Chapter 167: Chapter 165 – A Sacrifice for the Future

Well, this feels quite familiar.

Just like he had done a year ago, Corco stood in front of a spoiled young master who styled himself as a great warrior. Just the same, there was a ring of spectators around him who expected him to lose. He wasn't even that much of a fighter. Why did he always end up in these weird positions?

“Although you have a large mouth, in the end you still lack the resolve of a cultivator. Since you are not man enough to fight this saint at his best, we will do so without weapons.”

While he spoke, Swordsaint Tlaloc pulled out his blade and handed it over to one of his disciples, who received it in great awe. Just like Pacha, the saint kept his long, cumbersome sleeves down and still had his robe on.   

The same arrogance as well. Let's see if they also bleed the same.

“No matter what you say, I don't even have a sword. How could a fight with weapons ever be fair?” Corco played fearful.

Even when the king insisted on no weapons, the saint held a smile of absolute confidence on his face.

“This saint would not mind if you borrowed a weapon from his disciples, apprentice. What do you say boy, do you wish to fight like a man?”

“And entrust my life to a weapon I have never used before, one potentially tampered with by your men?”

At first Tlaloc frowned, but his smile soon returned. No wonder, since it was easy to pretend grace when one believed to be in an insurmountable position.

Let's see how long you can keep up that grin of yours once I smash your face in.

“Of course, this saint understands if you have reservations, young man. If nothing else, it is commendable that you would stand up for your master like this. Thus, there is no need to fight to the death, is there? How could a fight to the death even happen without weapons?”

As his own smile widened, Corco thought about the daggers and pistols still hidden all over his body. Killing this 'saint' would be easy, but he had to find the right moment. Still, if the young master was so worried about his reputation that he wanted to go easy on Corco, the king wouldn't mind. A weaker enemy would give him more room for error.

“True. This apprentice thanks saint for his leniency.”

Although he talked about leniency, Corco had no illusions. The disciples of the sword saint still surrounded the entire plaza. This hardly looked like the actions of someone who wanted to give him a mere slap on the wrist. If Corco lost here, death wouldn't be the worst possible outcome.

“In that case, ready yourself, young man. Here comes this saint's first strike.”

With an eerie leisure, Tlaloc sauntered forward, his hands low to his sides. Halfway to Corco's position, the saint raised his arms, ready for a punch. However, Corco never let the man's hip out of his sight.

Too predictable.

Before the kick could hit him, Corco raised up his arms to protect his mid-section. He followed the force and stumbled to the side to take away the impact. His hands tingled a bit, but it wasn't a big deal. Although the hit was as hard as could be expected of an accomplished cultivator, it wasn't a power he hadn't felt in his training with Atau of Fadelio. Those guys hit much harder than this so-called saint.

“That was no strike, saint!” Corco shouted in fake indignation. Meanwhile, the great saint stood there, proud of his cheap trick and Corco's apparent weakness.

“Haha, a real cultivator always has to be prepared for all eventualities. Still, it is commendable that you managed to protect yourself despite that. It appears not all your words were lies.” As if he was trying to convince the crowd that most of them were, the saint's eyes ran through the plaza, rather than focus on his enemy. “This saint will teach you the basics of cultivator com-”

While the idiot still showed off, Corco rushed to his unprepared enemy. Before he had realized, Tlaloc's legs had been tackled. His composure all gone, the cultivator thrashed at Corco's back, but with a low shout, the young king flipped his opponent to the ground. Now he could do what he had done to Pacha: Mount and smash the arrogant fuck's face in.

But when he tried to roll onto his enemy, he only managed a sloppy half-mount. In the short time he had been given, Tlaloc had managed to compose himself and move into a sitting position.

Bad.

When the first punch hit his shoulder, Corco knew he was in a bad position. Without hesitation, he gave up his position. He rolled to the side and off his enemy. Although he could try to trap the legs, Tlaloc's arms were totally free by now. He wasn't sure how many strikes he could take to the back of his head, but he was in no mood to find out... and he needed that head for a lot of other things in the future.

When he stood back up, the king got in a stance right away, and his enemy had done the same.

“Bastard!” Tlaloc shouted.

“Right back at you. How about 'A real cultivator needs to stay focused' as an excuse for my shameless attack? Let's just cut the bullshit and fight. How about it?”

“Very well.”

His face scrunched up, the young master rolled up his sleeves and got into a proper fighting stance for the first time. As he did so, his eyes never left Corco, who leisurely waited for his enemy. Now that both of them had tried and failed sneak attacks, there would be little point in any more, and Corco had his own pride. When the saint came forward again, it was with entirely different purpose. Still, the attack was the same.

Another mid-kick. Predictable.

Again Corco blocked, and backed up a bit. Although the kicks seemed impressive, the damage was minimal so long as he blocked with his arm. The next time, Corco decided to step up the pressure.

Third one.

As soon as he stepped back into range, another kick came towards the king. Right away, Corco stepped into the enemy's range and got ready to deliver a vicious uppercut. He would fuck up that young master good and proper. But then, the king's plans were foiled.

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Crap.

Somehow, the saint's standing leg bent and bent, until he stood in an impossible posture. Somehow, despite Corco's maneuver, the kick still connected. Again the king jumped to the side. Again their distance was re-established.

What happened there?

With suspicion, Corco observed his enemy, as he slowly stretched his flank to drive out the stinging feeling. How had he even been hit? While he still thought, the young master's earlier grin reappeared, wider than ever.

“In the end, you are only a novice, nothing more. You could never compete with a true cultivator, with a true man of power.”

