Agony? thought Sarok.

Offworlders were immune to pain.

And they were a Tier-0 Earthfriend. The spear-thrust should have slain them instantly.

Sarok snatched them by the neck and smashed his fist into the side of their helmet, using to disable ability usage. Wrenching them away from him with their throat exposed, he reached for a dagger on his belt.

As the Offworlder's face came into view, however, an indigo-azure mist spilt away from their features. The illusion's dissipation revealed the helmet of Timid Tuske, Arcanist of The Kufoldi Guardians.

For a moment, there was terror and confusion in Tuske's eyes, then they went blank.

A spear-point had slipped through his ear, two more into his heart, three into his gut, and a seventh into his lungs.

"WEASELY FUCK!" shouted Apostle Bian in the distance.

Tuske evaporating in his arms, Sarok stared with repulsion at the skeletons that had slain his comrade due to the Apostle's rashness...

That had slain himself...

While the skeletons ran off to continue their pursuit, Sarok, gritting his teeth against his anguish, collapsed to his knees and landed in a pond of the blood torrenting from his punctured torso, his own body marked with four gaping holes through which the spears had passed on the way to his friend.

Ahead of him, Sister Nora's soul was glittering amongst the weapon swarm, lingering in the hopes of witnessing a surprise salvation for him.

"Go," Sarok replied. "I'm fine."

But the gurgling in his voice betrayed the lie.

"GO!" he yelled. "In the next Cycle."

Sister Nora, unable to resist the drag of the heavens, apologised and departed. Through his blurring vision, her soul-lights fusing into the tunnel roof resembled the glow-worms in the giant caves of the west they'd once visited.

The had been flying away to resume supporting the Offworlder, who, after swapping places with Tuske, was massacring his friend's disciples as a gorilla. When Sarok had yelled, though, a war-axe split off from the swarm and swung back around in his direction, to deliver the blow of mercy.

"Spare me this conceit!" he shouted. Willing all his strength into his arm, he clutched his spear by the shaft. "I am not dead!"

His arm too heavy to lift the spear, he nevertheless managed to get it upright by using his back muscles to twist his torso.

The point teetering, he directed it in the path of the axe. "I am not dead!" he roared. "I am not dead! I am not."

Death cut him short. His spear clattered on the ground as it slipped from his fingers. The weight of his upper body armour was like a sinister palm, pressing his chest down into hell. When he tipped backwards, the conflict of the motion against his planted knees made him—Great-Hearted Sarok, Peerless Sarok, Gentle Sarok, Nerin-Born Sarok—turn half-way through the fall and spill out in an unflattering mess.

Shortly after, the axe waved his soul off into the sky along with his companions. Away they went into the cloudless blue, lamenting their stolen youth, their vanishing valour and unfinished stories.

Henry, clobbering cultists with his gorilla fists, winced at the crunch of the axe. Cannibals or not, he took no delight in having to kill his former candidates.

Sarok had actually been the second in this cult. The first was Juthatan Alakil, the Bloodmancer he'd shattered with a shield earlier. That kid had been considered for the throne of Murdnon, but they'd been rejected for emotional fragility.

To stumble upon a pair here was more probable than one might imagine.

Henry'd specifically scouted the children of former nobility. This archetype tended to have a decent education, socialisation, combat training, and motivation to risk their lives in the pursuit of power. Additionally, their family history created political connections that could be exploited during coups.

In The Slums, where the excommunicated of the world fled, these people could be found everywhere, under every piece of rotting driftwood. And when left in this craphole—for the exact same reasons he'd favoured them—these kids tended to climb high in the zone's gangs and other shady organisations.

With most of the enemy backliners now fleeing him, the number of projectiles he needed to dodge had decreased drastically. Thus, he'd switched to less mobile, more deadly techniques.

As the weapon swarm caught up to him, he exerted the remainder of his throwing a Qi Master at two other cultists, bowling them over.

