When Serizawa heard the bearded man's boast, he gave a roguish grin. "Oh, that's a shame. I hate beards more than anything. Won't shave it off? Then I'll pluck it out hair by hair!"
The bearded man wasn't offended. He sneered, "You brought equipment to a fight? Did you swipe that light pole from outside a barbershop? Why not haul over a bag of cement while you're at it?"
It was an old joke. Legend had it that Shamate loved dance battles, and whenever they met at the village entrance to face off, they brought a few bags of cement.
They'd dump it on the ground, then spin and leap through clouds of dust. Apparently, it looked cool.
Legend also had it that some of the greatest dancers among Shamate nobility developed tuberculosis at a young age. Who knew whether the two were related?
Serizawa might have acted like a punk and gotten into fights all the time, but he wasn't actually a Shamate. He knew nothing about that custom, so he asked in confusion, "What cement? You want me to pour you a coffin right here?"
The bearded man flew into a rage. "You little punk! I'll show you my Death Coil!"
Death Coil?
Serizawa's heart skipped a beat. It sounded like a formidable killing move.
A name alone wouldn't scare him, but what the bearded man did next left him dumbfounded.
A dark, tangled mass burst from the bearded man's armpit and began growing wildly, like a vine.
The black tendrils seemed alive as they spread toward Serizawa.
To an ordinary person, they might have moved too fast to dodge. To Serizawa, they looked like slow motion in a movie.
Even so, he leaped away as though fleeing the plague.
Before the tendrils could reach him, a sharp,