Bang!
The open space reverberated with deafening shockwaves as two figures collided with unrelenting force. Each clash unleashed ripples of power that cracked the ground beneath them and echoed across the barren expanse. The sheer intensity of their battle was a spectacle of destruction; their blows carried the weight to topple city walls or splinter ancient trees like dry twigs.
This was the terrifying might of master-level fighters.
Yet, despite his raw strength and relentless aggression, Harry was losing ground. Each impact sent him skidding backward, his footing slipping on the fractured terrain. His punches and strikes, though powerful, were gradually diminishing in force. The momentum was shifting, against him.
Across from him stood the old man, his appearance deceptive. His frail, hunched frame and weathered skin betrayed none of the raw, overwhelming vitality within. His movements were precise and calculated, each strike landing with the weight of a battering ram. It was as if time had no claim on him; his power, his energy, defied every natural limitation.
Harry's thoughts raced, his breath heavy. 'How is this possible?' Even for fighters of their caliber, age was a relentless enemy. Most warriors in their twilight years saw their strength wane, their speed falter. But this old man? He was as vigorous as a predator in its prime, his vitality roaring like a wildfire.
'What is he?'
Harry didn't have time to ponder. The next blow came hurtling toward him, a blur of raw power. He ducked and countered, their fists colliding in a flash of explosive energy. He gritted his teeth, the impact rattling through his bones. His opponent was not just holding his ground, he was pressing Harry harder with each exchange.
But Harry wasn't finished yet.
---
Boom!
Another collision rocked the battlefield. Harry twisted his body, using the momentum to deflect the old man's strike. He crouched slightly, his muscles coiled like a spring, and then lunged forward with a devastating punch. This wasn't just any strike; it was the culmination of his mastery, the distilled essence of his training.
"'Red Bird Fist!'"
The words were barely out of Harry's mouth when his fist exploded toward the old man, the signature technique of the Red Bird Martial arts dojo igniting in a brilliant arc of power. The air itself seemed to burn as the strike surged forward.
The old man's eyes widened in shock. He faltered for a fraction of a second, his expression shifting from surprise to alarm. "Red Bird Fist?" he exclaimed, his voice carrying both recognition and disbelief. "You're from the Red Bird Martial arts dojo?"
Before the old man could react further, Harry's strike connected, sending him staggering backward. The force of the blow tore into him, the life energy coursing through his body like a tidal wave.
The old man stumbled, his balance faltering for the first time. His shock deepened. "Your power; how did it grow so suddenly?"
Harry smirked, his figure shrouded in dust and debris. His voice carried over the battlefield, calm yet laced with confidence. "You noticed, didn't you?" he said, stepping forward, his silhouette gradually emerging through the haze.
The old man's instincts screamed at him. A powerful, primal sense of danger gripped his chest. Without hesitation, he swung his fist in a wide arc, aiming to preempt Harry's next move.
But what met his strike wasn't a fist.
It was a blade.
---
The gleam of gold caught the old man's eye, but it was too late. A golden sword, glowing faintly with a fiery aura of life force, slashed toward him with breathtaking speed. It wasn't just the weapon itself, it was the sheer shift in technique. This wasn't Harry's usual martial artistry. This was something else entirely.
"'What?!'" the old man gasped, his voice thick with disbelief. He tried to retreat, to twist away from the blade's path, but it was futile. The sword struck true, piercing his shoulder with precision.
Pain erupted through the old man's body, sharp and all-consuming. The golden blade wasn't merely steel; it carried life energy, and that energy coursed through his body like venom, tearing at his vitality and devouring his strength.
"Impossible!" he roared, struggling to push back against the blade. His muscles strained, but the damage was already done. He could feel his strength ebbing away, the fiery energy burning through his reserves.
From the shadows, Harry emerged fully, his expression calm, even casual. The golden sword gleamed in his hand, its surface reflecting the old man's stunned face.
"Ah," Harry said, his voice low and edged with mockery, "I forgot to mention; this is 'my' fight, on my terms."
He twisted the blade slightly, sending another surge of energy into the old man's body. The elder let out a guttural groan, his legs buckling under the strain.
"You're strong," Harry continued, his tone almost conversational, "but strength alone isn't enough. Not against me."
The old man's gaze flickered, anger and fear warring in his eyes as he glared at Harry. "You… coward," he spat. "Using a weapon—"
Harry leaned closer, cutting him off. "A weapon? No, this is strategy. You assumed I'd fight you on equal terms. That was your first mistake."
The old man growled, struggling against the blade pinning him down, but his energy was draining fast. Harry stepped back, watching as the elder's once-formidable presence began to dim.
"This battlefield," Harry said, gesturing around them, "will be 'your' resting place, after all."
With a final surge of power, he pulled the sword free, letting the old man collapse to his knees. The elder gasped, clutching at his wound, but his strength was all but gone. Harry stood over him, triumphant, his blade still glowing with the energy of his victory.
