Mo Xixi Vs Filly the Foal - I

Light.

Filly’s body was impossibly light. He stood before Jenn and Numarei. A mix of relief and sadness washed over his horse-eyes, and he tipped his head in a sign of respect. The infirmary was next to quiet, save for the pump of the familiar blue liquid and the breathing of one nearby.

“White like ash,” said Filly, with a quiet neigh. “These two deserve a good rest.”

Cerica opened with humour. “They’re not gonna sleep any better with you around, ya know.”

“‘Course. Only reason I’m still ‘ere is ‘cause of my own selfish gain. Peace of mind and all. Ain’t no part in their healin’ or recuperation I can partake in.”

“What, you scared they’re gonna die or something?”

Filly did not answer. Not for some time. “Just a sense of foreboding, is all. Cold, mistaken instinct.”

Troubled by something unspoken, his gaze fell upon the tubes of blue. That was all he looked at. The way they pulsed, the way they contorted, the way they beat and pump, and the way it seemed to him, that they did not work as fast as they once had.

“Do you see it, m’am?”

She shrugged. She shrugged again, as if to show it weren’t no fluke. Then—Cerica’s brow furrowed. And for a moment, she looked like she was ready to say something quite important, as if she’d come to realise something of note. That stopped.

Filly tipped his broad-brimmed hat. “But you know—there is one golden lining to all this. A little flake of paradise on the proverbial gutter.”

“And what’s that, Filly-san?”

A faint nicker came from his throat. “These two ain’t gonna see my tricks. And once Jenn’s up and running, it’ll be like I used ‘em for the first time. Now, isn’t that a sunflower?”

He went up the infirmary’s stairs, dressed in the quiet confidence of a cowboy with nothing to lose. The direction he went was towards the Palace’s opera house. There were a great deal of soldiers, all things considered, but nothing else of note. As he arrived there, dragging the heavy load known as a lolibaba who would not shut up, a figure greeted him.

It was the Lord Regent’s attendant, Caplyn. Still in her kimono, and still with her black, sclerotic eyes. He tipped his hat.

She bowed. “Please follow me, Filly.”

“Good luck, Foal-boy,” said Cerica when the attendant finished. “Try not to end up too hurt. Or at least the parts down under, hehe.”

“I’ve got no intention of endin’ up a eunuch,” replied Filly, patting her on the head. “Have fun.”

The horseman followed the attendant. A certain quiet grew with each of their steps, proof of their isolation from the others. They arrived at a double door. The air smelled of old dust and new blood. With a quickened bow, Caplyn pushed open the groaning, wooden door.

Red drapes hung at the end of his view, circumventing what was ahead. A table stood near his left thigh. On it were his choice of weapons.

An old lever-action with a splintered wooden stock, now refitted with bits of grey carbon fibre and miscellaneous material. Improvised grenades, looking like an art kid’s afternoon project—tied together with wire and welded metal. The rest were on him, tucked away in the folds of his red leather jacket.

“Good hunting.”

Filly did as he always did. He tipped his hat and went about his merry way, waiting at the red drapes for his moment to come in.

“Now, for the second battle in our grand entrance!” yelled Anera from her gilded box. “Two fighters will meet their match in the palace’s premier opera house!”

Caplyn nodded. Filly moved past the ceiling-hung drapes, dragging the table with him. Before him spread a wide, wooden platform, a stage of dark oak. There were remnants of old decor on it. Props, a chandelier on the ceiling, and even a decrypt throne.

To the left were the audience. But there were no audience seated in the many, many seats. Just rows upon rows of vacant cushioned chairs. Instead, everyone was located in the galleries, built into the walls in a horseshoe shape, going up four tiers until the ceiling itself.

Filly did not turn his head. His horse-eyes just wandered on their own to the place directly opposite the stage. A single, ornate box, draped with the banner of the blue hydrangea, and seated with the still-bound King in it.

Was it just his imagination, or were both of the King’s eyes open?

“To the right, we have Filly the Horseman! A cowboy from a world both barren and desolate! Wielding his rifle and revolver, he dispatches all enemies with a single bullet and tips his hat in a gesture of respect! None can evade his bullets! None can avoid his gaze! Give it up for Filly the Foal!”

A round of applause came from the audience. Then Mo Xixi came in. A spear was grasped in his right hand. He wore a violet changshan; it was a long, Chinese robe, down to the knees, and cut with slits to allow freedom of movement.

“Now, for Filly the Foal’s opponent! He made a grand entrance a few days ago, showing tokens over fifty in count; the proof of his martial prowess! With his red-tasselled spear and dashing good looks, he’s taken all of Indaria by surprise and proved himself time and time again! His epithet is Heaven’s Butcher, and his name is Mo Xixi!”

Another round of applause came. Mo Xixi smiled, a warrior’s delight in the battle to come.

“This is a most fitting battleground, wouldn’t you say, Filly?”

“Is it?”