Dropping back to his human form, he grabbed an spear and hurled it at the three to skewer them together. Dead, dead, dead. Before that spear could strike its mark, though, he Galmas White-Antlers of The Earthfriend Society through the temple to make them trip and, catching the handle of a basket-hilted broadsword, split their spine. Dead.

Sprinting through the stampeding herd, his gaze darting around to digest every morsel of information, he rapidly grabbed one after another and, striking with the weapons quicker and more accurately than they did on their own, reaped the harvest.

One died to the shortsword, Pepa Tagata died to the war-axe, one died to , one died to , Asztal The Kisser died to a dagger, two died to a spear, one died to a knife, one died to a , Brooding Elo and two more died to the butterfly-swords...

This was TT-59-HX-45, based off a Twenty Tools technique called Twinkling Annihilation. In the original, the practitioner fought with a myriad of weapons by juggling them in and out of their Spatial Bracelet – the constant stream of lights from the transfer made one twinkle.

Twinkling Annihilation was intended to be Twenty Tool's ultimate technique, but its complexity had prevented its application in proper battle. Until Henry acquired The Cap, he'd never witnessed it being successfully performed with more than five of the twenty weapons, even in practice duels. Heavy-Fingers himself claimed to be able to juggle nine.

Today, Henry, with the contributions of the other martial arts he'd learned, could juggle twelve weapons.

Kind of...for technical reasons, he had to rely on the weapon swarm, the Spatial-Bracelet version being impossible without unique Class specialisations. Once he'd won his recruitment tournament, he might pick one of those up. Might, it was hard to predict his desires that many decades from now.

Around Apostle Bian, the last of his backliners were scrambling as the Offworlder's use of the Illusionist brought them within 19 metres. His Infernal Commander was hissing to leave, too.

The Apostle, however, blinded by greed, had focused an unwavering gaze on the Offworlder and the skeleton minions he was directing to catch them.

None of the previous losses could deter him, for he alone composed the bulk of the cult's might. He'd reared 13 skeletons to his level, and each of these could endure at least 30 attacks from the . His followers had never existed for their combat capabilities – they were merely the fingers with which he plucked bodies from the public.

He'd happily trade hundreds of thousands of them for the Legendary necklace controlling the weapon swarm.

When the Offworlder slipped his skeletons again, Apostle Bian almost swore, but the reaction mutated part-way into a cackle. "FU-AH!"

How simple...

Habituated to the usual methods by which he fought, he'd failed to spot the infinitely easier method of killing the Offworlder - .

This was the Bloodmancer equivalent to and , a Tier-0, fast-moving spell that cursed the target to incur a small amount of damage every few seconds. He rarely used this or other targeted spells because he benefited more from focusing on the macro-level of a fight, directing his summons. Arterial Inflammation, especially, was too weak to have an impact.

In this unique case, however, due to his enormous level advantage over them, a single application of this basic spell would be fatal.

And at this distance, its speed made it practically undodgeable.

The Apostle chanted the spell's one syllable. "WIH!"

With a burning globule of blood condensing in his palm, he aimed the fatal shot.

When a squad hesitated at a spear that Henry javelined over their head, he stepped into a Nature Energy pocket behind them and them into oblivion.

Not even particularly far into his journey, and he'd already superseded Heavy-Fingers...the thought put him in a melancholic mood.

It would be nice to claim that he'd possessed the ambition of advancing Twenty Tools at the outset, but this hadn't been true.

In Saana II, he'd been an awful student. Impatient to achieve his goals, he'd ceased further training in the style after developing the skill to combo his cheat items. Likewise, when he'd started formulating the supreme martial art, his motivations had been petty: showing up a frenemy, insulting his haters, relieving his boredom.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The climb hadn't taken on any deeper significance until he'd re-read the monk's manuals during his experiments, re-read them again, re-read them again, and again.

Under the ever-brighter illumination of older age, the pages had become clearer.

Why had the monk written of the twenty styles with the excited admiration of a kid recounting the feats of their strange uncles? Because, after one has been trained by a martial art to enough depth, one begins to feel that it is an uncle. It has the personality of its founder and their people. Its life-story evolves over its alterations by its successors, and there are good years and bad years.

