Death (4)
“Haaah!”
Death let out a fierce kiai as he drew up his inner energy and fighting spirit.
The martial art he practiced was fist fighting—no, a brutal, practical killing art designed solely to slay opponents, devoid of any fixed forms.
Whoosh!
A wave of qi erupted from Death's body, surging toward Jang Cheon. It was a murderous intent so overwhelming that any ordinary martial artist would suffer internal injuries and collapse under its pressure.
The killing aura crashed over him like a sudden gale, but Jang Cheon showed no change whatsoever.
If only he'd at least pretended to enjoy the incoming assault, Death might have seized on that bravado to steady his nerves. But Jang Cheon betrayed no reaction at all.
Death tensed up sharply. His eyes grew cold and sunken.
If I don't get my head straight, I'm dead.
He was thinking this without having exchanged a single move.
Of course, Death was no weakling. The reason he entered the ring at the Real Championship—despite his lifelong earnings from the organization—was to prove himself the absolute best.
“I don't care who you are! You're going to die by my hand anyway!”
Death's form shot toward Jang Cheon. In a flash, he was already in front of him, unleashing a punch.
It was the movement and fist technique of a World Integrated Martial Tournament champion.
Shwick! Shwick! Shwick!
His fists sliced through the air with razor-sharp whistles, stabbing forward in rapid succession. They were too fast to follow with the naked eye. His style resembled boxing.
It was a martial art that ignored all form, existing only to strike and drop the opponent.
Death's previous formalized fist arts had evolved into this hyper-modern extreme.
His body was fluid, his punches lightning-quick. Even a graze carried enough power to shatter bones across the body.
Of course, he didn't rely on fists alone.
Whoooosh! Whing!
His kicks were equally invisible in speed, with force enough to pulverize rock.
Jang Cheon narrowly dodged the blistering barrage of punches and kicks, precise and relentless.
Boom!
The missed punch demolished the wall behind him. Yet Death's hand emerged unscratched.
Among those Death had faced since Jang Cheon arrived in Korea, this man was by far the strongest.
Without a word, both leaped into the air.
They moved as if the air itself were solid ground, their freedom expanded by yet another dimension.
Their exchange grew even more dazzling and ferocious, now utilizing the space above.
Shrieeek.
Death's elbow targeted Jang Cheon's jaw. Jang Cheon twisted his head aside, evading it.
A fist followed from that angle—unavoidable. Jang Cheon swung his sword.
If Death pressed the punch, it would land on Jang Cheon's face, but at the cost of his own arm.
Even if that single blow could win the fight, Death had no desire to lose his limb.
He withdrew his fist; Jang Cheon's blade cleaved empty air.
Techniques poured from them that even the World Integrated Martial Tournament finals rarely showcased.
Death ramped up his attack speed. When he committed, his power tore at the world like a tyrant.
To an onlooker, it looked like Death held the absolute advantage.
But as the clash dragged on, Death's expression hardened.
How could he hold back his aces against Jang Cheon, who had filled him with doubt, tension, and now profound shock from the very first encounter?
He unleashed his full arsenal of ultimate attacks. He'd cycled through nearly everything in his repertoire, yet he hadn't so much as brushed Jang Cheon's clothes.
Papapapang!
After a flurry of punches, Death leaped back on the momentum, retreating over ten paces.
Only then did he ask, his face puzzled.
“Why are you just dodging?”
He'd even anticipated Death's retreat technique this time, yet Jang Cheon hadn't pursued, letting him pull away.
Unless the opponent had trained only in evasion arts, someone who could dodge like this must have had openings for counterattacks.
But Jang Cheon hadn't struck once.
“Why? You damn bastard! Answer me!”
Death bellowed in frustration.
Had he ever erupted like this recently?
Of course not. Before rage could build, his foes died by his hand. No one had ever provoked him this far.
And Death realized it: this fury stemmed from fear.
Regular attacks won't cut it.
Death thrust both fists forward, channeling his inner energy to its limit.
Woooong.
A blue sword aura enveloped his fists.
Fist aura had manifested on his knuckles.
Sword experts wielded sword aura or sword gang. Fist practitioners could summon fist aura similarly.
But whether sword or fist aura, the drawback was massive energy drain.
Mishandle it, and you'd injure yourself—plus, such grand techniques left you open to counters.
