Counterkill

In the darkness, a sword flashed, brilliant as starlight and swift as lightning. To Lorist, its sudden glare became a vast net that blotted out the world and sealed off every direction. It seemed he had no choice but to stand there and die.

The figure lunging at Lorist appeared to be the impatient junior disciple. He struck viciously, showing no sign of stopping at Lorist's arm as promised. His blade went straight for vital points. He plainly did not care whether Lorist lived or died.

Lorist snorted. Instead of retreating, he drew his sword and charged, striking first despite moving second.

The instant their swords met, Lorist's blade roared like wind and thunder. The sword lights filling the air vanished without a trace.

"Ah..." His opponent had never imagined Lorist's counterattack would be so fierce. Not only had it broken his sword formation and seized the initiative, Lorist had launched a relentless assault. In a heartbeat, the attacker became the defender, scrambling to parry blows from every side.

The man tried to meet Lorist's strikes head-on, counting on the strength of his Gold rank Battle Qi to overpower him. But Lorist's swordsmanship was uncanny. His blade arrived before his opponent could move, his attacks pouring down like a storm, surging through every opening like floodwater. He struck wherever the man had to defend, then often changed course midway to threaten another vital point, forcing him to retreat again and again.

Sweat streamed down the man's face and back as he struggled to parry. If Lorist had not pressed him so hard that he could barely breathe, he would have called for help long ago. Never in his dreams had he expected to face such terrifying swordsmanship. The gap between Gold rank and Black Iron rank might as well not have existed. Lorist fought at a level no Black Iron rank swordsman should have reached. Only a bout with his eldest senior brother, a Great Swordsman, had ever put him under such pressure...

Behind them came a rapid series of clang, clang, clang. Then Bordefinger grunted, and the senior disciple screamed.

"Oh... hiss... That hurts! You madman! Oh... It hurts like hell! Junior brother, aren't you done yet? Finish that brat and help me! This Silver Rank fellow's completely insane! Hiss..." The senior disciple had clearly come off worse in the exchange. Wounded by a sword, he cried out in pain behind them.

Bordefinger gave a breathless chuckle. "Come on, then. This is how I kill Gold rank swordsmen. I'll trade two cuts for one, or three for one. Let's see who falls first..."

The senior disciple no longer dared risk his life against Bordefinger. He circled him with clenched teeth, firing blades of light to keep him occupied while urging his junior brother to hurry over. He also complained without pause that his junior brother was usually so full of himself, yet could not take down one Black Iron Swordsman. What had all his sword training been for?

The senior disciple had no idea his junior brother was suffering too badly to answer. Hearing the commotion behind him, Lorist knew Bordefinger had been hurt and stepped up his assault. Several times, he smashed through his opponent's defenses by sheer force and drove straight for his chest and stomach. Only desperate retreats and dodges let the junior disciple escape those attacks, and terror gripped him. At first, he had been delighted when Lorist met his sword head-on. As a Gold rank swordsman, he had thought the light on his blade would easily sever Lorist's sword. Even if it failed, it should have dealt Lorist a crushing blow. After all, his opponent was only Black Iron rank.

Lorist's attacks had been too fast to block earlier, but now that he had chosen a head-on clash, the junior disciple held nothing back. Their swords struck with all his strength behind the blow. Yet Lorist's blade did not break as he had hoped. Instead, a shock ran through it that nearly knocked his own sword from his hand. His blade flew aside, leaving his chest and stomach exposed. Scared out of his wits, the junior disciple stumbled and scrambled backward, barely escaping.

Lorist was frustrated too. He had taken the man for a ruthless opponent. After those smug, cold words, Lorist had expected to pay a price to bring him down. But apart from that first attack, the man had done nothing but leap about, dodge, parry, and ward off blows. He had not mounted a single decent counterattack. However skilled Lorist was, what could he do against an enemy intent on fleeing who refused to stand and fight?

Sure enough, before Lorist even advanced, the junior disciple hunched like a startled bird and began backing away in cautious little steps. Lorist would need another way to catch him.

Lorist slowly pressed forward, holding his sword at an angle in his right hand. In the dim glow of a distant streetlamp, it traced dazzling arcs through the air like a peacock spreading its tail, drawing his opponent's gaze. Without giving anything away, he raised his left hand. A soft click sounded, and a slender black dart shot silently from the launcher strapped to his forearm.