Why did the monk snap at criticisms of Twenty Tools like a mother responding to someone calling their child ugly? Because a martial art IS one's child. It spends months, years, decades forming in the stomach. After its birth, one continues to guide it, imparting it the wisdom of the uncles. As one's child, both its achievements and failures are a mirror of one's own.

Why was the monk so foul-mouthed? Because life is short and unpredictable. Eventually, the child must be handed to another for rearing. And the disciples' mistakes foretell of fumbles that will lead the child wayward, that might drop it and dash its supple skull.

More could be said, but the Apostle's time had arrived.

The globule dissipated in the Apostle's hand without being fired.

There'd been no clear shot.

While he'd been tracking the Offworlder, there'd not been a single instance of him gaining direct line-of-sight. Some object was always interfering, a stalagmite, his followers...and the ?

The Apostle activated bullet-time, commanded his skeletons to close in tighter, then prepared a second shot. "LAK!"

A tower shield and a round-shield descended directly between him and the Offworlder, the two weapons overlapping so that only a negligible amount of the would remain after passing through them.

Apostle Bian glanced back at his fleeing archers and mages.

They were frantically trying to dive past two skeletons he'd set up at the rear during his item-lust to slay deserters. Despite the skeletons spiking them like fish squirming on sand, despite the rabid mob of thousands awaiting beyond, they continued anyway, knowing these odds to be better than against whatever lurked behind them, dauntless and inhuman.

His Infernal Commander's demonic hisses were incomprehensible yet perfectly understandable – Run! Run! Run! Run! Run!

Finally, the Apostle perceived as everyone else had the secret horror of this formation, the reason he'd been disturbed by his first glimpse of it. These stalagmites behind which the Offworlder ducked, the thin sections of wall into which they dove, the divots in which his followers continuously tripped – not one piece was placed randomly. With an impossible familiarity, the even more horrifying engineer was bearing down upon them immune to any retort, draped in a weightless but impenetrable cloak of stone.

The Moving Wall.

A monster!

Apostle Bian stared at the Offworlder, who was bisecting three followers with one stroke of an anti-cavalry sword. Their eyes clear and white. No bullet-time.

To perform such a feat while also utilising the stalagmite formation, one would have to be—

He was jolted by a second epiphany.

The Company... Dynasty's Downfall, a Legendary necklace, and other unfathomable resources...staggering mental speed...

"The Tyrant?" he muttered.

But he was a Fighter!

Despite Apostle Bian having been whisper quiet, his voice was overheard above the screeching dead by the Offworlder, freezing a charging squad with a and smashing the meat icicles with the swing of a halberd. "Wow!" They jabbed a knife into a Miracleworker's throat and dragged it down into their sternum, the blade passing through the bone of their rib-cage and the point through the heart. "Fantastic guess, Bian!"

The Apostle, acting fast, chanted a spell. "DAHK!"

Producing a dagger, he poked his tongue out of his mouth and sliced off the front half. His Infernal Commander having unsummoned her helmet beside him, he held the dismembered piece over her head and squeezed. A jet of blood anointed her hair, transferring her control of his skeletons.

Apostle Bian, having lost his composure when confronted with a real possibility of death, joined everyone else in their flight.

Unseen to his back, the Offworlder became a pillar of flames, aimed straight at him.

Outside the cave's entrance, the guts of the beast grumbling.

The ambushing Villagers had grown confused when the thumping war-drums, barely a minute after beginning, came to an abrupt end.

Shortly after, though, there'd been a series of crashes from more tunnel collapses. Then, they'd heard a rumble that'd steadily grown louder as it'd drawn nearer.

Whoever had delayed the cult must have been defeated.

They were coming.

Half a second, repeated Donkey Bro in his trench to embolden himself. Half a second...half a second...

The cave's ominous articulations growing ever louder, he discerned the stampeding of hooves, the march of his brothers and sisters still subjugated to the Apostle's cruel rule.

