Humbleism Inc.
Brian stepped forward first. He placed a hand lightly on Pastor Simon’s shoulder.
“Hey, Simon. Long time no see. You doing alright?”
Simon, still catching his breath, wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“To be honest,” he said with a shaky grin, “I thought my throat was gone for good. But turns out I’m still at full HP. Not even a scratch.”
He chuckled softly, then added,
“Good thing you guys showed up in time.”
At that moment, Dinello began walking toward them—slow, steady steps, eyes burning with confusion and frustration. His Zhongshan jacket flapped slightly in the summer breeze.
As he approached, his voice rang out, loud and firm.
“Today, you owe me some answers. What the hell is going on here? Why is this cult—this Humbleism—linked to your Humble Organization? And who the hell is this Pastor Cemen guy?”
Michael adjusted his collar, silent.
Brian crossed his arms and answered in his usual calm tone.
“Humbleism is one of our monetized arms. It’s a profit-generating division under the full authority of the Humble Organization. As of this fiscal year, it accounts for roughly 20% of our total revenue.”
He nodded at Simon.
“Simon here is the pastor. And also the CEO.”
Dinello’s jaw dropped.
“…Huh? Say what?”
Brian tilted his head slightly and smirked.
“Come on, Dinello. Humbleism and Humble Organization? You really didn’t connect the dots?
Usually, a normal person figures that out in under a second.”
Dinello’s lips twitched. His fists clenched.
Brian kept going. “Look, I’ve known you for years. We’ve crossed paths, traded punches. And if I had to sum you up?” He gave a small shrug.
“You’re a hot-headed idiot. Sure, your strength and speed are formidable, I’ll give you that—but your IQ? Strictly mid to low tier.”
Dinello’s whole body tensed. He clenched his teeth, eyes narrowed.
“You son of a— I’ll make you pay… I’ll show you—”
Brian didn’t even blink.
“We’ve been watching you from the trees. Analyzing your recent performance in real time. Based on my Golden Eyes’ projection, your chance of winning against us today is… negative zero percent.”
Dinello froze.
The air turned heavy.
And in that silence, the truth about the scale, reach, and cold calculation of the Humble Organization began to sink in.
Captain Lam with Human Shield
Michael calmly set his leather briefcase down beside the tree roots, dusted off his sleeves, and stepped forward.
His left hand extended outward—not as a threat, but as a quiet signal.
“Brian, Pastor Simon,” he said with a crisp authority. “You don’t need to get involved. Back up a few steps.”
They obeyed without question.
Michael glanced at Dinello, then cracked his knuckles slowly.
“I used to fight this idiot a lot back in the day,” he continued. “My win rate was around 55 to 60 percent. But today…”
He looked back over his shoulder with a confident smirk.
“Today, I’d say I have a 200% chance of victory.”
Brian folded his arms and grinned. Pastor Simon adjusted his collar and nodded with approval.
Michael turned back to Dinello—and suddenly reached out.
In one fluid motion, he grabbed Kyle by the neck and lifted him straight into the air like a training dummy. Kyle’s posture didn’t change at all—arms locked to his sides, spine rigid, eyes completely blank.
“Today,” Michael declared, “I’ve got a perfect weapon.”
He raised Kyle like a riot shield—the Human Shield.
Brian couldn’t help but clap, chuckling.
“Oh yeah, baby,” he said. “That’s what I call style. Captain Lam at it again!”
Pastor Simon threw up a big thumbs-up. “Approved.”
Dinello, meanwhile, stared at the scene in horror.
His old friend—reduced to a thing. Just a tool. Not even flinching.
A cold fury surged through him.
His breathing deepened. His muscles tightened. Every cell in his body screamed. His power spiked—speed and strength up by 50%.
With a roar, he charged.
Michael blocked with the Human Shield—Kyle’s body slammed into Dinello’s fist with a thud.
Dinello cursed and veered his punch away at the last second, unwilling to go full force. But that tiny shift in direction exposed his lower half—a fatal opening.
Michael struck with a brutal uppercut.
CRACK!
Dinello’s jaw took the full blow. His body shot into the air like a broken missile—ten meters straight up—before slamming into the dirt several meters away.
He lay there, twitching.
His jaw was dislocated.
His chest was bruised.
His Zhongshan jacket was torn in half.
Michael adjusted his glasses and walked forward.
Calm. Controlled.
He looked down at Dinello and said softly:
“In your current state… fighting like this, all emotional and sloppy…
You were never going to win.
Give up already.
A real warrior doesn’t carry this sentimental shit.
You’re not a warrior.
