THE LAST WARRIOR REVENGE

The Warrior with Dreadlocked Hair

Arga stood tall in the center of the arena, his expression calm yet fierce. The Masters of the Golden Step Sect watched him from the high podium, their faces dark with resentment.

“Our plan failed again?” asked the First Master coldly.

“Not yet,” replied the Second Master. “Let’s see how long he can last with wounds like that.”

“Fine,” said the First Master, his tone sharp. “I’ll trust that this time, you’ll make it work.”

Within the Golden Step Sect, there were ten masters. The leader of them all was Rekso Atmoko, father of Kirana Dewi, while the Second Master—his old friend—was named Ningrat Penjalu.

Rekso had a daughter, Kirana Dewi, while Ningrat had a son named Bayu Sakti. The two families had agreed to betroth their children since childhood, but as the years passed, Kirana grew increasingly repulsed by Bayu’s behavior.

Bayu was known for his arrogance and indulgence. He spent his nights drinking, gambling, and chasing women instead of training. His martial skill stagnated, and his title, Sakti—which meant “mighty”—had become a bitter joke.

Even when sparring with Kirana, Bayu often lost miserably. Despite repeated punishments and lectures from his father, he never changed. Eventually, Rekso Atmoko called off the engagement entirely, disgusted by Bayu’s conduct.

Since then, relations among the sect’s leaders had grown distant; each focused on their own disciples and ambitions.

Now, the air in the arena was heavy with tension.

A warrior with dreadlocked hair stepped onto the stage, standing several meters from Arga. The two men exchanged sharp, measuring glances.

“I’m honored to face a warrior of your caliber,” said the dreadlocked fighter with a confident grin. “I hope to learn something from this duel.”

His name was Aji, a disciple from the Blood Bat Sect, one of the top ten martial sects in the Wind Nation. He had joined this tournament to sharpen his skills. The Four Nations Tournament would soon be held, and before that, the Western Wind Nation would host a grand selection among its sects.

Aji had been traveling from one arena to another, challenging the best fighters he could find. He thought Arga was merely a lone wanderer.

“I’m Aji from the Blood Bat Sect,” he introduced himself proudly.

Arga didn’t reply. He simply stood there, his eyes steady and cold.

Aji frowned. “Don’t act so high and mighty. You might impress the lower sects with that attitude, but my sect is in the top ten! When you realize who you’re up against, you’ll tremble!”

Arga exhaled softly. “Can we start now? I didn’t come here to talk,” he said, his voice like steel.

Aji’s pride flared. With a growl, he lunged forward, his movements quick and precise.

Arga, still nursing his injuries, had to move carefully. His opponent was no pushover. Though Aji was only at the Iron Body Level, his strikes were fast and relentless.

Their fists clashed again and again, the sound echoing through the arena like drumbeats of war.

Aji spun, sending a powerful kick toward Arga’s ribs. Arga countered swiftly, blocking with his left leg, then caught Aji’s shoulder with his right hand and twisted sharply.

Aji’s body spun midair from the force before crashing hard onto the ground. Yet, he rolled to his feet almost instantly, charging again.

Thwack!

Aji’s punch struck Arga’s open palm, the impact forcing Arga back several steps.

“He’s not bluffing,” thought Arga. “His external strength alone can push me back.”

Aji smirked. “Not bad! No wonder those weaklings lost to you. You fight well—for someone beneath the top ten.”

Arga’s gaze hardened. If he weren’t injured, Aji wouldn’t last more than three moves. Every twist of his body sent pain lancing through his back, but he endured it without showing weakness. Sweat poured down his face—not from fear, but from sheer determination.

Watching from the stands, Kirana’s hands trembled.

He’s in pain… Please, let him win, she thought anxiously.

Arga readjusted his stance, his breathing calm. He hadn’t yet used any of his master’s true techniques—he was still gauging Aji’s style.

Aji, impatient, unleashed his weapon—a long chain that gleamed silver in the sunlight.

As the chain lashed toward him, Arga sidestepped gracefully. His sharp eyes caught the glint of a blade attached to its end.

A hidden dagger, he realized.

The chain whistled through the air, its razor-sharp end slicing dangerously close. But Arga’s agility made him seem untouchable, darting left and right like a wild monkey leaping between trees.

Frustration twisted Aji’s face. “Coward! Is this all you’ve got?!” he shouted, whipping the chain faster and faster.

Arga ignored him. As the chain came sweeping in again, he suddenly leaped into the air, landing lightly atop the chain itself, using it as a springboard to charge directly at Aji.

The dreadlocked warrior’s eyes widened in disbelief. He yanked the chain back toward himself with all his strength, hoping the blade would pierce Arga’s back.

But Arga was faster. He kicked off the chain, flew toward Aji, and struck two fingers against a vital point on Aji’s neck.

Tap!

Aji froze instantly—paralyzed.

A heartbeat later, the dagger attached to the returning chain drove straight into Aji’s forehead with a sickening crack.

The crowd gasped.

Aji remained standing for a moment, eyes wide, before blood poured down his face. His body finally crumpled, lifeless.

Arga said nothing. He simply stood over his fallen opponent, his expression unreadable.

“Too much talk,” he muttered coldly. “Top ten? Hmph. Overrated.”

He turned and walked off the stage, calm and composed, and sat among the other contestants as if nothing had happened.

The audience erupted into astonished murmurs. Many had barely understood what had happened—it had all been over in seconds.

By using his light-body technique to step onto the chain, Arga had forced Aji to retract it, predicting that the weapon would come flying back uncontrollably. A perfectly timed strike to Aji’s neck had sealed his fate; unable to move, the young man was slain by his own weapon.

So clever… thought Kirana Dewi in awe. He didn’t even need to attack directly.

“Did you see that? He didn’t strike once—he let his opponent kill himself!” shouted a spectator.

The crowd cheered wildly, their admiration echoing through the arena.

Jaya and his companions watched from the stands, their faces pale with disbelief. Even their master, Marga, could only shake his head helplessly.

Arga’s strength kept growing, match after match. No one could stop him.

And on that day, under the blazing sun, the legend of The True Knight of the Golden Step grew even stronger.