The conclusion of the duel was looming, the swordsman’s endless combinations of thrusts and spells having devoured the gorilla’s health.

Amongst the silenced spectators, none was more mesmerised than the young woman in a grandma disguise. Gripping her bamboo cane tightly, she felt as though her thump-thumping heart would explode from her chest.

Finally, after years of praying and waiting, Cripple-gēgē had returned!

And he was even more invincible than ever!

She suddenly winced.

The rest of the spectators recoiled a second later as the swordsman went flying after the gorilla's fist clipped his chest.

Damn it, thought Henry, his muscles seizing up as he was doubly-punished by the amplified pain signals of the poison’s hyper-sensitive neuralgic state.

He’d just been about to finish off the pretentious Earthfriend. When they'd thrown a desperation Hail-Mary haymaker, he'd stepped outside the range, only for the gorilla fist to vanish and instantly reappear twenty centimetres closer, striking him.

This wasn’t an Earthfriend technique but rather an effect of the Poison of Mercurial Debilitation’s pseudo-arcanobacteria. By petrifying a section of the V5 region of his visual cortex, they’d temporarily scrambled his ability to track movement and caused him to misjudge the swing.

A warhammer being held by a God Statue to his rear crunched against his spine. The air in his lungs, squeezed out by the collision, carried up a cupful of blood that dribbled down his chin.

With the crash initiating a new wave of neuron-jamming pain, he was unable to recover before the pretentious Earthfriend pounced upon him, flipped him onto his stomach, and wrapped his wrists in an iron-tight, lock.

"Hughhughhugh," Destined To Rule gorilla laugh-grunted, lifting Henry like a child sacrifice and displaying him to the spectators, who recognised the plan right away.

Once his cycle refreshed, the pretentious Earthfriend would decapitate Henry by gnawing through his lightly-armoured throat.

Some of the spectators became saddened that the stirring spectacle would end on such a crude note. Others nodded knowingly as if they’d predicted this outcome all along – that’s right; real battle is simple, quick, and brutal; these fancy footsteps will get you killed. Others still cheered for the gruesome finishing move.

“Absolute morons," said Henry, shaking his head.

This pretentious Earthfriend should have used the opportunity to flee and reset the fight. Alas, from staring too long at the stars, he'd lost sight of reality on the ground. One mistake didn’t negate how lop-sided the rest of the fight had been, Henry not having being forced to expend a single cooldown so far.

Burning one of the two Flora charges reserved in his sword-hand on , he repelled the Gorilla’s bite to his neck. With two reserved Fauna charges, he into a Silverback himself and, using a portion of , thrust his arms forward, freeing them from the wristlock. The remainder went into his elbow, which shot back and caved in his dumbfounded opponent’s teeth.

“Destined To Rule, eliminated! HF wins! -7, +31.”

The officiator’s shout incited the crowd into wild applause.

“Wow, that beret-dude got rolled.”

“Take me under your wing!”

“White Panther Village accepts you with open arms!”

Some of the people who’d nodded with certainty at Henry’s defeat nodded again – as expected, the martial art is less important than the practitioner.

In the line to sign-up for the challenge, a few players stepped out, realising they couldn’t win, others rushed to join for the opportunity to duel an expert.

Henry, cancelling his Gorilla form, cast a human gaze over the hubbub of his victory.

Despite his countless ultra-difficult accomplishments, this was a fairly novel experience. In his Cripple days, he’d fought his opponents when they were alone to avoid retaliation from their allies. As The Tyrant, he’d always operated in the background, Alex handling the guild’s public relations. That most of his achievements belonged to him rather than some-or-other spoofed ring-identity was known by a tiny few, much smaller than the people cheering.

To be honest, the excitement invoked no feeling in him.

Maybe, the victory lacked the necessary substance; perhaps, he lacked the gene that made one thrive off public attention.

It could also be the latest phase of the poison, which was disabling all his emotions in order to impair complex, non-finite decision-making.

The single dose he’d taken would last an hour.

