{{{PRESENTLY}}}
In the desolate heart of Blightwater, a battle rages on.
Milyar Khong—the leader of a gang of mercenaries called The Tenetz—is gasping for breath and teetering on the precipice of collapse. Montel Deadwyler—one half of the duo known as Footloose Fury—has been carrying out a relentless assault that's turned his back into a canvas of agony, each punch landing with the force of a sledgehammer. Never before had such a symphony of violence been conducted.
Montel's fists blurred with calculated rage, landing with a rhythmic brutality that left his opponent reeling. The savage pummeling that Milyar was enduring eventually ceased, but before he could catch a breath, an eruption of pain made its home in his nose as Montel's knuckles became acquainted with his flesh and bone.
Milyar collapsed with a heavy thud. Montel promptly lifted him off the ground, grabbing him by his bomber jacket's collar as he did so, then pulled him close.
"Look, bruh, I know next to NOTHING about you, but you seem to be well-informed about my brother and me. So much so, you knew exactly where we'd been hiding out. Now, I'm gonna ask you again — WHO SENT YOU?!"
The thug only frowned in response. He refused to speak, partly because he had been paid not to, but also because of the disgusting iron tang of blood that shuffled across his tastebuds. He was beside himself with anger. Montel was right that he had been informed about him, but there was an obvious gap in that information. What he had been told pertained to who Montel used to be, and the man before him was a beast unlike any warrior Milyar had faced before.
This error in the counsel he received led to him being overwhelmed by Montel, and the beatdown was bolstered by the latter's years of training with The Forge Fraternity.
While it had been some time since Montel had seen combat, his training had not been forgotten. His usage of The Forge's techniques, fused with the Grizzly Style of Bloody Yearning taught to him by Dark Blue Mamoru, transformed Montel into a relentless force of nature.
"I can see you're the strong and silent type," Montel said. "Let's see how long that lasts."
He shoved Milyar back and resumed his fighting stance. Milyar struggled to remain on his feet, but didn't fall. His mind was in a daze, and his vision was disoriented, so he struggled to anticipate Montel's movements. The former soldier's wide and brawny, six-foot-four frame belied his Olympic-level agility.
Milyar eventually regained a semblance of equilibrium, so he was on the move, but desperately wished Montel would grow arrogant, as one moment of hubris is all it would take for him to shift the tide of battle. Yet, Montel was far from reckless and overeager. Although fast, he struck with precision and deadly intent. Every movement was foresighted, every blow an executioner's stroke. Milyar's feeble attempts to counter were met with a fierce determination that left no room for complacency.
Montel knew that pridefulness could lead to defeat, and in this harsh landscape, such a mistake would be fatal. While he and his brother, Clifford Hudson, had lived in Blightwater for sometime, they didn't know the area as thoroughly as Milyar and his gang. So, his mind raced as he sought a vulnerability in the tenacious thug's defenses. Despite the vicious assault he had doled out, an exploit in the man's resolve had yet to present itself.
On the other side of the woodland battlefield of Blightwater, Clifford fought his own grueling battle.
*💥*
Kiran Verma, a high-ranking member of The Tenetz, was a whirlwind of swift, deadly kicks that left Clifford wincing and spitting out blood. He was forced onto the backfoot; bobbing, weaving and contorting his body, almost pulling a muscle in the process.
Kiran's svelte, muscular left leg—sculpted from years of relentless training—was only a hair's breadth from knocking Clifford out as it whizzed past his chin, tickling its vivid, ginger tuft of hair with the gust of wind that followed. Clifford danced on the edge of danger as he avoided the lithesome fellow. The celerity of Kiran's attacks seemed to manifest blades from the atmosphere itself, slicing through the air, stirring up dirt and shredding branches of the bushes surrounding them to bits.
Clifford clutched his chest tightly and groused internally.
Shit! I never been backed inna corner like this. If I don't end it soon, I'll be playin' Shave an' a Haircut on Death's door. An' I can't let that happen, not 'til I have the answers I seek.
Indeed, it was unprecedented for him to be outmatched. Especially in speed.
***
While Montel is exceptionally fast and agile for his size, Clifford has an abnormal amount of velocity. It's the reason he was trained in the Harrier Style of Bloody Yearning. Yet, his techniques weren't doing much to push the fight in his favor.
Without a hint of sound, Kiran transitioned seamlessly from his unyielding kicks to a powerful punch, a shift in tactics that caught Clifford off guard. Yet, he avoided the blow by quickly ducking, which Kiran expected, thus allowing a chance to drive his knee into Clifford's nose with devastating force. The long and narrow protuberance shattered and a crimson mist filled the air as Clifford doubled back, grappling with the storm of agony overpowering him.
