Just a Bit Off
In the crowd of onlookers,
one man casually rubbed his eyes.
Another yawned, bored out of his mind.
Then suddenly—
a long, steady fart echoed through the street like a trumpet,
announcing the fight’s official start.
Dave charged forward, launching a heavy punch with brute force.
Sean didn’t flinch. He simply leaned his body and slipped out of range with effortless grace.
Just as Sean expected—
Dave was nothing but a pile of muscles.
All strength, no technique.
No stance, no timing, no discipline—just an amateur pretending to be a fighter.
Dave kept swinging wildly,
but Sean didn’t even lift his hands. With both fists tucked into his waistband,
he calmly stepped backward and tilted his shoulders,
dodging every hit without breaking a sweat—while subtly guiding Dave forward.
“Too slow,” Sean muttered.
As Dave stomped forward again,
Sean’s eyes dropped for a second—
catching how Dave’s left foot wobbled with every step.
“Your horse stance. Classic amateur posture—zero grounding, zero control.”
Sean kicked low—
a light, casual sweep.
Dave’s leg buckled.
He flew forward like a tree falling in slow motion,
face-first into the dirt.
Sean tilted his head and sighed.
“Just a bit off…”
Because half a meter in front of Dave’s nose
was a huge, mushy pile of dog shit—fresh, sticky, steaming.
Sean had deliberately lured Dave in that direction, hoping to make him kiss it,
but his calculation was just slightly off.
Dave stood up in silence, brushing dirt off his chest,
pretending it didn’t hurt.
But his pride was bruised.
And without a word—
round two began.
Demonstration of Throwing Art
Dave came charging in, fists pumping like a gorilla, pure brute force behind every step.
Sean didn’t panic. He stayed loose, light on his feet, waiting.
When Dave threw a heavy hook, Sean ducked under it, tripped Dave with his foot, and grabbed one of his swinging arms—
with a clean, sharp motion, slammed Dave sideways to the ground.
Dave’s body hit the pavement with a thud.
No real injury, just dirt and shame.
Sean stood up and turned slightly, watching.
Would he get up again?
He did.
Dave roared, bolting forward again.
Sean raised two fingers, calmly said, “Two.”
As Dave charged, Sean stepped in and, with perfect timing, grabbed and flipped him with a classic shoulder throw.
Dave landed face-first, scraping his cheek.
Some blood. Minor—but now it stung.
The crowd gasped.
Sean backed away again, still not raising his hands to fight.
Dave got up, face twitching, furious.
This time, he launched a front kick straight at Sean’s chest.
But Sean snatched his lower leg in mid-air, spun for a full circle, and then—using the momentum—slammed Dave flat onto the concrete with a violent snap.
Dave hit the ground hard, skidding a bit, his face scraping the pavement again.
His cheek was now red and swelling, dust smeared across his forehead.
Sean raised three fingers. “Three.”
Dave stood slowly, trembling with frustration.
Still alive. Still moving.
He rushed again.
Sean blurred behind him—his feet never heavy, his speed clean.
In an instant, he had slid to Dave’s back, crouched, hooked under his armpits, and—
with a clean, dramatic arching motion—pulled Dave fully off the ground and drove him headfirst into the pavement in a textbook German suplex.
A shockwave ran through the concrete.
Toilet paper rolls in the nearby bodega wobbled on their shelves.
Dave’s mouth opened wide. Blood trickled from the side of his lips. His eyes were dazed.
Sean stood slowly, raising four fingers.
“Four.”
He looked down at Dave, who now lay gasping.
Not broken. But no longer pretending this was a fair fight.
Sean took a few steps back and exhaled slowly. Then he said:
“Your muscles… they really are incredible. Some of the strongest I’ve ever seen.”
“But you’re an amateur. Totally untrained. If you had just a bit of technique—just a little muscle art—you could’ve been an exceptional fighter.”
“Unfortunately… you’re reckless. You’re dangerous. You don’t care about the people, or their safety. You’re a threat to everyone around you.”
Sean’s expression turned cold. He clenched his fists and took a stance.
No smirk. No mercy.
“It’s a shame… but I have to end this. I have to end you. Once and for all—before you turn into a real monster.”
A Slip of a Moment
The crowd, moved by Sean’s speech, began to cheer loudly.
To them, Sean wasn’t just a skilled fighter—he was a true local hero.
