Dragon’s expression was not the same glib face he’d worn for the benefit of the other warriors at the start but one of absolute composure that could have belonged to a solemn man. The brothers had always put on an exaggerated front of being two young jokers—they cared not whether others understood them, preferring instead to keep their true selves to themselves, even if it meant looking worse than they really were—and when Dragon’s younger brother was killed before his very eyes, he maintained the act and successfully claimed his brother’s jewel.
The real Dragon possessed a surprisingly calm nature, along with the patience to remain in wait above the skies for hours on end, and a superior intellect, which he put to work analyzing his brother’s battle—or rather, his brother’s corpse’s battle. No matter how astonishing his brother’s efforts were, Dragon had observed countless battlefields in this manner, and the experienced aficionado of war was not simply gawking.
But this attempt won’t be enough to take down fighters of Ox’s and Tiger’s measure. So then, what does that mean for me? Dragon had thought he’d remain there as the veritable watcher from on high for as long as possible. But if I see a chance to eliminate Tiger, and especially Ox, I’d better not let that opportunity escape.
All was silent but for Tiger’s fruitless growls. She desperate- ly clawed at the zombie arm to somehow pry it from her throat, but Snake’s fingers constricted the muscles at the base of her neck and restricted her strength. Her Drunken Fist was of no use here—she couldn’t punch the enemy who strangled her when his body was writhing on the ground some distance away.
Ox didn’t growl, but he shared the same dilemma. He couldn’t stab Snake’s hand when it was firmly against his throat. No matter how superior his natural skill with the saber, if he struck from that angle he risked cutting his own neck.
With artful skill, he’d cut down every foe he’d faced, but he’d never anticipated fighting a severed arm—and one with such incredible strength. Its power was inhuman—even considering it had once belonged to a warrior. Not even the giant, Horse, had likely possessed such a grip. Was the arm so strong because it was not alive, but dead and under Rabbit’s control? Ox had heard a theory that humans didn’t ordinarily have the ability to utilize their full strength—that some psychological safeguard acted as a limiter—but remove that safeguard and people could utilize one hundred percent of their latent abilities. Perhaps being dead removed that safeguard—but even still, the arm’s strength was incredible.
As Ox struggled for breath, even a warrior of a thousand seas and a thousand mountains wouldn’t realize the answer—that this was part of who Snake was. In order to make their meals easier to swallow, snakes coiled themselves around their prey and squeezed hard enough to shatter bone. The act came naturally to the younger twin’s arm.
Tiger’s growls weakened, and she began to gurgle and froth at the mouth. She remained conscious—for now—but it was only a matter of time.
Ox called out to her as loudly as he could, which wasn’t very much. “Tiger, can you still hear me?”
She grunted and glared his way. When she spoke, her voice dripped with venom, and some of the life had come back into it. “What do you want? I don’t remember saying you could talk to me.”
Ox gave her a grin, if a slight and melancholic one. “I realized why you hate me. I want you to know that I know that when I ask you this favor.”
“You want to ask me a favor? How about you shut the hell up before you kill my buzz?”
“I’m not trying to upset you. I’m only asking for a temporary—a temporary—alliance, just to get us out of this bind. Team play is a fundamental part of a battle royale, right?”
Tiger growled at his offer, and her eyes flashed with ferocious intensity.
But Ox continued. “I promise you, as soon as we’re out of this scrape, we will fight in the manner and conditions of your choosing. It won’t be about the Zodiac War. It will be you and me. All right? You won’t have to challenge me to a fight. This is me challenging you.”
A flash of stunned surprise sobered her expression. No matter the source of her rage, anyone who knew of Ushii the Fighter of the Ox understood the weight of the solitary soldier’s offer. Coming from him, requesting to join forces would have been surprising enough, and then on top of that came a demand for a duel.
This time, Tiger’s growl was more hesitant, but her words carried the urgency of someone about to expend her last mental and physical strength. “A-all right. If that’s how it is. So what do I do?”
“You don’t have to do anything—just as long as you keep those bubbles coming.”
No matter how hard Snake’s hand squeezed his throat, Ox had retained his grip on his saber, which he now hurled toward Tiger with all his might. But the blade didn’t hit her—nor did it hit the zombie’s other arm around her neck. Instead, as if the struggle for breath and consciousness had made Ox’s grip slip and turned his aim astray, the saber dropped short and scraped roughly across the pavement, kicking up a trail of sparks.
Tiger, who had nearly blacked out for the second time, was suddenly completely alert—but so would anyone be when they were enveloped by flames. Thrown into confusion, the woman dropped to the ground.
To Ox, the flames came not as a surprise but as the obvious effect of the sparks he’d intended to create. He’d seen the froth coming from her mouth—and beyond that, he’d smelled the stench of alcohol that permeated her body—and he understood that one source of ignition was all that separated her from immolation. The Drunken Fist had practically drowned herself in sake and had even guzzled a tank of flamethrower fuel. Every part of her was flammable, up to and including the froth that bubbled up with each gasping breath.
She roared as she tossed away her burning jacket and rolled on the ground. Discarding the garment would have been the right course of action, were this a typical fire that spread from the clothes to the wearer, but unfortunately, she and not her clothes was the fire’s fuel source. Roll as she might, the flames stubbornly burned on.
Keeping one eye on the woman, Ox scooped up her still-burning jacket in his bare hands, and, flourishing it like a matador’s muleta, he wrapped it around the severed arm at his neck. The heat nearly proved too much for him to bear, but he kept on wrapping, when suddenly, the arm’s bone-crushing strength went slack.
This time, the arm was truly dead.
Ox said, “Maybe cremation was all it needed to rest in peace.”