Oy, Piers! For a writer who is capable of such greatness, it's hard to imagine how such dreck flowed from your pen. Granted, this was a collaboration, but even so, this is a serious low point in Anthony's oeuvre, as the mid-70s remained remarkably spotty for him. Where to even begin...?
Normally I would never have considered reading a novel about martial arts since they don't interest me in the least, but as a fan of Piers Anthony's (better) work, I tried to approach this book with an open mind. And, to be fair, the descriptions of the various arts and contests were probably the strongest passages to be found here. But the co-authors stumble, and ultimately fall, on nearly every other count. Most glaring is the unrelenting misogyny which mars this book to the point of near unreadability. The female characters are presented as little more than convenient sheaths for erect penises. Even more troubling is the characters' penchants for underage girls, a disturbing and repulsive motif which, alarmingly, is not unique to this Anthony book.
Other problematic elements include an incestuous relationship; the miraculous -- and, frankly impossible -- spontaneous healing of a paraplegic man, which only serves to minimize the state of those who are actually paralyzed and confined to wheelchairs; ignorant, paper-thin racial stereotypes; the frequently episodic nature of the plot; the plot's predictability, resulting in a total dearth of surprises; and especially the ending in which the authors, after writing in a more or less realist style for the first 180 pages, suddenly appeal to the mysticism of a transfer of souls from a dying old man to a young boy, a gimmick which smacks of a lazy deus ex machina.
After reading this I felt the urge to light a match: a real stinker! If you want a brilliant Anthony book from roughly the same era, try "Prostho Plus," and skip this steaming pile unless, like me, you're an obsessive completist.