Dozens of voices rang out:
“Sean! Sean! Let’s go, Sean!”
Dave slowly wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, then stood back up.
He looked around at the cheering people.
And softly muttered to himself—
“When did I become the bad guy?”
“And when the hell did you become the good one?”
Sean didn’t answer.
He simply stared at Dave and said, calm but firm:
“Still want to charge in like an amateur? Still want to rush at me head-on?”
“I’m telling you—it’s pointless.”
But Dave had nothing else.
No techniques. No tricks.
He only knew one thing—charge forward and swing.
Sean’s lips curled slightly. Then his expression turned dead serious.
Dave lunged again.
Sean didn’t dodge.
Instead, he flowed with the punch, stepped in, and slammed his knee deep into Dave’s gut.
Dave’s eyes went wide.
He spat a mouthful of foamy spit as the air left his lungs.
Then, in a desperate reflex, Dave threw his arms forward, trying to grab anything on Sean.
But Sean bent low—nearly touching the ground—spun his body in place, and performed a full 360° tornado sweep, sweeping Dave’s legs out violently and slamming him onto his back.
Sean planted both palms into the concrete, flipped himself upright with a smooth rebound,
then twisted mid-air, lifted his leg high overhead,
and brought it crashing down onto Dave’s face like an axe.
The impact echoed through the street like metal slamming into steel.
Dave was stunned—but still conscious.
Sean stepped back, inhaled once, then suddenly rushed in again.
He wound his leg far behind him, then spun into a full 180° swing kick,
blasting Dave’s face once more.
Dave’s body flew several meters into the air, then tumbled across the pavement, rolling violently before coming to a stop—
face-down, motionless.
Sean stood in place, panting lightly.
He looked down at Dave, then turned toward the stunned crowd.
“I’m sorry…” he said.
“What I did might seem cruel today… but this was the only way.”
The crowd was silent.
Even the loudest voices earlier had gone quiet.
No one could believe it.
It looked like Dave had just been… beaten to death.
But after several seconds of shock, the silence broke.
People began to applaud.
Slow at first, then louder, until cheers rang out again.
“SEAN! OUR HERO!”
“HE SAVED US!”
Sean turned to them, raising both hands and smiling humbly.
“Thank you for your support! I promise, from now on I’ll—”
BOOM!!
A fist like a missile struck Sean straight in the gut.
He was launched into the air like a cannonball and smashed into the wall of the nearby hardware store.
The entire wall collapsed into dust and rubble.
The shelves inside crumbled.
Power tools, paint cans, and plumbing parts spilled everywhere.
The shopkeeper, still seated behind the counter, wet his pants on the spot.
He stared at the wreckage—Sean lying inside it, unmoving—and whispered,
“…He’s dead…”
Outside, Dave’s fist was still frozen in the air, not yet pulled back.
He stood, bruised and battered from head to toe, his face swollen and scratched.
But still standing. Still breathing.
Alive.
A Timeout for Violence
Brian stood silently among the crowd, eyes blinking faintly with golden light.
He was analyzing.
“How to put this in words…” he murmured, stroking his chin and glancing upward slightly. “If I had to pick just one word…”
“…Weak as hell.”
Both of them—Dave and Sean.
Sure, Dave’s physical stats were impressive. His natural defense was no joke. Breaking through that body of his wasn’t easy. But still… this fight was boring as hell.
Brian looked down at his watch. 5 p.m. on the dot.
“Time to clock out.”
He turned, uninterested, and disappeared into the crowd.
—
Meanwhile, Dave wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He whispered to himself:
“Still the strongest man on earth.”
A proud, satisfied grin spread across his face. He took in a deep breath.
“Sean… if you’re still alive,” he said softly, “you should know that my power today— is partly thanks to you. So I’ll let you live. Just this once.”
Then he turned and walked away, back straight like a king.
—
The crowd just stood there, wide-eyed. People glanced at each other, unsure what to do next.
Some were worried Dave might start attacking random bystanders. Others were disappointed that the show ended so quickly.
Either way, the crowd began to thin.
Some slipped away quietly. Some left out of boredom. Some… just didn’t want to be part of whatever the hell this was anymore.
—
Back at the hardware store, the old shopkeeper finally snapped out of his shock.