Indifferent for now, he floated over two stamina-restoring sandwiches from the catering area, one for himself, another for the pretentious Earthfriend, whose eyes were darting furiously between him and the spectators.

“I promised each challenger three attempts," said Henry flatly, "so you might as well get your money’s worth. Your next defeat will be delivered by my refinement of the Grass Dragon style; pay attention, you might learn how to execute a Celestial build.”

Destined To Rule swatted the sandwich out of the air, creating a burst of tomato, lettuce, and gazelle meat. “Vile scammer scum! You falsified a lower rating! You set me up to take my money!”

Henry took a bite, processing the sandwich’s contents with mechanical chews.

“Don’t ignore me, you scammer! The result of the duel is invalid!”

The bread was dry, the meat oversalted.

“That is a preposterous claim,” replied Henry. “Firstly, I have no financial need to swindle children of their lunch money – although I will be taking yours; pay your debts. Secondly, you challenged me. The guilty party is thus your imprudence for failing to research my background, including my win record, which would have revealed that I started duelling an hour ago and have therefore yet to obtain an accurate rating. The officiator can confirm this.”

The woman in the high-chair nodded.

Henry took a second bite. “If you do not wish to participate in more duels, make a prompt and orderly exit from the stage to allow for the next challenger. For a minor character, you have already consumed too many lines in my saga."

“How dare you!” Destined To Rule was about to swing but saw that the officiators were waiting for his outburst, keen to throw him out of the stadium on his butt. Regaining his composure, he swapped back to his pretentious beret. “Hmph! Your payment will be waiting for you at tomorrow’s auction.”

“For my secretary,” Henry corrected as the pretentious Earthfriend stormed off. “Next!”

A Shaman stepped up onto the arena platform, a halberd trembling in his shaking grip.

“Uh...would Catacombs be OK? They might become angry at me, but...”

He didn’t want his loss to be witnessed by so many.

Henry had to lip read the question because his ears were disabled again. “Screw the mob; let’s go, young man!”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The Shaman did a double take - he was in his 30s.

The two proceeded to the centre of the map, entering The Catacombs and disappearing from the sight of a moaning crowd.

Style: Eternal Brother Blade

When Henry switched to a pair of butterfly swords, the Shaman gave them a worried glance.

“Relax.” Henry patted the young man on the shoulder with the flat of one sword. “This is my first time using this style. I read about it in a random manual from The Ruins of Yillarnee; it sounded sick, so I thought I’d test it out.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Why would I lie about that?”

In The Catacombs' shadowy hallways, Henry brutalised the Shaman with Eternal Brother Blade, Jaguar Fang, then Sea Dragon. Things became sketchy during the last match, when the poison induced a bloodthirsting state that forced him to close into melee range contrary to the principles of Sea Dragon, but, overall, it was an easy victory. Since the young man wasn't a sore loser, Henry sent them off with some simple-to-implement tips to improve their halberd-usage based on his studies of The King’s Harem.

In this way, under the ever-shifting challenges presented by his supremely-poisoned supreme cookies, he beat up noob after noob.

By a gazebo he'd set up by the side of the arena, along with the regular supplies that sped up his recovery, was a bench stacked high with mountains of martial art manuals. Between bouts, he went over to this setup and, hmm’ing and aha’ing, flipped open a book to scribble a note as though he’d achieved a spontaneous insight. This farce would later add to the mythos of The Return of The Cripple.

Tink. Tink. Ga-Tink. Tink.

“Should I hit the knots harder, Mr HF?”

“You've read my mind, Jean-Pierre. Please.”

While the dents in Henry’s armour were being hammered out, the tension in his back muscles was being kneaded by a French masseuse with magical fingers.

A manual on West Lanakari Lava Wrestling going obviously unread beside him, he'd had the massage table installed outside his recuperation gazebo so he could bathe his bare skin in Suchi’s equatorial sun. Although he’d despised the heat before landing in this trash zone, it was a nice change of pace after decades in the temperate climate of his Overdream home. He supposed, in small enough doses, anything could become a source of delight.

