The Outcome of a Life-or-Death Duel Is Absolute
Burning hands and blades erupted in a savage clash.
The fist-form of Shaolin's Eighteen Arhat Formation!
A wrath-cut from the sword arts of Terra's old West!
Their techniques slammed together with a thunderous detonation. The Eighteen Arhat Fist Art was the unarmed counterpart of Shaolin's Eighteen Arhat Formation; Zornhauw was one of the foundational cuts from the Western sword traditions of Terra's age. Both of these fools had studied a ridiculous patchwork of styles. That was the unorthodox way—ignore sect pedigree, scoop up every scrap of knowledge you can find, and make a specialty of being a jack-of-all-trades.
The blows kept coming. When Three-Blades brought a sword down, Jason blocked. When Jason swung, Three-Blades deflected. And between every exchange, fire rained. Sparks leapt at every collision of force, as if a whole forge of blacksmiths had taken leave of their senses and set to hammering iron all at once, scattering embers in every direction.
In the process both men collected a growing catalog of minor wounds—seared by flame, cut by steel, flesh torn open by fists. At full output, Jason's mechanical arm nearly wrenched Three-Blades' left shoulder from its socket. Moments later, the third blade carved a deep gash across Jason's thigh. And so it went, again and again.
In a true masters' duel, caution ruled, because each man carried techniques capable of killing the other in a single stroke. These two were not that kind of master. Protective qi made their durability high, but their lack of refined technique kept their killing power relatively low. The only path to victory was to land hit after hit, stab after stab, stacking damage until an opening finally appeared.
There was no room left for high-level mind games. Only exchanges, one after another, each answered by a split-second reaction to whatever the moment demanded. Attack. Block. Attack. Dodge. Attack. Failed to dodge—damage stacks. Those three loops, over and over.
As each man adapted to the other, the speed of their exchanges climbed. Strategy gave way to instinct. Spinal reflex outran conscious thought. It was a fight stripped down to pure wildness.
That feral contest only paused when their flames locked together and detonated in a massive explosion, the shockwave driving both of them several paces back. They were a ruin—scorched, cut, bruised, utterly wrecked. The lull was brief. Neither intended to waste a second of it. Both knew the next technique had to end this. Both were exhausted and bleeding. It was time to finish.
"Jason!!! You want your mother's money back?!" Three-Blades shouted in that instant.
"Yeah, you bastard—cough it all up!!!"
"Kyahaha!!! I'll give it back!!!"
"What?!"
"Watch carefully!!! This is your wedding savings!!!!!!"
Three-Blades settled into a ready stance, drawing up every last drop of internal energy he had left. And that stance was famous.
The Emperor's Sword Form — signature art of the Namgung Clan!
"Kyahahahaha!!! Jewanggeomhyeong!!!!!!!!"
In that instant the tavern plunged into collective shock.
"Did he just say Jewanggeomhyeong?!!!!!!!!!!"
"That's a Namgung Clan sword art!!!!!"
"Aaaaaaagh!!! Unbelievable!!!!!"
"Kyaaaaaaa!!! The Namgung Clan's sword art!!!!!"
"Do you have any idea how expensive that martial art is!!!!"
"That's what he bought with his mother's money?!!!"
"He ran off with the cash to buy a Namgung secret manual!!!"
Gong Ryun, equally stunned, shouted, "That's the famous signature hereditary sword art of the Namgung Clan!! How the hell did he learn that?! They sell that as a manual?!!"
"Oh, they sell it all right!! Jewanggeomhyeong is famous, but it's also ancient—the Namgung Clan has developed far superior sword arts as the ages have turned!! Still, it carries the brand of the galaxy's foremost family, so the royalties must be astronomical!!!"
"So that's what he bought with the money he scammed!!!"
And Jason lost his mind.
"YAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!! You!!!!! son of a bitch!!!!! You bought that with MY money!!!!!!!!"
"How the hell is it your money, you unfilial bastard!!!! Kyahahahahahaha!!!!!"
"You fucking con artist!!!!!! I will never forgive this!!!!!!! Hhkyaaaaaaaaaagh!!!!!!"
Three-Blades' psychological assault landed perfectly. Classic unorthodox work—the right mental attack at precisely the right moment.
