"Oh! There are combatants climbing out from the crater!" the announcer pointed as a lone, gloved hand appeared from the shady hole through which Signal Man's searchlight beamed earlier. The chunky hand grabbed hold of the cracked tiles of sandstone and began pulling a humanoid shape out.
"Wow, I thought those fighters were all knocked out," Signal Man observed to himself, shocked because one of the beaten warriors would recover this fast. He didn't put it aside that they would recover eventually, he was fighting to ensure their survival, but not even in his brightest, most hopeful hour could Signal Man imagine someone making out of that nightmare this quick.
The giant that dragged himself out from the hole was a formally dressed samurai warrior with a light-blue haori decorated in sharp, triangular mosaics and, judging by the subtle chink as he dragged himself through the roughed-up arena, he wore a light chain mail underneath the robe and over his chest. The man had an armored headband hanging over his forehead, though his chonmage-style shave was fully visible and exposed to the elements.
"Oh… Oh no!" the announcer howled out, leaning onto the railing of his stand with the tension of the perceived situation, only adding to the reasons to sweat profusely. "I'm not surprised that this man is too angry to die! This wouldn't be the first time that this warrior dragged himself from the grave by simply refusing to kick the bucket! This is the Man the Devil Disowned–Okurimi Mibu!"
As if intending to be as theatric as possible, the crawling samurai in a formal lawman's uniform tilted his head off the ground, revealing a severely disfigured face that must have suffered the punishment of a thousand slashes to where his right eye was missing the upper eyelid and Mibu's lips had been so chopped up they simply hung like dry slips over the rotten gums and yellow, chipped teeth. True to his reputation of simply refusing to die, Okurimi Mibu looked like an actual zombie.
"One of the Iron Country samurai, are you?" a woman with tanned skin and a long, red and golden dress glared at the risen swordsman with deep, green eyes and pointed an accusatory finger with a pointy, red fingernail targeting the Man the Devil Disowned.
"I'm afraid you are wrong, that you are, my lady," a pink-haired ronin in a plain night-blue kimono halted his duel against another warrior to turn to the misinformed mercenary of the Fennec's Crew. "It is true that Okurimi Mibu hails from the Iron Country, is a trained samurai, and worked as a lawman for over twenty-two years. However… In this tournament, Okurimi Mibu fights as a serial killer. The mad manslayer delivering the souls of those he deems wicked for heaven's judgment."
"A serial killer?" the woman in red gulped, realizing her folly. Not that long ago that one of the serial killers gutted and chopped up one of their strongest mercenaries–the Scarecrow of Swords.
"Correct, Okurimi Mibu hasn't received his orders for over eight years. Like a ghost, he haunts the Iron Country lands and cuts up criminals and those that stand in the way of his heavenly judgment. Okurimi Mibu serves no Feudal Lord and the Iron Shogun actively hunts him for his reputation as a merciless manslayer. Since he makes a habit of crawling out from his grave, even the devil must have disowned him, hence his monicker," the pink-haired swordsman sheathed his sword and looked straight at the maddened eyes of the Manslayer of Soji. As if perpetually suffering excruciating agony, the mangled goliath's head twitched and shook subtly while his eyes remained wide and bloodshot.
The mercenary in red drew her swords. They were square-shaped, handsaw-like things with gold and copper decorations on the dull side of the blade with ring-like openings for the hands to grip them. Based on how the woman wielded them vertically, one wasn't meant to wield them like conventional swords. They looked almost like kunai dispensers when clenched in the hand.
"A vigilante that came here in a crew of serial killers, seeking to create a land of free-for-all bloodshed? Ridiculous… All that battery you've taken must have rattled your brain, Okurimi Mibu!" the female mercenary taunted her opponent, flicking a pointy spike on the handle that revealed itself to be a trigger. A kunai tip attached to steel wire shot out from the brass and gold decorations, revealing the woman's weapon of choice to be a gunblade.
Okurimi Mibu didn't let out a sound as the kunai grappling hook tip slammed into his chest with a meaty thud and parted in between the few of his unbusted ribs. The hook found somewhere to cling to, so the woman pressed the trigger that forced the steel wire to reel and pulled herself toward her target. With the back of his hand, the Man the Devil Disowned swatted the mercenary in red aside, making her soar halfway across the arena in the air from the backhanded strike.
Based on how the red mercenary laid flat on her back for a few seconds and the disturbed combatants switched up their opponents after the loud disturbance of a limp body smacking nearby, the woman must've gotten wobbly. It was the resolute thud of Okurimi Mibu's wooden sandals that woke her up from the daze. Then, the thunderous cracks of a wooden mace clashing against the interloping warriors that hated the thought of someone just walking across the arena without being baptized in bloody combat. Mibu fended all of them, blocking some of their strikes while violently bashing others aside and showing them that standing in the way of his bloody crusade was just a terrible idea and the prime way of becoming the deviant in the eyes of the Manslayer of Soji.
