Episode 70. Burn It All
How many corpses had been buried in that pit, I wondered.
This was why the Old Dragon General hadn’t joined forces with the Unwu Society—or fled with his subordinates. He had this entire trap prepared beneath his feet.
He pressed the teacup again, turning his wrist slightly. The cup clicked into place, and with a grinding noise, parts of the garden floor sank while others rose, pillars bursting upward from below.
The whole courtyard turned into a massive board of black and white stones—Go stones. White stones marked safe ground, black stones hid pits. But even some white ones were traps. Only that old bastard knew which were real.
“This looks about right,” he said. “Let’s begin.”
I stepped back, chuckling. “Now I see why your reputation never reached the Great Demon’s level.”
He sneered. “Reputation? What use is that?”
“You’ve spent forty years dropping people into holes. No wonder no one knows you exist. You’ve been eating, drinking, sleeping atop the corpses of your own men. Your face is pale because the rot’s seeped into your bones. You that afraid of the martial world?”
He smiled faintly. “Pointless words.”
“I’ve seen your kind. The ones who dig traps and never leave them. You don’t hunt like beasts, don’t wander the world testing your blade—you just rot in place, burying your followers, your friends, anyone who annoyed you. Every time your floor opens, the stench of corpses must rise like incense. A pity, really, for the Great Demon.”
“He’s dead. What’s there to pity?”
I glanced around the villa. “He probably spent years studying this place, trying to find your weakness. Guess he never did.”
At that, the Old Dragon’s face twisted into an eerie grin, ghostly pale under the dim light. “You’re right. Even the Great Demon never saw a crack.”
“Birds of a feather, then.”
He showed a crooked smile, teeth missing. “Where are you going?”
“Away from your playground, obviously. You think I’ll stay put on your turf, you idiot?”
“The exit’s not that way.”
I turned. The garden path was gone, replaced by vines and illusions. Some kind of simple mirage formation—but the exit really was sealed. If I’d brought my entire force in, half would be dead by now.
“So you dabble in formations too, old man? Trying to play Ghost Valley Master now?”
“You know of him?”
I smirked. My face might look young, but that’s just heaven’s joke—I’m no child. Still, I didn’t bother explaining that I’m blessed with an eternally youthful face.
Ghost Valley Master, or Guiguzi, was a sage from the Warring States—something like the founder of traps and formations in the martial world. His book, Guiguzi, is practically scripture for schemers.
There’s something only I know, though: the founder of my art, Master Giseongja, despised Guiguzi’s philosophy.
Guiguzi wrote, *“Earn trust, build intimacy. Once close, grasp their weakness, hold them fast.”* In the eyes of worldly men, it’s politics. In the martial world, it’s cowardice—exactly what this old man was doing now.
“Listen, you miserable relic,” I said. “One of my teachers hated hermits like you most of all. His name was Giseongja. Ever heard of him?”
“Never.”
“Figures. You’re an ignorant old bastard. He created a technique just for men like you—the kind who dig three escape holes. He said: ‘When the cunning rabbit has three burrows, burn them all.’ That’s why he made this art—Flame Rooster.”
I grinned and formed the Lotus Fire Seal with my left hand. The Old Dragon sensed something wrong and leapt forward across the white stones like a startled rabbit.
I knocked him off the table, reclaimed the incense flame, and moved across the shifting floor. “Normally, you wait when a man’s charging his ultimate move…”
Didn’t get to finish. He came at me, swinging a staff topped with a snake’s head. Where the hell had that thing been hiding?
The snake wasn’t real, but it meant poison. Always did in the martial world. So, caution first.
I leapt across the stepping stones, drew the Black Cat Blade, and struck.
Klang!
Our weapons clashed—but the uneven ground broke our rhythm. I stepped onto a white tile, and—whoosh!—a hidden dart shot from nowhere. I deflected it, only for his staff to whip at my head. I jumped back, but my right foot sank. Another trap disguised as solid ground.
I blasted downward with a palm strike, vaulting up. Poison needles shot up from below, glinting like rain.
“Damn, the old ginger’s still spicy,” I muttered.
I ripped off my outer robe and swung it wide, sweeping through the barrage. The needles tangled in the fabric, dragging it into the pit.
“Rest in peace, robe. May you be reborn as date-night attire next time.”
Anger flared in my chest. The Black Flame Rooster inside me stirred.
“You’re dead,” I whispered.
Not yet. “You’ll die soon.”
I memorized every safe tile I’d stepped on—never been one for great memory, but facing death makes the mind sharp. Pain improves recall. Don’t ask me why.
Even if retreating looked cowardly, it bought me time to map the traps. He’d triggered three collapsing tiles and two dart mechanisms so far. If I let him dictate my position, I’d lose. So I moved—deliberately reckless—to reset the field.
When I finally turned back, I’d seen enough. I faced him again, wary now only of poison.
The old dragon moved well for his age. The heavy iron staff swung with practiced precision. In open ground, he’d be a match for most of my subordinates. But I wasn’t most people.
I wrapped my blade in flame energy, sweeping arcs of fire across the garden, setting the edges of the villa ablaze.
He scowled. “You plan to die with me?”
I used his distraction to press my attack. My blade struck faster, each blow heavier. He staggered, barely keeping pace. He’d have to switch tactics—poison was coming.
Sure enough, he pressed something on the staff and swung. A green cloud billowed out, reeking of venom.
He leapt back toward the table, but I extended my palm, channeling the Absorbing Energy Technique. The toxic mist spiraled inward like a vortex, then compressed into a sphere. I flicked it toward the pit like peeling an onion.
Whoosh!
He slammed the table—and suddenly, from every pit, massive spikes shot upward like spears.
Thoom!
“Clever bastard,” I muttered. “I almost admire you.”
His expression fell. His perfect sequence of traps—poison, mechanism, spike—had all failed.
I sheathed my blade, then drew it again in one fluid motion, unleashing a massive wave of blade energy.
Schraaaang!
He blocked with both hands on the staff. The impact shook the air.
KA-BOOM!
I followed up immediately—strike after strike, blade energy raining down like lightning. His staff trembled with every clash. His face grew ashen, sweat dripping.
“Is that all?” I asked. “Think fast. You’re about to die.”
He spat, “Come closer if you dare.”
“No thanks. This spot’s safe enough.”
I unleashed another volley—thirteen, fourteen, seventeen blows in all. He blocked them all, barely. Then his balance broke. I stepped forward and delivered a final strike.
Splurt! Blood arced high.
Splurt! His right hand fell. Another strike—his arm severed. Then the other. Finally, when he dropped to his knees, I sliced again, nailing his legs to the floor.
Splurt!
I watched his trembling face, then slowly sheathed my sword. My finger ignited with Lotus Fire.
I compressed it—tighter, brighter, purer. The flame shrank to a pinpoint of blue-white heat. He was saying something, pleading maybe—but I was focused.
I flicked the fire toward him, watching his face as it drifted closer. The flame danced, twisted—then kissed his chest.
Fwoooosh!
A column of fire roared skyward like a dragon ascending to heaven.
Arms crossed, I admired the sight. The flames coiled, writhed, and devoured him whole.
“Beautiful,” I murmured, watching him vanish in the blaze.
Then softly, almost to myself—
“…Burn it all.”