An airborne warrior donning a brindled cloak of blaze, black, and silver feathers and a golden lance in one arm took a speedy plunge toward a spider-shaped Cursed Warrior. In such a manner, two factions that hadn't met in warfare throughout recorded history have sealed their rivalry in stone. The Sky and Cursed Warriors had no legitimate reason to hate one another. The Cursed Warriors may not have even been capable of feeling hatred, yet the number of Sky Warriors struggling and facing elimination at the hands, tentacles, or appendages of other sorts of the Sky Warriors had forged this rivalry out of thin air.
The Cursed Warrior appearing as a saucer-shaped black stone with a ring of magenta-colored lights and eight gemstones for eyes tucked its saucer-like platform in between eight legs. Destructive rays of energy reflected from the gemstones in the Cursed Warrior's eyes fired in all directions. Despite engulfing the unprepared Sky Warrior, they only hit an afterimage left in the air while the speedy Sky Warrior rolled sideways with his golden drill-lance firmly clenched in one arm.
The spider-like Cursed Warrior tilted its central platform, revealing a tiny hole down underneath. What looked like a point of weakness revealed itself to be a terrifying weapon just a blink later as the spider of black stone spat a jet of blue flames in the air. While initially thin and compact, the washing wave of cerulean fire became a fearsome firestorm in its spread. A warm embrace of it nuzzled the Sky Warrior's cloak that he used to glide high in the air, making the glide teeter over the edge of being defined as a plummet.
Not feeling content with mere small victories, the Cursed Warrior stomped its pillar-like leg down and spread cracks that lit up with a magenta-colored glow, just like the Cursed Warrior's own central platform. A flash of beaconing light from the cracks made the Sky Warrior struggling against the laws of physics to correct his landing stiffen in place as if he had become paralyzed and flopped on his side with a nasty crunch. In a cruel twist of irony, it was now the spider that held its leg over the fallen Sky Warrior, threatening to squish him.
"Yet another Sky Warrior challenges the insurmountable challenge of the Cursed Warriors!" the announcer noticed the originating rivalry. "Until now, not a single warrior challenging these walking forts managed to overcome them. Despite their massive size cluttering up a considerable portion of the ring, no one eliminated a single one of these mysterious warriors! What's even more fascinating is how little is exactly known of these champions! Could it be that same mystery that makes any challenger succumb to failure when faced by one of them?"
The announcer proved himself to be a pro at his job as the audience instantly piqued interest in the blood fest and began rooting for the fallen Sky Warrior. It became almost a challenge to see the indomitable Cursed Warriors lose one of their own for they were one of few factions not to have lost a single warrior despite finding nothing but rivals and enemies in the arena because of their size and raw power that compromised with no one. Betting wars made lusters of gold shine in the eyes of the audience that thrived on events such as these and lived for bread and circuses.
The stamping foot of destruction stopped. The golden lance shoved in between the stomping rock and the hard place down below embedded into the Cursed Warrior's foot to accomplish this feat, yet the walking fort itself seemed to care very little about this. Almost as if it felt no pain from having a lance stuck in its foot at all. Seeing his chance to avoid defeat, the Sky Warrior fashioning himself after a falcon took a speedy dive to the side and vanished, wowing the crowd with his alacrity.
A resonance of booms and blurs of blaze and black surrounded the colossal spider configuration of stone, yet a simple gleam of destructive rays from its gemstone eyes engulfed the Sky Warrior in magenta-colored light and singed his feathery coat to pitiful scraps. With an audible grunt, the burnt and scraped Sky Warrior dragged across the ground. A few feuding fighters showed interest in finishing the injured Sky Warrior off and flinging him out of the ring, but, upon the sight and earthquake of the approaching Cursed Warrior, they fled to seek more favorable challenges.
Staggering, the Sky Warrior rose to his feet and clapped his hands together, before drawing them apart in a hand position resembling a hand seal. The fallen feathers gleamed with orange light and lifted off the ground. The light within the Cursed Warrior faded and the central platform hanging above the pillar-shaped stone legs slumped forward in a dangerous lean.
"Many warriors seek to purge the impression they are human from their appearance. We Sky Warriors too are guilty of this, fashioning ourselves after the majestic birds of prey…" the Sky Warrior grumbled while dashing onward at a fraction of his earlier speed to retrieve his golden lance still stuck in the dangling foot of the Cursed Warrior. "Though your kind proved itself the most successful in this endeavor. Nevertheless, since you've fallen for my technique, the others now see the blood in the water. Even if I lack the strength to finish this, I've shown better men than me you are no walking machines of war. Inside, you have hearts of men."
