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A Rising Force: The Story of Iken, Taiki-ken, and the Evolution of Modern Martial Arts

In a modest training hall tucked away in Saitama, Japan, a small group of dedicated martial artists gathers each morning. At the head of the room stands Son Ritsu, the honorary director of the Kyokushin Kaikan Saitama branch and chairman of the International Iken Association. His posture is calm yet commanding, his presence radiating the quiet confidence that comes from decades of rigorous study. The group of students bows deeply, ready to begin their practice. On this particular morning, they will explore the art of Iken—an ancient Chinese martial art with deep historical roots that have influenced and intertwined with the evolution of karate, Taiki-ken, and the broader world of fighting disciplines.

It’s a journey that began nearly a century ago. In the mid-1920s, a visionary named Wang Xiangzhai devoted his life to understanding the essence of Chinese martial arts. Traveling across China for about 20 years, Wang sought out the best teachers and the most gifted students, accumulating knowledge and forging friendships that would shape his practice. In time, he developed a system he called “Iken,” which soon captured the attention of martial arts enthusiasts throughout China. Wang’s commitment and accomplishments led to him receiving the title “Taisei-ken” from his contemporaries—an honor that acknowledged the brilliance and integrity of his approach, an approach that insisted on going beyond rote technique to embrace a deeper, more universal foundation of power, stability, and agility.

By the time Wang Xiangzhai turned 60, his reputation was formidable, drawing admirers and challengers from both near and far. One of those challengers was Sawai Kenichi, a determined Japanese martial artist with a string of victories under his belt. Having defeated numerous fighters in China, Sawai felt he had little left to prove—until he crossed paths with Wang. In their first meeting, Sawai was thrown instantly, the sheer ease of Wang’s power jolting him to his core. Undeterred, he tried again and again, only to be swept aside each time. Sawai’s pride quickly gave way to awe, and he resolved to become Wang’s disciple, forging a teacher-student bond that would bring Iken to Japan.

Sawai Kenichi took Wang Xiangzhai’s art and introduced it to the Japanese martial arts community under the name “Taiki-ken.” The 1920s were a turbulent period for combat sports in Japan, with many new schools and techniques vying for prominence. Karate in particular was on the rise, and its power and philosophy resonated with a wide audience—thanks in large part to figures like Oyama Masutatsu, founder of the Kyokushin style. Sawai, who had befriended Oyama upon returning to Japan, occasionally instructed at Kyokushin dojos, sharing the inner workings of Taiki-ken. It wasn’t long before Royama, one of Oyama’s devoted followers, sought Sawai’s guidance, as did other prominent branch managers in the Kyokushin organization.

Royama’s journey took an intriguing turn when he immersed himself in Taiki-ken’s practice methods. Impressed by what he learned, Royama rose to become a 7th Dan (Denshi) in Taiki-ken and eventually reconnected with Iken, seeking to study it in its purest form. Over time, he realized that the subtle, fluid movements of Iken might be the key to unlocking deeper layers of power, precision, and balance in karate. Slowly but surely, he integrated Iken’s principles into his own teaching, demonstrating to students around the world that the line between Chinese and Japanese martial arts might be more blurred—and more fertile—than initially assumed.

In the morning classes under Son Ritsu’s watchful eye, the training starts with Ritsuzen—the standing meditation that underpins both Iken and Taiki-ken. The students are told to imagine a “kamifusen,” or paper balloon, lightly suspended between their arms. The goal is to maintain a posture and alignment that would neither crush nor drop this imaginary balloon. Knees slightly bent, back extended, hips tucked just enough to align the spine properly—this is what they call “standing like a tree.” It may look simple, but the challenge is profound. Over time, practitioners discover the blossoming of internal power, a sharpened sense of balance, and an unshakeable mental calm that can be harnessed in a split-second burst of force.

When the morning session ends, the training continues in the afternoon with more rigorous exercises—rolling heavy rollers across the ground to strengthen the core, pounding sandbags to cultivate a steel-like resilience in the fists and forearms. While these methods might seem mundane compared to flashy kicks or spectacular throws, they form the bedrock of a fighter’s prowess. The seasoned students joke that sometimes it feels like building a house from the foundation up, day after day, hour after hour. The difference is, the “house” is the human body—and Iken’s nuanced instructions ensure that no stone remains unturned in the quest for martial perfection.

