Rain drums like static across paper lanterns, painting the night red and trembling. Inside the Dragon Palm Dojo, a hundred fists rise and fall in rhythm, flesh on wood, discipline forged by repetition. The sound stops when the doors creak open.
A silhouette stands in the downpour. Smoke curls from his nostrils. Scales shimmer faintly under the moonlight, green and scarred. A lone lizard in a torn black coat steps forward, dragging a chipped sword behind him. The blade hums against the floorboards, marking each step with the patience of a killer.
He doesn’t bow. He doesn’t speak. He just lifts his head, eyes like two burning coins, and the dojo’s air tightens.
The first disciple moves without hesitation, screaming as his heel slices through the air. The lizard tilts his head, too slow. The kick passes inches away, and the lizard’s tail snaps once, sending the man spinning into a wooden column. Bone cracks.
Two more rush him. He sidesteps the first, punches through the second’s throat, and uses his body as a shield. The blade follows, a single, brutal motion, cutting through them both. Blood spatters the scrolls on the wall like calligraphy written in rage.
He exhales smoke.
“Your master home?”
No one answers. Just the shuffle of bare feet over blood-slick boards.
The lizard moves forward, silent as a blade being unsheathed. Each strike is short, efficient — neck, ribs, heart. Bodies fold like paper fans.
Then the shoji doors slide open.
A large man steps out from the shadows, his robe white, his eyes colder than steel. His hands are wrapped in cord, every finger broken and reset over years of practice.
“You should’ve stayed buried,” the man says.
“You should’ve stayed merciful.”
They circle. The rain grows louder, like the world holding its breath.
The master lunges, a blur of movement. The lizard bends low, tail coiling, and their clash erupts like a gunshot. Wood splinters. The floor shakes. The sword flies. Fists, claws, and tails collide in a storm of violence.
The lizard catches a punch mid-air and twists, bones pop. He drives his forehead into the master’s nose, spins, and drives a blade of his tail through the man’s gut.
Both stand still.
Blood drips down like melted wax. The master gurgles, smirks through the pain.
“You fight like an animal.”
The lizard’s voice is quiet, almost mournful.
“Animals don’t start wars.”
He rips the blade free. The body falls.
The rain extinguishes the lanterns one by one.
Outside, the lizard walks into the night, sword dragging, smoke curling from his mouth, the glow of lightning catching his eyes as thunder rolls over the mountains.
The dojo burns behind him, reflected in his blade.
A hiss. A breath. Silence.
A silhouette stands in the downpour. Smoke curls from his nostrils. Scales shimmer faintly under the moonlight, green and scarred. A lone lizard in a torn black coat steps forward, dragging a chipped sword behind him. The blade hums against the floorboards, marking each step with the patience of a killer.
He doesn’t bow. He doesn’t speak. He just lifts his head, eyes like two burning coins, and the dojo’s air tightens.
The first disciple moves without hesitation, screaming as his heel slices through the air. The lizard tilts his head, too slow. The kick passes inches away, and the lizard’s tail snaps once, sending the man spinning into a wooden column. Bone cracks.
Two more rush him. He sidesteps the first, punches through the second’s throat, and uses his body as a shield. The blade follows, a single, brutal motion, cutting through them both. Blood spatters the scrolls on the wall like calligraphy written in rage.
He exhales smoke.
“Your master home?”
No one answers. Just the shuffle of bare feet over blood-slick boards.
The lizard moves forward, silent as a blade being unsheathed. Each strike is short, efficient — neck, ribs, heart. Bodies fold like paper fans.
Then the shoji doors slide open.
A large man steps out from the shadows, his robe white, his eyes colder than steel. His hands are wrapped in cord, every finger broken and reset over years of practice.
“You should’ve stayed buried,” the man says.
“You should’ve stayed merciful.”
They circle. The rain grows louder, like the world holding its breath.
The master lunges, a blur of movement. The lizard bends low, tail coiling, and their clash erupts like a gunshot. Wood splinters. The floor shakes. The sword flies. Fists, claws, and tails collide in a storm of violence.
The lizard catches a punch mid-air and twists, bones pop. He drives his forehead into the master’s nose, spins, and drives a blade of his tail through the man’s gut.
Both stand still.
Blood drips down like melted wax. The master gurgles, smirks through the pain.
“You fight like an animal.”
The lizard’s voice is quiet, almost mournful.
“Animals don’t start wars.”
He rips the blade free. The body falls.
The rain extinguishes the lanterns one by one.
Outside, the lizard walks into the night, sword dragging, smoke curling from his mouth, the glow of lightning catching his eyes as thunder rolls over the mountains.
The dojo burns behind him, reflected in his blade.
A hiss. A breath. Silence.
