The Reporter in the Dust
The smoke and dust swallowed the sky, turning what used to be a bright day into a heavy, storm-colored ceiling. The ground was buried under shattered sand and debris, as if the whole city had been scraped raw. The streets were nearly empty. The few people outside looked stunned, wandering without direction, their faces blank. Most had already locked themselves inside, too scared to step out.
That was when breaking news cut in. A TV crew pushed through the haze and pointed their camera at the ruined streets. On screen appeared a familiar face—the female reporter who had been a steady presence on the news before all this.
Her hair was tangled by the wind and ash, but she held the microphone firm and spoke with a heavy voice:
“Viewers at home, what you’re seeing now is the aftermath of today’s catastrophic events. Entire districts—square kilometers of them—have been flattened. Streets are buried in dust, homes reduced to rubble. People are trapped indoors, terrified to come outside. The air is suffocating, thick with ash, and the fear is everywhere.”
She drew in a shaky breath, then continued, her tone sharper:
“And we do know the cause. This devastation is the direct result of the ongoing tournament…and the detonation of an atomic bomb inside the city. What was meant to be a contest has now turned into a disaster on a scale no one could have imagined.”
She glanced down the road and raised a hand to point. The camera shifted, catching the figure of an older man trudging slowly through the dust, his shoulders coated in gray. The reporter looked back at the lens and said,
“I see a passerby over there. I’m going to talk to him, and ask what he thinks about the chaos that has shaken this city today.”
The Man Who Lost Jimmy
The female reporter walked up to the middle-aged man.
“Excuse me, sir, could I borrow a few minutes of your time for a quick interview?”
The man nodded, hands in his pockets. “Sure, I don’t really have much going on right now.”
She asked, “Has this tournament, and the explosion earlier, affected you personally?”
The man answered with a flat tone, “Yeah. My son, Jimmy, he’s gone.”
The reporter froze for a beat, then quickly said, “Oh… I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you’ll find some comfort and recover from the loss.”
There was a few seconds of silence. She pressed gently, “Was it because of the explosion?”
The man shook his head, almost casually. “Nah. About an hour ago, he was crossing the street, playing his handheld game. A car hit him. He died right there.”
The reporter blinked, caught off guard. The man went on, still calm:
“When I saw him get hit, I walked over and said, ‘Oh, Jimmy.’ Then I realized he was gone. After that, I went home, took a nap, woke up, and now I’m just out here to get something to eat.”
The reporter looked a little lost, not sure what to say. All that came out was, “Oh… I see.”
She finally fell back on the usual line: “Anyway, I hope you can stay strong.”
The man shrugged. “It’s fine. I still have three other kids, so it’s not that big a deal. But right now I’m kind of busy—I want to grab some food. If there’s nothing else… would you excuse me?”
He slipped both hands into his pockets and strolled off, unhurried, disappearing down the street.
The reporter turned back to the camera, keeping her professional face. “Truly, a very sad story. Let’s move on and see if we can speak with others who’ve been affected.”
With that, she and her crew walked toward the other end of the street.
Tom in the Trash
Not far down the street, the reporter and her crew spotted a homeless man crouched beside a pile of trash, digging through it with a blank stare. His face looked empty, almost like he’d been through some kind of trauma.
The reporter straightened up and spoke in her usual professional voice for the camera:
“It seems this man may once have had a happy family. But now, his whole appearance tells the story of someone scarred, someone who’s clearly been affected by the tournament and the explosion. Let’s go and speak with him.”
They walked closer, and as the camera focused, the man’s face became clear—it was Tom, one of the familiar figures we’ve seen before.
The reporter stepped forward. “Sir, may I have a moment of your time?”
Tom looked at her, confused. Was she here to give him food? Or something else? He didn’t really understand.
She clarified, “I’d like to ask you—has this tournament, or the explosion, caused you any difficulties? Has it made life harder? From the look on your face, it seems you might have lost a family. Even without words, I can see the trauma.”
Tom just stared at her, wide-eyed and innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a family. I’ve always been homeless, living off cans and scraps. Honestly, the tournament hasn’t affected me at all. If anything, it’s been good—most of the supermarkets are empty now. I can sneak in and grab a few cans to eat.”
The reporter froze, caught off guard. With nothing else to say, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind:
“You know stealing from supermarkets is illegal. If the police catch you, you could go to jail. Are you aware of that?”
She didn’t mean it—just needed to fill the silence. But Tom’s whole body shook. His eyes went wide, and he shoved the microphone and the camera away.
“Get away from me! I’ve got nothing to tell you!”
He stumbled back, pushing past them, then suddenly bolted down the street, yelling as he ran:
“Oh no! Don’t arrest me—I didn’t steal anything!”
His voice echoed until he disappeared into the distance.
The reporter and her crew brushed themselves off, fixing their collars and resetting the camera. She turned back toward the lens, steady as ever:
“This poor man has clearly been deeply affected. The events here haven’t only caused material hardship, but also left him mentally unstable. Truly… a tragic story.”
The Queen of Aunties
Elsewhere in the city, Norman and Dave had seen the massive explosion. Their hearts sank—the hospital where their yoga teacher, Mooney, was still lying in a coma stood right at the edge of the blast zone. They took off running, desperate to check on him.
The run was anything but smooth. All along the way, aunties kept jumping out to block them. Each one was weak, easy to swat aside, but every interruption stole away a few more seconds, and the more they were delayed, the more anxious they became.