You’re just a street fighter.
And your feelings…
are your undoing.”
The Priest’s Secret Weapon
Twenty meters ahead, the clash between Michael and Dinello raged on. Their blows echoed through the open park, fists sharp and swift, bodies darting like shadows in the summer heat. Michael clearly held the upper hand—each exchange chipped away at Dinello’s resolve. Still, the underdog refused to yield, rising again and again, bruised but unbroken.
A few paces back, behind the safety of the large trees, Brian slid a hand down the front of Pastor Simon’s open collar, casually resting it on the pastor’s broad chest.
“Holy crap,” Brian muttered. “Last time I copped a feel, you were maybe a solid B-cup. Now you’ve reached C territory.”
His hand traced the firm curve of Simon’s pectorals, fingers assessing with the precision of a jeweler inspecting rare gems. “It’s not soft though… not like a woman’s chest. No bounce. Just hard—like someone got shady implants at one of those sketchy clinics. Unlicensed Mildy-type places.”
Simon let out a tired sigh. “Come on, man. This is pure muscle. I do push-ups every morning. I’m out here grinding, every damn day.”
Brian grinned. “Most people think you built that monstrous chest for show—or maybe for some secret fetish. But we know the truth, don’t we?”
He leaned in closer, his tone now reverent. “You’re the strongest ranged combatant in the entire Humble Organization. All that triceps work… it’s not vanity. It’s function. You’ve got the torque, the control, the explosive force. You can precision-launch projectiles across half a battlefield. That’s what makes you lethal.”
Simon gave a quiet, reluctant smile. “Thanks… I guess.”
Brian folded his arms, looking at him seriously now. “You ever think about coming back? Colin mentioned your name a few times. You were one of the top Executioners. He still respects you.”
Simon looked away.
“I’m done with the killing,” he said, his voice lower. “These days, I just want to stay in one place… get worshiped… get adored… brainwash a few sheep. That’s more my pace.”
Brian smirked. “Humble as always, Pastor.”
Simon didn’t respond. He just watched the fight unfolding in the distance, his eyes narrowed—not with judgment, but with quiet calculation.
The Flawless Execution
The battle raged on in the distance.
Dinello had taken brutal damage—his jaw dislocated, mouth bleeding heavily. His shirt hung in tatters, ribs exposed and bruised, but he still stood. Still swung. He fought like a man with nothing left to lose.
Michael, in contrast, remained pristine—untouched, unbothered. Calmly, he stood tall and emotionless, holding Kyle by the neck like a handbag. Kyle, still stiff and frozen from earlier, was used now as a literal human shield—his arms dangling, mouth leaking blood, his face locked in a paralyzed grimace.
Even now, Kyle’s body offered Michael full coverage. The grotesque absurdity made it almost poetic.
Beside them, Brian stooped to the ground and picked up a stone—one about the size and weight of the kind he used to carry in his sniper missions. He bounced it in his hand a few times, feeling the familiar balance, almost like muscle memory.
Then he smiled faintly.
“Perfect.”
He walked over and placed it in Pastor Simon’s palm.
“You remember what this feels like?”
Simon gripped the stone. And suddenly, the memory came flooding back.
—Flashback—
One of the Humble Organization’s agents—Lackey—was killed in broad daylight by a high-ranking enforcer from a rival group: the Frugal Organization.
When Colin received the report, he wasn’t angry at the death. He was angry at what it represented.
It wasn’t about revenge.
It was about perception.
Balance.
Politics.
So Colin made his decision: the assassin must die.
But the target was heavily guarded. Even Michael and Brian couldn’t find a clean approach.
So Colin sent someone else.
Simon. Sniper Simon.
Simon and Brian climbed to the rooftop of a fifteen-story building—just tall enough to give a visual on the compound.
Brian handed Simon a familiar stone.
Simon looked confused.
“We have long-range weapons. Why send me?”
Brian pointed.
“See that wall? Bulletproof concrete. No windows. Only one shot can do this—and it has to be perfect.”
Simon sighed.
“Well then…”
He pulled up his sleeve.
His right arm flexed and transformed.
The triceps surged unnaturally, his shirt ripping open.
He hurled the stone.
The throw screeched like a turbine engine.
The rock tore through the air—
Through the wall—
Through a man’s heart—
Through the back wall—
Through another building—
And vanished somewhere far beyond the city.
Brian’s Golden Eyes glimmered.
“Mission complete,” he said softly.
“That’s what I call… a flawless execution.”
Breaking the Kneecap
Pastor Simon blinked slowly as the memory faded. The warm weight of the stone in his hand brought him back to the present.
