THE LAST WARRIOR REVENGE

Unfair Rules

Arga rose once more to stand on the wooden platform. The next match would pair him against a fighter from a lower-ranked Sect — the White Horse Sect. He had heard that name before, a modest Sect whose members rarely made headlines in the great tournaments. Still, Arga did not know the finer details of their techniques, and that lack of certainty sparked an ember of challenge inside him.

A young man called Jinggo stepped forward, chest thrown out, posture proud. He was one of the White Horse Sect’s strongest seniors — a reputation that had earned him many bets and spectators’ attention. Jinggo’s eyes blazed as he paced the stage, every movement exaggerated for the crowd.

“I prepared everything to meet one of the Golden Step champions,” he shouted, voice carrying over the arena. “I wanted to show I could trample those famed fighters underfoot — but damned if that weak Sect was crushed before I could even prove myself! Tonight I will use you as my outlet for that fury!” He spoke with theatrical rage, feeding the crowd’s appetite for spectacle.

Arga’s gaze flickered. A cool light of annoyance flashed through his eyes, and his knuckles tightened into fists.

“You dare insult my Sect…? You will soon learn the cost of such words,” Arga answered quietly, each syllable measured and low.

When the bell rang, Arga took the initiative and launched himself forward. He moved like a gust of wind — sudden, precise, almost impossible to follow. Jinggo’s surprise showed on his face; he somersaulted backward to avoid the initial onrush, seeking to regain distance and tempo.

Before Jinggo could settle, Arga closed in again. He seized Jinggo’s foot with a quick, brutal pull; Jinggo lost balance mid-step. “Bastard!” Jinggo spat, furious at being tripped, but the insult did little to halt the momentum that had already built around Arga.

Arga did not give Jinggo time to retaliate properly. Two rapid blows hammered into Jinggo’s chest in a staccato rhythm so clean and forceful that the young man staggered. Though Jinggo managed to parry and block with trained technique, the sheer impact sent him reeling. For a moment he felt an alien strength press against him, a power greater than any he had expected from this unknown opponent.

“No wonder they fall in a single strike… such outward force… who truly is this youth?” Jinggo muttered inwardly, rubbing at the place where pain blossomed. He could not help the flicker of doubt that cut across his pride.

Arga’s expression remained cold and unflinching. He flowed into another burst of movement — fast, economical, and without wasted flourish. Jinggo decided then that flight would be unseemly; standing and facing the man would be better for his reputation. He braced himself.

The two traded blows and forms. At first Jinggo matched Arga’s basic motions, blocking and countering with the kind of experience earned through countless matches. Yet the moment Arga shifted into techniques refined under his master’s tutelage at the Golden Step, Jinggo’s confidence cracked. Each strike Jinggo launched was intercepted and broken apart with clinical efficiency. Worse still, several of Arga’s counters found their mark against Jinggo’s chest, landing with the kind of accuracy that made the crowd hush in surprise.

Jinggo stepped back several paces, clutching his sternum as a dull, pulsing ache spread beneath his protective vest. He could hardly believe it.

“I’m wearing third-tier protective armor,” he thought, aghast. “And yet his fist still hurts… This is no ordinary opponent. Dangerous… very dangerous.”

Arga had been taken aback too — not because Jinggo wore protection, but because he had not expected anyone on the platform tonight to take such hits and continue. That realization only sharpened his movements. He would not linger.

From the head pavilion, the leader of the Red Toad Sect watched with a trimmed beard and a discerning eye. “The young man has not drawn a blade since this match began; does he consider the others mere insects?” he wondered aloud.

“Perhaps,” another elder replied. “Jinggo is the finest student of White Horse, yet he struggles against a youth of unknown origin. He hasn’t even stated his Sect.”

“Should we investigate this matter?” asked a third, curiosity rising.