“Beautiful flowers require beautiful pots to be displayed in. The lone keyhole demands the right key. Everything under heaven has its correspondence and exists only in rhythm with something else. You must understand this. Otherwise, why would you choose to use a rifle in place of a sword?”

“I looted it off a man I killed, is all. Best thing he got, save for one ripe apple.”

“And yet, you’ve killed many more men since, have you not? And how many of their weapons have you taken?”

Mo Xixi began twirling the spear, and spinning on his heel, doing a little sleight of hand that made the audience cheer even louder.

“Understand this, Filly: Life exists only for beauty and its cultivation. Fighting for fighting’s sake is the right of a higher life-form who understands such things.”

He thrust his spear, pointing at the horseman. Filly did not move. He just kept his weight forward and raised his rifle just a bit from his eye.

“Those who speak for others often know the least about ‘em. Livin’ for living’s sake—killin’ for living’s sake; there ain’t a piccadilly’s worth of beauty in that.”

“Then, let me broaden your horizons, Filly. Allow Heaven’s Butcher to give you a lesson in aesthetics.”

They started at the same time. A bullet leapt from Filly’s heavy-frame rifle, and the smell of gunpowder whiffed through the air. Mo Xixi drew a step forth and sliced it down the middle. Two halves of a once whole dropped to the ground. The wuxia warrior advanced like lightning, a blur of purple in the dimness of it all.

But Filly didn’t wait. He was already mid-motion; he stepped to the side, chambered another round tchk, and threw the table behind him at Mo Xixi. With an in-step, the wuxia warrior launched into the air, arc reaching above the table.

Filly readied his gun. He did not dodge or move away. Full of steady breathing, Filly the Foal galloped forth and pressed the barrel of his rifle against Mo Xixi’s spear shaft.

The wuxia warrior’s eyes grew wide. He could not move his spear! With all the weight pressed against it, and with Filly’s rifle’s barrel being but a hairsbreadth away, parrying the bullet was impossible.

The hammer of the cowboy’s lever-action fell. Unburnt powder, still in the lines of his barrel, ignited into orange sparks. A bullet travelled through his gun and hit Mo Xixi in the shoulder, ripping a chunk of flesh off the top.

He flinched. The force of the bullet sent him flying back a half-dozen metres, slumped against red drapes.

Mo Xixi gave an excited look. “I’ve never known a shoddy rifle like that to pack so much force.”

Another levered round. “Good.”

Mo Xixi charged.

Filly ran off the stage towards the seats and fired shot after shot. He lifted a cushioned chair with one hoof, took out a grenade, and both kicked and threw them at the same time. As Mo Xixi’s spear thrust forth, it pierced chair and grenade alike. A cushion of grey smoke burst on impact.

Thn. Thn. Thn. Mo Xixi was running through the smoke. But Filly could hear it. That he did. All he had to do was aim and shoot. Aim and shoot. Aim and hit the target.

Just a hair’s trigger from shooting the shot, a half-dozen chairs flew into the sky. Filly gave that a brief consideration. They were up high, several dozen metres.

A distraction. He must’ve thought. But I can’t hear ‘im no more. Where is he?

Filly's sweaty hands held tighter. All too late, he saw it. Mo Xixi’s head poked out from the back of a chair.

Did he curl up behind that chair?!

Filly angled his gun up. A quarter-second later, four chairs were batted down by the shaft of Mo Xixi’s spear. He shot down two, but decided against the rest and moved out of the way.

Filly raised his gun. By then, Mo Xixi was halfway down. By then, Filly realised something quite quaint. The spear had leapt from Mo Xixi’s hand. It soared through the air with a sonic burst; it buried itself in Filly’s left arm, punching clean through skin and muscle.

The horseman winced. He was just fast enough to fire with his right hand and put a bullet through Mo Xixi’s right wrist. Running down the stairs next to the seats, Filly attempted to put distance between the two. His left arm and hand were dead. His body screamed in pain, bones, muscles, everything demanding rest and recuperation.

But what was survival if not to live in spite of?

And what was this if not survival?

I can do it. I can survive. I always have.

This was what he was good at. Twenty-two years ago, when he was just a newborn foal, that was all he ever did: survive. Day after day. Night after night. With nothing left to tether him: no family, no friends, and a recently dead brother whom he’d killed over a gambling dispute, life was just a matter of going to the next day.

Encounter after encounter. Bounty after bounty. Life wore at him like a whetstone to a blade; it sharpened him; it honed him; it made him all the more dangerous—

—And it took away something from him. So much so that he’d forgotten to live for anything but.

“Let’s make this beautiful, Filly!”

And yet… The horseman could not deny it. He had a feeling in his heart. A feeling he could not quite get; the boiling and heating of blood, muscle and soul. When had he last felt this? What was this thing—and was it simply the desire to survive?

He had come here on a whim. He had come here to shoot whatever he was allowed to. And perhaps, just perhaps, that whim which had put him into such a precarious position, which had forced him to consider something beyond living another day, was not so bad after all.