Assad tightened his grip on Mya's trembling hand, his eyes scanning the blood-soaked hall around them.
The air was thick with the stench of salt, decay, and something else he couldn't quite identify. His mind raced, struggling to make sense of the horror he had just witnessed.
Was that really her sister?
Or was it just some kind of trick… a spirit haunting her?
Nothing about this place felt right anymore. The longer they lingered, the more the world seemed warped, like a painting left out in the rain too long.
"...Assad?"
Mya's voice wavered, her eyes red and glistening, her body shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.
"What are you thinking?" she asked softly. "Do you have any idea where my onee-chan… where Nui is?"
Assad let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping to the floor. The reflections of hanging bodies shimmered faintly in the pools of blood at their feet.
"No," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not a single clue."
"Mya, we need to get out of here," Assad said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. The scent of rust and old blood hung heavily in the air as he pulled her hand. "We should find Shuren."
Mya shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. "No—no, we can't just leave! We have to find Nui first! She might still be alive!"
Assad's jaw clenched. He didn't care what his instincts were screaming anymore; every second they spent here made his skin crawl.
"We're leaving. Now."
He tightened his grip on her wrist and pulled her toward the exit. The old metal door loomed ahead, scratched, dented, and splattered with something dark and dried.
But as they reached it—
Assad froze.
A shiver ran down his spine, a primal sense of danger washing over him.
Something's here.
Without thinking, he shoved Mya aside.
"Mya, move—!"
A deafening crack echoed through the hall.
A slipper slammed into his chest. The impact was brutal, air bursting from his lungs as he was hurled across the room, crashing into the wall hard enough to rattle the hanging chains.
Dust drifted down from the ceiling, and the sound of the impact hung in the air like the rumble of thunder after a storm.
Mya gasped, frozen in place, her eyes locked on Assad's crumpled figure.
From the shadows near the door, a figure emerged.
As the dust settled and silence enveloped the room, a calm voice floated through the space.
"What a surprise," the man remarked, his tone steady, almost disinterested. His footsteps echoed with an unsettling rhythm as he drew closer, hands clasped neatly behind his back, standing tall and rigid like a statue.
"That youngin' Zheng Yan…" he continued, his voice heavy with the disappointment of a seasoned mentor. "…already has little boys running errands for him now?"
He paused beside one of the hanging bodies — a mutilated merman, its eyes forever frozen in a state of horror. He looked up at it with a quiet sneer.
"And what's this?" His lip curled in disdain. "Merfolk corpses? All tortured to death?"
He let out a sigh, his voice soft yet sharp as a knife's edge. "That's disgusting."
Mya flinched, pressing her hands to her chest. Assad, still on the ground, exhaled roughly. He pushed himself up, his ribs protesting with every movement.
"...Ow," he muttered, rolling his shoulder before stretching his arm with a grimace. "That hurt."
The old man turned his head slightly at the sound, finally giving Assad a proper look.
In the dim light, he exuded a sense of quiet danger, his black hair falling just past his neck, framing a face that seemed chiseled from stone.
His eyes were calm, as still as glassy water… yet there was something lurking within them, something fierce and coiled, ready to strike.
He wore a long-sleeved blue-black martial arts jumpsuit with a high turtleneck, light pants, and simple Tai Chi slippers — clean, disciplined, almost out of place amidst the bloody chaos of the room.
Assad straightened up, narrowing his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
The old man's face was a stone wall, not a flicker of emotion. His silence weighed heavier than the loudest shout.
Assad's fingers twitched at his side, every muscle coiled tight. He seemed to appear out of thin air… I only caught a glimpse of him for a split second, but that kick.
He winced, pain radiating through his ribs that kick sent me flying. He's a real threat. I can't let my guard down for even a moment.
The old man tilted his head just a bit.
"Oh, you're on your guard, are you?" His voice was soft, yet it dripped with mockery like a distant rumble of thunder. "That's your weakness."
Assad froze.
Shit. His pupils constricted. I completely forgot my flaw
The man smiled faintly, as if he could read Assad's mind.
"Yes," he said, his eyes half-closed, his voice as calm as a gentle rain. "I should have the strength to finish this for you. I am stronger than you."
He shifted one foot back, one palm forward — a stance that screamed years of training. His energy sharpened, the air around him bending.
Assad barely had time to brace himself.
Boom.
The old man vanished.
A fist slammed into Assad's stomach, the impact cracking the marble floor and sending a shockwave that rattled the ceiling, making the hanging bodies sway. Assad gasped as the air exploded from his lungs, skidding backward, his boots sparking against the ground.
Before he could recover, a knee struck his jaw, followed by an elbow crashing into his shoulder, and then a spinning palm strike that sent him spiraling through the air.
Each blow was precise. Surgical. No wasted effort.
He's anticipating every move before I even make it!
Assad hit the ground, rolling, one hand clutching his side. He barely steadied himself when—
CRACK!
A backfist came out of nowhere, smashing into his cheek. Teeth flew. The sound echoed through the room like a clap of thunder.
Mya screamed, "ASSAD!" but her voice was swallowed by the noise of flesh hitting stone.
Assad slid across the floor, blood trailing from his mouth. He planted his hand down, dragging himself upright, his breath ragged, his knees shaking.
The old man's face remained completely still. Not a single blink. His silence felt heavier than the loudest shout.
Yet, he readied himself once more.
"Good," the old man said, letting out a slow breath. "You're still standing your ground."
His foot twisted against the earth and in an instant, he vanished again.
