With great worry he sought the counsel of the man who had taught him everything important in his life. "Little Father, something's wrong," Remo said, the worry evident in his voice and on his face.

The very old Asian to whom he spoke was in the process of packing. They were scheduled to move soon.

The tiny Korean had skin like ancient leather, dry and weathered. Twin puffs of yellowing white hair clutched the age-speckled flesh above his shell-like ears. He looked frail. He was anything but.

Chiun, Remo's Master and teacher in the ancient art of Sinanju, understood his pupil's unspoken question.

"Your senses do not lie," the wizened Asian explained in his singsong voice. "That which you feel is called the Hour of Judgment. It is the time when the spirits of masters past scrutinize the Transitional Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. As my successor, they will judge if you are worthy to become Reigning Master."

It was unnerving. The invisible eyes had trailed Remo from his sleeping quarters out to the common living room he shared with his teacher.

There was no one there. Remo was certain of it. But he had seen much in the many years since his training began. He had grown to grudgingly accept things that in his youth he used to dismiss as hocus-pocus.

"The spirits are all here?" Remo asked worriedly.

Chiun tipped his head. "There are probably a few dawdlers who have yet to arrive."

Remo felt his flesh crawl, cold and clammy. As if a too close spirit had just brushed the exposed skin of his arms.