Taking a bountiful leap into the air, the Sky Warrior flipped over his back and focused a tremendous amount of chakra into his feet, which expelled in a tiger-colored halo shockwave. The boom boosted him onward in a mad flight toward the hypnotized and slumbering giant. Slamming his golden drill lance into the central snout of the cursed spider, golden electricity crackled around it and shot wild lightning jolts in all directions that traveled through the drill-like ridges across the lance.
Despite the considerable strike, the Cursed Warrior stood tall. Still, the Sky Warrior's best thrust had corrected its leaning position into a straight-up stretch. Failing to even topple the colossus down, the Sky Warrior found himself walking on a staircase of his own chakra-infused feathers that crackled with bright electrical aura and formed a staircase for him to descend to ground level on before running out of the jolt and daintily landing on the ground. Unlike the field of pretty falcon feathers, the Cursed Warrior with a beak-shaped golden cowl mask found ample challenge against those smelling his own blood in the water and seeking a far easier elimination than the static and slumbering giant.
"The Dragon Fist style is gaining notoriety in Konohagakure. It is forming a tide that makes more and more young shinobi leave Strong Fist and pick up Dragon Fist to where the Ninja Academy is inviting specialists to teach it during taijutsu class alongside Strong Fist," Kochi Senju, an ash-haired Konohagakure ninja who was an element of a wide circle of warriors of different creeds and philosophies, all surrounded a single man seated atop of a dislodged boulder like a prophet speaking to his flock. "What do you, a man widely considered an all-time greatest martial artists think about it?" the young man asked with star-stricken eyes while looking at the man in a sleeveless, orange and black tracksuit with messy, neck-long hair of spikes so long that they no longer spiked up but hung down loosely.
"I have faced plenty of Dragon Fist fighters recently. Dragon Fist is an ancient style, I have nothing but respect for it. It delays aggression and defends flawlessly until it explodes with unmatched ferocity and there's so much luster in its savagery. I can easily see why the youth is attracted to the flare of its sudden violence. It is as flashy as it is effective, however, the Dragon Fist of modern day is just a translation of an extinct martial arts style. There are no true Dragon Fist masters alive today, which is why it is just a trend and a passion to some, not a fighting style suitable for the balance and discipline of the military," the Messiah of Martial Arts proclaimed and the circle of his audience nodded and mumbled in agreement and appreciation of his word. "I think the Konoha ninja are better off sticking to Strong Fist, but truly mastering it."
With his closed eyes and calm expression, one would easily make the mistake of thinking that the Messiah was unaware of the sudden cover of shadow looming over his head. A shadow of a ghastly specter floating over his head with a sharp knife clenched tightly in his right hand. The Scorn Reaper's visage lingered above the martial arts philosopher, who rested after an extensive answer. Despite a disadvantageous position, in a blurry blink, the man in an orange and black tracksuit stood turned around a full one-eighty with a roundhouse kick locked and loaded, and swatted the charging serial killer aside.
"An assassin!? Here!?" a martial artist with a black dogi, well past his prime, gasped in shock while the Messiah of Martial Arts returned to his light hop with shifting dominant legs, signaling grace and flawless technique in his footwork.
"It's that Scorn Reaper! The serial killer identity adopted by those feeling profound hatred toward those they would murder donning this mask and cloak!" another ninja from the crowd pointed at the fallen masked serial killer who didn't as much as pant in pain, just laid there on his back staring at the murky sky above and the countless sand grains shuffling in a stormy drizzle.
"I, of course, understand that one trying to overcome me would attack from behind with a weapon. Challenging me in a fight is straight-up suicide, after all," the spiky-haired philosopher shrugged, breaking his stance. In a blink, the serial killer with a mischievous, demonic grin on his mask flashed behind him with his knife in hand, suddenly revived.
"Jet, the so-called Messiah of Martial Arts… I knew you'd be here. Your cocky nature wouldn't forgive skipping an opportunity to shove your stupid face down everyone's throats," the masked serial killer taunted his intended victim, becoming still while the charismatic Jet paced left and right. While he stood an almost guaranteed chance of victory if the martial arts entranced by him joined in the fight, his followers and fans stood still and admiration of their idol and couldn't wait to see another demonstration of The Way of Jet.
