The humanoid Cursed Warrior didn't appear to be done rampaging with just the elimination of Konishi Gokojin. Wandering the arena like a man-possessed, he reached to squeeze his aching head to snuff out the voices screaming for more bloody murder. More efficient, swifter, and bloodier carnage to come. Gripped by the climactic tension of pain, wrath, and sadistic glee, the mindless warrior with golden fists glowing neon patterns for veins roared like a wild beast.
A tremendous sandstone block hurled from far across the arena and slammed right into the face of the humanoid Cursed Warrior, stunning him temporarily. It wasn't the pain of being hit with a sandstone block so hard it shattered into tiny pebbles that baffled the bawling brute. It was the absence of the challenger that hurled the blasted thing at him.
"You guys want to hurry and get to the end, right? Well, so do we!" a round-belly giant with a battered and bloody face and tanned desert skin pointed an index finger at the Cursed Warrior while pulling up another sandstone block off the ground and heaving it over his shoulder for a toss.
"Shakshu, you imbecile! Have you gone mad!?" Silsilat shrieked out, pulling on the lone line of mohawk that he still had on his otherwise neatly shaven head. The pathetic, teary-eyed face of despair that the disarmed and pummeled mercenary made at his friend gave the tattooed scrapper an uncharacteristically wimpy look. The look of a man who would collapse on the ground and suckle on his thumb rather than fight a strong opponent. The man who wouldn't wipe the snot drooling from his nose before it reached their upper lip.
"Silsilat!" Shakshu barked out, heaving the sandstone block at the Cursed Warrior before turning to his long-time friend and comrade with a look that asked for trust and camaraderie once again. "We've resolved to fight our own battles, to win this entire battle royale. We won't do it without fighting strong opponents. Eventually, we will step out against ogres such as this one. I am done cowering and hiding behind golems that do my fighting for me!"
"You're out of your mind! All the blood's run out and it's not reaching your parched brain for sure!" Silsilat shook his head so frantically that the shaking made his facial features nigh indistinguishable. "Didn't you hear what the Twins said? We're grunts, we're just here to fill up numbers! We're just weight to be cut loose when the band needs numbers to go down fast!"
"Silsilat!" Shakshu extended his hand for a shake. "We've known each other and fought together since childhood. You used to stand up for me when the other kids bullied me for my weight and I stood up to other kids when they bullied you for your hair, we fought for each other, no matter how tall the bully was or how much older than us. The Twins… The Twins are gone! Eliminated by us! Fight with me as my best friend and let's show these people that there's no warrior stronger than best friends with nothing to lose!"
"Forget it, you crazy dumbass! I ain't getting killed because of you!" Silsilat cried out, turning his back and dashing away while swimming through the air and burrowing through the shoulders of confused warriors who saw grappling, punching, or throwing such a pathetic challenger as an insult to their pride and skills.
With gnashed teeth, Shakshu approached the wreckage of a pirate battleship and pulled out a fallen Jolly Roger flag. Tearing the flag off the pole, Shakshu slammed the steel rod that carried it into the arena ground and heaved out a sandstone replacement for his shattered cinderblock hammer. While the mercenary's grip around his elementary murder tool tightened, a sparkly red aura coated it with a heated shine. A telegraph of a chakra and life force mixed together to coat mere steel and sandstone to turn them into a weapon capable of hurting a Cursed Warrior man.
Slamming his golden fists together and causing rampant pink sparks of lightning to shoot out from them while tongues of pink flames hissed in and out around, the Cursed Warrior approached Shakshu one step at a time, ready to maul. Shakshu answered the challenge by slamming his bloody forehead against that of the Cursed Warrior, splattering blood in grisly arcs all around the point of their collision. The possessed man with Cursed Warrior patterns snarled and growled, breathing out vapors from his mouth while Shakshu seemed undaunted by the bestial appearance and act.
"You think I'm scared of you, punk?" Shakshu wheezed out, stumbling back to put some shoulder into the swings of his hammer. "I've just lost my one and only best friend for life. I don't have much of a life to lose!"