Assad's eyes went wide — Shit!
A blur of movement.
A knee strike.
A palm strike.
A low sweep.
A rising kick.
Each blow flowed together like a beautifully crafted poem fast, precise, and unyielding.
Assad managed to block some, but took most of the hits. The sounds of their clashes echoed like a violent drumbeat.
BANG!
THUD!
CRACK!
Until finally, Assad's body slammed against the wall, leaving a web of cracks in his wake.
He dropped to one knee, blood spilling from his mouth. His chest heaved with effort.
I can't figure him out, he thought, gasping for breath. No rhythm… no aura… it's like he's fighting purely on instinct.
The old man stood at a distance, calm and untouched.
"Disappointing," he said softly. "You're tough… but blind."
He took a single step forward, his shadow stretching across the floor like a sharp blade.
His eyes sharpened.
The old man's gaze softened just a bit, though the corners of his mouth remained inscrutable.
"I must admit," he said, his voice smooth like flowing water, "you have spirit… even if you're about to meet your end… being Zheng Yan's lackey."
Assad clenched his teeth, blood trickling from his split lip, shaking his head defiantly. "I'm not his lackey," he spat, gesturing toward Mya. "I'm helping her… helping her find her sister."
The old man's attention shifted to Mya.
"He's telling the truth," Mya whispered, tears still streaming down her face. "He's helping me… please… help me find my sister."
The old man let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing for a moment.
"Hmph… I must be getting old if this is what I'm hearing," he muttered.
Then, his expression sharpened. His eyes glimmered like calm water before a storm. He raised both fists, dark blue energy swirling around him.
"U~ōtādoragon: Shi no ken!"
(Water Master: Fists of Death)
Energy crackled and surged around his arms, radiating a deadly intent. He dropped into a low, grounded stance, and in an instant, his body became a blur, moving with the unstoppable force of a tidal wave then, just like that, he disappeared.
Assad's stomach twisted in confusion.
Where the hell did he go?!
Before he could process it, a flat, open-handed slap crashed into Assad's cheek. Blood erupted from his face like a fountain, the metallic taste of copper flooding his mouth as stars danced in his vision. His knees buckled, but he willed himself to stand tall.
And then the storm hit.
The old man flowed like water, each strike a relentless wave of destruction.
A spinning backfist slammed into Assad's shoulder mid-block, dislocating it with a sickening pop.
A low sweep sent him crashing into a support pillar, tiles shattering beneath the impact.
A straight elbow jabbed into his chest, the sound of cracking ribs echoing in his ears, leaving him gasping for air.
In mid-air, the old man's leg snapped out like a whip, connecting with Assad's jaw and sending him spinning across the hall.
Assad's vision swam. He struggled to keep up with the onslaught, but it felt impossible—the man's strikes were everywhere and nowhere at once, landing with the calm inevitability of water wearing down stone.
He's reading my every move! He anticipates everything…
Desperate, Assad tried to counterattack, stretching his arms to launch a palm strike at the old man's chest. But in a heartbeat, the old man shifted, absorbing the blow like water bending around an obstacle.
His response was immediate—a spinning knee to Assad's midsection, followed by a double elbow strike that sent him crashing to the floor once more.
Blood stained the polished marble beneath him. Assad coughed, gasping for breath as his ears rang and his vision blurred.
The old man's calm voice sliced through the chaos.
"Water adapts. You must learn to flow… or break."
Another wave of strikes came crashing down:
An ascending palm struck Assad's jaw, lifting him off the ground.
A knee to the chest sent him hurtling backward.
A spinning leg sweep knocked him flat, scattering tiles like fallen leaves.
The old man's fists became a blur, striking Assad's shoulders, ribs, and knees with pinpoint accuracy, each blow sending waves of pain through his body like the force of a hammer.
But despite it all, Assad's resolve held strong. He pushed himself up, swaying slightly, trying to read his opponent's movements, but the rhythm… it just wasn't there…
At last, he managed to block a strike with his forearm. Sparks flew where their blue auras collided.
In a moment of desperation, he launched a palm strike. The old man's body shifted sideways, narrowly dodging the blow, and countered with a knee that slammed into Assad, sending him crashing to the ground, teeth scattering, blood spraying.
The old man leaned in, breathing steady and controlled. "Predictable. Even under pressure… your spirit is commendable, but your perception is lacking."
Assad coughed, struggling to stretch his limbs as he rolled to regain his footing, but another flurry of strikes sent him crashing down again — shoulder, ribs, hip, jaw, knee — each impact punctuated by bone-cracking CRACKS! and blood-splattering hits.
The room trembled under the relentless barrage of fists, elbows, and knees. Tiles shattered, lanterns toppled, and dust mixed with broken porcelain filled the air.
Then, through the haze of pain, Shuren stepped in.
"You guys really taking your time up here…" her voice rang out, clear and cold, almost teasing.
Something flickered in her eyes. Her pupils widened as she tracked its path, the chaos of the room sharpening her senses.
Assad was barely standing, knees shaking, blood smeared across his face, struggling just to stay upright.
Shuren's gaze sharpened, landing on the old man, who stood silently, his aura calm yet deadly.
What the hell am I looking at? she thought, a mix of disbelief and irritation swirling within her.
"Shō… long time no see," she said, her voice low and calculating.
The old man turned, his expression unchanged, his calm eyes meeting hers.
"Oh? And isn't it the Soul Reaper Shooter herself, Shuren? It really has been a while," Shō replied, his voice smooth, a hint of amusement barely masking the storm beneath.