THE LAST WARRIOR REVENGE

Two Against One

Arga stared at the two masters now standing before him. His sharp eyes detected something off. During the preliminary rounds he had not seen these two among the nineteen other contestants. A chill of suspicion crept in: something about this contest’s rules did not add up.

He believed the organizers were hiding something. Still, Arga felt no tremor of fear. He knew these were not weak opponents — and the odds were unfair: two against one. It was a dangerous fight, but danger had never been enough to make him step back.

“Jalak Sasono, keep him from moving too much. Cripple one of his arms,” ordered the fighter from the Black Serpent Sect in a voice like gravel.

“I understand, Weling Ireng. This youth has shown a handful of techniques already; we can predict the direction of his attacks and his footwork. Don’t worry — my quick maneuvers will confuse his sight,” replied Jalak Sasono, a master from the Silver Starling School.

Weling Ireng of the Black Serpent Sect smiled a crooked, contemptuous smile. “We may look like cowards, but what choice do we have? The golden tail has already been taken.”

“No one noticed we replaced our pupils. You wouldn’t want your student to die like the others, would you?” Jalak Sasono asked.

“Of course not, my friend,” Weling Ireng answered.

Arga watched their movements closely and began to understand. These were not the same contestants who had stood earlier; the old scoundrel who organized the contest had clearly substituted teachers for pupils. That explained the different aura. It might also mean they underestimated him. Let them, Arga thought. They would only hand their lives to him sooner.

Jalak Sasono moved like a flash — a lightning-quick kick aimed at Arga’s left flank. Arga reacted, bringing up his left leg to block, but in an instant Jalak Sasono retracted and spun. His next strike arced toward Arga’s chest.

Startled by the speed, Arga nearly failed to hold the blow. Yet a clever thought surfaced in the heartbeat before the foot struck. Calmly, Arga let his body fall backward; as he neared the ground he twisted, planted his hands, somersaulted forward, and rose again perfectly poised in a single, fluid motion.

Jalak Sasono’s eyes widened — his feint had been avoided with skill. Many had fallen to that trick; few could evade it.

“A formidable fighter. His instincts are sharp and honed — he read that maneuver in a blink,” Jalak Sasono admitted, admiration lacing his words.

“Don’t flatter him too much. Your moves were easy to read. Watch this technique of mine,” snapped Weling Ireng, clearly annoyed by the praise.

“Do not underestimate him, Weling Ireng. You know the consequences. He is no ordinary swordsman — look at him: sinewy arms, corded muscles. He’s trained as if life and death were the only lessons,” Jalak Sasono warned.

“You’ll see, Sasono. I do not take him lightly. But stop praising him so much — your school’s manual won’t allow such gallantry,” Weling Ireng said, and without another word lunged toward Arga.

Weling Ireng’s movements were quick and precise, targeting gaps in Arga’s defenses. Arga parried with hands and feet in rapid alternation, matching each assault. As he fended off the strikes, he sneered.

“You cowards, afraid your pupils will die at my hands?” he taunted. The words surprised Weling Ireng.

“How do you know?” Weling asked, curiosity flashing through his anger.

“Relax. I won’t expose your identities. No one up there will know you replaced your pupils. But I could just as easily kill you both — nobody would suspect the teachers except for the petty men in the stands,” Arga said coldly, the threat plain in his voice.

Weling Ireng spat at the floor in disgust. “You are arrogant, youngster. You don’t know the depths of the sea,” he snarled, and struck again.

Arga smiled inwardly. He was not given to empty words; his responses lived in movement. With the swift, practiced motions his master had taught him, Arga met the assault head-on.

The duel quickly became fierce — a lively exchange of techniques and speed. Weling Ireng tried repeatedly to land a disabling touch with four fingers, a rare strike meant to paralyze the opponent’s muscles. Yet Arga’s agility kept those fingers grasping only empty air.

Seeing Weling Ireng struggle to counter Arga’s quick fists, Jalak Sasono entered the fray. The balance shifted: Arga found himself attacked from both right and left. Calculating quickly, he intensified his offense. At first he had simply answered each of Weling Ireng’s attacks without revealing his true strength. Now he could no longer hide it.

Reluctantly, Arga began to unleash the signature techniques taught by his master. He met Jalak Sasono’s speed and struck back with an equal measure of force and precision. Jalak Sasono’s surprise turned into begrudging respect.

“A very talented youth!” he declared aloud, unable to help his admiration. Inwardly he was tempted — Arga’s skill made him consider offering the boy a place at the Silver Starling School. But such thoughts had to wait; there were rules and politics to navigate.

Weling Ireng pressed on with all his might, but fortune tilted in Arga’s favor. With a sudden, forceful kick Arga connected with Weling Ireng’s head, sending the master sprawling. At the same time a powerful blow landed on Jalak Sasono’s midsection; the Silver Starling master doubled over and collapsed, groaning in pain.

Both masters rolled on the ground, writhing. Arga stood upright, chest heaving, and looked down at them.

The crowd fell silent, then erupted in cheers as the underdog had turned the fight on its head. Spectators stood in unison, breath held through the most dangerous moments, then released in shouts of exhilaration. Thousands in the arena loved the violent poetry of the duel.

The heads of the Red Frog Sect scowled in the audience. Their plan to eliminate Arga had faltered — though not entirely. The two hired fighters were down, but not yet finished: both rose slowly, bodies bent, pain evident in every movement.

Arga let a small smile curl. He regarded them as faint forms of their former selves.

“You should be ashamed to be what you are. Pathetic,” he said, his tone dripping with scorn. “You pose as masters, yet your swordplay is at the most basic swing. As a martial artist, I am disappointed.”

Weling Ireng, dizzy from the blow to his head, roared in fury. He would not tolerate such insult. “Arrogant youth! I will decide the manner of your death!” he bellowed, raising his right hand into the air. His lips moved as he muttered an incantation to call forth power.

The atmosphere dimmed as Weling Ireng concentrated the inner force into his right hand. Arga watched without blinking — he had misjudged the man’s level earlier. Now it was clear.

“He’s reached the level of the Mystic Fist. I must be wary of his right-hand strike,” Arga thought, sharpening his focus. Weling Ireng’s temple vein bulged and sweat soaked his garments; the intensity of his inner power was visible to every onlooker.

Jalak Sasono stepped aside, giving room for his comrade. The crowd murmured in disbelief. No one expected a contestant — or someone acting as one — to display the level of Mystic Fist. The contest was supposed to be for Iron-Body fighters and below, at most Sword-Swing novices.

“Is this a violation?” one spectator shouted.

“Of course it is! Two against one is a blatant breach, and now the opponent is a master! What kind of contest is this?” another demanded.

Questions about fairness rippled through the stands. The prestige of the Red Frog Sect was at stake; they could not afford a scandal. Yet the scene unfolding on the arena floor drowned out rules and protocol — it had become a test of raw ability and will.

Weling Ireng drew a deep breath; his right hand trembled under the weight of his own aura. “This time you will face my Mystic Fist, youngster. Remember its name even as you cross into death: the Serpent King’s Venomous Strike,” he declared, then sprang into the air and hurled himself toward Arga.

Arga braced. He gathered his inner strength into his fists, adopting a firm stance that set his body ready to absorb and redirect the impact. Muscles tightened like coiled springs; every tendon readied itself for the collision.

All eyes fixed on the two — breath held, time seeming to slow — as the decisive moment neared.