THE LAST WARRIOR REVENGE

Result of Hard Training

Weling Ireng darted forward, his right hand brimming with intense inner energy. His signature technique—the Poison-Breathing Serpent Strike—was infamous for its lethal potency. Even a light graze could cause flesh to blister and burn away as if scorched by fire. A direct hit, however, meant certain death—an end so gruesome that few dared to imagine it.

Just sensing the energy emanating from that attack made Arga’s instincts scream of danger. But he had prepared himself for this kind of confrontation. The inner strength he had cultivated through countless nights of relentless training flowed within him like molten steel. Though he was only at the Iron Body stage, his punches carried a force that could crush bone and shatter will.

When Weling Ireng lunged, Arga sidestepped swiftly to the right. Suspended midair, he waved his hand several times—he could feel something faint but deadly drifting toward him. A poisonous mist had filled the air, spreading from Weling Ireng’s palms.

"Even his poison chases its target… this man is truly dangerous. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up poisoned before the fight is over," Arga thought. He quickly wrapped a cloth around his nose and mouth, blocking the venomous fumes.

Weling Ireng charged again, his eyes blazing with fury. This time, Arga didn’t dodge. When the man’s right fist shot toward his face, Arga ducked low, swinging his left arm upward and striking the enemy’s elbow with precise timing.

Plak!

The sound of impact echoed sharply. The blow, charged with condensed inner energy, cracked through the air. Almost simultaneously, Arga’s right fist rocketed forward, aimed squarely at Weling Ireng’s abdomen.

But the serpent-like fighter reacted swiftly—his left leg lashed out to intercept the incoming strike.

Krak!

A sharp snap cut through the chaos. The sound of breaking bone. Using the rebound of that clash, Arga kicked off Weling Ireng’s chest, flipping backward to gain distance.

Weling Ireng staggered, clutching his throbbing arm. The pain was excruciating—his right elbow felt as if it had been smashed to splinters, and his left shin bone was cracked from Arga’s earlier punch. Worse still, the poison that once resided safely in his right arm began to spread uncontrollably through his bloodstream, corroding him from within.

Arga’s blow had struck the precise point where the venom was stored, rupturing the energy channels and letting the poison run wild inside its own master.

The crowd gasped in disbelief. A warrior of the Poison Mastery stage had been cornered by someone from the Iron Body level—a feat unheard of.

From the sidelines, Bhirawa clenched his fists. He had believed Weling Ireng would make quick work of Arga. In the Western Wind Nation, Weling Ireng’s poisonous arts were feared across the land. Yet now, he was faltering—his body betraying him, his strength fading fast.

"Who is this young man, really?" Bhirawa thought, his gaze narrowing. "He fights like someone born of battle itself..."

Arga stepped closer to the staggering Weling Ireng, who was now drenched in cold sweat. The venom coursing through his veins had begun to paralyze him.

“In a matter of moments, you’ll be dead,” Arga said evenly. “Before that happens, answer me—who orchestrated this entire scheme?”

Weling Ireng’s pale face twitched into a bitter smile. His eyes, already turning milky from his own poison, glared faintly at his opponent.

“Don’t expect me to betray my comrades… Fool…”

Displeasure flashed in Arga’s eyes. In one smooth motion, he swung his leg and drove a powerful kick into Weling Ireng’s chest.

The man flew backward like a rag doll, crashing into the arena wall with a sickening thud. His body went limp. Black blood oozed from his mouth, releasing faint wisps of smoke. His lifeless eyes stared wide open—forever frozen in horror.

“Weling!” Bhirawa’s voice thundered across the field. He roared in anguish at the sight of his fallen friend. They had grown up together—trained side by side since childhood. Now, his companion was nothing more than a broken corpse.

Consumed by rage, Bhirawa launched himself at Arga. Despite his earlier injuries, he unleashed a storm of blows with ferocious speed. Yet Arga met every strike effortlessly, blocking and countering as though he could read each move before it happened.

“You’re fast,” Arga said with a cold grin, “but not fast enough.”

In one fluid motion, he seized Bhirawa’s head and drove it toward his rising knee.

Desperately, Bhirawa raised both hands to block the attack.

“Fool,” Arga murmured.

Before Bhirawa could react, Arga twisted his torso and slammed his right elbow into the back of his opponent’s skull.

Prak!

The sound of bone shattering echoed like a hammer striking wood. Bhirawa froze, eyes wide, then lost all strength as his consciousness faded into darkness.

Arga’s left knee followed through, driving into Bhirawa’s side.

Buak!

The man was sent tumbling across the floor, rolling helplessly before coming to a stop. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth, pooling beneath his face. His breathing grew shallow, fading with each passing second.

The entire arena fell silent for a heartbeat before erupting in awe and disbelief. The battle had been brutal yet mesmerizing. Arga—still only in the Iron Body stage—had defeated two formidable foes, both stronger on paper, yet weaker in will.

Moments later, Bhirawa exhaled his final breath. His skull had been crushed beyond repair, and blood mixed with fragments of brain seeped from his nose.

From the judge’s platform, Kirana Dewi, who had been frozen in shock, suddenly snapped back to reality. She grabbed the conical speaker beside her, channeled her inner energy into it, and announced in a clear, commanding voice,

“Victory goes to Arga of the Golden Step Sect!”

The crowd exploded into thunderous applause. Cheers and shouts reverberated across the arena. Arga allowed himself a faint smile—cold, sharp, and distant—but that was enough to send waves of excitement through the spectators. The young women screamed in admiration, enchanted by the stoic warrior who had just conquered two deadly opponents.

Even the inn maid, who had been watching from the sidelines, blushed deeply. Her admiration grew tenfold. Not only was Arga kind and wealthy, but he was also a warrior of extraordinary skill.

Meanwhile, the leaders of the Red Frog Sect sat seething with fury. They had paid handsomely to ensure Arga’s defeat—yet their hired champions now lay dead.

“Tomorrow, we must bring him down,” the sect leader growled. “Arrange the match carefully.”

The man speaking was none other than the father of Kirana Dewi—the head of the Red Frog Sect himself. Beneath him stood five elders and dozens of masters, each skilled and ruthless.

The leader rose from his seat, his face dark with humiliation, and stormed away from the arena.

Among the remaining contestants, fear began to spread. None dared to face Arga next—except for one. A warrior with dreadlocked hair smirked from afar, intrigued by the challenge.

As the day’s matches concluded, the announcement came that the next round would continue tomorrow. Arga turned to leave, his expression calm as ever. But before he could step away, a familiar, melodious voice called out to him.

A young woman approached—beautiful, radiant, and smiling sweetly.

Arga recognized her instantly.

“What is it?” he asked coolly.

“I was wondering,” Kirana Dewi said softly, her eyes gleaming, “if you’d like to take a walk around the sect with me tonight?”

Arga paused. He didn’t answer immediately. His thoughts drifted to his mission—his reason for being here. Perhaps, he considered, walking with the daughter of the sect leader could give him the access he needed… a way to uncover the secrets hidden within the Red Frog Sect.

Finally, he gave a small nod. Kirana’s face lit up in delight. She clapped her hands and cheered happily, her joy so pure it almost made Arga shake his head.

To him, her excitement seemed childish—yet oddly sincere. And though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.