"Kill… Evil… Now!" a raspy chant escaped the chattering and lipless mouth of the risen swordsman as he raised his wooden mace over the head to cave the head of the fallen mercenary in. It was unclear how the mercenary woman qualified as "evil" in his eyes, but one would've been as foolish and misguided as Okurimi Mibu himself to try to find reason in the thinking of a veteran ex-lawman who only saw deadly enemies around him and constantly crusaded against the degenerate element of society. Even if he long forgot what they defined the deviants as in his organization and wasn't part of said society since far longer still.
"Your trip to hell is long overdue!" the sassy mercenary hissed as she grabbed the handles of her gunblades and aimed them at her opponent, flicking the triggers near her middle finger and blasting explosive marbles from the tips that detonated straight in the undead lawman's face. The chain explosions froze him, making even the surrounding warriors cease fighting and turn to see if they'd get to witness the day when Okurimi Mibu would finally meet his end.
The mace swung without warning before the smoke even cleared and the peeled-off face of the worn-out and deathless vigilante showed itself. With a tsk of her tongue, the female mercenary crossed her gunblades and blocked the hammering strike. Thusly she displayed an impressive level of physical strength, necessary to prevent an utter smashing of her belfry and even enough of it to resist Okurimi Mibu's wooden hammer for a time.
A downward silver arc and a slick metallic noise raked through the ears of all capable of hearing it. The wooden mace parted, revealing a hidden blade in the core of the stick that left a deep crescent gash in the chest and abdomen of the fallen mercenary woman. She gasped in the surprise of cold and sharp pain resonating through her body and coughed up blood, but, in a nick of time, scrambled and roll back, avoiding finishing thrusts and hammering smashes of the sword. Okurimi Mibu was no elegant and skillful samurai. Even when wielding a sharp and precise blade, he hammered it down like he did his wooden masher earlier. Maybe he had taken so many blows to the head that he no longer knew the difference between a sword and a mace.
"Damn it, get off my back already, you freak!" the bleeding mercenary sheathed her gunblades and found a better use of her hands at clutching her wounds, even though it was as fruitful of a venture as trying to floodgate a river with bare hands. The gash was too wide and the cut far too deep. If she were to overcome it, the merc would've needed to stop and mend it with some elementary battlefield treatment measures. Okurimi Mibu was a man-possessed and he wouldn't have given her the time, though.
Like clockwork, he followed her with resolute wooden taps of his sandals, slashing and smacking anything and everyone around him to the side, throwing and shoving anybody whom the cut woman tried to mingle around with clever evasive maneuvers. The woman was shifty, rolling around and in between combatants, concealing herself in crowds of busy chaos of the arena and seeking the peace of mind of having a few seconds to patch herself up and lose the obsessed tail. Ignoring the retaliation of those he shoved aside and attacked haphazardly, Okurimi Mibu strutted onward, like a ceaseless juggernaut. As unavoidable as the divine punishment itself.
It didn't take long for Okurimi Mibu to corner his deviant element target in front of a stony ridge wall and approach her, intending to slay her like he'd slain thousands before. Both crooked, deviant and innocent, though at the wrong place and the wrong time alike.
"Kill… Evil… Now!" Okurimi Mibu said in a raspy voice, grabbing his chipped blade with both hands and preparing to bash its dulled edge at his target until she was just a puddle or blood and viscera.
The mercenary woman vanished just in time for the hammering blade to miss her and become stuck in the stony protrusions. With a loud grunt, she kicked Okurimi Mibu in the right jaw from his right side before vaulting over the man who seemed so overwhelmed by the second wind of his opponent that he remained static. Desperate to find her edge, the mercenary attacked with a push kick from Mibu's left side and knocked the manslayer down. Not content with this level of success, the woman in red rolled to the side and drop-kicked the back of Mibu's head with both her feet before kicking back up.
The serial killer of the depraved and the unfortunate alike had taken the speed of the mercenary he targeted for granted this time. The speed of her evasive action and kicks was a far cry from the sluggishness of her swinging her oversized gunblades which, alongside the contrast of the two speed levels, was what bought the mercenary some time.
A tad beaten up, dirty and humbled, the serial killer drove the tip of his sword into the ground with enough force to bend the blade and nearly break it. Using it like a support ram, he shoved his tall and chunky frame off the ground in a stuporous stagger. The disfigured brute looked around, trying to lock his eyes on his target, but he couldn't see the red woman anywhere. She took the moment of his eyes being off of her to give him the slip and lick her wounds, avoiding the fate of her cockier peer.
With a mean and regretful look on his cut-up face, the Man the Devil Disowned vaulted his blade over his shoulder and began dragging his heavy feet across the tiles, seeking his next target to send to the undertaker. Targets were many, countless, in fact. Only one life, though one defined by an endless crusade. His body may have been failing due to the passage of his second and third youth, not to mention the wear and tear, but his determination was more adamant than ever.
