The Neon Cat Slaughter

Ibara's head tumbled to the floor. A trail of blood followed it.

The man was standing still. Both katanas, now caked with blood, by his sides.

Everyone in the Neon Cat were speechless, even the old bartender raised an eyebrow before going back to preparing the sakura tea.

The silence felt like it would last forever.

"He killed Ibara!" cried a scrawny man and pounced with a long military-grade knife.

The man made a long arc with one katana, not even bothering to raise his head.

The scrawny man suddenly became thick green smoke right before the blade was able to reach him. And then he reappeared a few feet behind where he originally was.

"Do you really think you could just kill me by swinging your swords around mindlessly? Ibara might have been strong and your strength is nothing to scoff at either... But my magic lets me reconfigure into a smoke. You're not gonna be able to lay a finger on m—"

BANG!

A gunshot rang through the saloon. The scrawny man collapsed with a bloody hole square on his forehead as his eyes lolled back. Blood painted the back wall.

The blade on the man's katana was bent 90 degrees from the handle with a complex set of gears and hinges, and everyone noticed a barrel of a pistol hidden in the side of the blade; a thin trail of smoke slowly floating upwards from the muzzle.

The man snapped the weapon back to his side and with a whirr and a click, the weapon returned to a katana.

The entire saloon erupted in anger. People pulled out knives, guns, and hands lit up with magical energy. A mob of 40 people rushed towards the man in blinding fury.

The man pulled out both his katanas, actually preparing himself for the fight.

The first wave of people neared him, hands sticking out trying to grab onto him and pull him to the ground.

With one clean swing with his katana, four people were cut right through the chest, dying instantly as blood sprayed everywhere.

Another swipe.

Five dead.

The katana rearranged itself into the gun and shot a bullet.

Three dead.

Another slash as the weapon returned to a katana.

Four dead.

The man was mowing down the entire crowd. Each arc cleanly cut through flesh and bone, leaving fatal wounds. Each bullet shot through two or more skulls or any other vital organ. Every shift from katana to gun and gun to katana were cold and calculated. Every blow left more and more corpses onto the cold concrete floor. There wasn't even any screams of pain; the moment they were attacked, they died instantly.

This wasn't a saloon fight.

It was a slaughter.

Finally the last of the angry mob crumbled to the ground. The entire floor was covered with corpses. Blood caked the walls like a painting of macabre. The saloon reeked of that sharp metal smell of blood. The man, who was completely unscathed, twirled his katanas like a revolver and returned them to their sheath. He slowly pulled out a nearby chair and sat down.

The bartender was perfectly calm as he served the man the sakura tea. He's been the bartender of the Neon Cat for over 30 years and saw his fair share of bloody violence. Sure, no one in the saloon's history took down over 40 people, but once you see a person die, it isn't much different as seeing 200 people die.

"I recommend you get out of here" said the bartender to the man who was in the middle of a sip of the tea.

"Get out of Tokyo. Get out of Japan if you can. Your skills are mighty impressive, but you just murdered members of three different clans. Stay here another day, and someone will get your head whether it be the onis or someone else. You can kill a crowd, but I promise you, you can't kill the entire Tokyo underworld"

The man set his tea down. His face hasn't moved a single muscle since he came here.

"Where's the nearest inn?" the man asked in a quiet gravelly voice.

"You really aren't gonna listen to me. I've lived in this shitshow all my life, and now I'm an old man. I've seen people like you, thinking you're all high and mighty. You won't survive here. It's not a threat, it's a fact."

The bartender waited for the man's response. The man just took another slow sip of his tea. It didn't even look like he was thinking of speaking.

The bartender sighed.

"There's an inn a few buildings left of here. It's an old abandoned hotel. Its run by a monk. He appears only during the night and takes money or food as payment. He doesn't give a fuck who you are or what you do. Just pay him, and he won't bat an eye. I suspect that's what you want"

"Thank you" muttered the man and dropped a bill and a few coins in the counter and left, carefully avoiding the corpses.

The bartender leaned on the counter for a few seconds. He stared at the countless bodies strewn across the saloon. Flies have begun to hover around some of the detached hands and limbs, making that vile buzzing noise.

The bartender made a deep sigh.

"Guess I'll get the mop"