With his knife shuffling left to right, the Scorn Reaper charged at the martial artist like a possessed specter. Jet dashed onward with a backhand smack, but his arm disappeared in the black cape. Eventually, the Messiah of Martial Arts must have counted on reaching flesh and bone, but he never did. Instead, his limber opponent gave him the slip, leaving only his empty cloak floating. Spreading psychotic laughter, the serial killer moved from the side and slashed at a tendon in between Jet's shoulder and his triceps.
Instead, the moving knife caught itself in the firm fabric of the sleeveless tracksuit that Jet wore. In a clever twist, the Messiah entrapped his opponent's blade with the use of the same fighting technique that used one's clothes which granted the Scorn Reaper the slip. Before the serial killer now slipped into a full body, tight and black jumpsuit could react, a backhand smack crashed into the center of his face, knocking him back. A straight to the chest fixed the airborne and unbalanced serial killer in a straightened position that prepared him for the following flurry of hands and the finishing backhand smack which shattered the serial killer's mask and sent him flying and landing on his back.
"You mistakenly assumed that just because you do not use a martial arts style, I cannot do what you do better. Truthfully, any pattern and any fighting style can be considered martial arts when used in combat. Relying on the rigidity of a fighting style is as wrong as discarding discipline and order in fighting completely and relying on singular moves and primitive strategies…" the young philosopher on the art of war turned around and began postulating to his admirers. All of them clapped and cheered for their peerless idol.
A grunt came from the fallen serial killer, then another. The noises sounded wet. Almost like the accumulated damage from facing the challengers that the Scorn Reaper had encountered was too much for the serial killer to finish the job on the intended target. With busted ribs and difficulty breathing because of a busted nose and an influx of blood down in the airways, the man behind the Scorn Reaper mask picked himself up off the ground, still clutching the ribs.
"Self-righteous, pompous prick!" the recovering man behind the shambled identity of the Scorn Reaper gargled, squeezing his voice through blood and teeth, which he was still accumulating into a single mouthful to spit out. "Spare me having to hear your intolerable voice and finish the job already…"
"Why would you demand I take away your opportunity to learn a lesson and improve yourself? Laziness, perhaps?" Jet shrugged after turning around and picking up the tracksuit with a notable cut on its center that he slipped into in order to cover up his subtle yet firmly chiseled features.
"Laziness… That's fucking rich… Coming from you…" the swollen and pummeled man behind the Scorn Reaper persona clenched his fists. One would have assumed someone who adopted an urban legend serial killer persona in order to realize his revenge fantasies to be a pitiful and weak man, but the one that hid underneath the Scorn Reaper identity was a handsome and sinewy man of pristine haircut and gem-like eyes himself before a fist smashed his pretty face and a disgraced fall ruined his hair.
"This man…!" the announcer corrected his glasses while squinting to get a proper look at the one hogging the spotlight. He then picked up and extended a one-eye telescope to zoom the view in just to make sure. "He is no warrior! He is an actor of worldwide renown, Shitoko Ishida from Fire Country! What on Earth is he doing here!?"
The audience rustled in unease. Some of them who knew the man behind the name and those well-traveled could share the announcer's surprise whereas others that have never left the Wind Country had to hear it from the mouths of their neighbors exactly who the famous theatre star disguised by the Scorn Reaper identity was.
"Not a warrior… That's what they all think. That's what they all say…" Ishida clenched his fists and collapsed, spraying blood from his broken nose all over the tiles as he slammed his bruised forehead into the ground. "Ever since you showed up…!"
"Shitoko Ishida? I don't believe we've worked together. I thought the Scorn Reaper identity required deep-seated hatred. Reckless abandonment of humanity once you had no more left. It was water to fill an empty bottle once the man had been spilled and wasted," Jet scratched the back of his neck.
"We haven't, you pompous ass. Because ever since directors realized they could cast an actual martial artist genius for their plays, people like me, who lived their entire lives as stars of martial art dramas, just couldn't keep up. Look at these jacked pieces of shit!" Ishida stood up and scanned the circle of warriors surrounding their Messiah. "Boards of wood, the lot of them. The most emotional depth they've shown in their entire miserable lives is when they found their pathetic idol to prance around and cheer for. But you… You're different. As much as I loathe every fiber of your being, I can admit to that much. You've got what it takes, you've got charisma…"
"While I respect your bleeding heart, Ishida-san, I'll have to ask you to put some respect behind the names of these men. You do not have what it takes to share the ring with them, and if you continue to disrespect them, I shall show you out in their stead," Jet warned the loudmouth and humbled actor.