This fuckin' smarts, but it ain't the worst pain I done felt. Gotta keep goin', Clifford thought. Gritting his teeth and clutching his throbbing nose, he decided that careful evasion wouldn't win this battle. He lunged at Kiran, tackling him to the ground with a bone-jarring impact.
With the desperation of a panicked beast, Clifford brutally rained upon his opponent with uncountable punches. "This is for all those punk-ass kicks! An' for my fuckin' nose!"
His fists appeared as little more than atmospheric distortions, and each strike carried the weight of his rage and determination. Kiran, pinned beneath the relentless assault, struggled to defend himself. Clifford had finally gained the upper hand. He decided in that moment that he'd never let himself get pushed into a corner again.
Montel, on the other hand, finds himself stymied by Milyar's resolve. Although he loves the thrill of battle, he always leads with logic no matter the opponent. The psychology of the fight is just as important as the technique, and the mental is exactly where Montel excels.
Taking time to feel his opponent out, Montel never strikes first. This is two-fold as he aims to familiarize himself with their techniques, while also drawing them into a false sense of victory before he ultimately unleashes his wrath. In his mind, he's a puppet master. His foe may think they have control, but Montel is actually the one calling all the shots. With that being said, the tables have turned as Milyar is now in the driver's seat during the latter half of this bout. Though he's badly beaten and missing every strike he attempts, it's suddenly dawned on Montel that it's all deliberate and that he's not as worse off as he appears.
Circling back to Milyar hoping Montel would become overconfident and believing he has the fight won due to the former being thoroughly worked over, he had begun to lose patience. No longer was he interested in getting inside Montel's head and pushing him past his limit, he just wanted to win.
*💥*
While it should be obvious that Milyar is stronger than he lets on, his strength only goes so far. Still, it's important to note that his resilience comes from over two decades of training at the Candi Ketabahan (a temple located in the mountains of Central Papua), where he combined intense meditation with flagellation utilizing what's known as "The Iron Six"— a whip with six lashes that are each tipped with egg-sized, serrated iron spheres. Seven "monks" (using that term loosely) would surround Milyar and beat him as he meditated for thirty minutes outside the temple. Once time was up, he would fight them all as they continued to flog him from every side.
The first year of training like this was excruciating, and it didn't become tolerable until the fifth one. Around this time, Milyar had learned to convert the pain into strength, boosting his adrenaline with the brumal winds that blew fiercely across his bleeding wounds and torn flesh. Nevertheless, he had yet to achieve hiding the pain despite being able to channel it, so he would grimace and gnash as the lashes connected with his arms, neck, sides and back, fighting through the agony to trounce the monks whom he had instructed to assault him.
This continued for years until Milyar had gained an unhealthy amount of callouses and scabbed skin. It may have seemed masochistic at the time, but the ends justified the means. He was now hardened and able to endure anything brought his way. Still and all, he was woefully unprepared for Montel and found himself back at "Year One". Every strike cracked his calloused flesh and peeled the scabs, leaving him a taciturn mess of bleeding and wincing.
He shuffled his feet, poorly attempting to maintain the stability he had regained. Every time one of Montel's large fists connected with a part of his body, his soul wailed and he had to bite his tongue. Tears welled up, but they went unnoticed by Montel as he could only see Milyar grinning like a madman. The grin, of course, was a facade.
He was marred, physically and spiritually, but refused to give up. He had been hired to do a job: murder Footloose Fury, then find Dark Blue Mamoru and do the same. As previously mentioned, Milyar had been informed of who Montel and Clifford used to be, so the absence of equilibration between the siblings and The Tenetz presented a hurdle from the get-go.
With such a disparity between Milyar and Montel's levels of skill, it's a miracle that he's lasted this long. I guess you can chalk it up to stubbornness and sheer willpower, both of which have Montel stumped.
***
Both Montel and Milyar are geniuses when it comes to fight psychology, but they've been clearly underestimating each other. At an impasse, they've gotten inside the other's head and are unable to move past that due to neither having control. Montel is starting to lose steam, while Milyar is being devoured by his desperation to get the job done. This, of course, would have been easier had he stuck to the original plan and ambushed Montel, but he couldn't resist seeing how much stronger he is than him, so he instructed the rest of his crew to stay back. Now he's paying for it, but refuses to throw in the towel.
"This isn't working out like you planned, is it?" Montel mocked. He is sweating profusely and his breathing is more labored now, yet he presses on. He can't figure out Milyar, but he's surmised that he doesn't have to. He'll only give himself a migraine trying to regain control of the fight. He just has to outlast him, nothing more.