Cold sweat beaded on the junior disciple's forehead. The pressure Lorist exerted left him deaf to his senior brother's endless curses and demands. As Lorist slowly closed in, he took small steps backward and focused on the attack he knew was coming. Resentment churned inside him. He wanted to scream it out. Which of us is the Gold Swordsman, and which is Black Iron? Shouldn't this be the other way around?

Lorist surged forward. His sword roared like wind and thunder, its chilling gleam flashing toward the junior disciple. Already frightened out of his wits, the man dared not meet it and tried to retreat. But as he moved, agony shot through his left foot. He looked down and saw a slender black dart pinning his foot to the ground.

The junior disciple's blood ran cold. Lorist was already upon him. He opened his mouth to beg for mercy, but it was too late. Under Lorist's sword, the Gold rank Battle Qi protecting him melted away like snow, offering no resistance. With a thrust, the blade pierced straight through him.

"Uh... des... despicable..." Impaled on Lorist's sword, the junior disciple rolled his eyes and forced out the words.

Lorist knew the man meant the hidden dart. He felt not the slightest embarrassment. Instead, he gave an earnest nod. "Thanks for the compliment."

Lorist pulled out his sword, and his dying opponent collapsed like an empty sack. He turned and walked step by step toward the senior disciple, who was still quacking away. Blood dripped from the flat of his blade, soon marking a line across the ground.

The senior disciple had taken a cut to the inside of his left thigh. It was not life-threatening, but it hurt fiercely and made moving difficult. After being wounded, he had not dared charge Bordefinger again. Instead, he had circled him, hoping to join forces with his junior brother once he returned. He had brought the pain on himself: every step tugged at the wound and left him grimacing and trembling. No wonder he had not stopped cursing.

Bordefinger was in poor shape too. Blood stained his right side and left shoulder. The shoulder wound looked grisly, but it did not seem deep. The stab wound in his right side was another matter. If it had reached his organs, he was in trouble. Worse, the senior disciple kept sending blades of light at him. Each time Bordefinger swung to knock one down, fresh blood flowed from his side.

The senior disciple stopped moving. After casually firing a few more blades of light at Bordefinger, he lowered his head to inspect his thigh. He had wrapped strips torn from his clothes around it in a messy bandage, and blood was seeping through. He adjusted the cloth, then bared his teeth and started cursing again.

Lorist approached slowly. Thinking his junior brother had returned, the senior disciple complained without looking up. "What happened? It took you that long to deal with a Black Iron rank brat? Hiss! This hurts like hell. That Silver Rank fellow's a lunatic. Be careful. He'll trade his life for yours, so don't end up like... Ah! Ah! Ah..."

When he raised his head and saw Lorist emerging from the darkness, he went pale. After stammering for some time, he finally managed a full sentence. "Wh-why is it you? Where's m-my junior brother?"

Lorist flicked his sword toward the ground behind him. "Lying over there. He really did pay with his life for this arm of mine. Pity he still didn't get it. Now it's up to you."

He kept advancing, one step at a time.

"D-don't come any closer..." The senior disciple pointed his sword at Lorist and backed away in a panic. Hearing that his junior brother was dead had shattered his composure. To him, Lorist's approaching figure had become a demon coming to claim his life.

After several steps, the senior disciple backed into a flower bed. He stopped, glanced around, and got an idea. He hurled his sword at Lorist, then spun and drove Battle Qi into his legs. Pushing off the ground and enduring the pain, he leaped high, intending to clear the flower bed and flee without his sword.

A sword whistled through the air like a javelin. It plunged into the senior disciple's back and burst from his chest. His limbs flailed in midair. With a single scream, he thudded into the middle of the flower bed, struggled a few times, and died. Bordefinger had thrown the sword. The moment he saw the man try to escape, he had cast it without thinking. But once it left his hand, he sagged.

Lorist knocked aside the sword thrown at him, but he was still six or seven meters from the senior disciple. By the time the man leaped, Lorist could not catch him. He had thought the fellow would get away, only for Bordefinger to display a remarkable throwing technique and kill him in midair with one strike.

"That was a fine throw, my friend. What an arm!" Lorist called as he hurried to Bordefinger.

Bordefinger smiled weakly. "Just an army technique. Nothing worth praising. I can't compare to you. We each faced a Gold rank swordsman, but you're unhurt and killed yours first. I got stabbed and needed you to frighten mine before I found an opening. It's embarrassing."

