Krak.
"You done yet, sister?"
Two figures detached themselves from the gloom behind Tuka. He spun, heart hammering against his ribs. They were skin and bone, wrapped in mismatched leather armor—one white-knuckling a dagger, the other resting a rusted sword over his shoulder. They looked like the pathetic cannon fodder from the stories he'd read back at the orphanage.
Do I stand a chance against them? Tuka thought, his fingers cramping as he choked up on his iron pole.
The two scavengers circled him like starving dogs, sizing him up before one tossed a flask to the woman. She caught it, drained it in one gulp, and splashed the rest over her face. The mask of the innocent victim washed away, leaving behind the sharp features of a predator.
"Today's catch is a waste," she spat, her voice raspy and cruel. "An old dog and a pup. I doubt they have a single sura inside them. At least we can have some fun with the pretty boy."
Tuka swallowed hard. Bitch. It was the first time he'd ever used the word, even in his head. It felt strangely good—right up until he realized this particular bitch looked like she could snap him in half.
"What are you waiting for? Get him!" she barked.
The two men lunged.
Tuka's mind went white. They're too fast! His shepherd instincts screamed, but his muscles felt like they were made of wet clay. Cold sweat soaked his shirt.
"AHHH!"
He let out a panicked, cracking cry and swung the iron pole in a desperate, horizontal arc. The heavy metal whistled through empty air, the momentum dragging Tuka off-balance. He stumbled, his center of gravity vanishing. One of the skinny men dropped low, catching Tuka's ankle in a rough tackle.
Thud.
Tuka hit the dirt hard, the breath knocked out of him as he sprawled helplessly on the forest floor.
"Hah! Look at that pathetic swing. Are you really an Asura, or just a lost puppy?"
"What a weakling. Kid, your face is the only thing you've got going for you. A shame we have to ruin it."
Their laughter grated on Tuka's ears, stinging worse than the scrape on his knee. He felt a sudden, hot surge of self-loathing. Where did that fire go? he seethed. Didn't you stare down the Captain? Weren't you ready to die spitting in his eye? These two weren't even close to the Captain's level.
Tuka gritted his teeth and forced himself up. If he trembled here, he might as well just lay down and wait for the crows. He spat a glob of blood and dirt toward them, his eyes narrowing.
"For a couple of idiot-looking bastards who take orders from a bitch, you sure talk a lot."
The word bitch felt even better the second time. He was going to beat them, or he was going to die trying.
The scavengers' faces contorted, their smugness replaced by a rabid snarl. They lunged.
Tuka's heart was still hammering, but the fog in his brain had cleared. He retreated, lure-and-pull, just like a stubborn ram, darting into a narrow gap between two shattered house walls. His long iron pipe was a godsend here; the space was too tight for their wide swings, but Tuka could jab at them with ease.
"Is that all?" Tuka taunted, his voice gaining an edge. "No wonder you're just underlings. And for a bitch, nonetheless."
Enraged, they hacked frantically at the stone, their blades sparking uselessly against the masonry. Tuka slipped out the other side of the ruins, pausing only to hurl a handful of sharp debris into their faces.
"You coward!" one screamed, rubbing his eyes. "You fight like a damn thief!"
"Like I care what a bitch's footstool thinks," Tuka shouted back.
He ducked away, vanishing into a cluster of sagging, rotted tents. He was huffing, his lungs burning with every breath, but the adrenaline kept his hands steady.
Tap—tap.
"We know you're in here, pretty boy."
"All that big talk just to hide? Kekeke."
Clang.
Through a tear in the canvas, Tuka saw them. The one with the sword was hacking randomly at the tents, hoping for a lucky hit. They were blind to his exact spot. He just needed one opening—one strike at their backs.
Then, a glint caught his eye. Something metallic and heavy sat half-buried under a collapsed tent pole.
Tuka's lips pulled back into a grimace that was almost a smile. Maybe this could work.
"Hey, dumbasses!"
