Chapter 36: The Price of a Palm, the Debt of a Kiss
After I gave Kimchi the nod, my stance shifted—left leg extended like a duelist's bait, right leg rooted deep, stable, grounded. I held Kiya in both hands, angling her downward in tail guard, the ancient posture of readiness. I breathed slow, the metal whisper of my sword matching the tempo of my heartbeat. Kimchi, of course, needed no countdown. She launched herself at me like a railgun shot disguised as a woman.
Her first strike screamed toward my left shoulder, a motion so fast it warped the air around it. Reflex flared—Kiya arced in a diagonal blur across my body, and in the same breath, I pivoted, switching my lead foot with a fluid motion. Steel clanged like church bells as our blades met. My deflection held—barely—and I followed up by lunging forward in a textbook ox guard thrust.
But I should have known better.
Kimchi never wielded both blades at once. No, that would be far too predictable. Instead, she cycled her attacks—one blade followed by the next, a seamless rotation that stole any recovery window from her opponent. She was a storm dressed in grace, each swing a syllable in a violent lullaby. She became a monsoon of mirrored edges.
My initial gambit crumbled. I dropped into a full pivot, blocking her next slash, then the next, and the next—until the rhythm became everything. That was the plan now: survive the hailstorm, play the rock in her hurricane, and wait—desperately, patiently—for an opening. I'd learned how to weather Kimchi's onslaughts over the years, every duel another line of code burned into my muscles.
But knowing how to survive didn't mean knowing how to win.
I considered cheating. Well—"tactically escalating," let's call it. Gyrokinesis was tempting. I could distort gravity under her feet, just enough to break her flow. Like I'd done to that jungle predator on the Devoured Planet. But no—if I used psionics, Kimchi would be allowed to retaliate with her gene mutations, and I was not in the mood to be turned into a statue mid-spar by those nightmare-inducing petrification eyes of hers.
And while I'd built up some resistance to her gaze over time, "some" resistance is not the same as "enough." Not when your girlfriend can turn you into a stone dildo with a blink.
But fate threw me a bone.
After feinting left, Kimchi stumbled—just a fraction, just a heartbeat—but enough. I struck. Kiya surged forward, piercing through the narrow lane in her guard. The tip bit flesh—just a gash across her chitin, shallow but promising. Kimchi deflected most of the force with her left blade, but now I had momentum. I pressed forward, sacrificing precision for pressure. Each strike now was a hammer blow meant to disrupt, not kill.
Then came the idea. Dangerous. Dumb. Perfect.
After a probing slash to Kimchi's left flank, I swung a deliberately horrid overhead strike—from my bottom left to my top right—an attack so ugly it should've worn a helmet. My torso? Completely exposed. Open. An invitation to violence.
Kimchi took the bait.
Her left arm lashed forward, blade aiming for my chest with surgical intent. But while the swing was a farce, my feet had been telling another story. They were positioned perfectly. My core twisted like a coiled spring snapping free, every ounce of kinetic fury I could summon channeling through Kiya. The blade screamed downward with all the finality of a guillotine.
There was a hiss, a crack, and a thud.
Kimchi's sword hit the ground.
So did her hand.
Above the wrist.
She'd seen it coming at the very last second, pulling back fast—but not fast enough. Not with her self-imposed movement restrictions during training.
For a moment, I stood there in stunned triumph. Then—I let my guard down.
Big mistake.
Pain bloomed in a flash from my right pectoral all the way down to my left hip. A ragged diagonal gash torn across my body. I screamed—a visceral, involuntary sound.
"AAAH! What the fuck, Kimchi?! I thought I won!"
She tilted her head in that faux-innocent, infuriating way. "And that, my love, was your mistake," she said sweetly. "You know full well that your Kimchi can withstand a ludicrous amount of pain without letting it dull her blade. One hand, two hands—it makes no difference. Orchid is still death incarnate."
A proud, wolfish grin curled across her lips. "But well done, truly. That strike—you used it against the feline predator on the Devoured Planet, didn't you? Kimchi is glad you've retained the lesson."
My whole chest ached, but I was grinning anyway. Her praise did that to me.
I limped forward, leaned in, and kissed her.
"I still can't believe that worked," I said, voice trembling with pain and pride. "It felt so fucking good pulling it off on you."
She nestled her head against my chest—gently, avoiding the bleeding. "Yes. You're improving at a staggering pace. We're all very proud of you, Irvine."
For a moment, we stayed like that—basking in my one-in-a-hundred victory—until I couldn't help myself.
"Here," I said, stepping back and crouching. I picked up her severed hand from the floor and held it out with a stupid grin. "Need a hand?"
Kimchi blinked. Then she smirked. "Yes, thank you. Better to reattach it now while the nerve endings are still viable. Consuming and regrowing it would waste biomass."
With a calmness that should've been illegal, she took the hand, aligned it with the stump, and pressed it into place. I watched, mesmerized, as chitin and tissue twisted and braided together in real-time, reknitting like bio-cable under pressure. The gauntlet plates clicked back into sync with a sickeningly satisfying sound.
It was honestly hot. Like, unreasonably hot.
I think I got a science boner.
My healing factor might be solid, but I couldn't just regrow a whole limb in under thirty seconds like she could. Not yet, anyway. In a gene tank? Sure. But mid-fight? That shit was still light-years away.
We took a brief rest, but Kimchi was already itching for round two.
Now that I'd actually maimed her, she decided I was ready for the next level. She unlocked her next speed tier. Thirty minutes later, I was bleeding from approximately everywhere. I had more cuts than a preview reel, and my ego? It wasn't just bruised—it was annihilated.
Kimchi sat beside me like a loving teacher after beating the absolute shit out of her star pupil.
"162 hits," she chirped. "If delivered with full intent, 51 would have been fatal. Orchid is pleased she still has many lessons to impart."
Her smile was blinding. It also made me wince.
Ever the sweetheart, she helped with my wounds. Which meant: licking. She ran her tongue along every gash, her saliva disinfecting and sealing the minor ones while I gritted my teeth and tried not to make a sound. But I could feel the excitement radiating off her. She was enjoying this a bit too much.
"I swear the only reason you went full-speed was so you could tongue-bathe me after," I grumbled.
Kimchi froze mid-lick like a cat caught knocking over a wine glass. "W-what? Kimchi would never, Irvine-love. She simply feels terrible about hurting you and wants to assist in your recovery. That is all."
She said that. Then resumed licking.
I smiled, small and smug, and let her have her moment.
Eventually, I stood—aching, limping, but victorious in spirit. Kiya hovered beside me, trailing in the air as we made our way back to the cold room.
"Kimchi, weren't you supposed to call the drones to repair the flooring?" I asked, gesturing at the very much still-destroyed floor.
She looked down and stammered, "T-The drones… yes, they were… affected by the Queen's heat. Overstimulated. Incapacitated. Repairs will commence later. Definitely."
I gave her a look. The eyebrow-arching kind. But I let it slide.
I was a thirsty boy.
I started rummaging through supply crates, hoping the hive had grabbed something drinkable from the Ker'min planet. My choices were rapidly narrowing to water or—glancing at Kimchi—milk. Not today.
It took time. Everything was written in four Ker'min dialects, and I could only half-read two. But I knew the shapes for "caution" and "poison," and this crate had neither.
I cracked it open.
Inside: 36 glass bottles.
I picked one. Popped the cap.
It hissed. It fizzed.
I took a sip.
My eyes went wide.
"…Is—is this—"
"BEER."
-