The Blade-Wielding Legend

"Lord Black Tomb!"

The tavern owner twisted her waist like a fly drawn to honey, squeezing through the crowd to greet him.

Black Tomb was tall and burly, his skin gleaming with a black sheen.

He snorted out a breath of murky air, occupying the most spacious seat in the center with a grand demeanor, slapping his large, fan-like hand on the table: "Sake! The best! Women! Fair-skinned!"

His booming voice overshadowed the shouting of the Ronin playing drinking games in the tavern.

The Ronin laughed and spread out, swiftly claiming the empty seats nearby, calling for drinks and food.

The bar was entirely ablaze with excitement.

In the corner, a drunken Ronin groped a heavily made-up geisha, who maintained a forced smile while resisting, drawing laughter from her companions.

At another table, some gamblers who had lost turned red-eyed, shaking their dice cups noisily as Copper Coin clinked on the greasy tabletop.

Someone vomited, the stench of filth quickly masked by the stronger smell of alcohol.

The bustling staff darted through the narrow passageways, trays piled high with sake bottles and steaming grilled food.

Smoke filled the air, a dizzying blend of sweat and alcohol scents.

Some plainly foreign traders huddled in a corner, their eyes wary as they observed the chaotic scene.

To Black Tomb, this was all too familiar.

He grabbed a coarse ceramic wine bowl, taking a large gulp, the spicy liquid dribbling down his beard as he let out a satisfied low growl.

He reveled in this chaos, feeling power and control.

Roughly pushing away a geisha who attempted to approach and toast him, his gaze swept through the bar like a hungry wolf surveying its territory, a mocking sneer on his lips as if he were watching a farce performed by struggling ants.

Whenever there was a shove or a geisha’s abrupt scream from the corner, he would grin and watch with even more interest.

Just then, a faint and rhythmic "tap, tap" sound came from the tavern’s entrance.

A blind warrior wearing a worn bamboo hat and dressed in a faded hemp robe appeared at the door, leaning on an inconspicuous bamboo staff.

The bamboo staff tapped the greasy floor with a crisp sound.

He slightly lowered his head, the bamboo hat covering most of his face, leaving only the cold, hard lines of his jaw exposed. The noise at the entrance momentarily quieted due to this unusual figure.

"Where did this blind man come from? Get out!"

A drunken Ronin, blocking the doorway, reached out to shove him.

Yet, the blind warrior was much faster.

The bamboo staff, as if it had eyes, lightly tapped the Ronin’s wrist with precision.

The Ronin let out a miserable scream, half his body going numb as he staggered back, knocking over a neighbor’s wine bowl.

"Baka!"

The Ronin at the same table instantly flew into a rage, drawing their swords with a flash of blades aimed at the blind man.

In that moment, the blind warrior seemed to turn into smoke.

He didn’t draw his sword, just used the bamboo staff with lightning precision to point, flick, pick, and sweep.

The movement was extremely simple but carried a terrifying precision.

One Ronin’s sword was tapped by the bamboo staff on the hilt, the massive force causing the skin between the thumb and forefinger to crack, and the sword flew from his grip, embedding with a "thud" into a nearby column...

Another Ronin’s knee was knocked from the side, causing him to lose balance and crash to the floor, smashing a pile of bowls and dishes.

The third Ronin’s wrist was entangled by the bamboo staff, spinning like a top into the crowd watching the spectacle.

"Ah—!"

"My wine!"

"My eyes! My eyes!"

Screams, shouts, and the sound of shattering plates erupted suddenly.

The chaos burst like water in a boiling pot.

Tables and chairs were overturned, drinks and food splashed everywhere, customers and geishas screamed and scattered in panic.

In the center of the commotion, the blind warrior maneuvered in the narrow space, the bamboo staff acting like a living being, each strike accompanied by a muffled groan or scream.

The scene turned extremely chaotic and dangerous.

Meanwhile, Black Tomb, seated at the head table, had a sneer morph into an amused grin.

He grabbed a handful of grilled fish, shoving it into his mouth and chewing voraciously, grease dripping down his chin.

The brawl before him excited him more than the dance of the geisha.

His thick fingers drummed on the table, a low, deep laugh rumbling from his throat, his eyes following the ghostly figure of the blind warrior as if watching a brilliant monkey show.

Surrounding guards, captivated by the fight, instinctively guarded Black Tomb, eyes fixed on the unfolding scene.

At the peak of this chaos, when everyone’s attention was caught by the ghostly fast blind warrior and the falling Ronin—

A thin shadow, like a butterfly weaving through flowers, used the chaotic crowd and overturned tables and chairs for cover, silently approaching Black Tomb’s huge wine table.

The dark shadow of chaos was the best camouflage.

A slender, fair hand, moving so fast it was almost imperceptible, brushed lightly past the inner side of Black Tomb’s thick, muscular arm, which had lifted slightly in laughter, like a lover’s soft caress, or sweeping away a speck of dust.

The touch was icy, so slight it was like a mosquito bite, easily ignored amidst the alcohol scent and clamor.

A subtly concealed, hair-thin, blue-black snake pattern flickered and vanished on the sweat-stained skin.

It seemed to seep into the flesh, disappearing in an instant.

Black Tomb was utterly unaware, his entire attention on the "free" entertainment before him, grinning, a coarse laugh vibrating in his throat.

That thin shadow, after completing its task, immediately blended into the panicked, fleeing crowd, vanishing without a trace, as if it had never appeared.

The entire bar was still filled with the sounds of fighting, cursing, and crying.

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