Royama, who once wondered if there was anything left to learn after leaving the Kyokushin organization, rediscovered his hunger for growth when introduced to Samaji, a fabled karateka known to have defeated dozens of rowdy street fighters all by himself. With an unassuming demeanor, Samaji shattered Royama’s assumptions about what “strong” truly looked like. Their first match ended almost before it began. For Royama, it was a reminder that martial excellence resides not in flamboyant displays, but in precise technique, strategic insight, and mastery of body alignment.

In reflecting on all these lessons, Royama often returns to Oyama Masutatsu’s pioneering spirit. At the Oyama Dojo, karate was never treated as a static art form, but rather as a fluid system that could absorb elements from various disciplines. This willingness to embrace new ideas set Kyokushin on a path of constant evolution. The rigorous kumite that Kyokushin is known for, the punishing leg kicks, the famous 100-man fights—these all stemmed from a mindset that respected tradition yet refused to remain bound by it. It’s a spirit that resonates powerfully with the philosophy of Iken, which Royama believes is more than just another style of Chinese kung fu. To him, Iken is a universal practice method—a living, breathing foundation that can help practitioners discover their innate potential, regardless of their primary style.

If there is a defining hallmark of Sports Illustrated-style journalism, it’s a focus on the human narrative behind the athlete. And the story of Iken is rich with human drama—Wang Xiangzhai’s relentless travels across China, Sawai’s humbling defeat and subsequent devotion, Royama’s search for the next step after leaving the established path, and, finally, Son Ritsu’s quiet but passionate mission to unify these threads under a single banner. Whether they train in a polished dojo in Tokyo or a dusty open lot in the suburbs, Iken’s students share the same intangible drive—to understand the roots of power in the body and how to unleash it gracefully in combat.

Standing at the cusp of tradition and innovation, Son Ritsu sees himself as a guardian, ensuring that Wang Xiangzhai’s vision remains alive. Under his stewardship, the Saitama and Jonan branches of Iken uphold the founder’s teaching methods, all while embracing an international community of fighters who come to train. Indeed, modern martial arts are less siloed than ever; cross-training is now the norm, and champions from different disciplines often borrow from one another. In this environment, Iken’s emphasis on internal power and strategic positioning feels more relevant than ever, particularly for those with backgrounds in full-contact karate styles like Kyokushin. The synergy that emerges from combining the explosive techniques of karate with the subtle, fluid energy of Iken can breathe new life into an athlete’s repertoire, granting them advantages that purely external systems may not offer.

And so, each day at dawn, a select few gather under Son Ritsu’s guidance, arms outstretched, paper balloon floating in their imaginations, bodies rooted like centuries-old oak trees. It’s not a scene of swirling acrobatics or high-voltage strikes—those come later. Instead, it’s a silent testament to the pursuit of martial clarity, a chance to experience what Royama once felt when he faced Samaji or when Sawai squared off against Wang Xiangzhai. It is, in essence, the pursuit of something at once timeless and ever-evolving—pure martial artistry.

From Wang Xiangzhai’s travels through China, to Sawai’s cross-continental revelations, to the modern transformations happening in Saitama and beyond, Iken has survived by adapting and growing. Much like Sports Illustrated has chronicled the odysseys of heroes in countless sports, we look upon the story of Iken as more than just a chronicle of technique. It’s a story of passionate individuals thirsting for knowledge, forging bonds across cultures, and pushing the boundaries of physical and spiritual discipline.

As the training hall finally empties late in the afternoon, there is a palpable sense of achievement in the air. Each drop of sweat on the tatami floor tells a tale of self-discovery. And perhaps that’s what martial arts have always been about: forging resilience, instilling humility, and helping us strive for continual improvement. In an age where new methods and fads crowd the marketplace, the enduring traditions and philosophies of Iken remind us that sometimes, to move forward, we must first ground ourselves more deeply, hands hovering around a delicate paper balloon, hearts open to the broader world of wisdom, waiting to be discovered.