"Jeez… What a crude asshole…" the woman in red rammed her back against the other side of the mountainous ridge in the center. She had vaulted over the side and collapsed to the trench, hiding behind the stony protrusions of where Lord Mifune had split the fighting grounds. Okurimi Mibu may have been relentless, vicious, and headstrong about his "Aku-Soku-Zan" schtick, but he was neither too sharp nor too perceptive, it seemed.
Hearing his hefty footsteps and his battered body dragging itself to look for a deserved grave, and people to send there in his stead, elsewhere, the woman finally felt confident enough to mumble her grievances out loud while she worked on patching her injuries with elementary battlefield treatment means. Sips of liquor to dull the pain, senbon to stitch the lacerations together, and herb ointment for some general disinfection measures. It won't help much, but it'll keep her from passing out or dying. Dead people don't get paid.
"You are not fit for this competition…" a voice startled the mercenary and prompted her to look up, where a half-naked man in a nest-like haircut and bright brown eyes stared down at her. He had some curious-looking batch of black, fuzzy feathers stacked up from his waist like a baggy and warm loincloth. The Sky Warrior had rubbery bands wrapped over his legs that made them look segmented, though they looked tight enough to serve as a limb-lengthening practice. "You've retreated from a battle before it was finished."
"Everyone's a critic," the mercenary shrugged with a playful tease. Despite his goofy appearances, the Sky Warrior looked rather fresh and because of that, the woman in red didn't want to pick a fight with him if she could avoid one. Even if she tended to her immediate injuries, a bit of downtime would've gone a long way in increasing her odds of making it to the end of this battle royale.
"The purpose of this rite is to determine the worthiest to compete in honorable combat. You fled your fight and impeded that," the goofy-looking Sky Warrior pointed an accusatory finger at the woman. Despite his legs looking beefy, his arms were puny as matchsticks, with only a level of bulk that one would describe as fit. It didn't take a grand veteran of a thousand battles to put it together, that this man used his wrapped legs for kicking close-up.
"Sorry for not feeling like getting quartered and disemboweled by some murderous zombie for the enjoyment of the audience," the mercenary looked up and gripped the handle of one of her gunblades while still clutching the other hand to a mean cut on her side.
"That man is no zombie. He is the way he is because he runs from no fights. He wears his scars and accepts his punishments just as eagerly as he metes his out," the Sky Warrior replied, slightly leaning forward. It was almost as if he was preparing to dive from his perch point and kick the woman in red aside if she made the first move.
"You seem transfixed on him, why don't you try your luck with him then and leave me alone?" the woman in red made a saluting hand gesture goodbye and began slowly climbing the shorter ridge splitting the two sides of the arena. Not wanting to worry about that obsessive manslayer anymore and watch her back all the time, she intended to vault onto the other side.
"You're not like other warriors for hire. Neither was that other one that got himself killed. I've never met hired guns that fight to the death. Your devotion intrigued me but now that I've seen you avoid combat, I'm getting mixed feelings…" the Sky Warrior said as if pondering out loud. The mercenary knew her opponent would attack her. The plan was to look vulnerable until the very last second. Then, she'd turn around and blast him right in the face point-blank.
There was no doubt he was fast. His legs were so bulky compared to the rest of his body that he must have been used to dashing around and blindsiding all opponents with his blitzing speed. He had neither the weapons nor the wingsuits of his aerial comrades, though. He was a close-range fighter. That was good, point blank there'd be no way for him to dodge the blast and with him having to deal with the explosive marble detonating in his face, his legs would be open for a counter. One tendon-severing slash and he'd be bouncing and dashing nowhere…
CRACK!
The audience jumped up with an unintelligible wail. The noise of the impact surpassed even the thuds that the mercenary in a red dress made when her limp body crashed through stony ridges and flew all the way through the northeastern side of the arena before crashing into the protective wall out of bounds. The impact was boisterous enough for her broken body to etch into the protective wall in a broken and sprawled-out position.
The tap of the Sky Warrior's feet to the ground was featherweight and noiseless. It was only when his heel pressed against the mashed trench in between the two ridges that a slight grungy noise came out from underneath. The attack came so swiftly that Fennec's mercenary couldn't even begin her counterattack and cancel her feint. Even if she planned to turn around and shoot, her synapses didn't even register the fact she was being attacked before her body hit the wall on the other side.
"What unbelievable speed and ruthlessness! The fast and lead-footed Ozigi of the Sky Warriors eliminated Rere of the Fennec's mercenary crew in a flash! What a unique style! A Sky Warrior that can neither fly nor hover! The remaining number of contestants is now 157!" the announcer proclaimed, aiming his hand at the Sky Warrior, who nonchalantly ran back up the stony protrusion and perched atop of its peak to survey the arena and seek his next challenge. "The arena is swallowing up the weak and the cocky who bit off more than they should have chewed early on, it seems!" the announcer relayed the general look of things as a handful more injured and fleeing combatants were finding themselves cornered.
More than just Ozigi the Sky Warrior shared this survival of the fittest conviction, it seemed.