Chapter Thirteen—The Black Cobra of Mar’a Thul

Shiro turned, sprinting down the alleyway as fast as he could. With Jessamine’s magic, he was able to sprint and move—and best of all, to sword fight—at incredible speeds, making normal foes seem almost slow.

The Black Cobra landed in the street in front of Shiro, his knee touching down on the wet cobblestones. He slowly rose to a standing position, his sword still undrawn.

“No way,” Jessamine muttered from behind.

Shiro blinked, thinking exactly what Jessamine had just said. Surely it must have been some trick!

Glancing behind him, Shiro did not find the Black Cobra still standing in the alley, or even sprinting toward him for a surprise attack.

The standing before him was no illusion.

The Black Cobra of Mar’a Thul had somehow outperformed him so far as to be able to jump and summersault so that he landed in front of Shiro, cutting off his path.

“The bag,” he said. “Do not make me take it from you.”

“Kuso!” Shiro spat.

Another idea came to him. Like before, he turned and ran down the alley, fully expecting the Black Cobra to do like he had before, but this time instead of continuing a straight trajectory, Shiro jumped toward the wall to his left, his feet coming into contact with the dry bricks.

He ran, catching speed and jumped again, his trajectory the roof of the building on his right. Something hit him and he grunted as he sprawled out in the air before landing in the street.

“Shiro!” Jessamine called. But he barely heard her.

Coughing and holding his left arm against himself as the pain in his stomach exploded. He managed to glance about for his opponent, but didn’t seem him in the alley.

He turned over, the Black Cobra’s black shoes accented in gold thread striding toward him with purpose. Looking up at the man fully, Shiro realized his scimitar hanging in his hand.

This was the part where he would kill Shiro for his bag.

For the lamp.

No!

Grasping for his sword in the cold rain, he spun across the cobblestones and righted himself in a twirling reaction that brought him back to his feet.

With his sword in hand, Shiro narrowed his eyes, ready to take on this adventurer.

“Shiro!” Jessamine called from behind the Black Cobra. “You can’t fight him.”

He coughed slightly at a spasm of pain. “And neither can I run,” he croaked.

Then she cried out angrily.

Shiro’s gaze flicking from the Black Cobra to Jessmaine behind him as she lifted one leg in what looked like a dancer’s pose and fireballs appeared at her fingertips

With complex movements of her hands, she flung them at the top-tier adventurer’s back, but before they made contact he turned and deflected two fireballs almost simultaneously.

Shiro used this opportunity to rush forward, his katana held back parallel to his trajectory from his hip. With his shoes splashing through the puddled street, he lunged at his opponent.

The Black Cobra deflected two more fireballs, one at Jessamine. She jumped out of the way. Shiro struck, his katana moving with such force and speed as it never had before. Surely he would slice the Black Cobra in two and this would be the end of his fame.

But he turned, their blades clashing between them.

Shiro struck at him again from another angle as he attempted to deliver a killing blow with a single strike, but again his sword met metal on the other man’s side.

The Black Cobra countered.

Shiro met him with an almost desperate rhythm, the heightened sound of metal on metal louder than in any sword duel he had ever encountered.

That desperation—whether real or simply imagined by the samurai—was certainly only coming from one of them.

From Shiro.