, I could survive anything. Nothing in this world could ever replace my brother’s love and the love that we once had. I never thought that he and I could ever fight. As I got older, my interests changed. As he got older, he changed as well.

My father was a different man than he and I. He was a businessman, a difficult man to understand. There were times I wished that I had a different family and that I could just live a normal life. I was a lover of man and nature, not the ruthless man that he wanted me to eventually become.

When I was about seven years old, my mother died. The misery of trying to find someone like my mother put him through many pains and disappointments. Perhaps, he blamed it on me and my brother.

As I descended the long staircase, I immediately saw him standing in the middle of the circular room glaring at me. My followers knelt before me lined up in parallel lines.

The fierce battle occurred in a seemingly motionless time frame. Even now, the taste of blood still lingers inside my mouth. As my brother punched my body, I leaned helplessly on the wall, screaming. He then kneed me and threw me to the floor. I stood on guard, leaning my right arm on the wall, gasping for breath. I waited for him to make the next move. When he charged at me, I grabbed his arm and flipped him to the floor.

Winning wasn’t everything if it meant losing a brother. After all, victory was just another aspect that people wanted. It was not a person that you could love. I loved my brother. I loved my father. If I followed one, I’d betray the other.

My life became a burden to me. As I looked around me, my followers glared underneath their masks, as they awaited a victor.

My brother’s stare became desperate as he lay on the ground tending his broken arm. I drew my sword for the first time to finish him off. I couldn’t do it.

Kill me! he shouted.

My grip on the sword weakened until I finally dropped it to the floor. I retreated