Murakami sneered, his palm resting lightly on the hilt of his blade. "Traitor of K'un-Lun," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "I'll let you make the first move." His pupils constricted sharply at his own words, as if hearing them aloud reignited something deep within him. "What did you say?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
"After defecting for so many years," Hong Fei replied coolly, "surely you haven't forgotten, have you?" Murakami's eyes narrowed, a fierce light flashing in their depths. "Who are you?" he growled, his hand tightening on the hilt.
Hong Fei didn't waste words. He stepped forward, his blade thrusting straight ahead with deadly precision. Murakami stood silent and unmoving, his expression unreadable. Only when the tip of Hong Fei's blade was nearly upon him did he suddenly act, drawing his own sword with blinding speed.
Battojutsu—Iaijutsu—was the art of the draw, a single lethal strike born from the curvature of blade and scabbard. It required not just speed but the perfect fusion of force and technique. Murakami's draw was a thing of centuries of practice, honed by the unique "Qi" of K'un-Lun. His experience allowed him to remain calm in the face of Hong Fei's attack, while the Qi enhanced his body's capabilities.
A flash of lightning-like blade light erupted, but Murakami's strike didn't aim to parry. Instead, his blade snaked toward Hong Fei's waist and abdomen, swift and deadly as a viper. A direct hit would mean evisceration—or worse, being cleaved in two. As he drew his sword, Murakami dropped low, rendering Hong Fei's thrust harmless.
Or so it seemed. In reality, Murakami's movements were painfully slow to Hong Fei's eyes, slower even than an old man practicing Tai Chi in the park. His draw looked clumsy, his bent posture more like an elderly man nursing a sore back after a night of indiscretion. Hong Fei adjusted his wrist with a fluid twist, tilting the blade downward. The sharp tip pierced the back of Murakami's hand with surgical precision.
Hong Fei felt a faint resistance—likely the Qi—but it was far too weak to stop his blade. With a slight exertion, the Qi's defense shattered, and Murakami's aged, sallow skin offered no more resistance than paper. The blade turned again, its edge facing upward, and the tip slid rapidly along Murakami's arm bone. Skin tore apart, flesh gaped open, and blood pooled beneath the surface as the blade continued its path, finally breaking through the shoulder and snapping the collarbone.
The two figures crossed in an instant. Hong Fei's blade remained unstained by blood. He turned back, spinning the Cross-blade lightly in his hand, its surface flashing in the light. Frank stood in the distance, his brow furrowed. He hadn't seen clearly what had just happened.
Clang! Murakami's curved katana fell to the ground, his cut black clothing fluttering in the breeze. From the back of his hand to his shoulder, a line of blood burst open with a hiss, the severed flesh gaping like a bloody maw. Red and white bone gleamed beneath. Murakami's cold expression vanished, replaced by a mask of agony. His features twisted uncontrollably, saliva stringing from his open mouth. "Ah!!" he wailed, the sound shrill and raw.
He seemed to be using his cries to convey the depth of his pain to Hong Fei and Frank. Frank's eye twitched. He'd seen bloodier, crueler, and more grotesque scenes, but this was different—so different that it chilled him to the core. His arm tingled with phantom pain, as if the blade had cut through him instead.
Hong Fei gazed at Frank with eyes as still as stagnant water, betraying no emotion. Lowering the RPG, Frank stepped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. "What kind of swordsmanship was that?" he asked.
"Boning knife technique," Hong Fei replied. "Usually used by butchers when cutting meat."
Murakami clutched his arm, blood gushing from the severed artery at his shoulder with each labored breath. His face paled rapidly, but even in his weakened state, the leader refused to surrender. Staggering a few steps, he collapsed to the ground, his left hand striking out with a sudden palm strike. A powerful force surged toward them.
Hong Fei grabbed Frank's arm and rolled them both to the side. Boom! The fence behind them shattered as if struck by artillery, debris scattering in all directions.
Springing to his feet, Hong Fei delivered a swift kick, sending the fallen katana flying. It pierced Murakami's heart with a wet thud, pinning his body to the wooden steps. Frank stood and brushed off his clothes, his expression grave. Qi—formless, intangible—was unnerving to witness firsthand.
Blood pooled rapidly between the cobblestones as Murakami's vitality drained away. Even in his final moments, he struggled weakly, his trembling voice rasping, "You will all die here, I—" Bang!
"Too much nonsense," Hong Fei muttered, holstering his gun. A blue skill card materialized and flew into his body.
From a purely strategic standpoint, capturing Murakami alive for interrogation would have been the smarter move. Hong Fei needed the secrets of crafting life-extending items using dragon bones. But sometimes, principles outweighed profit. Murakami's knowledge was valuable, but Hong Fei couldn't stomach the man himself.
With the immediate threat neutralized, Frank scanned the bloody scene and turned to leave. "Let's go. It's over."
Hong Fei shook his head. "Someone's coming. A lot of them."
Frank immediately raised the RPG. "We fight our way out!"
"I'm afraid it's not that simple."
In Hong Fei's mind's eye, dense clusters of red dots surged toward the villa. His enhanced hearing picked up the distant wail of police sirens. Outside, the once-quiet street was now flooded with flashing lights. More police cars streamed in from both ends of the road, their numbers seemingly endless.
Soon, the overlapping blare of sirens echoed through the villa. Frank's expression darkened as he turned to scout the rear. Through the chaos, he spotted officers advancing with riot shields.
As he prepared to bolt in another direction, Hong Fei stopped him. "Don't waste your energy. They're coming from all sides."
Frank froze. "When did they call the police?"
"Call the police? Unlikely. Unless Murakami alerted them before we even arrived, there's no way this many could mobilize so quickly. My guess is The Hand is involved. They're here to save him—or recover the body."
Frank's eyes narrowed. "What else aren't you telling me?"
Hong Fei gestured to Murakami's corpse. "Believe it or not, even though he's dead now, if The Hand retrieves his body intact, he might be up and walking again soon."
"How is that possible?!"
"This is the top secret of The Hand; life extension is one thing, but resurrection is the most twisted part." Dragon bones are extraordinarily powerful; the heart of K'un-Lun has never been its famed warriors, but the immortal dragon itself.