Milyar remained tight-lipped. He hocked spit, intending to land it on Montel, but his weakened state caused him to just dribble it on himself. The bloody saliva slowly rolled down into his goatee, where it was eventually met by a few beads of sweat. He was irate, but continued to grin with a mouthful of crimson-stained teeth. He wanted to appear carefree, but only looked like a lunatic. His survival was currently being tempered by his desire to complete his task and get paid, with the bonus to remuneration being that he would have bragging rights to killing Montel.
Very few have survived to say they fought Footloose Fury. In fact, the whole reason the duo is so popular is because everyone who faces them ends up dead. They're just that strong. Their strength didn't frighten Milyar or Kiran of course, but it did manage to bring out an unhinged side in the former. He loves to fight as much as his present adversary, but is extremely sadistic. This sadism is the driving force behind every choice he's made thus far.
*💥*
Milyar was aware that his grip on sanity was tenuous, and that it had worsened today. He had no other recourse except to lash out like a madman, giving very little care to whether all of his attacks connected, though he was planning ahead as he threw out everything including the kitchen sink. He lunged forward with a feigned grapple, getting close enough to disguise his true intention. When Montel sidestepped this maneuver, he pivoted to an ankle sweep, finally knocking the man down.
"Fuck!" growled Montel as he laid there nursing his left knee, which he had banged on a tree stump during his fall. His knee was aching, but he stuffed the pain down as he dusted himself off and returned to his feet. So far, he had managed to prevent being taken down, but attributed this instance to him growing weary. Still nowhere close to winning or getting answers, he'd have to resort to desperate measures like Milyar, which would keep them in a stalemate if one didn't show some letup soon. "Look, you got lucky with that strike, but it won't happen again. I guarantee it."
"I don't need it to!" Milyar spat, finally speaking. His accent, which melded the nuances of Sundanese with the charming drawl of a U.S. Southerner, flummoxed Montel. He was familiar with a majority of accents, but something about Milyar's voice oozed uncanny. Such a strange combination. "I have you exactly where I want you!"
"Yeah, fuck whatever it is you're cooking up. My guard is high, so you won't succeed. This tussle between us has gone on long enough and I'm exhausted."
"And so am I! But I have a job to complete, and won't be happy until I have your severed head in my hands! I've been keeping quiet and calm, enduring every blow delivered. You're a lot stronger than I anticipated, but this is where my admiration and acknowledgement end," Milyar said, pausing to hock spit once more, but this time on the ground. "Your strength is no match for my tenacity. You will suffer before I relent!"
He rushed Montel, snapping out a jab, but Montel blocked it and retaliated with an uppercut. Milyar staggered backwards, rubbing his jaw. "Heh, that one had a lot more bite to it. Not fuckin' around anymore, huh?"
Montel pulled a Milyar and didn't respond, he just dashed forward with a flying kick and hit him in the chest. Milyar staggered once again, this time almost falling on his rear. He clutched his chest, huffing and puffing. The impact of the kick made him feel like his lungs had been cleaved, or that they could've been. It was clear now that he wasn't the only one holding back.
Reaching into a sheath strapped to the back of his waist, Milyar laughed to himself at the thought he had: if he hadn't been sent to kill Montel, he'd love to have him in The Tenetz. Truthfully, he had begun to hate the former soldier, but only because he was severely outmatched. Yet, being outmatched was exactly why he'd like to have someone like him watching his six.
However, the person who hired him had explained that Montel despised being a soldier and was only part of The Forge Fraternity for personal reasons. This left him conflicted as he respected the skill of his quarry, but found his lack of dedication to militarism deplorable.
After a few seconds lost in thought, he slowly crept back towards Montel and braced himself for the next attack. Montel wasted no time in launching a flurry of kicks and punches, which Milyar struggled to block, mostly because he was only doing so with one hand. With the next punch, he produced what he had pulled from his sheath and swung at Montel's left fist, slashing his middle and ring finger.
"Shit!" Montel screamed in retreat. He looked at his hand, shocked by the blood gushing out. There was a maneuver he wanted to perform, but this injury would make it difficult to complete. Mamoru had claimed it could be accomplished one-handed, but the brawny fellow had never attempted it.
"You dirty son of a bitch," Montel shook his head in an attempt to drive out the stinging sensation then fixed his gaze upon Milyar and the weapon he held: a curved dagger with the image of a snake etched into its golden blade. The snake was made up of dark red, inlaid gemstones, almost matching Montel's blood. The slash happened so fast that he didn't have time to react. He just punched and almost ended up with permanent devil horns on one hand.
If this were a sanctioned fight, Milyar could be accused of cheating, but it wasn't, so Montel had to accept that he'd be using any and all tactics to win.