The Blade and the Business
Dave was strolling slowly down the street, still sipping his oversized protein bubble tea—already halfway gone. The summer heat still clung to the pavement. The city smelled like sweat, smoke, and cheap body spray—but Dave didn’t care. Shirtless as always, he walked in nothing but a pair of triangle-shaped pink women’s underwear.
As he passed a narrow alley, he heard a violent crack—then another.
Fighting.
He stopped.
Peeking in, he spotted two figures locked in combat.
One wore a white shirt, black slacks, leather shoes, and golden-rimmed glasses.
“Michael,” Dave mumbled. “That’s one of the Humble guys.”
Then he looked at the other figure.
Zhongshan suit. Fully buttoned all the way to the top. Center-parted bangs covering the eyes. Slim frame. Rigid posture.
“Shit… that’s Marvel.”
But something was off.
The man’s right leg was fake. A full prosthetic.
Dave squinted.
“Wait… no…”
That wasn’t Marvel.
That was Mario.
The Swordmaster. The former South King. One of the Four Kings from back in the day.
The excitement hit him like electricity. A real legend. Right here in front of him. His grip slackened, and the half-finished bubble tea slipped from his hand, splattering across the pavement.
He didn’t even flinch.
His eyes were locked on the scene unfolding.
On the ground was a corpse. Headless. Blood still gurgling from the neck.
Mario stood a few steps away, pointing at the body with a shaking finger.
He glared at Michael.
“What kind of person could do something this brutal…? You’re a demon.”
Michael didn’t blink.
“That man came into our massage parlor. Slept with one of the girls. Tried to sneak out without paying.”
He motioned to the corpse.
“So I chopped off his head.”
“This is standard practice. It happens every day. Like it or not—that’s how the world works.”
He said it without a trace of emotion. Like he was describing a parking violation.
Mario’s right hand—still gripping the hilt of his blade—trembled.
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
He muttered under his breath:
“Unbelievable… inhuman.”
Michael took a slow step forward.
“I respect you, Mario.”
“You were one of the legendary Four Kings. The South King. A name people used to whisper with reverence.”
“You were the Local Hero. Licensed. Paid. Official. You kept this city safe. You enforced real order.”
His tone hardened slightly.
“But that was three years ago. You lost your right leg. You resigned. You’re not a Local Hero anymore.”
“So maybe… don’t get involved. This is business. And this is how we run it.”
Mario slowly raised his sword and pointed it at Michael.
His voice was calm but final.
“Then let’s stop arguing. Let’s fight.”
“If you can defeat me, I won’t say another word. But if you lose… you’ll accept justice.”
Michael smirked faintly.
“So be it.”
“I’ve always wanted to see how much strength the fallen legend still has left.”
The alley fell into silence.
In the background, a cicada screamed—and then stopped.
The Speed and the Weakness
Michael clenched his fists and surged forward, closing the distance in a direct charge.
Mario stood his ground.
He didn’t dodge—he spun.
The blade in his hands roared to life, whipping through the air with a terrifying rhythm. Sometimes it spun wide and loud, like the blades of a helicopter. Other times it twisted like a mad serpent—unpredictable, slashing in patterns no eye could follow. You couldn’t even see the sword itself. Only the streaks of wind and shadow it carved through the air.
Michael stepped into the range—and instantly understood.
He had underestimated the South King.
The speed of Mario’s sword was inhuman. Unbelievable. If he hadn’t focused every ounce of attention, every cell of his body, he would’ve been torn apart in seconds.
Even so, within just three seconds, his arms, thighs, and shoulders were covered in long, deep cuts. Not grazes—real wounds. Sharp, painful gashes that stung and throbbed with each movement.
A normal fighter would’ve already lost their limbs.
But Michael’s body—his muscles—were built like armor. His physique absorbed just enough of the impact to keep him in the fight. Barely.
He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t take much more.
With a powerful stomp, he launched himself backward, retreating several meters to escape Mario’s storm of steel.
Mario let the blade slow.
He stood tall again, breathing steady, eyes locked on his opponent.
A confident smile curled at the corner of his lips.
“Come on. You can’t even keep up with my blade speed.”
Michael wiped the blood from his shoulder and gave a quiet nod.
“Incredible. South King Mario… your reputation is well-earned.”
For a brief moment, he truly admired the display. The speed. The precision. The legacy.
But then—his eyes narrowed.
He scanned Mario from head to toe.
Left side… balanced.
Right side…
There it was.
That prosthetic leg.
His weak spot.
Michael’s lips twitched into a quiet smirk. That was it. That was the opening.
Victory was no longer a distant idea—it was right there, waiting.
Without warning, Michael launched forward in a sudden, explosive sprint.
Mario immediately backpedaled, blade flaring to life again, slashing in wild arcs, trying to keep Michael at bay.
Michael dodged the killing blows, absorbing the shallow ones. His arms, chest, back—slashed again and again. Dozens of shallow wounds bloomed across his muscles. His body burned.
But his eyes never left the target.