The battle still raged in the distance.
Dinello, barely standing, was swinging with broken rhythm. His jaw dislocated, blood spilling down his neck, his movements sluggish. But he didn’t stop. Not yet.
Michael stood untouched, holding Kyle by the neck like a grotesque shield—expression calm, body relaxed. He hadn’t taken a single hit. It was clear who was winning.
Simon glanced sideways.
“Brian,” he asked quietly. “What do you think? Who’s winning?”
Brian’s Golden Eyes flickered faintly. He didn’t even need to watch.
“Of course it’s our Captain Lam. He’s been dominating the entire fight,” he said with a smirk. “Not a scratch on him. But…” —he paused— “this is dragging on longer than I expected. I’m starting to get bored.”
Then Brian pointed at the stone still resting in Simon’s palm.
“End it now,” he said flatly. “I don’t want this fight to drag on another five minutes. The result’s already been decided.”
Simon looked down at the stone.
He hesitated.
“You know I’m not into killing,” he said. “I’m not sure I can do it.”
Brian gave a laid-back smile.
“Easy. Relax. I don’t want you to kill him. Just… don’t aim for the heart.” He pointed toward the distant figure of Dinello. “Aim for the kneecap. That’s all.”
He shrugged.
“Blow out his knee, and this fight ends—right now. Besides, if we kill him, we’ll be dragging the Humble Organization into another grudge with the Brutal Organization. And that’s not what we want. But the kneecap?” He smirked again. “The kneecap should be fine.”
Simon exhaled in relief.
“I’m glad to do that.”
He took a step forward.
Then, with a quick spin, Simon flung the stone—like an artist painting a perfect stroke. It soared through the air in a graceful arc, cutting through wind and distance with surgical precision.
It curved right over Michael’s shoulder.
And struck Dinello clean in the knee.
A thunderous crack echoed across the space.
Dinello dropped.
Hard.
He fell onto one knee—eyes wide, completely unaware of what had just hit him. The pain was so sharp, so sudden, that for a brief moment… everything went blank.
And in that void, in the silence of his mind, Dinello saw a single word:
Death.
Frugal Organization’s Rescue
Michael glanced down at the kneeling Dinello. His kneecap was shattered—he wouldn’t be walking again anytime soon.
Without hesitation, Michael muttered coldly,
“Now I’m going to snap your arms off one by one.”
But just as he began to step forward, a burst of motion streaked across the field—so fast that even Brian’s golden eyes missed it. A wild figure appeared between them, claws flashing through the air. Five silver streaks cut across the sky, slicing the wind with precision.
Michael narrowly dodged. His body bent backwards in a blur—but his right sleeve was torn to shreds, the skin beneath grazed.
The figure stood tall now.
Long, tangled hair. A face like a feral beast.
Like Dinello, this figure wore a Zhongshan suit—but left entirely unbuttoned, revealing a pink bra underneath.
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
He knew exactly who this was.
Lindsey. Dinello’s older sister.
The Frugal Organization’s ace. A brutal monster.
Formidable in both strength and speed.
Without a word, Lindsey scooped up her brother’s broken body, shielding him in one arm. With the other, she launched a savage kick toward Michael.
He reacted instantly—raising Kyle like a shield.
The kick landed with a sickening crunch.
Kyle’s back caved in, and a torrent of blood sprayed from his mouth—soaking Michael’s face and chest. Still twitching, he dangled from Michael’s hand like a broken puppet—completely knocked out cold on impact.
Lindsey turned without a word and vanished into the shadows.
Simon crouched, picking up a stone.
Brian calmly placed a hand on his shoulder.
“No need,” he said. “We’ve already finished today’s mission. The message has been delivered. No reason to escalate further.”
He glanced toward Lindsey’s direction.
“If she turns around… even the three of us might not be enough. That woman is the Frugal Organization’s ultimate weapon—Lindsey the Merciless Beast.”
Michael, now disgusted by the twitching mass in his hand, casually dropped Kyle onto the ground.
Brian asked, “Should we call an ambulance for him?”
Michael didn’t even turn.
“No need. Let’s go.”
As the two began walking off, Simon remained behind.
He looked down at Kyle—his best creation, now broken and discarded.
Simon pulled out his phone, sighing.
“I’ll call the ambulance. After all… I did make him. He was my best brainwashing masterpiece.”
Brian glanced back.
“Do whatever you need. Take care of yourself.”
Then Brian and Michael walked away—leaving Simon quietly beside the unconscious body, phone pressed to his ear, waiting for the ambulance to arrive.