Lorist supported Bordefinger and carefully eased him against a long bench before examining his wounds. The shoulder injury was not serious, but the streetlamp was too dim for him to inspect the stab wound in his side properly.

Seeing Lorist's concern moved Bordefinger. He gave a weak smile. "It's all right. I know my own condition. I saw the thrust coming and was ready for it. It shouldn't have reached my organs. A month or two of rest should see me healed. I took worse wounds in the army and made it through."

Lorist stripped off his fine linen undershirt, tore it into strips, and bandaged Bordefinger's two wounds. Then he searched the bodies. All he brought back were two purses, two swords, and two Gold One-star Battle Qi badges.

"Strange. The swords are ordinary enough, but these Gold rank Battle Qi badges don't look like the ones used in the Commercial Alliance. I haven't seen this design before," Lorist said.

Bordefinger could not identify them either and shook his head.

The two purses held around twenty Gold Fude and thirty-odd large silver coins. Lorist put the gold and silver into separate purses, then picked up the one holding the silver. "Bordefinger, this is our loot. One purse each. I'll take the bigger one, then."

With that, he tucked the purse containing more than twenty Gold Fude into Bordefinger's clothes. Bordefinger froze, gratitude showing in his eyes. "Mr. Norton, you..."

Lorist raised a hand to stop him. "Call me Locke. When you drew your sword and stood beside me against them, you became my friend. Friends don't need formalities."

"Mm..." Bordefinger smiled. "All right, Locke. You can call me Borg. That's what my comrades in the army called me."

"All right, Borg," Lorist said.

The rumble of a speeding carriage came from afar. Ready had returned with the carriage, its roof and rear luggage rack crowded with people. Before it had come to a stop, seven or eight of them jumped down and rushed over, shouting. El and Fatty Shi led the way. They breathed a sigh of relief when they saw Lorist unharmed.

"Where are they? Did you drive them off?" Fatty Shi asked, panting.

"There, and in the flower bed. Both are down." Lorist pointed, then asked Fatty Shi, "Do you have medicine for wounds?"

"Yes, yes..." Fatty Shi hurriedly dug through his clothes for it.

El waved Telman over and took several others to inspect the bodies.

Lorist removed Bordefinger's makeshift bandages and applied the medicine.

"Dad! Dad!" A boy and a girl rushed over, grasped Bordefinger's hands, and began to cry. They were his son Shiward and daughter Alisha. When they had woken in the carriage, they had been terrified: an unfamiliar carriage, strangers all around, and their father gone. If Fatty Shi had not told them they were going to fetch him, there was no telling how hard they might have cried. Now that they had found their father wounded, both children burst into sobs anyway.

"Don't cry, don't cry. Shiward, you're a boy. You must learn to be strong. When you're older, you'll have to protect your sister. Boys can't cry at every little thing. Dad's fine. I've just got a cut and lost a little blood. It's nothing." Bordefinger stroked Alisha's hair as he spoke to his son.

Garilando limped over. "I recognize those two. Tonight was their first time at the Red Raven Tavern. They sat in a corner drinking and barely spoke. I watched them for a while and thought they seemed to be waiting for someone. But they were quiet, so I didn't pay them much mind. Later, Little Locke came back from looking at the carriage in the rear courtyard and went to the counter to settle his bill. He said he was leaving, and those two left ahead of him. Louise collected their payment."

Fatty Shi looked thoughtful. "Did they go to the Red Raven Tavern to wait for Locke? Did they leave first so they could ambush him farther down the road? Did you find any clues on them, Locke?"

"Nothing but their purses and these Battle Qi badges. Oh, and the two swords." Lorist handed him the badges.

Fatty Shi turned them over several times. "Distinctive design, but I can't remember where these badges are from."

He passed them to El, who returned cursing. "This is your turf. Good thing Little Locke's all right, or how would you have explained it to everyone? These belonged to the two dead men. See if you can find any leads."

El took one look at the badges. "Whoa, they really were Gold One-star! When Ready came to the tavern and said two Gold One-star swordsmen had ambushed you, we could hardly believe it. And now you're fine while they're dead. Damn it, Locke, you're a monster!"

"Can't you see Borg's hurt? If he hadn't stepped in, I might have been in real trouble. Enough talk. Give me a hand getting him into the carriage. His family can stay at my place for now. By the way, where's Instructor Marlin?" Lorist asked.

"Still in the carriage," Fatty Shi said. "Sleeping soundly..."