Sword Dance
Following the thug down the stairs led to a massive iron door. Pushing it open unleashed the music—not just blaring anymore, but a pounding wall of noise that hit like a physical force.
Under the strobe lights flashing in wild patterns, the place was packed with bodies.
Humans rubbed shoulders with elves and orcs, and here and there loomed lycans or trolls towering a full head above the rest. Everyone shook and writhed to the club beats rattling their eardrums.
Tailing the thug through the crowd meant brushing past a dwarf puffing a cigar amid a huddle of elves and horned women, or vampire couples lost in frenzied bites and kisses.
Roque smirked at one pair locked in what might've been a kiss or a bloodsuck, letting out a low whistle. Two pairs of yellow-glowing eyes shot him a glare.
Roque and the thug crossed the club to a second-floor balcony overlooking the floor below. Up there, aside from tables near the railing, a few shaded private rooms offered more discreet spots. The thug hurried to a hulking figure standing guard, bowing low.
The one accepting the greeting was a white-furred bear-man over two meters tall, with a protruding muzzle. His black suit strained against his bulk.
He listened to the thug, eyed Roque steadily, then ducked his head into the shaded room he guarded. Pulling back out, the bear-man swept the canopy aside and jerked his chin for Roque to approach.
Hands in his jacket pockets, Roque sauntered over casually. Inside the room sat more bear-men.
"Here instead of Melissa?"
The one deepest in, puffing a cigar, fixed Roque with a straight stare. Roque gave a curt nod of affirmation. The bear grinned like it amused him.
"Cocky little delivery boy."
But he didn't seem keen to push it, glancing sidelong at another bear-man beside him. That one fetched a gray hardcase from below and set it on the table.
"The agreed goods. Take it."
Roque stepped up without hesitation and grabbed the case. As he turned to leave, the leader spoke again.
"Not checking the merchandise?"
"Figure you packed it right. Didn't hear anything about that."
"Hmph. A sloppy delivery boy to boot."
The bear stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, running his tongue over his teeth.
"Whatever. Long as you deliver, that's all that matters. Deal's done. Get lost."
Roque turned with the case in hand.
Melissa had warned of potential trouble, but it looked like this would wrap clean. No complaints from Roque—finishing a simple delivery job without bloodshed wasn't bad. She'd still pay up regardless.
Then one of the bears watching Roque's retreating back startled, whispering urgently to the leader. The boss's face hardened instantly, and Roque frowned.
"Hey, hold up. Stay right there."
Roque had already stopped before the call. His sharp ears had caught their whisper amid the thumping music.
He let out a small sigh.
Bear-men, often called Siberian werebears. Hailing from the northernmost reaches of Eurasia, they'd earned infamy as Siberian berserkers from the Russian Empire through the Soviet era. After the USSR's fall, they'd infiltrated underworlds worldwide, forming gangs.
Midland was no different—gather ten bear-men, and eight were likely Siberian gang muscle. Their outfit was led by an ex-Soviet officer, an old nutjob nostalgic for the USSR's glory days, nicknamed the White Specter of the Soviets or some such.
His name was Romanos.
"My little brother here needs a closer look at your face. Turn around. Don't go anywhere."
A few days back, Roque had raided one of Romanos's freezer plants—actually a front for an illegal pharma lab.
Just data, nothing worth killing over. He'd slipped in with a terminal, ghosted the server, and ghosted out. Merc work wasn't always about gunning folks down, like this delivery.
"Hey! You deaf? Turn the fuck around!"
He'd thought it clean, but apparently he'd left a trace. Hidden CCTV, probably.
Shaking off the distraction, Roque shook his head lightly and set the hardcase down slowly. The guard bear at the room's entrance growled, lumbering forward. His suit, already tight, now looked ready to burst.
"You deaf, fucker?"
A massive paw clamped Roque's left shoulder. Fluffy with white fur, like a cotton ball slapped on—but those claws and grip could shred human flesh easy. Any normal guy would've panicked.
Roque turned to meet the bear's eyes. The beast's face stiffened.