In a split second, he dropped low—almost to a squat—and spun.
WHUMP!
His leg swept hard across the ground in a low arc, crashing directly into Mario’s prosthetic side.
The timing was perfect.
Mario’s balance broke instantly.
His body flipped violently into the air—then slammed into the concrete with a brutal thud.
The second Mario hit the ground, he tried to bounce back—rebound, recover, rise to his feet.
But he couldn’t.
Michael was already standing over him.
His fist came flying forward—rock solid, deadly—aimed directly for Mario’s face.
It stopped just short.
The force of the punch alone blasted the air forward, sending Mario’s hair flying back with a snap.
Mario lay there, wide-eyed, staring up.
He didn’t need to feel the punch.
He already knew.
He had lost.
The Rusted Blade
Michael knelt slightly and extended his hand.
It wasn’t a trick. No finishing move. Just a simple gesture of respect.
Mario hesitated for a half-second, then reached out and accepted it. Michael pulled him up.
Mario staggered a little as he stood, needing two or three uneven steps before he could steady himself. His right leg—mechanical, cold—tapped against the ground until balance returned.
Michael smiled.
“As expected… the South King truly is the embodiment of justice and speed. That swordplay was insane. And your sense of righteousness? Off the charts.”
He let go of Mario’s hand and bent down to pick up his briefcase. His tone turned casual, but sincere.
“If you hadn’t lost that leg… I wouldn’t have stood a chance. If you could move freely, you probably would’ve turned me into ground beef in under a minute.”
Mario chuckled—quiet and bitter.
“Too bad. That right leg is gone. And so is everything else… the justice, the Local Hero status… the South King beyond reckoning. All of it.”
He shook his head softly.
“Now I’m just a regular fighter.”
Michael gave a small smirk.
“Then I guess… since I happened to win just now, maybe we can let the whole ‘decapitated freeloader’ thing slide?”
Mario shrugged lightly.
“Sure.”
At that very moment, from the far end of the street, Dave—who had been watching the entire fight unfold—finally made his move.
The entire battle, from start to finish, had lasted less than twenty seconds.
Dave licked his lips.
“Damn. That was fast.”
Sure, his muscles didn’t have Michael’s explosive power. But when it came to density, tightness, raw durability? He was confident—his body was on a whole other level.
If Michael could defeat Mario…
Then so could he.
His confidence flared. He stepped forward.
Then sprinted.
“MARIO!” he shouted. “I’m officially calling you out! I challenge you to a duel—RIGHT NOW!”
Mario turned.
The moment his eyes landed on the figure rushing toward him, his pupils dilated.
That underwear.
Those muscles.
That unmistakable pink triangle…
His face darkened.
“…It’s him.”
He recognized the man immediately.
The freak who had hospitalized his students.
The man in pink women’s underwear.
The man who beat them half to death.
A chill spread through the air.
The tension spiked instantly—sharp and heavy—like the moment before a lightning strike.
Even the sound of the city seemed to fade.
Blade vs. Muscles
“You perverted freak in pink underwear,” Mario said flatly, raising his hand and pointing directly at Dave. “Honestly, you didn’t need to come find me—I was already planning to hunt you down.”
Dave didn’t flinch. He smiled like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“Is this about your three students? Yeah, I roughed them up a little a few days ago. Oh—and I twisted another one’s neck just now. But don’t worry, he’s not dead. Just a little messed up. He’ll be fine.”
Mario’s expression soured.
“Three?”
He took a slow step forward, voice low and sharp.
“You put twenty-three of my students in the hospital. Twenty-three. And they weren’t in and out either—they stayed there. Overnight. IVs. CT scans. One of them pissed blood.”
He stared Dave down with a tired kind of disappointment.
“You walk around like you’re some misunderstood muscle saint, but you don’t even have the guts to admit what you’ve done?”
He shook his head and sighed.
“That’s just pathetic.”
A beat of silence.
Then his tone shifted—lower, colder.
“But whatever. Three or twenty-three… doesn’t matter now.”
“I’ll teach you a lesson. Beat you up. And fuck you good.”
While the air grew heavier between them, Michael strolled through it like he had nothing to do with any of it.
He walked slowly, dragging his briefcase along with one hand. His white dress shirt was still on—but it was torn, stained, and streaked with blood. Small rips marked where blades had grazed him. The front looked like a failed laundry commercial.
He stopped near the headless corpse and sat down on it like it was the most natural bench in the world.
He opened his briefcase and pulled out a few plain first aid bandages—the cheap, beige kind from every corner store. He stuck one casually onto a cut on his collarbone, then another over a spot on his arm.
Then, as if nothing in the world was urgent, he leaned back on the stiff corpse and crossed his arms.
“Alright. You two fight. Let’s see if underwear man’s got anything behind those abs.”
He gave a faint smirk.
“I’m the referee today.”
Neither Dave nor Mario replied.
They didn’t need to.
Their feet adjusted.
Their shoulders locked.
Their fingers twitched.
