Communion: A Liberation Martial Arts Wuxia Story

I am the descendant of the Heavenly Demon, the greatest warrior of the Murim—the old martial arts world. Legend has it that she and her comrades sacrificed themselves to defeat invaders from an unknown world, the Insatiable Fiends. These Fiends had ashen-white skin, thirsted for human blood, and sought to conquer our lands. They murdered a countless number of people without thought. In repelling the invaders, the Murim perished, only leaving behind their children and a legend known as the Great Horror.

The Heavenly Demon left behind a son, my Great-Grandfather. At five years old, he was only able to learn the basic block and punch from the Heavenly Demon before the Great Horror. Since these two techniques were all he had of his mother, he practiced them tirelessly. Every day. All day.

The seasons changed. People changed. Times changed. But Great-Grandfather's practice remained unwavering.

In the same village, Great-Grandmother, a childhood friend, observed his relentless practice from childhood into adulthood. She admired his consistency and dedication. She said the conviction in his punch was how she knew this was the man she would marry.

And so they did.

From marriage to parenthood, Great-Grandfather kept at it. His children watched, but only Grandmother was interested in following his path.

Grandmother said that when Great-Grandfather achieved perfection, the Heavenly Demon appeared before him. She revealed that she had been watching him and been with him all those years. She said death wasn't some distant realm but just beyond the mountains and rivers. She then led him to a hill near the village. She said to safeguard the village and our world, he must protect this hill, for evil would come again. Despite the insurmountable odds and the absence of the Murim, an opportunity would arise. Block and strike true, and you won't stand alone.

Great-Grandfather built his house into that hill. When he and Great-Grandmother passed over the mountains and rivers, it was Grandmother who performed their ancestral rites and moved into that house, carrying the legacy of protecting that hill.

Grandmother had several children, but only Father remained at that house, maintaining the family tradition. Mother and Father had their own children, but all except one moved to the cities. I was the youngest, and I chose to stay on the hill.

Every day, I, like Father, like Grandmother, like Great-Grandfather, and like my Great-Great-Grandmother, the Heavenly Demon, practiced the basic block and punch until it was lean, virtuous, and without hesitation.

Father crossed the mountains and rivers when I was fifteen. Mother joined him three years later. They both died of cancer. The possibility of both parents dying of cancer within such proximity was an unlikely and sorrowful occurrence, but sometimes fate plays such cards. It just happened to be our family. After their passing, my siblings ceased visiting our parents' village. They also stopped observing their ancestral rites.

When I practiced our family tradition, I thought of my parents, grandparents, and ancestors. The day after Father's passing, I cried and practiced. The day after Mother's passing, I mourned again and practiced. Upon finishing our practice, I would sit beneath the tree Mother had planted and rest. I leaned against its trunk, shaded by its branches and leaves. She had planted that tree to provide a canopy for Father and me.

Sitting there, I felt the roots connecting me to my ancestors, the trunk securing our family and tradition, and the branches dreaming of future descendants. I especially cherished rubbing my head against the tree's bark.

Then came the day. The day that Great-Great-Grandmother, the Heavenly Demon, foretold. As I practiced the block and punch Father had taught me, that Grandmother had taught him, that Great-Grandfather had taught her, that the Heavenly Demon had taught him, I saw a rift tear through the air before me. My blood and bones recognized immediately what stepped out of that fissure—an Insatiable Fiend.

Behind it, through the fissure, I saw an army of Fiends. The harbinger stabbed his sword into the ground, and the earth bled. It knew to attack the land first to weaken us.

Then it gazed at me with eyes that denounced my humanity. To it, I was an insect. It gaped its mouth and unleashed a white cold blast. I blocked with my arm and felt a warm, familiar aura envelop my body. The blast was still freezing off bits of my skin. I was pushed back, all the way to Mother's tree. I dug my heel against the tree's base and struggled to remain upright. The pain was intense, and death seemed near. This onslaught continued for what seemed like an eternity.

I was tired and alone.

I wanted to give up.

I began to kneel.

But then, I felt a collection of hands pushing me back up. I heard Mother and Father, Grandmother and Grandfather, along with other voices, including the Heavenly Demon. My ancestors were with me. I pushed forward.

The Fiend's assault was not continuous. There were momentary gaps when it had to take a breath. My ancestors pushed me into courage, and I moved closer to the Fiend. With my family and ancestors beside me, my arm turned into a collective shield. Our ritual of practice was a communion of souls. I served as the conduit for their love and pursuit of justice. The moment appeared when the Fiend took a breath. It was fleeting, but so is life, and that's all the chance we needed.

I struck with the fury of my ancestors. Our practice was unbroken, and our punch was just and true. The Fiend was hurled back into the rift, and the rift sealed.

Blood dripped from my battered body. My breath felt heavy and uneven, and each inspiration was a painful struggle. My vision blurred. My insides felt shattered. Each expiration seemed like the last.

I was tired.

So, so tired.

Was it now okay for me to rest?

I sank against the tree and rubbed my head against its bark. I felt the presence of my Father's hand. Then my Grandparents', my ancestors', and the Heavenly Demon's hand collectively holding my head. That I had toiled well. That they were proud. That I could rest.

Then, another hand touched me. One that was the most familiar—my Mother's. Despite her illness, she used to walk about the yard, tend to the garden, and rest against the tree. She thanked it for providing shade and a foundation to lean on. Then, she would extend her gratitude to our ancestors as she asked for their protection over me and my siblings. She would call upon Father to watch over us and caress her head against the tree. I leaned against that tree because I missed her. I rubbed my head against its bark because I longed for her embrace. The tree was Mom, and she was still with me.

Exhaustion overcame me, and I closed my eyes. Then I heard Mom's voice telling me to wake up.

When I woke, I was beneath the tree. I was battered but alive.

I found myself surrounded by my entire village. Our fence was not tall, and it was easy to see into our yard. For as long as they could remember, the village bore witness to our family's daily practice. Yet, they had not seen me practicing for the past three days. Concerned, the villagers gathered together, entering our yard, and there they discovered me resting beneath the comforting shade of my Mother's tree. They, too, were branches of my family. People I had known all my life. People with whom I had shared celebrations. People I leaned on during my darkest times. They protected me just as I protected them.

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