It was a dark and stormy night, rainfall covered the land as far as the eye could see. There was the noise of a horse galloping through the soft, muddy roads. A man with pants topping his head was riding as fast as he could traversing in the direction of the southern battlefield where the main headquarters of the peasant rebellion could be found and also the strongest, fortified city under the control of the peasants. The pants-wearing knight comes to a stop at a crossroad where a man wearing a black martial arts gi stands before him. The man tucks at his blue belt and stands firm before the knight. The man has dark blue hair, an average height of around 5 feet 8 inches, and his body can be seen as that of pure muscle. He looks up at the man of his horse with his bright sapphire eyes and round face that contrasts his built physique.

“Hello sir, do you know the way to the nearest city? I do not wish to push my horse too much in my journey,” Manchester states.

“That depends. Are you friend or foe to the resistance?” the monk questions.

Manchester could only feel a bit of tension from the martial artist's response. He could only think of ways to avoid such a question.

“Hah, friend or foe indeed! Well I assure you I am a friend to all those whose pants are exquisite and foe to those that do not abide by the one and only justice. Pants of the highest quality. I must say my friend your pants abide by my standards so you may consider me an ally. Now I remember the way thanks to you, so I shall bid you farewell,” Manchester claims as he pushes his horse to start galloping away.

Just as the knight attempts to ride away on his horse the animal is met with a kick to its body strong enough to send it flying into a tree. The pants knight rotates his body so he lands on his feet unharmed.

“Do not dodge the question. I asked you whether you were a friend of foe, but from your response I can clearly tell you are not. You are either a very bad liar or simply insane like a certain thief I know. I cannot allow you to pass. Prepare yourself for combat,” the monk orders.

Manchester just sighs to himself,

“I see we cannot avoid fighting one another, but before we begin, I request to know your name,”

“Hmph. As a man who has devoted his entire life to fighting, I shall oblige by your request. My name is… Snickerdoodle. I am a part of a group called The Reapers.”

And with that the two men engaged each other in deadly combat. The fight began with the monk sending out a flurry of kicks strong enough to down trees in a single blow. The monk takes up a wide stance with his right arm up and left arm stationed adjacent. This was known as his River form, in which he focused on defense, capable of reacting and adapting to his opponent. In this state he focuses on counters and can be difficult to land any real hits on him without a distraction. Manchester was immediately placed on the defensive, struggling to keep up with the speed of the man’s kicks. Manchester attempted to counter attacks with a few well timed punches in between each kick. Yet these attacks were blocked by the monk with ease. The monk allocates his defense to his hands and leaves offense to his feet. The man fights as swiftly as water, a form not rigid, but fluid, with ever increasing intensity.

“I see your combat style revolves around kicking, I have never felt such weight behind a kick before,” Manchester remarks as he crosses his arms to defend against an axe kick with the force of a sledgehammer.

“I have developed my own enhanced form of taekwondo. You cannot hope to match me in martial arts. I have only ever been beaten by the Man of Stone himself,” the monk responds.

Manchester backs away and starts to run into the woods in hopes of escaping to a more favorable environment. He realizes that he will not win in a hand to hand fight, so he must think of other options to defeat his fearsome foe.

“Come back here, our fight does not end until one of us dies or is knocked out,” the monk says calmly while chasing Manchester.

“Fret not my friend, for I am not running, simply using the environment to my advantage,” Manchester remarks.

Suddenly pants erupted from a pile of leaves and quickly coiled around the monk's legs.

“What?!” Snickerdoodle says in surprise.

Manchester manipulates the pants causing them to hang the monk upside down from a nearby tree. The pants knight quickly takes advantage of the situation and punches the monk in the jaw. The punch sends the monk flying backwards around 10 feet, but he flips backward as to land on his feet. He is continually assaulted by pants, but fends them off with a quick flurry of kicks. Manchester believed that he could distract the monk by using constant projectiles and sneak in punches every now and then. The strategy worked in his favor as it seemed to cause confusion in his opponent as to why he was being attacked by legwear. However the monk quickly grew used to this constant assault and would attempt to counter Manchester by using his arms to block his sneak attacks.

The monk’s offense focused on his legs as the main force of attack thus his counter punches are subpar as he mostly used them to block or reverse attacks by using the momentum against his opponents. His fluid motion was enhanced by manipulating water to supplement his kicks, making them both stronger and faster. The constant downpour of rain in the background only helped to assist the monk as he could take advantage of the current water in the environment instead of using his aura to transmute it to water.

