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Aboard the Izanami

The Indian Ocean

The Vendor ducked and twisted, blocking every strike of the furious attack. He moved with a grace and fluidity that belied his size. At six foot three and two hundred fifty pounds, he was far taller and muscular than most men, especially those of his nationality.

His father, a strict disciplinarian, raised him to be stronger than the wisest man in any room or wiser than the strongest man. Since childhood, he could never remember not being both at once. The resulting social isolation his lessers imposed upon him meant nothing and only freed him to pursue his passions without hindrance.

The Vendor’s sweat-burned eyes searched desperately for an opening inside the blur of arms and legs swinging at him like a threshing machine.

The Vendor was battling his robotic mook jong —a high-tech version of a traditional Chinese fighting trainer. But in place of the fixed center post and wooden arms, the Vendor put the AI-powered device—which he called a makiwara —on a three-hundred-sixty-degree turntable. He gave it articulating arms and legs that struck in nearly every direction. It was far more dangerous than any human sparring partner—faster, smarter, and programmed to deliver killing blows.

After achieving a ninth dan black belt in karate, and mastering several other martial arts forms including Muay Thai, the Vendor had proven himself unequaled in unarmed combat, killing several highly ranked opponents in secret underground fights over the years. Unable to find willing opponents with suicidal tendencies, he invented his mechanical makiwara to keep his skills sharp.

Spotting his split-second opening, the Vendor shouted a guttural “ Kiai! ” as he launched a high kick into the robot’s padded face. A horn blasted and lights flashed, “killing” the robot, robbing it of power and freezing it in position as if dead.

The Vendor nodded with satisfaction. He turned around and faced the dojo’s giant wall screen. The OLED panel camera accurately depicted the Vendor in his black, salt-stained gi , drinking in great draughts of air where he stood.

But the robotic makiwara was depicted as a hulking American fighter rather than a machine. The “deep fake” American opponent was perfectly rendered, including a white gi stained in blood and a badly bruised, clean-shaven Anglo face.

The Vendor’s hatred of Americans ran deep in his veins. As a child he drank in the horror stories told by his elderly relatives about the mass bombings of Japanese cities during the war. They recalled in ghastly detail how hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians were burned alive in the carefully engineered firestorms delivered by American long-range bombers.

The Vendor gestured at the screen with his large left hand, which rewound the digital recording of the fight to the beginning of the match. He gestured again and the fight began. Even the Vendor was impressed with his speedy attacks and impenetrable defenses. When the final, fatal kick was delivered, the digital American’s ugly head snapped backward like a Pez dispenser with a sickening crack. ikken hissatsu in Japanese kanji flashed on the screen. One Punch Kill.

It was the Vendor’s fifth victory of today’s workout session in his private dojo. He flexed his powerful hands, strengthened by years of training with the heaviest nigiri game —traditional Okinawan lifting jars. He was considering another sparring session, but decided against it.

What he really needed was a long, hot sauna for muscle recovery, but there were pressing delivery issues that demanded his immediate attention. He headed for the shower, his mind already focused on delivering a blow far more deadly than the one inflicted on the robot.