Of course—Roque wasn't normal.
He didn't shake off the hand. Instead, his left fist snapped into the bear's ribs below the arm. A meaty thwack echoed as the bear hunched. The grip on Roque's shoulder slackened.
Roque seized that hand, yanked the arm, and drove his right fist into the bear's jaw. A sharp crack like a whip.
The jaw whipped around, snapping back on muscle and bone. But the eyes were already glazing over. Staggering in a daze, the huge body tried to steady itself.
Roque scanned him coolly, then spun. His leg arced in a wide curve. A clean roundhouse kick smashed the jaw again.
The bear's bulk flew sideways, smashing the railing. Hundreds of kilos crashed to the first floor with a boom. Dancers froze in shock. Even the DJ cut the track, silencing the music for a beat.
Eyes flicked to the fallen bear, then up to the wrecked railing—and Roque, casually dusting his jacket under dozens of stares.
"You little shit—!"
The boss roared from the room, surging up. Three more bears around him joined. True to their berserker name, their eyes burned red-hot.
The leader slammed both palms on the table, muzzle splitting wide.
"GRRAAAAH!"
His roar synced with the music's restarting beat. Sensing trouble, the DJ and crowd bolted for the exits. Strobes turned the club into chaos.
Roque toed the hardcase to a safe corner as the bears smashed table and bottles, charging on all fours. He spun sharply. The lead bear missed, tumbling past.
Spinning forward, Roque's fist flowed like water into the next bear's jaw from behind. As it staggered, lightning-fast punches hammered ribs, gut, solar plexus—leather-popping thuds blending with the bass.
Leaving the gasping wreck, Roque pivoted and booted the tumbling bear's jaw as it rose. It rolled away again.
"GRRRAHH!"
Turning front, another bear tackled low at his waist—right toward the railing. Man and beast sailed into open air.
The bear outweighed two hundred kilos easy. Landing under that would've crushed even Roque's spine.
But mid-fall, Roque twisted his hips, stomped air—and flipped them. The bear ate the impact first. The floor cracked like a spiderweb under them.
Roque rose calmly from the stunned, slack-jawed bear. Music still pounded, lights still flashed. He scratched an itchy ear and glanced up.
The boss loomed at the railing, face twisted in rage or disbelief.
Then a long blade extended from his right wrist. Vibrating red-hot—illegal implant for sure. Roque smirked.
Just then, the punched bear finally toppled with a thud.
Like a cue, the boss leaped. His 2.5-meter frame seemed to fill the ceiling. Muzzle gaped in another roar.
"GRRAAAAH!"
Strobes stuttered the scene like grainy old film: bear plummeting, floor shattering in dust, red blade's arc, white fangs flashing, Roque blurring ghostlike, sparks flying as it gouged concrete.
Then—a gray flash.
The white shadow split in two, tumbling silently. No scream, no groan. The boss died the instant Roque's gray Aura Blade grazed him—like it severed body and soul alike.
Roque twirled the blade's handle behind the corpse, sheathing it with a satisfying snick of leather and wood.
"Hm."
Straightening his collar, he noticed the music had cut. Footsteps thundered in. Heading for the case upstairs, he paused, scanning.
The club doors burst open. Black-suited humans, orcs, bear-men poured in—Romanos's gang.
Leading them: the original thug guide. Pale at the carnage and bisected boss.
Ignoring him, the gang zeroed on the lone Roque, drawing weapons—pistols to heavy shotguns.
One stepped forward, pistol leveled, as the thug shivered.
"Fuck, you alone? Who the hell are you?"
Roque eyed the barrel, the hyped gangster, then swept the guns behind—ending back on the talker.
He said,
"Why come to a club? To dance."
"...The fuck? What kinda retard shit—dance?"
"Sword dance."
As the gangster's face twisted, a wooden handle appeared in Roque's right hand. Gray blade manifested from his will, blooming at the tip. In the club's heart, the Aura Blade gleamed.
And soon, gunfire and screams underscored the dance.