As the figure fell, the water did not splash. It just sent a shock wave that vibrated and swayed, causing Mason to lose his balance and fall. He landed hard on his side, the impact rattling the knife in his skull.
"Dammit!.." he hissed, clutching his head as the world spun.
The creature emerged into view and showed itself. It was at least nine feet tall, a skeletal monster draped in the salt-crusted remains of a general's robe. Its bones were a dull, pitted iron that looked as though it had been forged in a furnace and then left to rot at the bottom of the sea for centuries.
Instead of a face, its skull was encased in a rusted war-mask, half-melted, with a single hollow eye socket that glowed with a green light. In its right hand, it gripped a massive guandao, whose blade was notched and jagged.
'....'
The creature slammed the base of its polearm into the silver water. The surface didn't break, but the sound echoed like a funeral bell, vibrating through Mason's very marrow.
Mason struggled to stand, his legs shaking. The knife in his forehead throbbed, making his vision pulse in shades of red. The "sunlight" from the jagged crack in the sky felt heavier now, pressing down on him like a physical weight.
The creature tilted its head, the green light in its socket narrowing as it locked onto the red dragon emblem on Mason's chest. It let out a low, guttural growl that sounded like stones grinding together.
"You... want this?" Mason rasped, his voice dry as sandpaper. He pointed a trembling finger at the emblem, then at the knife in his own head. "Join the club. It's been a bad day for both of us.."
The Warden didn't appreciate the humor. With a speed that defied its massive, metallic frame, it lunged forward. The silver water groaned under its weight.
Mason realized then that he couldn't run. The "Endless Ocean" was open and flat, and his body was a wreck. If he tried to turn his back, that jagged blade would split him from shoulder to hip before he took two steps.
'If only the mundane martial arts wasn't locked.'
The Warden raised the polearm, ready to drive the blade directly into Mason's brain, but Mason was quick to react. He immediately rolled on the heavy water and allowed a nearby sword blade to pierce into his lap.
Gritting his teeth, he endured the pain and stood up. The Warden twisted its waist and raised its leg, sending a devastating kick to Mason, who flew at a great speed and landed with his back against a tree.
The impact broke his scapula and pain washed over him. At this moment, he realized the Yaoguai in front of him wasn't attacking like a random beast; instead, it was using martial arts.
If only the martial arts assistant was unlocked. Mason had no idea how martial arts worked, and to top it all off, he didn't know how to unlock the assistant. All he could do now was dodge some strikes and endure the rest until he died and failed the tutorial.
Still, if there was one art he knew, it was street fighting. Mason's whole life had been filled with fights.
Of course, street fighting was rough. It could be defined as a human letting go of all sense and taking the mentality of a beast to devour its opponent. Every type of fighting has its own essence.
The essence of street fighting is to create and exploit an unfair advantage. In other words, "legal cheating."
Unlike a ring or a battlefield, a street fight is defined by a complete lack of rules, environmental hazards, and the extreme speed of escalation.
Unlike martial arts, which relied on tradition, form, and disciplined breath, street fighting was a desperate dance of survival. It wasn't about the beauty of a strike; it was about the efficiency of a wound. It was the art of the gutter... using dirt, teeth, and gravity to bridge the gap between the weak and the strong.
All Mason had to do was incorporate the essence of street fighting into martial arts. But what was the essence of martial arts?
That he didn't know, but it didn't matter. As there are no rules in street fighting, there were also no rules in this realm. The universal essence of combat was to kill one's opponent. There isn't much more to it.
But each fighting category followed a different pattern. The martial arts pattern was still unknown to Mason, but he knew the pattern of street fighting. Mixing the two wouldn't be hard, as he had the perfect example of it — the Warden.
The Warden was both a beast driven by bloodlust and a martial artist driven by a mysterious hatred for the dead general. It was a complicated mix of street fighting and traditional martial arts.
Mason just had to be a mindless beast and a calculating predator at the same time.
Mason spat out a mouthful of copper-tasting blood. His scapula was a mess of shattered bone, but he forced his left arm to move.
'A beast and a predator..'
The Warden stepped forward, the heavy guandao humming as it cut through the air in a low, sweeping practice motion. It was resetting its stance, waiting for the "warrior" Mason to stand up and face him properly.
Instead, Mason stayed low, his fingers digging into the silver water. He noticed the Warden's weight was shifted heavily onto its back leg, which was a classic stance for a quick thrust. In a street fight, that back leg was a target.
"You're too stiff, you iron bastard!.." Mason wheezed.
As the Warden thrust the guandao, Mason didn't roll away this time. He lunged forward, sliding across the frictionless silver surface. He used the solid nature of the water to propel himself like a hockey puck, passing right under the reach of the long polearm.
He grabbed the Warden's back leg—the one holding all its weight—and bit down on the rusted iron joint while simultaneously slamming his good shoulder into the creature's kneecap.
It was ugly. It was pathetic. It was pure street fighting.
The Warden's green light flickered as he shoved Mason to another tree. Its perfect martial balance was compromised by a beast that didn't care about honor. It regained its balance and let out a growl.
The Warden didn't hesitate. It surged forward, the heavy guandao cutting a horizontal line intended to decapitate both Mason and the tree.
Mason dropped. He didn't roll or parry; he simply collapsed his weight, letting gravity do the work. The jagged blade hissed through the air exactly where his throat had been a millisecond before. As the Warden's follow-through carried the weapon past him, the creature didn't overextend. It utilized the momentum of the missed swing to pivot, its back foot anchoring into the silver water like a tectonic plate.
The Warden's iron foot slammed down to reset its stance, but Mason was already there, crawling through the silver-white muck. He lunged into the space too close for the long polearm to be effective and slammed his shoulder into the creature's iron shin.
The vibration traveled through Mason's skull and down his spine, but he didn't recoil. He snarled, his teeth bared and stained with blood. The Warden's green light flared, its movements suddenly jerky. It tried to lift its leg to stomp him, but Mason had already latched on. He ignored the agony of his broken scapula to wrap his legs around the Warden's ankle and his arms around its calf.
The Warden's response was immediate. Realizing the polearm was useless at this range, it released the hilt with one hand and drove an iron elbow downward, aiming for the base of Mason's neck. Mason twisted his torso, allowing the iron elbow to blow glancingly off his armored shoulder. The force ground the shattered bits of his scapula together, but he didn't let go.
While the Warden was committed to the downward strike, its center of gravity shifted.
Mason reached up and grabbed the salt-crusted silk of the Warden's ceremonial robe. He pulled with everything he had, not away from the creature, but across its path. The Warden's iron boot skidded on the vibrating silver water. The clanking of its bones grew frantic as it flailed to regain balance, its rigid posture breaking under the sudden, messy weight of the struggle.
Mason scrambled up the creature's chest, his fingers digging into the gaps of the rusted iron ribs. He was breathing in the smell of old copper and decay.
The Warden's war-mask was right in front of him. The single green eye flickered. Mason gripped the wooden hilt of the knife in his own forehead, his hand trembling as he prepared for a final, desperate move.