“Hmm, I must say you are quite the peculiar opponent. I have never once fought a man whose primary method of attack involved pants of all things,” the monk stated.

“I hear that from all my enemies, but do not underestimate me. Otherwise you’ll be in for a surprise,” Manchester responds.

“Hmph, a lesson that all martial artists know is to not underestimate an opponent, no matter how strange they may be. Regardless of that fact, lets see how you deal with Whirlpool,” the monk says menacingly.

With that passing statement Manchester could feel the aura of the air change. The monk starts to spin around kicking away all of the pants that were used to immobilize his legs. The monk continues to increase his mobility and starts moving around the battlefield with increased agility. It was as if his legs were in a constant flux, gathering momentum with each rotation. The monk throws away all notion of defense, giving every bit of concentration to gathering strength and pushes it to attacks. Yet despite this tradeoff he was still able to dodge the ever growing number of pants that sought to pin him down. It could be described as a dance, one in which the monk weaved in and out of Manchester’s flurry of pants, attacking one moment and dodging the next. Manchester barely managed to duck under a single kick that destroyed a dozen trees. Each tree with a thickness comparable to a Sequoia tree. The fall of a dozen trees caused a sound that could be heard for miles away almost as if it was the sound of an explosion.

“This could be a little troublesome,” Manchester remarked as he witnessed the destruction that he barely managed to avoid.

The pants knight could only think of one option available to him now. To match the martial artist blow for blow or even overpower him physically.

“I commend you sir monk, for your strength has forced me to use my trump card,” Manchester claimed as he gathered up all the pants in the area.

Soon thereafter as all the pants merged, the knight’s body grew in size in which one could almost consider him a titan. With his newly acquired power the monk and the knight went toe to toe. The force of a fist meeting foot caused shockwaves that reverberated through the air. The monk was fast, his power ever growing as his mobility increased yet it could not match up with the force being exuded from the knights punches. The monk’s kicks seemed to do less damage to the knight’s new form, almost as if the shallow kicks seemed to bounce off of the larger man’s rigid body.

“Hah, hah, how do you like my display of true power!” Manchester boasts.

“I see, so this is your true power. It would be rude of me not to show mine,” the monk says as he stops his fluid motion ending his whirlpool like movement.

The monk closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and a moment to collect himself. As he opens his eyes, he gives his opponent a firm gaze and a large blue aura erupts around him. This form is the result of years of training, the apex of his strength and dedication to taekwondo. The man pushes past his limits taking on his strongest form, Storm. Attacks are fierce, short and quick. Single-hits are incredibly potent, strong enough to end almost any opponent.

The monk dashes forward with blinding speed and delivers one swift kick straight into Manchester’s abdomen. The strength of this one kick is enough to send Manchester flying dozens of feet backwards, knocking over countless trees. As Manchester starts to get up he is left reeling from the force of the monk’s kick and coughs up blood. He could feel the pain of three broken ribs as well as major internal bruising. However, despite the pain, he manages to pick himself back up.

“Heh, what a wonderful kick. Yet if that was all it took to take me out, then I wouldn’t deserve to call myself an imperial knight,” Manchester says pridefully as he slowly gets back up.

“Indeed, you are quite the resilient foe. Few have taken a kick from me in my Storm form and have gotten back up,” the monk says respectfully.

In the next instant the two men start to exchange punches and kicks with speeds fast enough that to an observer the two would seem invisible. The monk knows that he must attempt to end this fight as quicklys possible. Although his storm form allows him to dish out massive damage it is also quite draining on him as well. While it would seem that Manchester could barely deal with the force of the monk’s kicks, to him it was as if he was fighting a raging sea. For him this would be an uphill battle whose ending could not be predicted. As the battle dragged on both men began to feel fatigue, with Manchester feeling the worst of the two.

“It seems our battle is coming to an end,” Manchester says with his breathing ragged.

“Yes, that it has,” the monk states as he gathered all his strength for one last kick.

As the sound of thunder struck the forest, the two moved towards one another, both intending to end the fight here and now. In the end it was Manchester who was the slower of the two combatants, as he received a kick to his chest that instantly ended the fight. The knight was defeated and sent flying thousands of feet away and was swept into a large river that flowed northwest.