Jason, nearly stripped of reason by pure rage, wrenched every scrap of internal energy through his body and dropped into a ready stance of his own.
"I will cut you into pieces!!!!!!!"
With that cry, both of Jason's arms blackened. Then they began to thrash with a bone-chilling vibration.
The Hands of the Evil God Asura — a fist art that mimics the arms of the demon Asura himself.
"Evil God Hand!!!!!!!!!"
Of all the martial arts he had ever learned, this was the closest thing he had to the Thousand-Armed Divine Palm. He poured everything into it.
"Yaaaaaaaaaah!!!!"
"Take this!!!!!"
Both techniques launched.
Jason's Evil God Hand came on a path of pure destruction. His two right arms resonated with each other's internal energy, amplifying one another, climbing into something monstrous. Had he possessed still more right arms, the resonance would have stacked geometrically higher still. The blackened pair of arms tore through the air as if they themselves were the other man's death sentence.
But an emperor does not concern himself with such things. To a true sovereign, they are simply useless. A king reigns.
The sword rose. Then it fell. The emperor's blade stamped down upon space itself. The floor split with a long, grinding crack. The air around Jason cratered inward. He strained with everything he had to keep his charge alive, but a force that pressed upon space itself bled the speed from his advance. The Evil God's reach lost its thrust.
And into that drop in velocity—
The blade came down. Compared to every other sword art Three-Blades had shown tonight, the cut was slow. But it was heavy. Jewanggeomhyeong was a heavy sword. And Jason's speed was already spent. Without hesitation. Without anything left to stop it. As if he alone existed under heaven—he struck.
And then—
The sword buried itself deep into Jason's right shoulder. Blood sprayed. Bone showed white.
"Gyaaaaaaaaaagh!!!"
Jason's scream of agony rang through the hall. His internal energy scattered; the Evil God Hand guttered out and vanished. He dropped to his knees where he stood.
It was over. Three-Blades' victory.
Having emptied every last reserve of internal energy, Three-Blades swayed under the sudden drain. The moment the match was decided, the tavern answered.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!"
"Yaaaaaaaaaah!!!!"
"He's down!!!!"
"Waaaaaaa!!!! It's decided!!!!!"
"He won!!!!!!"
"Three-Blades won!!!!!"
"The runaway husband wins!!!!!"
"That was beautiful, Three-Blades!!!!!"
"As expected, the Three-Blade Style is the most perfect sword art!!!!!"
"The God of Martial Arts has rendered his verdict!!!!!"
"So the unfilial son really was the worse one!!!!!"
Ah, the life-or-death duel—that ancient, enduring entertainment.
Gong Ryun and Un-rang were still busy trading impressions.
"What a magnificent match! Those two really are near the top among unorthodox mercenaries."
"Knowing the unfilial son lost puts my heart at ease."
"Though he didn't kill him. Well—he's going to remarry the mother, so he can hardly murder the son. Heh heh heh."
"True enough. Killing the boy would make family dinners awkward. Hahaha."
"That said, Arm-Dump Jason there… he handled Buddhist martial arts surprisingly well. Looks like his ambition to recreate the Thousand-Armed Divine Palm was genuine."
"Still, dumping everything into the arms was a bit much."
"Agreed. So—how did their martial arts look to you? Did you gain any insight or breakthrough from watching?"
"I did."
"Oh! What was it?"
"As expected, my joint-locking palm work is still the best."
"…?"
"Probably the best in this whole city, don't you think?"
"Heh heh heh. You shameless tiger. I asked hoping you might broaden your horizons a little—toward lightfoot arts or swordsmanship, that sort of thing."
"But I really can't use that stuff. I'm trying, mind you… but if it isn't a palm art, I can watch it all day and still not get it. No talent outside of palms. There's a strange certainty that comes up from the soul itself."
"So you still refuse to learn footwork?"
"It would be faster to learn footwork with my palms and travel everywhere walking on my hands."
"Please don't become some creature that has given up on being human."
"I don't particularly want to become that kind of monster either."
"What if… you just thought of your soles as palms and used them that way?"
"No. Feet are feet and hands are hands."
"Aren't they both just the ends of limbs?"