As the Cursed Warrior approached a rare challenger who was actually a match for his daunting size, Shakshu shoved his right arm that tightly gripped his makeshift hammer vertically at his opponent. "I'm not one to know how to fight very well. All I've got is what nature gave me–size big enough to hit people with big things. I don't have the patience to forge my own hammer or the restraint to not spend what little coin scatters my way to buy a proper one. Instead, I waste it all on sweets! That's why… That's why this block on a rod will be the weapon I'll fight for my life with!"
The Cursed Warrior pulled his arms down and roared with a proud battle cry, daring his opponent to take his best shot. Bellowing without a single regret, Shakshu charged with his shoulder put up, ramming against the Cursed Warrior with a rowdy thud. No balance was lost from this shoulder ram, but the Cursed Warrior skidded back at least a meter and a half. Not feeling content with just this much struggle, Shakshu followed his ram by transferring all of his momentum into an uppercut.
A wet and crunchy sound made the audience barf, wail, and wince. The golden fist of the humanoid Cursed Warrior caught Shakshu's fist and crushed it in the golden hand, soiling it with splattering blood and sprinkling bone bits. Although his number of arms capable of wielding his weapon of choice was just halved, Shakshu took only a moment to cry out in pain before pushing a kick in his opponent's direction. Given the lack of wallop behind the pair of stomps employed against a standing foe, one would have been right to question if the purpose of the kicks was truly to hurt the masculine titan or to soil his robe with blood and dirt.
Ramming his foe with his shoulder, Shakshu once again finished his charge by transferring all his force into an overhead hammer swing. As brittle as his broken wielder, the hammer crumbled into pellets of sandstone and chalky dust. In his desperation, Shakshu swung the steel flagpole rod at his opponent's eyes and the bridge of his nose, but the pole only bent in shape as opposed to breaking the Cursed Warrior's face.
A daring and simple straight sent Shakshu down on his back. It was difficult to say if the pummeled Fennec's gang reject could see a single thing with his face being caved the way it was, but he must have still lived since the blood pooling in the concave face burst with air bubbles. Occasionally, some crimson peaks of bone still peeked from underneath an ocean of red.
Shakshu raised his hand in the air. This didn't look like an attempt to hit the Cursed Warrior standing at the bottom of his legs and staring down at the fallen foe with pity and disgust over his weakness. Had the mess of a handful of teeth still dangling in the exposed and eviscerated flesh of Shakshu's gums the capacity to chatter, or if his dangling, dried-out tongue could still form cohesive words, he'd assure his savage opponent that Shakshu didn't feel weak or unsatisfied with the life he'd lived.
The eyes that saw his friend turn his back on Shakshu and walk away, despite all the times they've covered each other's backs and suffered defeat together, all the times Shakshu put his head on the line for his lifelong pal, were long squished. And so, just before the end, Shakshu refused the truth they showed him. The last seconds before the Cursed Warrior stomped Shakshu's dome like a watermelon and kicked the twitching, lifeless body out of bounds for the healers to feed the hogs were spent remembering all the games Silsilat, Shakshu, and Fatina played together as kids, all the different flavors of sherbet Shakshu got to taste, all the wild fights the three got into.
It was strange, but Shakshu didn't feel weak, even after being soundly beaten with a single shoddy punch. Weaklings were those that Fennec used like flock bodies to decorate his domain. The weak didn't get to choose when and how they would die, they didn't get to choose if their lives amounted to being decoration and morbid, gory art pieces putting the fear of human cruelty into the hearts of those thinking of acting like the strong and defining their own deaths or being warriors.
Shakshu could only bemoan that his good old pal Silsilat didn't get to feel strong beside him. The poor guy would end up shaking and whining and letting other people tell him when and how he'll die. Shakshu's life faded before he could fathom regret over not being there for his best friend and helping him ascend to the ranks of the strong.
"Not a sight for the faint of heart!" the announcer declared. "With a single straight, Curse Walker from the Cursed Warriors has eliminated Shakshu from Fennec's band of mercenaries, leaving 40 competitors still duking it out in the arena! So far, we've seen lifelong friendships being shattered, comrades disowning each other, and hundreds of different definitions of strength! In the end, there will be only one, only one new Sheikh of Agbarah who will claim this land with his fists!"
In a different region of the arena, a frustrated shaggy-haired man, who resembled a hobo far more than the samurai warrior he was, paced onward in search of someone to vent his frustration on. Who would have thought that in a tournament full of the world's strongest and most ambitious warriors, Soragen would still fail to find someone who could deliver him his penance?
