NOVPUBChapter 806: Strange Old Man [Bonus]
The square began to empty. Stages were disassembled. Blood was washed from the arena stones with spirit-infused water. The elders stood and left, their followers trailing behind like long shadows.
Quinlan didn't move.
He stood there, still and silent, watching the backs of the departing elders disappear into the gathering dusk.
Feng stood beside him, fuming quietly. But even she had no more barbs left to throw.
Then…
*Knock.*
*Knock.*
*Knock.*
A tapping sound came from behind them.
Quinlan turned.
An old man limped forward slowly, the setting sun casting long shadows over his body. His robes were simple but well-kept, the color a faded grayish-red. What made him stand out, however, was his body.
All four of his limbs were prosthetics—mechanical extensions made of metal. His arms hissed with every movement, the joints clicking. His legs stomped more than they stepped, and one knee groaned like an old gate each time it bent.
He walked like a man dragging his turbulent past behind him.
And he was walking straight toward Quinlan.
Before a word could be spoken, the old man dashed forward with shocking speed despite his severe disability. He gave no warning whatsoever, just lunged at them.
His prosthetic leg slammed down, propelling him into a blur of motion. One metal arm came around in a spinning backfist, far faster than it had any right to be.
"Uncle!" Feng shouted, startled.
Quinlan reacted on pure instinct, having not been given enough time to properly analyze the situation on a conscious level. He shoved the girl back without looking, just in time to duck beneath the strike and step into a counter.
Palm met forearm. A clash of raw muscle against reinforced steel.
The old man didn't stop for a single second, not giving him enough time to think. A second strike came in the form of a downward elbow. Quinlan caught it with both forearms, grunting as the force rattled through his bones. He pushed in, trying to close the distance, but the old man's knee snapped up like a piston.
Quinlan twisted to avoid a cracked rib, his shoulder catching the edge of the blow. Pain flared, but he stayed on his feet.
The old man's face was utterly blank. No fury. No glee. No cruelty. Just the smooth, disciplined emptiness of a veteran who no longer found emotion useful.
Quinlan gritted his teeth. He didn't panic. Didn't roar or flail. He drew in a breath, focused his stance, and fought back to his utmost ability.
They danced.
If it could be called dancing at all, being more like a silent storm of blows.
Each of the old man's movements had a strange mechanical rhythm to it. They were stiff, stuttering at first as if he hadn't moved them in a long time… but then, like he was done with the warmup, they transformed into smooth and flowing motions. It was like a broken instrument that could still manage to play a flawless tune after a bit of tinkering.
Quinlan struck low. The old man countered his energetic assault by strategically checking him with a hip strike, expending much less energy than his enemy did.
Quinlan followed it up by twisting for an elbow strike. The old man deflected it with a shoulder bump, then accelerated, moving faster than before to throw Quinlan off, and successfully managed to land a hammering palm to Quinlan's ribs.
He gasped, stumbling back, only for a heel made of metal to come flying toward his jaw.
He sidestepped just in time to not end up as a rotting corpse in this cultivator world far from his home. Quinlan countered with a palm strike to the chest. The old man absorbed it like a wall of iron, not even wincing.
It took everything Quinlan had to keep up.
His robes clung to his body with sweat. His fingers ached. His breath came fast, and his instincts were pushed to their limit.
The prosthetics didn't slow the old man down—or, at the very least, he was still a real beast of a combatant. Each blow had weight, each step perfect. Not flashy. Not stylish.
Just utterly lethal.
Then, the finishing blow came. A sudden, spinning kick from the old man's left leg, manifesting a strike that was an upward arc like a scythe.
*Thud!*
Quinlan's world spun.
He hit the ground, landing hard on his back. Dirt exploded around him. He slid back an inch to gain enough distance to defend himself.
But the old man just stood over him. He didn't move in for the finishing strike.
There was still no expression visible on his weathered face.
He still did not make a single sound with his vocal cords.
But then, at long last, his lips moved. Not in praise for managing to keep up for so long. Not in apology for randomly attacking him for no reason whatsoever.
Just a flat statement.
"You pass."
He turned, and the sound of his mechanical limbs clicking and hissing could be heard as he began to walk away, leaving Quinlan in the dust and Feng to just stare at the scene with utter disbelief. She was greatly worried for the uncle, thinking he might just get killed, and planned to intervene. But she saw no opportunity to.
She feared she would only get in Quinlan's way if she did. The old man showed her no weak spots to exploit. No blind spots she could attack from. Feng had seen many great martial artists display their prowess before, but almost none of them had anything on this old man. His combat style and sheer ominous aura frightened the young girl to the very core, making her unable to even move a single inch.
The old man spoke once again, not stopping his walk for a single moment.
"If you wish to learn true martial arts… follow me."
The words hung in the air, rough as gravel.
And then, the old man marched off into the night, not waiting for their answer.