Even though the arrogant fop's showboating gave Corco time to breathe and clear his head, he still couldn't understand what had happened. Even worse, it would be the only thing Tlaloc would say for minutes. Instead, he decided to take the king apart systematically.

What the fuck is this? Corco thought, and blocked another of Tlaloc's hits on his arm. Just as he was about to land his counter, the saint's joints bent in an unnatural, impossible angle. The open palm reached his chin to smack his face to the side. When Corco had recomposed himself, Tlaloc had already reestablished his favorite distance.

Annoying.

This had been going on for a while now, and it started to go on his nerves. At least by now he understood why he couldn't read the saint's moves.

“It appears you finally understand the power of Flowing Water.”

What an apt name this was for the fop's technique. Whatever cultivation technique this sect used, it blessed its users with an impossible flexibility. Whenever Corco was attacked, he was sure to receive a hit from some impossible angle. The Swordsaint's attacks could change direction mid-flight. Corco couldn't read them at all. Thus, he had still failed to move in on his enemy. Even the few times the king had gotten hold of his enemy and tried for a takedown, Tlaloc had somehow twisted his limbs and slipped out of the bind.

While the young master still bounced around the stone pavement and showed off his bad teeth with a wide grin, Corco took a deep breath to drive out his fatigue. Too many books, too much brandy and not enough training had left a toll. He'd have to improve discipline again when he came back home. Since there was a short lull in the action as Tlaloc waited to counter Corco's next attack, the king scanned the surroundings. By now the circle of spectators was as solid as eternal ice. While the inhabitants and guests of Hueatlan were spread on the outside, the inner ring had been taken up by Tlaloc's disciples. By now, they observed Corco with dangerous glints in their eyes.

“Yes indeed,” Tlaloc said to refocus Corco's attention. “You may wish to search for an exit, but your search will yield no success. You have insulted this great saint, and thus you shall receive your just punishment. Thus it shall be.”

“As wished by the great Way,” the obnoxious scholar Itoia added.

“Right, let's end this then,” Corco said and cracked his neck. He knew it was a pointless gesture, but he had always liked the image. Plus, he wanted to give his enemy a fair warning. Playtime was over. Like so many times before in the fight, Corco stomped ahead. Like so many times before, he was answered by a kick, and rushed inside of his enemy's range in response.

Always from the right.

The saint's attacks were repetitive, but they still kept working. Again Corco got ready to deliver a punch in response, this time a straight to the face. His body remembered the attacks from before and could sense the kick long before it hit. Again the saint's ankles bent and Tlaloc's toes bored themselves into Corco's side.

Pointless.

Unfazed, Corco's punch sailed on. What sort of power could this idiot generate from a pure ankle kick? Of course, power didn't matter when he wielded a sword. Even a light poke at the right place could be deadly then. Had the young master insisted on an armed duel, Corco wouldn't have stood a chance. But as things were, that xianxia idiot was doomed.

As Corco's fist closed in, Tlaloc's grin froze and his eyes widened. Now it was too late for another counter. Somehow, the great saint's head spun to the side just on time. Any normal person would have snapped his neck with that move, but Corco knew his enemy was still fine.

As his fist sailed past the saint's head, Corco turned his hand and grabbed into a full bushel of hair. When he yanked the idiot's head back up, he could finally see the panic in his eyes.

Dodge this.

Without mercy, elbow after elbow landed in the young master's face. The wet crunch told Corco all he needed to know about his enemy's state. Although the body's muscles had lost all power already, Corco only changed his grip a bit and began to work his knees on the great saint's nose. This time he wouldn't play around like he had with Pacha. This time there would be no surprises, no hidden knives. By the time of Corco's last hit, his knee was caked in the blood and flesh of his enemy. Like a sack of rice, the saint's body plummeted to the ground. At first the crowd was stock-still, but then the first of the great master's disciples stepped forward.

“How dare-”

“Hey, stop pushing you bastard!”

Although he tried to gain initiative, the disciple pushed away one of the commoners in the process. The crowd was just too packed. Soon, similar scenes repeated all around the circle. As the disciples tried to reach their master and the commoners tried to move away, close in, or run in circles like headless chicken, the plaza soon turned into pandemonium.

With a determined look, his lips pressed together and his brow furrowed, the king looked down on his unconscious opponent. The glint of iron entered first Corco's hand, and then hovered over the saint's head.   

No more enemies. No compromises.  

When the steel entered Tlaloc's head, Corco could first feel harsh resistance, but everything became easy as soon as he pierced the skull and entered the brain. His eyes wavered and filled with tears, half from disgust at the sensation, half from disgust at himself. Although Tlaloc was an idiot, he didn't deserve to die. Corco knew that. Still, he couldn't leave any loose ends. This plan had to be a success. Any of the deaths today would be his fault anyways. Another by his own hands wouldn't matter much when it came to eternal damnation.

Although he looked back up to distract himself from the dirt on his hands, he found only chaos all around. Somewhere hidden in this mess were his own troops, disguised as local farmers, fishermen or traders. How else could such a panic spread spontaneously? Somewhere within the crowd, Corco could hear a scream of agony, the last cry of Tlaloc's disciple. He closed his eyes to shut out the carnage.

All of a sudden, Corco doubted if any of this was worth it, for just a bit of food and a few doctors. Still, he wouldn't waver, not now. No matter how many had to die, he would make the perfect kingdom in his head a reality, and turn Medala into a paradise like never before or never again. If he couldn't even achieve that, what would all the sacrifices be for? Why go to war with his family, why kill so many?

When the king's eyes opened again, there was no waver, and no tears. Clear and cold, the King of the South observed the crowd, and watched his servants do their handiwork. Now everything was in motion. Soon, their plan would be a complete success. 

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