It took a bold step from a lean and tall, one-eyed man with slicked-back black hair to halt Soragen in place. The one standing in front of him was a fellow samurai, though a far more esteemed one than Soragen. Clad in tight black armor parts that looked like they were built for a woman yet somehow fit the slender frame of the gentle-faced, one-eyed swordsman perfectly. The craftsmanship and material necessary for this kind of suit of armor, as well as the man's blue robe he wore over it, relayed the importance of Ichijiki Muramasa.
"Lord Mifune has requested that you surrender at once. He will honor the conditions of your deal, despite your treachery in attacking and gravely injuring Konishi Gokojin. Your family's reputation is protected, you can walk away and return to your unsavory activities now," Ichijiki suggested with the trademarked cool look of the one eye he still retained. His face had silky white bands wrapped around it and a black plate covered up Ichijiki's right eye. The one he offered to Lord Mifune as proof of his devotion and superiority over other, stronger and wealthier retainers. It was said that Lord Mifune was so impressed with the carefree look in Ichijiki's left eye after plucking the right one that he exchanged oaths with the opportunistic lad on the spot.
"Is that so…?" Soragen tucked his chin and breathed in deep. The moment he exhaled, Hanamuro Soragen was already just a step away from the esteemed retainer of Lord Mifune, the man who bent his knee and acknowledged his oath to his lord, but not even the Iron Shogun himself, leaving Lord Mifune as the only man able to handle and keep Ichijiki in line. That was, of course, if the man standing before him really was Ichijiki Muramasa.
Soragen's blade thrust into and clean through the gut of the tall and slender samurai in black armor, stunning the man before him and leaving him temporarily dazed and confused as to why he was just impaled on a sword. Soragen disappeared without a trace, moving with a swift staccato like his breathing itself. One moment he was striking, elegant, and fluid, yet adamant and immovable at the same time. The other he stood still as if giving reality time to catch up to his peerless innate talent in swordsmanship.
"I don't know who you are, but you ain't Muramasa," Soragen mumbled. "I'm fairly certain you've got vision in your right eye, that's okay, I can help you make a better impression."
As a testament to his words, Soragen plunged from the air with a downward diagonal thrust that aimed to punch clean through the eye of the sneaky attacker he encountered. The deceiver proved to be faster and more of a survivor than the shaggy-hair swordsman hobo gave him credit for. He turned and leaned his head to the side, slipping the thrust of the sword like dodging a punch. Unfortunately for him, the cone-shaped aerial tunnel around Soragen's blade slashed him like the paws of a divine thunder feline. Electricity and ripping noises emanated from the side of the unbalanced and dazed spy as he fell to the ground onto the side.
Soragen didn't waste any time, in fact, he saw the tear of the mask that the spy was wearing as an opportunity when his opponent's vision was impaired. Just like that of the man he pretended to be. Irony sometimes showed its claws like that. Twirling around his opponent with impeccable footwork while grabbing hold of his arms, Soragen tripped him and hurled him in the air, needing no physical force to fling a grown and athletic man well over his head since excellent mastery over momentum did the dirty deed for him.
Soaring through the air with a rolling side kick, the shaggy-haired horse thief samurai sent his opponent skidding across the arena floor face-first, tearing the shredded mask off his face. With his sword hanging loosely by his side, Soragen dashed nose-first, like a living arrow, stabbing his opponent through the back of the shoulder before slashing him in the back, then vaulting over his front to stamp both his feet in the back of the spy's head and plant his face into the tile set.
After straightening his back, Soragen scooped up the shredded mask off the ground, admiring the internal sophistication, the smooth leathery material, the circuitry, and the hi-tech lining while the decoration hung on the tip of his sword. Bleeding and grunting, the spy pushed himself off the ground and turned at the degenerate samurai, knowing full well that he had already failed to read this man before him but having no other option but to keep trying to do so. He didn't have any other options, knowing that he wouldn't last long in one-on-one combat.
"You saw through my disguise. After all the time I spent gathering intel on this man and you… You're making my handler, who suggested I should retire before this tournament, sound sane," the spy with a handsome face and shoulder-length, flowing brown hair smirked. There was more to irony's cruel wink with this man. For someone who spent most of their time disguising under the guises of other people, this spy was superb-looking.