The head shook his head slowly. “Why bother? He’s simply a fighter who wants the grand prize of this contest. If fortune smiles, he might even win my daughter’s favor,” he added with a trace of amusement — the prize and its politics always mattered in these tournaments.

Back in the arena, Jinggo steadied his breath and began to circulate his inner energy. A soft tremor ran along his arms as the qi flowed, fingers tingling with the familiar warmth of stored power. He tightened his stance; the muscles along his forearm trembled as the energy extended into his hands.

Arga watched with a composed stare, both fists still clenched. When Jinggo lunged forward with a speed that carried the sting of intent, this attack felt different — more dangerous, honed by inner power. Arga met it, relying on his own fists rather than a blade.

Thud! The two blows collided with a sound like two wooden beams striking. They locked briefly, force pressing outward from both combatants. Jinggo held on for several heartbeats before his momentum collapsed; the impact threw him backward and he crashed to the arena floor. His right fist went bruised and numb.

Quickly Jinggo scrambled to his feet, but the crimson that leaked from the corner of his mouth betrayed the severity of his injuries.

“Damn… I’m wounded inside…” he thought, anger and humiliation spiking. Yet resignation did not enter his mind. “I promised the White Horse Sect I would win this five-year tournament… I cannot yield.”

With that resolve burning, he returned to stance, calling deeper upon his internal reserves. He withdrew a short dagger and lunged with a cry — a blade-assisted assault meant to pierce Arga’s defenses.

Arga sidestepped each strike with the calm of someone with endless practice. Jinggo’s tempo had slowed under injury, and that made his movements predictable. The dagger slashed open nothing but air as Arga flowed away, every dodge choreographed to leave Jinggo unbalanced.

Frustration boiled over in Jinggo. He lashed out with increased intensity, pumping more energy into every motion. But Arga was not merely strong — he was precise. One sweeping kick struck Jinggo’s back with merciless force; the young senior flew forward and hit the floor face-first. Blood sprayed from his mouth, painting the wooden boards a dark, wet red.

“Aaaarrrrgggghhhhh!!!” Jinggo screamed, fury spilling into panic. He had pushed himself to the limit and yet could not draw a single cut of blood from Arga.

“Enough,” Arga said, his voice low, already behind Jinggo before the other could turn. “I told you — do not belittle the Golden Step Sect…”

Before Jinggo could even raise his head, Arga’s final, decisive kick smashed into the back of his neck with the precision of a master. The sound of bone snapping was sickening. Jinggo crumpled instantly; life left him in a shudder.

The crowd erupted. Bets were settled in an instant: those who had backed Arga cheered wildly, while the losing side seethed. The elders shook their heads, some with reproach.

“This youth is too brutal. Killing him was unnecessary,” the pavilion head said gravely.

“Would it not have been better to face both opponents at once?” another suggested, thinking to soften the impact.

“Do as you wish,” the head answered with a dismissive wave.

True to his words, the organizers announced that Arga’s next challenge would be against two fighters simultaneously. Many in the crowd cried foul; it felt unjust to pit a single warrior against two seasoned masters. Yet the rules, whatever their fairness, had been set — and those in power enforced them.

Arga’s lips curled in a faint, cold smile. “I will kill every contestant on that stage,” he said quietly, eyes scanning the heads of the pavilion where the elders sat. “Watch me. I will even kill you if you stand in my way.”

The head of the sect bristled at the look, uneasy at being stared down so boldly. “Perhaps he resents our changes to the rules,” someone murmured.

“Who is he, to stare at a leader like that?” the head snapped, anger rising.

“Calm, head,” another counselled. “Let’s see how long he lasts. We’ll set a spectacle.”

Arga stepped forward onto the stage again. His two new opponents were introduced: a master from the Black Serpent Sect and another from the Silver Starling Sect — both elders and proven instructors. This would be a difficult test. Yet Arga’s expression remained unreadable as he prepared himself. He had already learned one lesson tonight: in this arena, rules could be bent — but skill and resolve could break them.