"Come on! No! Hands are special! It's like there's a whole extra brain just for them! You know that instinctively—I'm telling you!"
"Truly bizarre."
And so the conversation rolled on. Waiters resumed ferrying the backlog of dishes. The proprietor was already photographing the wrecked walls and ruined interior on his device, prepping the insurance claim. Under ordinary circumstances the tavern would have returned to business, and the patrons would have settled in to eat, drink, and flower the night with talk of the duel they'd just witnessed.
But it was not over yet. Not for at least one man.
"Khhuhhh…"
Jason moved his mechanical arm and quietly drew something from his robes—something every unorthodox fighter carried somewhere on their person. A concealed weapon. A poisoned dagger.
"You… bastard… that money… all that money……"
Jason had lost his reason. The proper rule of a life-or-death duel was to accept the outcome—but the last technique he had used, the Evil God Hand, was a martial art that twisted a man's heart toward demonic obsession. His mind was far from whole. Even ordinary common sense had fled him. And Three-Blades' final taunt had been devastatingly effective. Announcing I spent your money well while landing the finishing blow…
Set every excuse aside and the truth remained: this was unorthodox territory. And unorthodox types were not short on lunatics. No matter how far it strayed from heavenly ethics, if an opening looked good enough, they took it. Of course an unfilial son would. A man who never missed a chance to be unfilial was hardly going to miss a chance to stab someone in the back. A sparrow that spots a mill always hops over for a look.
So Jason gripped the dagger in his mechanical hand. Three-Blades was spent to the marrow, already half-collapsed against a chair. Jason poured his strength into a quick throw—Three-Blades had no internal energy left. He would never block it.
Jason raised the dagger—
And a blade punched clean through his back.
"…Huh…?"
Jason stared at the steel tip protruding from his own chest.
"Heh heh heh. Breaking the rules of a life-or-death duel. Stupid bastard. Die."
It was a mercenary who had been watching from the first floor. He had flown in like the wind and driven a sword into Jason's back. And immediately after—
Blade after blade punched through him. Like a pirate's roulette of steel. Other mercenaries from the first floor, and even skilled civilians who had been watching from the second, all arrived in a blur of lightfoot arts and sank their weapons home.
"Heeheehee!!! Breaking the golden rule of a life-or-death duel!!!"
"There is no overturning a decided match."
"Idiot. You're dead of natural causes."
"Even if you die, it's justified, kid."
"Hihihi! Legal murder!!!"
Each of them delivered a cold line while stirring Jason's guts. He coughed blood—and toppled forward. Just like that, he breathed his last in lonely silence.
"Unorthodox fighters are bastards, no argument," said one of the mercenaries who had stabbed him. "But that's exactly why the golden rules matter. You piece of trash."
Another chimed in. "You really can't trust an unfilial son."
"His posthumous nickname is now 'Unfilial Loser Bastard'!"
"Heeheehee! Another life-or-death duel legend is born!"
The poisoned dagger that had torn free from Jason's hand as he fell spun across the floor in a long, lazy circle—and came to rest against Gong Ryun's boot.
"Hm… I can't exactly give this back."
"Keep it. That sort of thing is like a home-run ball—the rule is that the spectator gets to keep it."
"Is that so. Hmm. I'll take it, then."
Gong Ryun wrapped the poisoned dagger in a napkin as he spoke.
"They really just killed him on the spot, though. No hearing his side of it or anything."
"The rules of a life-or-death duel are a serious matter. Even the God of Martial Arts has publicly affirmed them."
"Well… true. It's because lines like this still exist that the unorthodox side manages to hold together at all."
"Exactly right, Gong Ryun. You're a proper unorthodox man yourself now."
"I've put in a few years as a mercenary, yeah."
They finished their drinks on that note. The tavern crowd, briefly startled by the unexpected coda, decided it had been something like a movie cookie scene and settled back into good cheer. Cooks worked furiously at dumplings. Waiters gradually cleared the wreckage of the fight. On one side of the first floor, people lined up to offer Three-Blades their congratulations. On the other, someone was hauling away a corpse. Drunks laughed and shouted. A few patrons protested that the place still didn't serve cherry-blossom sake. Night settled deeper over the tavern.