Harry's smile widened, faint but unmistakably taunting. "You see, fists aren't my specialty," he said, his voice calm and almost conversational. "What I truly excel at is swordsmanship."
He raised the blade in his hand, the golden light shimmering faintly as life energy surged through it. "Shall we test it?"
Before the old man could respond, Harry struck. The sword moved with blinding speed, arcs of energy slicing through the air. In an instant, deep cuts appeared across the old man's body, staining his robe with crimson. Each slash was precise, calculated, leaving no room for counterattack.
The old man staggered backward, his expression shifting from surprise to fury, then to something deeper, realization.
"You… you lured me here deliberately!" he spat, his voice trembling with both pain and anger. His mind raced as the pieces fell into place.
Harry had feigned weakness all along. The earlier exchanges; the faltering strikes, the apparent struggle, had been a ruse, a masterful act to draw him in. The old man had been so consumed by the belief in his superiority that he failed to notice Harry's true intent: to exhaust him, to lull him into a false sense of control before unleashing the full force of his power.
"I see you've caught on," Harry said, his voice tinged with mockery as he stepped closer. His blade gleamed ominously in the dim light, droplets of blood trailing from its edge. "Unfortunately for you, realizing it now doesn't change a thing."
The old man felt a chill run down his spine. His instincts screamed that he was in grave danger. If he didn't act carefully, this would be his final fight.
"It seems a little late for epiphanies," Harry added, his tone casual but his gaze unrelenting.
He advanced slowly, each step deliberate. The blade in his hand flicked out again and again, each strike leaving another wound on the old man's battered body. The once-mighty elder of the Black Council now looked worn, his movements slower, his vitality ebbing with each passing moment.
---
"Wait!" the old man suddenly said, his voice strained but laced with urgency. "We don't have to continue this senseless fight!"
Harry raised an eyebrow, but his blade didn't falter. "I'm listening," he said dryly, slashing another line of crimson across the old man's arm.
"You're after fighters, aren't you?" The old man staggered backward, clutching his wound. "The Black Council has countless fighters; captured from across the world. Join us, and they're yours."
The sword froze mid-swing, the light gleaming off its edge as Harry paused. "Go on," he said, his tone skeptical but tinged with curiosity.
The old man seized the opportunity. "You're wasting your time in Malian City. The most you'll find here are the fighters who remain. But with the Black Council, you'd have access to warriors from every corner of the continent. You could take them, sacrifice them, whatever it is you need them for."
Harry's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "That sounds tempting," he said slowly, his voice thoughtful. "But how do I know this isn't a trap?"
The old man's breath hitched as the sword gleamed closer. "If it were a trap," he said quickly, "I wouldn't be standing here, bleeding like this."
Harry tilted his head, the faintest trace of a smirk returning to his face. "How about this," he said, his voice calm but cold. "You stop resisting entirely. Maybe then, I'll consider visiting your Black Council."
The old man stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "You expect me to just—"
"You're not exactly just an old man, are you?" Harry interrupted, his tone sharp. "You've already played your tricks. I'm not interested in letting you catch your breath."
---
Despite the supposed "discussion," neither of them stopped fighting. In fact, the battle only grew more brutal. Harry's blade moved with increasing ferocity, every strike aimed to bring the fight to a swift conclusion. The old man, for his part, fought back with desperate determination, but his strength was waning.
The ground trembled as their battle raged, craters forming where Harry's strikes landed. The once-proud elder's movements became sluggish, his defenses faltering.
And then it happened.
Slash!
Harry's blade cleaved through the air, faster and stronger than before. The old man froze, his body stiffening as a deep, jagged wound split across his chest. Blood poured freely, and for a moment, the battlefield was eerily silent.
A faint, wet cough escaped the old man's lips. His trembling hand reached up, as if trying to close the wound, but it was futile. His strength gave out, and he collapsed to his knees.
Harry stood over him, his expression unreadable. "It seems your time is up," he said softly. With a final, decisive motion, he drove the blade downward.
The old man's body slumped to the ground, lifeless.
---
Harry exhaled slowly, wiping the blood from his blade onto the elder's torn robe. He nudged the body with his foot, ensuring no lingering signs of life remained. Satisfied, he muttered, "You were a tougher opponent than most."
But there was no room for sentiment. With deliberate movements, Harry delivered a few more blows to ensure the elder wouldn't rise again. Only then did he step back, surveying the carnage around him.
The barren landscape was now a battlefield, scarred with craters and bloodstains. Harry's gaze swept the area before settling on George's unconscious form. A faint smile touched his lips as he sheathed his sword.
"Well," he said to himself, "on to the next stage."
Without another glance at the fallen elder, Harry turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving the lifeless body behind as a grim monument to his victory.