At last, the two of them reached the hospital gates. Just as they were about to rush inside, another figure appeared in their path. An older woman stood firmly in front of the entrance, a broom in her hands.
It was Lina Wok—the queen of the aunties.
“You two,” she said, gripping the broom tight. “Those shares are mine.”
Dave shot back, “We only have one share. The two of us count as a single unit.”
Lina Wok froze for a moment, shocked. “What? That’s not possible. Fine. Whatever the rules are, I’ll still take that one from you.”
Dave’s patience snapped. “Son of a bitch, our teacher is inside that hospital. Don’t get in our way!”
But Lina Wok didn’t listen. She spun the broom twice in the air and slammed it against the ground. Dust and sand shot upward, slicing through the air like a storm of bullets.
Norman ducked behind Dave in panic. Dave planted his feet, his body hardening like iron. The sand struck him and clattered off with metallic rings, sparks of sound echoing in the air. He didn’t take a scratch.
Dave smirked. “Sark.”
Lina Wok narrowed her eyes, the corner of her mouth curling into a smile. “Not bad. Looks like we’re about to have ourselves a real fight… right here in front of the hospital.”
Mooney Wakes
Dave charged first, swinging with everything he had. Lina Wok caught his blows easily on her broom, almost casual—until his fist suddenly stretched three meters and slammed into her stomach. She spat blood as the punch sent her staggering back.
Norman lunged forward right after, jaws bared like a wild animal, aiming straight for her throat. Lina Wok whipped her broom up to block, but Norman clamped down hard and snapped the shaft clean in half. She spun and drove a kick into his chest, forcing him back a step.
For the first time, Lina Wok hesitated. These two weren’t ordinary fighters. Even one on one, either of them could give her trouble. Together? She realized she’d picked the wrong fight.
And then the hospital doors creaked open. A middle-aged man limped out, dragging an IV stand with him. His lips were pale, his body weak, but his voice cut through the dust:
“Hey, boys—what are you doing here at the hospital?”
It was Mooney, their yoga teacher, awake at last.
Dave and Norman froze, shock flooding their faces.
“Teacher? You’re awake? We thought you were still in a coma.”
Norman even laughed nervously, “Honestly, I thought you were dead.”
Mooney gave a crooked grin. “Nah. That explosion was too damn loud—it woke me up. Son of a bitch, I was having a good nap.”
But Lina Wok saw her chance. She stumbled over, grabbed Mooney by the collar with one hand, clamped the other around his throat.
“Alright,” she hissed. “Your teacher’s my hostage. You want him alive, you surrender. Otherwise, I’ll snap his dog-life right here.”
Dave and Norman froze where they stood, sweat dripping down their faces.
“Oh shit,” Dave muttered. “Didn’t think an auntie would pull a trick like this.”
The moment stretched—until Mooney suddenly lashed out himself. His fist shot back and smashed into Lina Wok’s chest with surprising force. She flew several meters through the air, coughing blood as she crashed onto the pavement.
Mooney adjusted his collar, glaring after her. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Then he stepped up to Dave and Norman, standing tall despite the IV still dangling from his arm. At last, the three of them were back together.
Fried Chicken Truce
To celebrate Mooney’s recovery, Dave and Norman took him straight to a bar called Mad for Chicken, the kind of place known for Korean fried chicken and cheap booze. Mooney still had the IV drip hanging from his arm, but that didn’t slow him down. He was starving. They ordered a mountain of chicken and several bottles of beer, and Mooney tore into it like a man possessed.
Norman and Dave sat across from him, watching their teacher eat with that much life. For the first time in a while, they felt genuinely happy.
Then Norman froze. Across the room, at another table, sat two familiar figures. Michael and Raymond. The same two they’d barely survived last time.
“Damn it,” Norman whispered. “Of all the places…”
Dave clenched his fists. “Last time they almost finished us off. Today we settle it.” He stood before Norman could stop him.
Michael looked up from his plate, still chewing on a chicken leg. His eyes narrowed when he recognized Dave. His voice was calm, almost bored.
“You again. What the hell are you doing here, you freak? I’m eating. I don’t want to deal with you. We’ve got nothing to talk about.”
Dave snapped back, “You nearly killed me last time. I’m not letting that slide.”
Michael’s lip curled. “You ran out on a massage without paying. I didn’t cut your head off right there—already generous. And now you come looking for me?”
Before Dave could answer, the bar doors swung open. The female reporter and her crew marched in, cameras already rolling. They spotted the two tables instantly and rushed over.
“Oh, look at this!” she said brightly into the mic. “On one side, two of the Humble Organization’s high-ups. On the other, tournament challengers. Could it be they’re about to fight each other right here, before the finals?”
The camera light hit Michael’s face. He didn’t even blink. He just kept eating. “I’m in the middle of my food. No mood to fight.”
Dave started forward, but Norman yanked him back. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t beat him.”
Mooney walked over too, wiping grease from his chin. “Listen, finish your meal first. He’s right—you can’t beat him anyway.”
Dave flushed red, humiliated. He cursed under his breath. “Shit. Fine. We’ll eat first.”
And just like that, the tension collapsed. Everyone sat back down, chewing on fried chicken in awkward silence, the reporter’s camera still trained on them like it was the most important story in town.
In the end, nobody fought. Instead, they all sat in the glow of Mad for Chicken, gnawing on wings and sipping beer like it was the most normal night in the world. For a brief moment, the chaos outside seemed far away.
And when the night was done, each of them went their own way. The city, scarred and battered, sank back into a strange calm.
By the next morning, the day of the final battle had arrived.