"There's no way that the real Mifune and Ichijiki would forgive me if they knew about old geezer Konishi. Not to mention, Ichijiki knows better than to bark orders at me and pretend to be my superior, even if, strictly speaking, he should be," Soragen flung the mask away with his sword. Despite a wide yank of the blade, the impossibly talented miscreant from an esteemed samurai family left no openings to exploit.
"I see…" the spy sighed, revealing his hand and its five glowing fingertips while pressing them against his chest and turning them counter-clockwise. The tip of some sort of gadget peeked out while the master of disguise gleamed with bright light and the impressive replication of Ichijiki Muramasa's armor that the spy donned vanished, revealing itself as a fake light construct and leaving the face-swapping spy with just a slick, black bodysuit with slots to insert something round into on his chest, abdomen, hips and shoulders. "I don't suppose you'll agree to just walk our own separate ways at this point?"
"That depends, I'm looking for a guy who could kill me, are you that guy?" Soragen raised his right eyebrow almost cartoonishly, shriveling his face into a delinquent grimace. "I've heard you spies have begun taking the bread from the ninja away these past couple of years in terms of your efficiency in gathering information, sabotage, and performing assassinations."
"Sorry, but I'm not here to kill you. You were supposed to be just a stepping stone to help me advance to the next round. Besides, that disguise you've foiled might have been useful…" the spy shrugged. "Say what you will about spies and ninja, but one thing we avoid doing, unlike the ninja, is fighting for no reason at all."
"Hmm… And what if I was the one trying to kill you?" Soragen tapped the blunt side of his katana against his shoulders, oozing impatience. "You still haven't fulfilled your mission, so you're not permitted to die. You would have to use your full strength against me to take me out quickly and efficiently so you can return to your mission."
"Well… I suppose there's that…" the shape-shifting spy shrugged with a sly smirk before Soragen's muscles tensed up and he grunted in pain as a numbing electroshock passed down his whole body. This unexpected and invisible attack stiffened his body to a board-like state and shocked him with enough voltage to make black smoke puff from his mouth while temporarily whiting out his eyes and numbing his gaze. "You weren't wrong about the comparison between spies and ninja. One reason we've been becoming more efficient and prolific in our work lately is the innovative gear we use as opposed to individual combat strength. For example, each of my blood cells has a microscopic bug attached to them. In a tough spot, I can use it to stun an opponent or disable technology by shorting it out."
By the time that sharpness and focus returned to Soragen's glare, his opponent was nowhere to be seen, having changed his appearance and shuffled into the crowd. With a satisfied cackle, the smoldering and humbled once-in-a-hundred-years prodigy of swordsmanship with one hell of an attitude rushed into the fray of random brawling combatants, seeking the man who was the first to catch him off-guard in this entire competition.
"I suggest you turn back and take the second chance that Kato gave you," a disembodied voice rang in Soragen's ear, halting the samurai hoodlum in place, shifting the direction of his stare in a misguided attempt to find out who was speaking straight into his ear. "Kato Katai is a veteran of espionage and a highly motivated specialist. A Prometheus of the spy creed without peers in his field or any other. Impossible to pin down or counter. There is no information he cannot extract. No security he cannot breach. No face or shape he cannot don. You've failed to notice him slipping one of his bugs through which we're having this very conversation so what chance do you have facing him in combat when he is the one waiting for you at the finish line before you've even figured out where it is? Kato Katai is the deliverer of justice to those who deem themselves untouchable, and you should feel fortunate he doesn't see you as his mission target."
"You asshole!" Soragen exclaimed, stomping his feet onto the ground while thrashing around with mad cheers. "You're only making me more excited to find him and nail him!"
"Suit yourself. This microscopic communicator will self-destruct in 3, 2, 1…"
Soragen's mind went blank as a boom that was impossible to avoid resonated through his whole skull from the inside. A blast that ripped through his eardrums and swept through every channel, blood vessel, and neuron in its path, burning it all up or ripping it asunder while reducing the unfortunate samurai to a miserable state of shaking on his knees after a microscopic gadget just blew up in his ear.
Something told Soragen that this Kato Katai was the one. The one to deliver the samurai miscreant from a noble family his penance and free his old folks from the shame of having to drag his useless behind while Soragen only dragged their reputation down.