The queue of challengers was gone temporarily, the few who'd lingered leaving to watch the final rounds of an ongoing tournament. So long as his sparring partners were on the arena floor when their turn came up, Henry didn’t expect them to stay.

Much of the hype had died off once the crowds had formulated a concrete assessment of his skill level. This mysterious moneybags had impeccable technique in an astounding number of martial arts but also god-awful motor skills. Overall, although they hadn't seen him lose yet, he seemed to rank somewhere in the top 100 or 200 duellists. This was pretty darned decent, but there were much mightier freaks to observe elsewhere around the stadium.

The great sensation wouldn’t begin until later, when the number of styles under his belt began to swell to unbelievable proportions. The climax would be the official tournament, when the multi-skilled moneybags, who could be described as ‘crippled’, gave the fan favourites a succulent slap across their faces with his syncretised Naked Chameleon Komodo Invincible Heaven-Exploding Crippled Fist.

Then, he would deliver the coup de grace with a succinct but poignant first-place acceptance speech, which might sound something like this: "I've been asked how it is that I, The Invincible Cripple, after being absent for several years, mastered 84 martial arts and synthesised them into a supreme martial art to defeat all martial arts within a mere two weeks. The answer is that martial arts are very easy to learn if you have the natural talent. The only reason I refrained from mastering all the martial arts sooner is that it did not seem like enough of a challenge. In fact, many of the tools my detractors have dismissed as 'cheats' took me months longer to acquire individually. Having once again beaten everyone, I hereby announce my second and final retirement. I'm returning to the much more demanding field that has been keeping me occupied, designing fanny packs. Anticipate my new line in Spring 2051."

EZ.

-Battered Daisy: Five Earthfriends speared to death!

Abigail, emerging from a hedge-maze where she’d been sparring, jogged over to him and shoved out her palms with expectation.

Not bothering to lift his head from where it was comfortably slotted in the hole in the massage table, he summoned a single cookie. “Increase your rating by 20.”

Abigail collected the rewarded and divided it into fifths, eating one section, while storing the rest in her inventory to tide her over through the cravings.

“By the way, the new recruit's here.”

"The spy?"

At that very moment, loping towards them was a Savannah Cheetah, its running gait clumsy from a lack of familiarity with the monster form. As it sprinted through the stadium, its head was flicking back and forth with wonder, soaking in the sights of the pristine facilities and the many genius duellists whose level it was certain it could reach one day if it just trained hard enough!

Arriving by Henry and Abigail's side, it into the form of a young Chinese woman with athletic legs, an impractically long hairdo garnished with a purple-gold flower folded from a Byzantine Village bandana, and a smear mark under her jaw from a wrinkle she hadn’t fully erased.

For armour, she wore the generic, mass-produced gear The Company provided for those who couldn’t afford customisation. For a weapon, she wielded the lively, optimistic smile of an exchange student introducing herself to a new foreign friend.

What fun they would have together!

“G’day, mate! I’m Zàngméi! Daisy told me that you’re also an Earthfriend, so I guess that makes you my senior! Please take care of me in the future!”

Henry, too lazy to get up or look at the spy, deduced the location of her extended hand with his Tunnelling Cowmole Claw ear-training via the rustling of her armour and gave it a shake back.

“Whoever you work for, tell them that there’s no need to spy on me. I’m in Suchi to fulfil a stupid bet with Mayo: top 10 in the 1v1, and he’ll stop guilt-tripping me so I can retire from this poorly-designed, roleplayer-infested game for good. Your boss will probably throw a party to cele—”

He stopped, having felt a peculiar jolt in the spy’s hand.

Lifting his head, he looked into her face, which was inexplicably twisted in sorrow.

“Are you about to...cry?”

“No,” she sniffled.

What on earth?

Abigail gave him a puzzled shrug.

Was the spy distraught because her cover had been broken too quickly?

Henry gently patted her palm. “It's fine; we can pretend you weren’t sniffed out. Here, take a sip of that.” He’d slipped her a vial of orange liquid. “All your memories from the last three minutes will be erased; when you wake up, we’ll say you got hit by a stray throwing hammer and welcome you into the gang.”

