My younger years are some what of a blur. I think telling people the story has skewed the details and slightly distorted some of the memories I hold.

When I was a child, I lived on the edge of a village in the middle of Japan. My parents were humble, peaceful folk. They lived simple lives. Obeyed the laws of the land and didn't make trouble for anyone. Despite joblessness being on the rise my parents made ends meet and tried their best to live off the land to minimise how much they depended on money and others to keep our family fed.

My mother was a healer, of sorts and my father a game hunter. They would often spend their time together in the wilderness as my mother would go out foraging for herbs and berries to use in her medicines and remedies.

As was the case all across Japan, crime was on the rise. People were starving and had no work. Merchants would usually travel from city to town to village selling whatever they came across. Regardless of whether they came across it lawfully or not and regardless whether it was shoddy and unfit for its purpose. That is how my mother perished. She would rely on ropes and other equipment that wasn't available to her in our village to scale rock faces whilst gathering herbs. A set of clips not fit for their purpose broke one day whilst she was out. Causing her to fall to the rocks below, killing her instantly.

Heart broken, emotionally devastated and under financial pressures he couldn't cope with, my father turned increasingly to alcohol. Then to gambling. After gambling away all we had left, our home our lands and everything contained with in, he made a final foolish mistake. He took out a loan to gamble 1 last time to win it all back. He failed.

The loan sharks found him drunk gambling the last of his few coins, when it was time to repay his debt. His hands were cut off and he was tied to a tree and left to bleed out. He was used to serve as an example to others who'd think of not paying back loans they'd taken out.

After claiming his property, lands and possessions and selling them all off, they took me. This was at a time when there weren't any real life hero stories. No gestures of bravery and hope. Families were struggling to keep their own children fed enough to stay alive. They certainly weren't in any position to be risking life and literal limb fighting with ruthless criminals who preyed on the weak with no remorse or mercy only to have to take what little food they had from their own.



After being sold off to a man in one of Japan's larger cities, I was grouped with dozens of other children. Most of them like me, orphans without anyone looking for them. Some were there because they'd run away and had no where else to turn. All of us had one thing in common. We were only going to eat and have somewhere to sleep if we did as we were told.

What we were told was to take advantage of our youth. To seize every opportunity. We were to steal every wallet hanging out of a pocket, pick every pocket-watch not securely fastened. We were to wait for the beggars cups to fill up and snatch them. To feed ourselves from the market stalls whilst on the run and above all else, to make sure we were paying for our stay in the substandard beds we were messing our backs up on nightly.

The years rolled by. Many faces came and went. It seemed pointless getting too friendly with the others. You never knew when they'd get caught stealing by the law enforcement or get beaten or even stabbed by rival gangs of children who worked in the same crowded streets as we. Stopping to help them, to fight with them never helped them or you. It only ended up with you being caught or killed. Those of us who managed to survive were slowly and meticulously honing our craft. We were refining our techniques of nimble fingers and calm get aways.

Once I reached the age of 13 I was taken from the main dorm which I had spent all my time surrounded by many and feeling completely alone. I was taken to another part of town also operated in by the same group who had been using us down town.

There were groups of us, all the same age and apparently all survivors of the same life style. We were told that we'd be spending our next few years working in groups of 3 with a 4th member, a team leader who used to be one of us but who had proved themselves ready to train and lead others.

Every day we trained together, travelled together, lived, slept and worked together. Moving from using finesse to steal low quality items and chump change we'd be moulded into a unit to work bigger jobs. our tasks were dictated to our team leader who in turn dictated our tasks to us.

We were taught the basics of fighting and using concealable weapons. Since we were young and small we were shown how to use team work and our numbers to over come a large enemy. From there we frequently practised our new found skills on the drunkards rolling out of the sake houses late at night, sharing whatever loot we found evenly between us. We became proficient at starting fires, vandalising businesses and buildings and of course getting away with it. During this time, we had to learn to trust each other. The code we were taught claimed that if 1 of us were caught, we were all to be killed to make sure we wouldn't suddenly decide to become informers and spill our knowledge for the sake of saving the other. As thieves, vandals and other anti social undesirables were usually executed during this period.

3 years of daily interaction and having each other's backs does a lot for forming bonds. However, more important than our closest adoptive family members, is the family as a whole. A painful lesson. Those that could prove their understanding of this key principal would go on to join a family more loyal and closer than any they had experienced before.

The ritual which proves we understand that family comes first is centuries old and the more time I spend looking back at it the more I believe participating in this practice is the most barbaric thing I've experienced and I'm not going to mention much of what I've already done in my life but believe me, I've done my fair share of barbarous things.

My group was led into a cellar, beneath an abandoned hotel used by the clan I had been associated with all this time. We weren't the only group there but only one group at a time was taken down into the cellar. As we entered there were pools of blood all over the floor. One boy knelt on the floor crying aloud, begging for forgiveness. A stern looking man who was clearly unaffected by the boy's pleading explained all too clearly, that this unworthy child had just gotten his friends killed and was now about to die, too. Two men grabbed him and took him to the side of the oblong room. The two men held an arm each and pulled them in opposite directions to expose the boys body. A third man approached, took out one of his swords and drove it into the boys lower torso before slowly dragging it outwards. Along with a small river of blood, the boys organs slid out as he screamed in agony. The two men dragged the boy off through a door at the end of the room.

The same man who had spoken to begin with again began to explain that the point of this day was to separate the truly strong and worthy from the weak who would bring harm to the clan. All three members of each group were to fight with each other in close quarter combat, until only one remained. It was to symbolise awareness of the importance of following your superiors instructions, understanding the needs of the family's members to be strong physically and mentally and to ready us to kill anyone regardless of your feelings for them if it is needed.
He continued to tell us how the previous group didn't feel like they wanted to fight and the boy who had just been executed in front of us was to serve as an example that we will all die, painfully, if we do not comply. There was to be no mistake about the severity of the situation.

We were given a dagger each and told that if we attempt to take our own lives, or do not appear to be genuinely attempting to prove our self as the strongest of the three it will be perceived as non-compliance with the commands and the others will be executed, with one of us being used to set an example for the next group to be sent in.

I am telling this story and I can say the names and faces of my friends are still etched into my heart and mind and will be forever. We were taught that our adoptive family is our real family and that any previous ties within our lives were meaningless. Letting us know we'd be using each other to prove to our superiors that we understood this idea would have stopped us from growing to respect and cherish each other making it far too easy come this final test.

The same day this happened, whilst still covered in their blood and my own, I was marked in ink. 'Younger Brother' I was told that it would be my turn to lead a team and teach them all that I had learned, whilst keeping the code of silence on the final test.

Three years later, when my group of fresh faced students stood before my senior, they refused to fight each other. I didn't know at the time when I was in their position, the man who held the sword that killed that boy to set an example, was his team leader... I honestly don't remember their names and I can barely remember their faces. They weren't my brothers and they failed to prove themselves. Once I had shown again my acceptance of my position I was taken aside.

I wasn't expected to stay in the city any more. The new leader of our syndicate had a mind set towards expansion. Word had gotten out that several of the honoured members had managed to set up a foothold in the west of USA smuggling in drugs and prostitutes and returning guns back to Japan.

A small off-shoot headed up by Shogun had worked its way up to the state of Illinois. The liquor trade crossing the border was an extremely lucrative business and the higher-ups were keen to exploit the opportunity and strengthen their position there. So, as I was taught to do since a child, I made plans to seize the opportunity as a younger brother in the Yakuza.