He looked down at Sean—face down, motionless—lying in a pile of twisted steel tools.
Nails. Screws. Screwdrivers. Saws. Pliers. Axes. Monkey wrenches. Hammers. Pipe cutters. Wire spools. Bolts. Drills. Crowbars. Levels. Measuring tape. Small jack. And two large monkey wrenches lying right next to his head.
The shopkeeper rushed over and gently shook him.
“Sir! Are you alright? Should I call an ambulance?”
Sean’s eyelids fluttered open—just barely.
He was still alive.
Barely.
He looked around with a dazed, faint gaze… then locked eyes with the two wrenches next to his head.
His voice came out weak but strangely nostalgic:
“…Those wrenches…”
“I feel like… I know them.”
“…Deeply.”
“Like we go way back.”
Sean felt his eyelids growing heavy, and before he realized it, his eyes had closed once again.
Ghostly Blue Flame
In total darkness, Sean heard something—a faint voice echoing from deep, deep within.
He couldn’t make out the words at first. So he focused. He listened harder.
And then, he heard it.
A voice he knew all too well. Cold. Familiar. Unshakable.
“You were once a warrior beyond reckoning—ruthless, feared, untouchable. Do you remember?”
Sean hesitated. “Who… who are you?” he asked.
“I’m you,” the voice answered. “I’m the sin you buried.”
Sean’s eyes widened. He finally understood—this guilt, this voice—it wasn’t something foreign. It had always been inside him.
“Look at you now,” the voice continued. “So weak. You can’t even beat someone this simple. You call yourself a protector? You’re not even a blip in history. No one will remember your name.”
Sean clenched his fists. “No. I can’t go back to that person. That’s not who I want to be.”
“And yet you lie here,” the voice said, “while a monster runs free in the heart of this city…”
Sean whispered, “There has to be another way…”
But something deep inside him caught fire. A blue flame—ghostly, quiet, but growing.
It lit up within him like a whisper turning into a scream.
The flame inside him surged higher. Fiercer. Hungrier.
It swallowed his fear and burned away his doubt.
Right in front of him—those two monkey wrenches.
Familiar.
So familiar.
Sean’s fingers twitched.
And then… he rose.
Slowly. Deliberately.
His eyes, once dim, now glowed with ghostly blue light.
The warrior was no longer resting.
He deliberately let himself be consumed by the sin and darkness once again.
I Am So Back
Sean coughed hard—deep and violent—and spat out a mouthful of thick, dark blood.
He touched his chest.
Yeah… he was hurt. Bad.
But he could still move.
Still fight.
The old shopkeeper rushed over and tried to help him up, fussing nervously.
“Sir! Do you need me to call an ambulance? You look seriously injured!”
Sean didn’t answer directly.
Instead, like he was talking to himself, he muttered:
“I am the embodiment of crime… I represent sin.
My very existence will make everyone tremble before me.”
Then he burst out laughing—wild, unhinged.
With a sharp swing of his right hand, he smacked the shopkeeper aside like a toy.
The old man flew nearly two meters and crashed next to the counter, collapsing onto the floor.
Sean looked down at him coldly and said:
“Before I deal with that half-naked pervert in pink women’s underwear, let me make this clear—
When I come back, you’d better have the cash ready.
Because this is a robbery.”
The shopkeeper—already soaked in fear—felt another hot stream run down his leg.
His pants were officially beyond saving.
—
Sean took a few heavy steps toward the exit.
Then he shouted:
“YOU! THE SWEATY-BASEMENT-DWELLER UNDERWEAR!! Stop right there.”
“Who told you you could walk away so fast?”
Dave heard the voice.
He stopped.
Turned slowly.
Their eyes locked.
And Dave noticed it—that ghostly blue light flickering in Sean’s eyes.
Sean raised his arm, grabbed the red cape draped over his shoulders… and ripped it off.
He tossed it high into the sky—
The wind caught it.
It flew far, far away… vanishing into the clouds.
Sean raised his head and laughed toward the heavens.
“NOW I AM FREE.”
“NOW I AM COMPLETE.”
“I AM SO BACK.”
Then he tilted his head slightly at Dave—an expression full of violent, unapologetic meaning.
He spat onto the ground, clenched both fists tight—
Each one gripping a heavy monkey wrench.
It was clear now—
The next round was coming.
And it wasn’t going to be merciful.