Half a second...half a second...half a second...half a second...

As the cannibal train was about to exit the cave mouth, the Villagers began casting their spells and nocking their arrows and raising their axes.

Suddenly, the handsome Offworlder vaulted out of the trench beside Donkey Bro and sprinted for the cave alone.

"Cease fire!" he shouted. "They're donkeys! They're just donkeys!"

Dan distracting everyone, a shabby herd galloped out of the darkness.

They were unaccompanied, and their backs were no longer weighed down by the abominable cargo.

The ambushers, cancelling their abilities, exchanged confused looks.

When no one could explain the situation, their commander ordered his scouts to enter the cave and investigate. Others were tasked with rounding up the donkeys – a better prize than nothing.

While the herd was being gathered, Donkey Bro stood in place with the sad energy of a deflated balloon after a cancelled party, wrinkled, limp, purposeless, and spent.

His ear twitched at the neigh of a donkey behind him.

"Szamar?! Is that you, Szamar?! Get that shabby donk over her and give your father a hug!"

Szamar was Donkey Bro's original name, given to him by his former master. He preferred the new one from Dan, though. Despite its shabbiness, it instilled him with a sense of separation and division from his past.

His donkey family weren't Sentient, so the only one who still called him Szamar was the ugly Offworlder...when they were furious.

A few metres away, hiding in the shade of a tree was a 'donkey' – the Earthfriend monster form copied from himself.

Donkey Bro snapped at Dan, who'd returned excitedly to his side, to stay back. Climbing out of the trench, he stomped over to the ugly Offworlder. "For your sake, human," he spat, "I hope you've at least saved him for me!"

"Who? Buddy Bian? If you want to fight him, he's right over there." Henry flicked his muzzle. "But you'll need to grow wings to catch him."

Donkey Bro span to follow the motion.

The empty sky.

Dead.

He turned back to Henry, who was staring at him in silence, awaiting his response, conveying nothing through his gaze but tiredness and impatience.

The Bloodmancer dude's end hadn't been anything to write home about.

Once they'd isolated themselves from their Infernal Commander's protection, Henry'd comboed and to jump behind them. When he landed, they responded with a desperation bullet-time stab using the dagger they'd severed their tongue with. Henry, though, had cast a mid-air before . This spell striking the guy in the back and disabling him for a fraction of a second, he shoved a vial of The Poison of Mercurial Debilitation into their mouth.

If the Apostle had been more cautious, they might have defended against expensive poisons after witnessing Henry's use of The Pendant of a Thousand Minds. However, their guard had been lowered by the miss-assumption that Henry's poison-usage was on cooldown from expending the Dynasty's Downfall on the Cutthroat. That'd been a fake, a failed intimidation tactic to make the cultists turn back so he wouldn't be saddled with the burdensome job of killing them all. Tor had really been snuffed by the , which were hidden behind the stalagmites at the very start.

Henry usually dosed himself with one drop of the power-limiting poison for an hour; the Apostle, he gifted the entire vial. With their higher-level, the full dose still ended up being half the effectiveness of one drop on himself. Nevertheless, the debilitations prevented them from climbing out of a hidden pit that Henry proceeded to toss them into.

With the Apostle on time-out, Henry killed the Infernal Commander—comboed with an unbreakable chain of and Nine Fists lockdown—hunted everybody else down in cheetah form, killed them, and then finally came back to the pit to kill the big bad.

That end part hadn't been 4% of the technical difficulty of the approach. He could have done it pre-Overdream.

After that, he gathered the donkeys, used lightning spells to dispose of several hundred corpses that'd been preserved in the pickling barrels, and collapsed The Moving Wall formation to cover any traces.

Bada bing, bada boom, cannibals defeated, justice served, day saved.

Donkey Bro exploded. "How dare you! How could you deprive me of this?! This was my battle to fight, human, my retribution!"

"You know me, Szamar. I'm a greedy guy. There are many things I'm unwilling to share, like Slum Point bounties."

