Page 1 of The Last Tiger

Seung

The sky over the mountains today is too clear, too blue, for the Slaying Ceremony. It almost isn’t fair.

The crisp fall air burns in my lungs as I step out of the house, blinking, my eyes slowly adjusting to the light. I massage my brow with one hand, trying to ease the stress lines there. I don’t want to go down to the town square today. Of course I don’t. But it’s not like I have a choice.

“Wait for me, Seung! Wait!”

My kid brother, Hoyoung, crouches by the door, struggling to fit his feet into his shoes—they’re way too tight for him; he needed new ones long ago. Over his shoulder, he carries a huge empty burlap sack that falls across his back like a cape.

“What is this?” I chuckle, lifting the long bag with two fingers. “We don’t need all this, Hoyoung. We’re just buying some rice.”

“What if we get a lot of rice?” Hoyoung says hopefully.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I say warily.

Not with the war and current food prices.

Whatever we manage to pick up today, we’ll likely have to stretch it to last the month.

Still, Hoyoung seems happy to be carrying the comically large bag, so I let him keep it.

I slide the front door closed behind us, shutting it on the faint smell of tonight’s dinner, which Mom is preparing inside: a watery broth made from boiling turnips.

You could call it World War Stew—this is all we’ve eaten for months.

“Isn’t Mom coming?” Hoyoung turns back to look inside.

“She’s waiting for Dad to come back from the mines. They’ll come later.” I pull him by the shoulder. “Hey, Hoyoung. Look at me, okay? I need to tell you something. This is important.”

My little brother turns to me with these huge, innocent eyes that practically knock my heart out. His too-long bangs fall over his face. A lump forms in my throat as I brush them away.

This kid is too young to attend the Slaying. That’s a fact.

But if I don’t take him with me today, we’ll never hear the end of it from the police.

“No matter what happens tonight, don’t let go of my hand,” I tell him. “Don’t wander off, don’t let go of me, no matter what happens . And when I tell you, make sure to close your eyes. I’m gonna protect you, okay?”

Hoyoung swallows hard, nodding fiercely.

“Okay, buddy. Let’s go.”

We turn away from the house, stepping onto the stone path that leads down to the village center.

Already, the sun is growing bloody orange as it descends toward the horizon.

In a few hours it will dip out of sight behind the thick mountains surrounding the town of Kidoh, dropping a thin, purple twilight over the valley.

Out here, the air is clear and bright, scented with pine and mountain ash. I shake my head, trying to dispel the foreboding that has been itching at me all morning.

“Let’s goooooo!” Hoyoung cries, running headlong down the path, his feet clapping over the stones. Obviously, he still doesn’t really understand what’s about to happen. I grimace and hurry after him.

We definitely don’t want to arrive late.

I lead us along the shortcut off the main path, down the side trail that cuts beside the river.

Fat, lazy mosquitos drift in the air here; by the river’s edge, tall, brilliant green reeds stick their heads up out of the shallows.

The long ribbon of the river itself gleams in the fading sunlight.

As we walk along, we pass a group of academy grads practicing ki by the riverside, their bare chests glistening with sweat.

They’ve lined up a series of enormous boulders, each taller than a man’s waist, and are taking turns heaving the giant rocks into the air, tossing them along to one another.

The guy at the end of the line catches a boulder with a grunt and sets it down on the ground.

He slams his fist onto the rock. The boulder cracks in two and splits at his feet.

“Whoa.” Hoyoung’s head turns on a pivot, his jaw falling open.

Rich kids, I grumble to myself.

Thanks to years of expensive after-school tutoring—a luxury our family couldn’t possibly afford—those guys passed the Exam when they were about my age and were admitted to Adachi Training Academy at the heart of the empire.

There, they were trained in the art of ki.

Those ki powers have made them strong enough to crush boulders with their bare hands.

Not to mention that, as graduates of Adachi, they’ll have guaranteed access for life to whatever career path they could possibly desire.

Hoyoung and I—well, we’ll never have that kind of life.

While those guys are out making their dreams, I spend my weeks sweeping floors for the Chois, the richest yangban family in the colonies.

I avert my gaze and quicken my steps, struggling unsuccessfully to smother the jealousy in my chest.

“This way.” I nod to Hoyoung, now straggling behind me, still staring at the guys with their boulder-crushing exercise. Then we turn the corner, leaving them behind and entering the village proper.

