11 – Courting Death, Apparently

I kept a good grip on Yamato’s fist, felt the building anger and frustration behind the would-be blow. He was strong, that was undeniable. And the more his fist shuddered in my grasp, the more of that strength I could feel being drawn forth. I narrowed my eyes down at him. “You have a good swing, boy. Fast too. Unfortunately, I’m not some street punk or scared girl you can slap around.”

I swung Yamato bodily by the wrist, the boy gasping as he was flung skidding into the middle of the street. I approached him with careful, measured steps, and heard Big Nose and Scar rushing up behind me.

Yamato raised a hand, and the two came to a skidding halt. “I’ll deal with this roundeye ape myself,” he growled.

Good, I thought. He was the kind of idiot who let pride get in the way of practicality.

He rushed me with greater force, greater speed, and collided with me like a cannonball. I was surprised to find myself lifted clean off the ground, wind whipping violently around me, and in the span of seconds we had crossed over much of Tiode.

I crashed into a patch of rocky land just beyond the entrance of the village, the young punk looming over me. Violet light blazed in his pupils, and he cocked his fist for a crushing blow. The issue was, being smashed into the ground like that? I barely felt it.

My boot struck him in the gut, knocking the wind from Yamato and nearly bowling him over. He staggered, wheezing, toward the looming wooden sign that had ‘Tiode’ carved in the fancy charcters of the Tsukian alphabet.

Yamato got his bearings and jumped away, barely avoiding a punch to the jaw. His counter was quick, stepping toward me and pummelling my chest with a flurry of blows that sent me staggering back, his fists rotating forward one after the other. Each blow was harder than the last, and I felt the ground vibrate faintly under my feet, and it was just enough to make me grimace.

“Stone Shattering Waterwheel! How do you like that you overgrow-“

I backhanded him with enough force to launch him clean off his feet. His body flew clean off the dirt track, several meters toward the untamed greenery, and he struck a tree hard enough to smash a deep dent in the trunk.

“Don’t name your attacks.” I advanced toward him with slow and measured steps. “And don’t get wrapped up in your own ego.”

I’d heard tales that eastern wizards were much more ‘hands on’ in fights than the ones back home. That worked fine by me. It was a chore having to chase them down, fighting through waves of spells and torrents of magicka. If I had to guess, comparatively, this one was about on par with a high-grade apprentice back home. Strong, talented, well educated… but not yet good enough to be let off the leash by his master.

Yamato was on his feet in an instant, credit to him, and seemed barely hurt by such a blow. Even at a distance I could feel the magicka flaring about under his skin. The ‘young master’ wasn’t a complete waste, it seemed.

His two allies arrived at the clearing at a sprint, both boys skidding to a halt. But the two stayed back, as he had wished, both looking anxiously at him.

None of them had expected this, clearly. And suddenly their ‘fun’ had gotten a little more dangerous for them.

“You’re not entirely without talent, for a foreign cultivator,” Yamato said, rising to his full modest height. The illusion was shattered by the flecks of mud that coated his cheeks. “But… the centuries of knowledge and skill of the Snake Flower Sect pulses through me. I am talent incarnate, the one who shall defy the heavens! You are like an ant attempting to topple a dragon!”

I stared at him as a chilly breeze blew in from the sea. “You really like the sound of your own voice,” I said.

Well, in that way, eastern and western wizards were entirely alike.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Yamato was behind me in an instant, a hard kick sending me hurtling across the greenery. My back crashed through several trees, slicing clean through them at the trunk or tearing them clean from their moorings by the roots.

“Swipe of the Dragon!”

He was on me before I even came to a halt, his heels crashing into me with a thunderous bang that uprooted the ground for several meters us in a heaving tremor. That pulled a small gasp from me, anger and pain making a great blaze briefly swell in my breast. A disdainful, indignant rage that begged to be let loose again.

The Wight.

I smothered that swell of anger before it could rise. I didn’t need the armour, the swords, or even the flame. Not for some jumped up little prick. But… it was tempting.

Yet, if I were to do that… would I ever be able to stop again?

That power had been like a drug, early on. Addictive, thrilling, always making me inwardly hunger for more. I’d been armoured in my own hate, and that same anger had kept my mind insulated from my grief. If I got started down that path again…