Chapter 71
Making Beats
The orc’s pale white eyes stared at Ken.
His dark pools glared right back.
Just the gentle breeze and Ken’s deep breathing filling the silent clearing.
Neither moved a muscle, waiting.
For what, neither knew.
Then the rich cloud of chi started to rise off the bodies.
The orcs’ eyes hardened.
At the look, Ken’s face twisted in anger.
I don't care who or what they are.
They tried to kill me, so their lives were forfeit.
“HEY! They attacked me, and I'm taking that chi!”
Their energy whipped violently, ripped from the air.
Ponytail growled, then charged with a smooth gait.
Ken was battered, hurt, and exhausted.
The bones in his arms ached from all the abuse.
Screw this guy.
None of that mattered as he rocketed to meet the slow but graceful approach.
His right fist flashed forward, more in control than ever before.
End it.
Now.
At the last moment Ponytail slowed, then shifted smoothly to his left.
With perfect timing, the right hand club struck the back of Ken's fist, shifting its trajectory just a bit.
Immediately following, the left club struck the forearm, deflecting Ken's punch enough to whisk harmlessly past his face.
Before the Pugilist could recover, the orc drummed a quick two-tap on his stomach.
An elegant crouch stopped the orc's skull from being caved in by a blurring backhand, while getting off another rapid two-tap.
Ken leaped backwards to create space from the stinging strikes.
He’s cheating.
He rubbed at the spot on his stomach.
He hit the same exact spot, what an asshole.
Determined to get some revenge, he approached more carefully.
As he got into striking range of the bouncing orc, a right, left, right combo was thrown.
With an almost rhythmic grace, the orc parried the blows with sweeping strikes.
Ken only accelerated.
Keeping his strikes short and sharp, he kept his opponent on the back foot.
Amid the flurry of perfect parries, clubs met limbs, welts blooming across Ken’s skin.
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The strikes were sporadic, so the Pugilist’s reinforced body held up to the hail.
When it felt like the staccato beats reached a crescendo, Ken threw an out of rhythm right roundhouse kick.
Ponytail attempted to adjust to the sudden change, but the full power kick blasted through the hastily adjusted clubs.
The orc was sent flying with a soft grunt.
This is going to be rough.
Ken thought to himself as he analyzed the Dual-Wielder.
Et o kooru bellrum.
Ponytail thought to himself as he analyzed the Pugilist.
They went back and forth, creating a concert of wood on flesh.
Rapid steps turned soft sod.
Red blood mixed on the rich soil.
Ken pulled the last dregs from the bottom of his Core, ripping to its maximum velocity.
Power roaring in his ears, chi rang with his shout,
“Let's go, you beast!”
Ken was too focused to catch the flash of confused comprehension.
Right jab, left jab, right jab, left shin kick, right hook, left shin kick, right straight elbow.
The Dual-wielder defended almost perfectly with exaggerated sweeping parries.
Only the kicks landed home.
He spun away from the elbow, catching Ken by surprise.
Coming out of the spin, he delivered a double blow to the back of Ken’s head.
Ken’s vision flashed.
He shook his head to clear the ringing.
Through his blurry vision, he could see the Orc favor his right leg.
He smiled.
Knowledge is Power.
Charging back in, he applied what he’d learned.
He struck harder, faster–never over-committing.
The rapid, flowing jabs were expertly deflected.
Split knuckles flicked blood into the air, speckling Ponytail’s gray skin with steaming red drops.
Leaving small openings for devastating leg kicks.
Someone never watched MMA.
The momentum slowly ramped up, clubs blurring faster and faster as desperation built.
Another kick, another tusked grimace.
The leg slightly buckled as he stepped back.
Wide, resigned eyes looked up.
Ken closed the distance.
As he re-built his tempo, the orc’s legs shook as he tried to keep him at bay.
His every step, just a bit slower.
Each movement, preceded by a moment of hesitancy.
The flat smack of fish on flesh started mixing into the constant wooden cracks echoing off the trees.
Ponytail staggered under the strikes, as a heavy kick axed down.
The weakened limb crumpled, sending the orc stumbling.
Ken, not missing a beat, used his trademarked flying knee.
Blood and a ponytail whipped through the air.
He rolled and came back around on one knee, blood streaming from his nose.
Clubs rose.
Left parried a hook, right drummed a jab short.
Left slowed a kick just enough, the right partially blocked an uppercut.
The strike slipped through, clipping Ponytail’s head.
The Orc’s dilated pupils lost focus, for just a moment.
A hammering right elbow sent the club wielder spinning to the torn forest floor.
Blood sprayed hot across Ken's face, he wiped it away, tasting iron.
The forest was suddenly too quiet.
The Pugilist looked down upon his beaten opponent.
Fierce bloody eyes glared right back as they started swelling shut.
Flashes of the fight blitzed through Ken's mind, as he looked down at his enemy.
Movements that were so obviously trained.
Face a monolith of concentration, or a rictus in pain.
Moments where it looked like he was actually enjoying himself.
Ken was too.
It was a good fight.
The orc struggled, shakily getting to his feet.
Taking in his too human appearance, his anger dissipated, like chi in the wind.
For the first time since the blue box, something inside him hesitated.
“Just.. Get the fuck out of here, man.”
He turned and walked away.
Icey orbs drilling into his back.
