THE LAST WARRIOR REVENGE

Poisoned Dagger Assault

Arga watched Wongso’s attack with a cold, calculating gaze.

He moved with lightning speed to the side, drawing his sword and deflecting the two flying daggers in a single, fluid motion.

Clang! Clang!

In the next instant Arga had already resheathed his blade. The crowd erupted in astonishment at his defensive skill—if those daggers had not been stopped, they would have struck the spectators.

“Not bad—so you could actually sense the qi I wove into those blades. I’m impressed,” Wongso taunted.

For a moment Wongso’s eyes lingered on Arga’s sword; a brief, greedy thought crossed his face. Then he sneered and continued, “Why did you put your sword away? You should have kept it out. That attack wasn’t the only one—I have many more daggers.”

True to his words, four poisoned blades were already in Wongso’s hands. Arga gave no answer to the man’s chatter. He remained intensely vigilant against the daggers and the man’s next move. His concern was not only for himself; he feared the weapons would injure innocent bystanders.

Wongso recognized that fear and a sly smile crept across his face. Without hesitation he hurled the four daggers—two toward Arga and two arcing out toward the front rows of the audience. He was certain the chaos would fluster Arga.

But Arga did not falter. Instead, anger flared in him at Wongso’s cowardice. He darted forward, intercepting the daggers before they reached the crowd.

Clang! Clang!

Two of the blades were deflected by Arga’s swift parry; the other two still flew toward the spectators. Arga, however, paid them no heed—his priority was Wongso. He lunged at the sect elder with a speed that startled everyone.

Wongso’s face registered surprise; he had expected Arga’s weakness to be concern for others, but the young warrior seemed utterly unfazed by the projectiles aimed at the crowd.

“Damn! I miscalculated!” Wongso thought, and he leapt back to create distance.

But Arga’s assault pressed on. His sword flashed free from its scabbard, a brilliant ribbon of white light gleaming in the sun.

Wongso brought his dagger up to parry.

Clang!

Sparks flew where steel met steel. Although Wongso managed to resist the first blow, an invisible force shoved him back several steps. His body skidded and rolled across the arena floor, but he scrambled back to his feet.

“Who are you, really? How can your strikes be so similar to those from the Mystic Strike Realm?” Wongso demanded, bewildered. Each breath felt shorter—the poison and the wounds were taking their toll.

Arga said nothing. His sword glinted, still raised and reflecting the harsh sunlight.

Fortune smiled upon the audience: one of the flying daggers that had headed for the crowd was intercepted by a woman in the front row. The female warrior shouted in anger at Arga, scolding him.

“You fool! How can you only save yourself? What about the people here?” she spat.

Arga ignored her scolding. His eyes remained fixed on Wongso like a predator watching a trapped prey.

Wongso gave a small, bitter laugh. “So you expected a woman from the crowd to move. Clever of you, young man.”

Arga’s smile was icy. “You are deceitful and shameful—using the audience as bait. Don’t mistake me: even if you beg and prostrate yourself, I will kill you.” His voice was devoid of softness; it carried a lethal calm that made Wongso flinch.

The threat cut deep into Wongso’s pride. He could not back down—his humiliation before his sect would be complete if he did. “I would never bow to you, bastard,” he snapped.

Arga made no reply. He thrust his sword forward and then, with a blur of movement, surged into Wongso’s space. The two clashed violently, weapons singing as they met—Arga with his Blood Sword, Wongso with poisoned daggers. Time seemed to compress as steel and will collided again and again.

Several times the Blood Sword grazed Wongso’s body. Though he evaded with skill, each touch left a cold, numbing aura that crept along his flesh as if the blade itself chilled the blood in his veins.

“What kind of weapon is that? Its aura is so strong…” Wongso muttered inwardly, panic edging his thoughts.

Arga’s techniques—moves he had learned from Master Barata—were fluid and merciless. The young warrior’s strikes boxed Wongso in, forcing him to defend continuously. Occasionally a blade nicked his skin and opened fresh wounds. With every cut, the Blood Sword’s power seeped deeper into Wongso’s circulation.

As the fight wore on, Wongso’s movements stiffened. The poison and bleeding compounded; he could no longer coordinate his limbs properly. In a sudden, brutal exchange Arga found an opening and severed Wongso’s right hand.

Crack!

“Aaaaargh!” Wongso screamed, the sound ripping through the arena as his body froze in agony. His severed hand fell to the floor, blood spreading darkly across the mats. Arga’s eyes were cold and merciless as he advanced, the desire to end the fight clear in every line of his posture.

“Please—don’t kill me!” Wongso begged, his voice raw with pleading.

Arga’s lips twisted into a contemptuous smile. “Sorry. I am not a good man,” he said, voice low and devoid of pity. He looked every inch the predator prepared to finish its prey.

“In last night’s attack, I followed orders from the sect’s leader,” Wongso rasped, voice thin with guilt.

“Why would you harm Kirana—who is clearly the daughter of the sect head?” Arga demanded.

“It’s... because I was forced by the sect leader,” Wongso stammered.

Arga didn’t lower his sword. He didn’t believe him—not yet. “I don’t trust your words,” he said, raising the Blood Sword so its tip hovered near Wongso’s throat. The sight alone made Wongso tremble.

At that moment, before Wongso could answer, ten slender needles shot out from the special platform reserved for the sect leaders. They flew with deadly precision and struck Wongso in the head. He collapsed instantly, lifeless, the murder orchestrated with chilling intent.

Arga turned his eyes toward the leaders’ dais. He fixed his gaze on Rekso Atmoko and Ningrat Penjalu, the two men whose presence now reeked of conspiracy.

“He tried to kill my daughter! He deserved to die!” Rekso shouted to Arga, his voice raw and furious as he stood and pointed an accusing finger.

Arga felt a sting of frustration—he had wanted to extract the truth from Wongso himself, to force a confession. But the man had been silenced by his superiors before Arga could complete his interrogation.

Kirana, hearing the exchange and the clearly revealed plot, could scarcely believe it. Tears pricked her eyes, the sting of betrayal from her own father and the second leader cutting deep. She clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles whitened; shame and outrage warred within her.

Arga looked at Kirana. He understood the whirlwind of emotions inside her. Her pain sharpened his resolve. He drew his sword and pointed it toward the gathered leaders without hesitation.

“Today—one of you is challenged. I call for a fight to the death in this arena!” he proclaimed, his voice booming across the stands and sending a wave of stunned silence followed by renewed commotion through the crowd.