Soon we’re deep in the marketplace. Long rows of tables here, laid out with food and wares, line the road. Behind them, old ajummas and ajusshis with missing teeth call out to the bustling crowd of customers.

“Fresh bean-curd paste! Southern-style kimchi! Finest in the Tiger Colonies!”

“Miso and matcha powder! Imported straight from the Dragon Empire! Supplies are limited; get yours now!”

“Ooh,” Hoyoung says, licking his lips. I pull him by the sleeve.

“Not now, Hoyoung. Those are luxuries. We need to save our money for rice, okay?”

“Rice,” says Hoyoung absentmindedly.

And I recognize the hunger in my brother’s eyes, suddenly aware of that same pang in my own stomach.

I lead my little brother down to the stand where rice merchants are ladling the precious grains into the bags of anxious customers.

We stop next to an open table, preparing for the worst. Prices have been skyrocketing for basic foods this year.

Ever since Governor-General Isao issued his edict on the wartime rationing of grains, people across the Tiger Colonies have been going hungry.

“Long live the Dragon Emperor.” Tenno Heika Banzai. I nod to the merchant as I give the obligatory greeting—switching into Dragon tongue, as is required by law.

“Long live the emperor,” the merchant responds automatically. Over his shoulder, a Dragon policeman watches the street impassively, his face a blank mask.

Ever since the Tiger Kingdom was defeated and annexed by the Dragon Empire—more than forty years ago—the Dragon language has been mandatory for use in public settings.

Under Governor-General Isao’s “cultural assimilation” policy, the use of our native Tiger tongue has been forbidden altogether.

It’s a difficult rule to enforce in private settings, but I wouldn’t dare use Tiger language here in the marketplace, under the watchful eye of the Dragon police.

I hand over the coins. The merchant nods, counting them, and motions gruffly for Hoyoung to hold open his burlap sack. The merchant lifts a spoonful of the coarse, grainy rice—the good stuff, refined white rice, is well out of our budget—and pours in a small handful.

And stops.

“No way.” My jaw drops. “That’s barely a couple of days’ worth—”

“Sorry, kid.” The merchant shrugs indifferently. “The drought this year is even worse than last year’s, if you can believe it…There are dust storms in the fields. Add to that the wartime ration, and you’re lucky I have anything at all for you today.”

Beside me, customers are arguing bitterly with the other merchants. I stare down into the enormous burlap sack, at the measly handful of rice grains spread out there at the bottom. We just handed that merchant a month’s worth of Dad’s salary.

“Seung,” says Hoyoung, tugging on my arm.

“Not now, Hoyoung,” I mutter emptily.

“ Seung ,” Hoyoung says louder.

And then I look up, and I see—

Merchants and customers alike, lowering their heads, sweeping their coins into pouches and tucking them away, out of sight—

I hear the pounding of boots marching in unison—

And the whistles of the policemen.

Finally, I see them: the Dragon Army.

A dozen or more soldiers marching in rows down the main street, their faces shadowed beneath dark helmets.

Between the two rows of men, a military truck is pulling something behind it on a flat wooden bed. I can’t make out what it is, exactly; it looks like some kind of large box with a dark green cloth draped over it.

The policemen lining the street whistle several times and begin to move forward, pushing roughly, guiding the customers toward one end of the street. A commotion rises up as the crowd gradually begins to turn, a ripple of fear and uncertainty filling the air.

I grab Hoyoung’s hand tight, the sack of rice clenched hard in my other fist, as the crowd begins to push us along.

“What’s going on?” I ask a man next to us. He grimaces and shakes his head.

“I think it’s starting soon.”

“The Slaying Ceremony?”

“I’d guess so. Look—they’re corralling us toward the town square.”

The Dragon police step forward, white-gloved hands held out, pushing us in one direction down the street. We don’t have any choice now but to follow along. Hoyoung holds tight to my arm as I tie up the burlap sack and stuff it deep into my pocket, as far as it will go.

There’s a large audience gathered already by the time we file in. The town “square” is just a faded plot of dirt in the center of Kidoh, but whenever a crowd assembles here, it takes on an official air of importance. An anxious buzz of conversation fills the space.

I strain on tiptoes to see over the heads of the people in front of me. Hoyoung huddles against me.

“Stay close to me, no matter what happens,” I whisper to him. “And remember to close your eyes when I tell you to, okay?”

Something in the urgency of my voice and the mood of the crowd impresses itself on Hoyoung now. The kid nods soberly and falls quiet, his hand tugging automatically at my sleeve.