That Man

In an inconspicuous corner of the tavern, two men were drinking and chatting. One was a burly man in his thirties, and the other was a black-haired man of about the same age. Beside them sat a little boy who looked four or five, with a head full of black curls.

The burly man's face was flushed from drinking, and his voice rang out like a bell.

"Hahahaha! Little Mark, your master is now the world fighting champion! As my personal disciple, you just need to keep practicing, and sooner or later you'll surpass me. When that day comes, I'll hand my dojo over to you!" With that, he drained his glass again.

The boy named Mark was taller and bigger than other children his age. Perhaps because of his martial arts training, his eyes held a confidence and composure that most children lacked. His thick black hair was fluffy and curly, and even when he wasn't speaking, a smile always lingered at the corners of his mouth.

Mark made no attempt to be modest. Looking up, he asked, "Master, can I become the world fighting champion too when I grow up?"

"Hahahaha! What's a world fighting championship?" The middle-aged man laughed. "You may still be young, but I know talent when I see it. You're a natural fighter, and with me teaching you personally, you won't have to take all the wrong turns I did. You'll definitely surpass me someday!"

"Gerude, don't keep praising him like that. Becoming a world champion is hardly easy!" the black-haired man said with a smile.

Gerude patted the black-haired man on the shoulder. "That's where you're wrong, Tailin. I'm not praising Mark blindly. This boy inherited your talent. As long as he keeps following this path, he'll surpass my achievements in less than twenty years."

Tailin shook his head helplessly. He had once been a professional fighter too, but that road was full of hardship. Getting ahead required enormous amounts of blood, sweat, and time. Tailin had given up fighting halfway through and bowed to the demands of everyday life. Now he owned a small food-processing factory.

Although he had given up fighting, Tailin had remained friends with his senior fellow disciple, Gerude. This time, when Gerude came to compete in the fighting championship, Tailin had brought his son Mark along to cheer him on.

Gerude turned back to little Mark. "You're still young, and you have plenty of room to grow. But remember, little Mark, don't limit your ambitions to fighting championships. You need to become the world's number one martial artist. Someday, you'll compete in the World Martial Arts Tournament and become the strongest man on Earth!"

Mark looked worried. "Master, do you think being invincible would get lonely?"

Then Mark burst into a smug laugh, and his words made both Gerude and Tailin laugh too.

Gerude filled another glass, then suddenly grew serious. "Speaking of which, little Mark, your name doesn't sound very imposing. Mark, Mark... it sounds like some academic researcher's name. If you want to be number one in the world, you first need a name that sounds powerful!"

Tailin pulled a face. "You think so too, huh? His mother picked that name. If you ask me, a boy would be better off with something like Johnny or Jason."

"Then what kind of name would sound powerful?" Mark asked eagerly.

Gerude cupped his chin in thought. "Hmm, let me think. Your punches are as fast as lightning. How about Thunder God?"

Mark shook his head. "That name's everywhere. No, no, it's too corny!"

Gerude tried again. "You're very strong, and your muscles have great explosive power. How about Power King?"

"No, that's even cornier!" Mark rejected that one too.

"Then how about Lion Leon?"

"That sounds like an old man!" Mark shook his head.

Gerude came up with several names in a row, but Mark found them either awkward to say or old-fashioned. Gerude started getting impatient. "This one won't do, and you don't want that one either. Then tell me, what kind of name do you want?"

Tailin chimed in. "I've thought of a name that's already right there. It sounds pretty imposing. I'm sure you'll like it, Mark!"

Gerude didn't catch his meaning. He frowned. "What name?"

"Your dojo!" Tailin said.

Gerude's eyes widened. "You mean Castle? Hmm, that name's a little strange, but if you want to use it, I suppose you could."

Speechless, Tailin spelled it out. "Satan! The Satan in Satan Castle!"

Tailin's words snapped Gerude out of his confusion. He slapped the table approvingly. "You rascal, I almost forgot! Mr. Satan is a great name! With that name, you could be Satan, the devil who makes opponents tremble at the mere mention of him, or Mr. Satan, the mighty god of strength no opponent can budge. Hahahaha! Good, that's a good name!"

"Yeah, yeah, that's a great name! It sounds cool, not old-fashioned at all!" Mark said.

Just then, Tailin set down his glass. "Oof, I can't take it. My stomach suddenly hurts. I need to use the restroom."

"Come on, Tailin, why are you always running to the toilet? Back when we trained under our master together, you were always hiding in there to slack off. Don't tell me you can't handle any more booze and you're trying to get out of drinking?" Gerude said, pursing his lips.

Tailin grimaced. "Would I really need to pull something like that when I'm drinking with you? Maybe I ate too much seafood at the celebration banquet earlier. Speaking of which, the seafood in South City really is delicious! Enough talk. I need to hurry!"

Tailin ruffled Mark's fluffy hair, stood up, and headed for the restroom.

A little while later, Gerude suddenly leaned close to Mark and pointed. "Speaking of old-fashioned, Mark-no, Mr. Satan! Hahaha, I'm going to start calling you Mr. Satan right now. Look at that table. Yes, over there. Now that old man's hairstyle is what I call old-fashioned!"

Mark followed Gerude's finger and saw a sinister-looking old man drinking alone, drowning his sorrows. His eyes were as sharp as a hawk's, and beneath his hooked nose, his lips were pressed into a thin line, giving him a merciless air. Two wisps of mustache above his lips added a weathered touch to his face.

The old man's long black hair was tied into a braid, with a bow fastened at the end. It looked rather comical.

But Mark didn't dare laugh. He instinctively sensed the chilling menace emanating from the old man. That presence even made Mark lower his head, afraid to look in that direction.

"Hey, Mr. Satan! I'm talking to you. Look! That old man is so old-fashioned. Look at his clothes. They're like some costume for role-playing! Hahahaha!" Gerude laughed without restraint, his voice carrying to the ears of the gloomy Mercenary Tao.