Tuka stepped out from behind a moth-eaten tent, his iron pole resting casually across his shoulders. He felt a strange, unknown confidence bubbling up.
"Look, I'm tired," he called out, injecting as much boredom into his voice as he could muster. "Why don't you two just scurry back to your bitch boss? Maybe lick her toes clean or something."
The scavengers didn't just growl—they turned a deep, mottled purple. Oops, Tuka thought with a sharp grin. Hit a nerve, maybe they really did it once.
They charged, their blades raised high, ready to butcher him where he stood. Tuka didn't wait. He ducked back into the tent, vanishing into the shadows of the rotted canvas. He didn't stay near the center; he scrambled toward the far corner, waiting by a slit in the fabric.
Swoosh.
Right on cue, the first idiot burst through the entrance like he owned the place, his partner hot on his heels. Tuka cheered internally as he slipped through the narrow gap at the tent's edge, circling back to the outside.
Clang—clank!
Inside, the two were thrashing around, hacking blindly at shadows and screaming insults that didn't make much sense. Tuka's smirk widened. In his calloused hands, the heavy iron chain he'd spotted earlier glinted in the dim light.
Moving with the quickness of a shepherd rounding up a stray, he looped the chain around the structural poles of the sagging tent and gave it a violent, bone-deep yank.
The entire structure groaned and collapsed in a heap of heavy, wet canvas. Tuka didn't stop there. He whipped the rest of the chain over the pile like a casting net, pinning them under the weight.
THUMP.
"Agh! What the hell—!"
"Graahh! You coward! Get us out!"
Tuka didn't listen. He didn't care about "honor" or "fighting fair"—not against people who wanted him dead. He raised his iron pole and began beating the thrashing lumps under the canvas with furious, rhythmic strikes.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
"Uughh..."
"C–coward..."
Tuka finally stopped, huffing, his lungs burning and his arms shaking from the effort. He looked down at the now-silent heap of canvas and felt a grim, pulsing satisfaction.
"Wow, look at you. You actually beat them."
Tuka stumbled back, his head snapping toward the voice. Standing there with his usual, infuriatingly vacant smile and hands tucked behind his back, was the old man.
"You're… you're alive?" Tuka wheezed, his chest still heaving.
The old man cocked an eyebrow. "What are you talking about? I was just catching a quick nap. You really think a little toothpick and some cheap venom could put me in the ground?"
Tuka's jaw dropped. A low growl vibrated in his throat as the realization hit him—the old man had been fine the entire time. He'd watched the whole struggle.
"You did that on purpose," Tuka hissed. "You perverted, lazy, stupid… ugh, I don't even have the words. Just fill in the rest of the insults yourself!"
"Handsome and legendary!" the old man chirped, grinning wide enough to show his yellowed teeth. Tuka's face twisted in pure annoyance, which only made the old man laugh harder.
Kree-aaak.
"YOU BRAT! I'M GOING TO SKIN YOU WHILE YOU'RE STILL SCREAMING!"
Tuka whirled around. The swordsman had managed to tear through the canvas, his torso already free as he clawed his way out of the wreckage. Tuka's knuckles went white as he re-gripped his iron pole, but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
"Relax, Tuka-boy. Look."
The old man flicked his wrist, tossing something round and matted with dark hair toward the scavenger. The object thudded into the dirt and rolled, leaving a wet trail of crimson before coming to a stop directly in front of the man's face.
The scavenger froze. "What are you—?"
Then the silence broke.
"GUAAH!"
It was the brunette's head. Her eyes were rolled back, frozen in a final, glassy stare of disbelief. The neck was a mess of shredded muscle and splintered bone, looking less like it had been cut and more like it had been violently twisted off.
"I thought you might miss her, so I whipped up a portable version for you," the old man said, his smile never wavering. "Do you like it?"
Tuka stared at the gory trophy, then at the old man's pleasant, grandfatherly face. The adrenaline-fueled satisfaction of his victory evaporated, replaced by a cold, leaden weight in his stomach. He wasn't just traveling with a perverted old man—he was traveling with a monster.