The space between them felt electric—air thick enough to hold your breath hostage.
Even the distant sounds of the city held still.
The duel was locked in.
Blade vs. muscles.
Legacy vs. pervert.
One breath away from violence.
Heart of the Underwear
Mario gave Dave a full once-over. From top to bottom. The guy’s muscles were indeed impressive—dense, hard, and steellike. They gave off a raw, animal-like durability—his body looked built to withstand damage, more than to generate force.
But the moment Dave clenched his fists and came charging in, Mario saw everything he needed to.
His face relaxed.
“Ah,” he thought. “He’s an amateur.”
Dave’s form was a mess—full of openings, off-balance posture, and clumsy swings. His speed was laughable.
This guy wasn’t even in the same league as Michael.
Two levels lower, at least.
But Mario wasn’t like other fighters. Despite his blade, despite his brutal history, he had spent years as a licensed enforcer—a real Local Hero back in the day. He didn’t kill unless he had to. He preferred to teach, to discipline, and if possible… to redeem.
And Dave?
Well, Dave still had a chance to learn.
Mario easily could’ve ended the fight. One clean swing and Dave’s head would’ve been off before he even blinked. Less than a second.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he dodged—gracefully, effortlessly—even while moving with his prosthetic leg. His one-legged maneuvering still outpaced Dave’s full-speed charge. Each of Dave’s punches missed by inches, sometimes more.
Mario wasn’t even sweating.
He observed, measured, and waited.
After dodging dozens of wild swings—maybe forty, maybe fifty—he finally said, calm and casual:
“Too slow.”
And then it happened.
In a single fluid motion, Mario drew his sword.
One flash of metal.
A few phantom streaks in the air.
Then he sheathed the blade back at his side, stepped forward, and slipped past Dave’s final punch without even touching him.
Now he was five meters behind Dave, standing in silence.
Dave, confused but undeterred, spun around and burst out laughing.
“What’s wrong?” he shouted. “You trying to run away? Is it ‘cause my muscles are too hard for you? You realized your little sword can’t even scratch me, huh?”
Then—he paused.
His expression changed.
He looked down.
Something felt… breezy.
His face froze.
His mouth twitched.
His pink triangle underwear—
was gone.
Torn to shreds. Gone without a trace.
Well, almost.
Scattered on the ground were dozens of pink fabric fragments.
And in the middle of it all, one perfectly cut piece remained stuck to the pavement:
A large, heart-shaped patch of pink fabric, laying flat on the concrete.
Mario’s blade had done its work. In that one second—the swing Dave didn’t even see—it had sliced his underwear clean off, carving a giant heart-shaped symbol into the remains like a signature.
Dave’s entire body stiffened.
His face turned beet red.
He stood there, completely naked.
Then, in the smallest, most cracked voice:
“…OMG.”
The Final Stitch
Mario began walking away.
Slowly. Calmly. Each step steady and deliberate.
Behind him, Dave stood frozen in place, fists trembling at his sides. His face twisted—not with pain, but something worse.
Humiliation.
He had been outclassed. Outmaneuvered. Undressed.
And now… abandoned.
His breathing grew uneven. His knuckles whitened. He clenched his jaw and suddenly lurched forward, ready to charge again.
But just as he took his first step, a sharp voice rang out across the alley:
“HEY! Don’t move!”
Michael was still sitting casually on the headless corpse. Blood seeped through the white fabric of his torn-up shirt, but he looked relaxed—like he’d just finished grading some homework.
He raised one arm lazily and pointed at Dave.
“The fight’s over. You got outclassed. Simple as that. If you want your head to stay where it is, I suggest you don’t go after him.”
His tone wasn’t angry. Just… informative.
Dave froze.
His fists slowly unclenched. His arms dropped. But his eyes kept burning holes in the path Mario had taken.
Mario, without ever looking back, reached the end of the alley, turned the corner, and vanished.
A moment passed.
Then Michael stood up from the corpse, dusted off his bloody shirt with a flick, stretched, and yawned.
“I should head out too.”
With one hand, he picked up his briefcase and walked off.
No drama. No flair. Just quiet footsteps disappearing into the afternoon light.
And then… silence.
Dave stood alone.
Still. Bare. Emotionless.
He looked at the ground—at the scattered pink scraps of fabric surrounding him.
Then he saw it.
Right there, in the center of it all: a perfectly cut, heart-shaped patch of pink.
The last surviving piece of his favorite underwear.
Cut clean by a man who didn’t even bother to finish the fight.
THUMP.
Dave collapsed to his knees.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
Just stared.
His body hunched. His head dipped lower.
And then—
drip… drip…
Tears fell.
One by one, they landed on the fabric, soaking into the concrete.
That triangle-shaped piece of women’s underwear… was gone.
Along with it, his pride. His confidence. His dignity.
All reduced to a heart on the pavement.
Dave knelt, motionless, as if mourning a fallen comrade.
Because in his mind, this wasn’t just fabric.
This was his identity.
And it had just been sliced to hell.