"Takes a lot of gut from you to talk about disrespect. You… The fucker that just prances into Fire Country one day from the other end of the world and begins showing off, taking people's jobs, and hogging the spotlight. Even that ridiculous dialect of yours, if someone like me showed up and spoke like some backward hick, they wouldn't get a part as the poster boy of Ichiraku Ramen ad, let alone a starring role in a martial arts epic," Ishida pointed his finger at Jet who closed his eyes, persevering through the disrespect shown to him with wrath that simmered silently within.
"Ishida-san, if someone from the other side of the world shows up in your village, barely speaks the language and hasn't acted a day in his life, can't read the lines on the script, and he takes your dream roles–you were never that great of an actor, to begin with," Jet tried reasoning with the fuming man but the bloodied and humiliated actor with a ruined haircut began stumbling forward to where his discarded knife laid on the ground.
"This isn't the first time some pretty boy asswipe shows up and charms the director and gets a role way out of their league. What pisses me off the most, though, is the fucking disrespect. The self-righteousness and arrogance of you giving people pointers and acting like you're better than anyone else. Newsflash, Yanagi, you're not…" Ishida approached the knife and leaned to pick it up. Given how in his broken state he now posed no threat, Jet continued to stare at the disgraced actor while an uneasy rustling picked up amongst his fans.
"Oh, sorry, didn't you know? His real name isn't Jet. That's the most made-up-est name in existence. He only thought it up because Jet-Do, the Way of Jet, had a ring to it. That's all his phony philosophy bullcrap is–a fancy-ass scheme to lull you suckers in. His real name is Yanagi Shintochi, he had to give it to the Konohagakure ninja for security reasons and I caught a glimpse of the forms he filled up when ninja visited him on set," Ishida broke into manic laughter, squeezing the knife in his hands enough to crack and break the handle.
"You are allowing your hatred to blind you, Ishida-san. It is you who does not know what it is like to be a foreigner who doesn't want to take part in a war trying to make a living in another country that seems like everyone has their place set and there are no seats left for you. You say I act cocky. I say–I do my best to get noticed and work every second of the day to justify those bold claims because cocky is the last thing I want to be. As someone who has known a hundred defeats and learned a thousand lessons from them, I ask that you accept this one and learn from it. Learn that you have lived a life of entitlement and, for the first time in your life, work for that which you saw as owed to you. Even now, instead of truly beginning your path as a capable martial artist and challenging me as my peer, you have taken up the mantle of a killer and stabbed at me from behind. You'd have lost even if you had succeeded, Ishida-san," Jet replied with a stoic expression on his face for the first time. The smirk, the rippling facial muscles, and the magnetic charisma all vanished without a trace.
"You clodhopper, you think I've adopted that ridiculous fucking mask to kill you?" Ishida yelled out, all restraints keeping the volume of his voice from exploding having vanished at once. "No… This was the only way for someone like me to enter this tournament and travel here unrecognized. I have become a victim of my own fame. Because of you, I can't get any roles, but I can't do anything else either, because I'm "that theatre guy from all those fighting plays"."
Ishida brought his knife-wielding arm down, only for it to be met with a roundhouse that prevented him from plunging the blade into his own heart, then another to the left jaw, that rendered the man unconscious and flung him out-of-bounds like a sack of bricks. The crowd around Jet cheered and pumped their fist for an excellently executed Way of the Jet double roundhouse, while Jet looked at the unconscious actor with a hint of regret.
"Jet, the Messiah of Martial Arts, has eliminated the Scorn Reaper, a serial killer who, apparently, was the actor Shitoko Ishida this whole time!" the announcer roared out with excitement, driving the audience into a clapping frenzy. No one expected to see a famous has-been of the martial arts theatre, who seemingly transitioned into playing horror play slashers now, to duke out against a real-life martial arts genius, a theatre superstar, and a philosopher, Jet. "We've got 148 guys and gals still duking it out there, so we're still just getting started!"
It seemed like there would be no end to the hype, to the matches and collisions, freak meetings, and honorable bouts. Truth be told, this blood fest would only last until the fighters grew weary and bruised. At that point, the true sixteen strongest would reveal themselves in an instant.