Normally, there'd be no room for fist aura in this heated brawl.
Yet Death was certain, though he couldn't explain why: Jang Cheon would receive any art he threw.
True to form, Jang Cheon waited as the blue fist aura gathered on Death's knuckles.
“I don't know why you're giving me this chance, but you'll regret this arrogant lapse!”
Death charged again.
With aura infused, even a graze would inflict grievous wounds.
Yet Jang Cheon kept purely defending, dodging the aura-clad fists.
Boom! Bang!
The ground cratered; walls punched through.
Then came the decisive moment. Death unleashed his punch.
Blue aura poured toward Jang Cheon—a killing blow launched at an irrecoverable angle.
But Jang Cheon's form suddenly accelerated, slipping past. It was like doubling speed to octupling in an instant.
Kaboom!
The stray aura bored a hole clean through the steel wall behind.
As he evaded, Jang Cheon brushed past him.
Not charging, but gliding like on rails, his body slid by—sword slicing Death's in the same motion.
Shiiiik.
Splash!
Having expended massive aura, Death couldn't circulate his energy smoothly. He failed to block.
Death's gaze drifted slowly to his chest. Fist masters fought armed foes barehanded, so they tempered their bodies like steel.
Death was no exception—his flesh repelled blade strikes.
Yet his clothes gaped horizontally, flesh severed beneath. Hot blood poured from abdomen to legs.
He looked up at Jang Cheon. Questions burned, words queued. But only blood foamed from his mortal wound.
Jang Cheon met his eyes.
“You've improved a lot since the last Real Championship I saw. If you'd entered this year, top fifteen easy.”
A faint smile touched Death's lips. Toppling forward, regret washed over him.
What if I'd never joined this organization? Lived freely, clashing with foes like this one?
He'd done too many forbidden assassinations for them. Slain innocents under his tournament champion guise.
Yes, this was his punishment. Deserved death. And as always, regret came too late.
As his breath stilled, Phone Express pulled up.
Phone and the four-man crew disembarked.
“Boss!”
“Phone!”
It was the old moving truck, repainted with new plates.
The company name gleamed fresh. Seeing it, Jang Cheon chuckled.
5 Brothers Express. Not spelled out, but a massive eagle illustration made clear which five brothers.
“They fought over using their own names, settled on Four Brothers Moving Center. Then a wind blew—they couldn't leave me out, so this.”
“Hahaha.”
Jang Cheon burst out laughing.
Phone wasn't one for lengthy explanations. The naming squabble must've been a riot.
“Then let's get to work.”
“Phone, hang back a moment.”
“Yes.”
The four stepped up.
“We'll handle today's cleanup ourselves.”
They fanned out, tidying the site. Corpses, debris—all cleared.
Jang Cheon asked Phone,
“See it well?”
“Yes.”
“Any insights?”
“Plenty.”
That answered Death's puzzlement. Jang Cheon had prolonged the defense-only fight for Phone's sake.
Phone practiced fist arts too. Objectively, a notch or two below Death.
Thus, he'd demonstrated fist arts' weaknesses—and how to counter sword users—in live combat.
Death was a world tournament champ; no better teacher. Jang Cheon risked a bit to let Phone observe.
But he didn't stop there.
“Watch once more.”
Jang Cheon replayed the fight for Phone, like reviewing a Go game. He recreated it beat for beat, Death seeming alive again.
Key moments slowed like video replay—no words needed; importance shone through.
Phone absorbed every frame, eyes locked on Jang Cheon's movements.
Lesson done, Jang Cheon asked,
“Questions?”
“Yes.”
Phone fired away without reserve.
When the foe did this, advance or retreat? Fists or feet here? Dodge and wait, or...? Aura timing? Release cues?
Every doubt aired; Jang Cheon explained in detail.
Phone probed Jang Cheon's side too.
Why evade that way, not this? Why that attack?
Some spots, the opponent's view mattered more. Fights were indeed a game of numbers.
Explanations wrapped, Phone bowed deeply.
“Truly grateful, Boss.”
Just witnessing was huge; dissecting thoughts made it invaluable.
Sometimes one solid lesson outpaced years of solo training. This was that moment.
Meanwhile, the four erased Death's body and all fight traces. The desolate factory windswept back to normalcy.
Phone Express—no, 5 Brothers Express—departed. A jaunty march blared, mirroring Phone's mood.