“I’m not a spy.” Sniffle. “I’m studying in Sydney, Australia.” Sniffle. “At St. Catherine’s Girl's College.” Sniffle.

“Of course, you are. And it speaks odes to your character that you had the courage to move away from home at such a tender age. Now, dri—wait a minute.”

He noticed that her crying eyes were coloured a rare shade for a person of Asian descent, a pale, honey-orange. With avatar customisation, far stranger combinations could be created; however, he was personally acquainted with a Chinese-Canadian guy in real-life with the exact same eye colour—shape, too.

Henry’d never seen her real appearance, but this might be that guy’s little sister.

The same nose shape...the same tanned, Southern Chinese complexion...slightly younger than himself...

This girl wasn’t a spy; she was just an assassin.

One of the game’s most prominent: Septic Rose, slayer of The Witchhag of Talbek, owner of Im Lang’s Heartthorn, leader of The Garden of The Grotesque.

A childhood Cutthroat prodigy who’d played Saana since 5-years-old, she was one of the many victims who’d been blown-the-fudge-out by Henry during his first run as The Cripple.

Additionally, they had a second, more complicated connection because she was the younger sibling of a former member of his inner circle.

“Oh, hi, Rose. Can you stop crying? We've established that tears make me uncomfortable, so if you’re going to hover around, you have to use a mentally-stable fake persona.”

“These aren’t tears, Senior,” she wiped away a tear. “Who’s Rose, Senior? I’m Zàngméi.”

Her distress was genuine? That was odd. When she wasn't playing a false identity, she was extremely unexpressive, borderline robotic.

"But, Senior, why are you...why are you....why are you retiring?"

Shoot, he'd let that slip to her...this was unfortunate.

After he'd demolished her, Rose, who was a bit insane, had become his stalker, worshipping his duelling talents and copying everything he did. Who knows what mad shenanigans she would pull after learning of this news. She might even blow his awesome plan, depriving him of the sweet payoff.

"What are you talking about, Rose?" He used Nilkan Freerunning to adopt an open, honest bodylanguage. "I love Saana; I'll be at it until my nose hairs turn grey."

"Liar...you called it...you called it poorly-designed...and...and roleplayer-infested...Senior."

Henry's gaze flicked uncomfortably away, landing upon the cloudless Suchi sky.

The sky had been empty back then, too, he remembered, although their first meeting had not been half this awkward.

Five years earlier. Saana II. The Great Mammoth Steppe, a frost-bitten grassland without a hill or ditch.

In the middle of this nowhere, a solitary man—at least someone using the avatar of a grown man—sat on a car-sized glass-jar filled with smoke. His eyes, also cloudy with smoke, were fixed upon a desolately blue sky.

He had an odd appearance, being decked out in a clashing-assortment of gear that included a pirate hat, sequin pants, and a bone dagger sheathed inside a belt crafted from the third tongue of a Primordial Peopleater.

When a ring of thorns constricted around his thumb, he scanned the horizon, spotting a rider on a white horse approaching hard upon him.

Shutting an eyelid, he reviewed his notes a final time.

The rider dismounted two hundred metres away, her horse disintegrating and being sucked into her necklace. Barely four-feet tall, she produced a nodachi with a night-black blade that was longer than her yet light enough to be wielded one-handed.

Since the distance was beyond speaking range, she raised her free arm and signed in a secret code translatable only by fellow Cutthroats. “You ordered the hit on yourself."

It was merely an observation, the message carrying no judgement.

"I did," he signed back.

"The Cripple doesn’t fight opponents stronger than him out in the open.”

"I don't."

Hopping down from his perch, he summoned a fur coat from his Spatial Bracelet that’d been sewn together from the face of a gigantic polar bear.

Before his feet touched the ground, the lid of the jar he’d been seated on launched up like a rocket, and, in an instant, the surroundings were whitened out by the snowstorm bottled inside.