"HAH! If you were expecting me to genuflect in gratitude, you are sorely mistaken! Nothing, that's what you get from me, NOTHING!"

"Really? Not even one Slum Poi—damn, I forgot to collect proof for—"

"This isn't the time for your $&#* jokes!"

Henry vehemently disagreed. "No, Szamar, this is the exact perfect time for them. But if we must be serious..." he spat out an object on the grass at the donkey's feet, an entrance badge for the West Bank. "After your little outburst, they've seen enough to assassinate you. Chill with the wolves, and think hard about what you've done wrong today."

"Let them try! Those who test me will receive oblivion!"

"No, Szamar, you'll get killed, just like you would have today without my intervention."

It was the undeniable truth.

Donkey Bro couldn't accept it, this vile calculated defeatism. "I am a—"

"Stamped out in the first step, along with all the other ants who try to waltz with giants."

"The stars themselves will—"

"Gone and soon forgotten." Henry sighed. "Next time, Szamar, I'm letting you die. Twenty-two, that's the number of Ibanmothe around us who were almost gifted the fate of your friends by you initiating this ill-prepared ambush. Moreover, one of the Earthfriends that went in to scout is your pal Barat's sister, Szol, and the Bowman in that tree, Tamfa, is his second-cousin. I'm sure Barat would have been appreciative of you getting his family slaughtered."

Donkey Bro, catching his breath, studied the Bowman who was steadying their nerves with a cigarette. Although he was inexperienced with human anatomy, there didn't seem to be any familial resemblance.

"A lie."

"It is!" Henry swung around, presenting the donkey his donkey rump. "And it isn't. There's more than one Barat - many more. Peace out, Szamar!" With that, he galloped away.

Donkey Bro watched the ugly Offworlder off. The figure receding into the distance had a quality that was as pathetic and shabby as himself. At the sad sight, he felt the heat of his anger dissipating and the cruel coldness of the sorrow that takes its place.

Too fast, things fade.

"FUCK!" Donkey Bro kicked his toes against the tree trunk, trying to reignite it but failing. "FUCK!"

Rose had been stalking from inside a flax bush.

When the donkeys had emerged without any company, she'd nodded without surprise. Cripple-gege soloing an entire cult at Tier-0? Of course, he could - he was The Invincible Cripple!

As he galloped away in his donkey form, she shapeshifted into a mare and excitedly chased after him for the victory lap.

-Henry Flower: Jesus Christ, didn't I tell you to log off?

Rose stiffled a laugh.

How could she log off now?

For so many years, she'd waited for Cripple-gege to finish up with that boring battlefield and government stuff that made him so tired. Finally, he was alive again, back where he belonged, walking the solitary path of the duellist, crusading alone in the shadows against the universe's most dangerous enemies, undefeated, unrivalled under the heavens!

If anyone made her miss out on one millisecond of his latest invincible saga, she'd kill them!

-Zhangmei33: It's almost morning here, Cripple-gege; sleep is pointless. How was the battle? Did it rank in top 100? Top 500?

-Henry Flower: Bloody hell, Rose...not now...

-Zhangmei33: What special tools did you debut? Forbidden techniques? Can I have a copy of the—

You have been blocked by Henry Flower.

But Rose was accustomed to being blocked by Cripple-gege. Continuing her chase unperturbed, she followed him west, the foliage becoming denser the nearer they drew to this trash zone's river.

Soon, though, Cripple-gege, employing a new tool that buffed his Stamina, outran her, and she lost him in a forest.

Not one to give up, she pursued his hoofprints.

Then she lost these, too, the trail ending in a flowery meadow as a pair of human footprints. Cripple-gege had dropped back to human form to cast a stealth ability, before continuing on, the magic masking all traces.

An impressive escape!

Before going offline, Rose cancelled her form and bent low to give his footprints one last admiring glance. The flowers around them were speckled with crimson, blood from Cripple-gege's enemies having dripped from his armour.

Her lips parted prettily.

He's truly back!