Chapter 1: Clash of Two Fighters
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The Peeing Man



A short man, wearing a dirty hoodie and a pair of wrinkled jeans, stood in front of a streetlamp. Cigarette in hand, head tilted back, eyes closed—like he was really enjoying himself.



He was pissing on the lamppost.



He didn’t care about being called out for public obscenity—not even a little. The piss hit the pole with a sharp splatter. The corner of his mouth twitched. You could imagine how good it felt—just that stupid, raw comfort when the body lets go.



He was none other than the infamous gangster of the town—Canelo. People saw him all the time, pissing on lampposts, trees, fire hydrants—every single day, in different parts of the city.



He earned his nickname: The Peeing Man.



It sounded dumb, but when people heard it, their faces turned pale, their hands shook—and some even wet their pants. Canelo was cold, violent. Some said he wasn’t just a criminal. They called him the embodiment of absolute evil.







High Knee Tom



Tom—also known on the streets as High Knee Tom—was homeless. He made a living by collecting empty soda cans off the street.



He was tall—really tall. At least 6’5″, towering one or two heads over Canelo. His clothes were torn and filthy, exposing his big round belly. But don’t be fooled by how he looked. Beneath the fat around his gut, his muscles were tight and solid.



The weather was nice that day. Tom was on the move, busy trying to earn enough for dinner. He needed to collect a lot of cans—just enough to buy himself a meal.



He was having a pretty good day—until near a mailbox, he spotted a twisted Coca-Cola can on the ground. As he moved to grab it, someone stepped in his way.



A hunched, bony old woman glared at him and snapped, “Such a fine young man like you—not working a real job, and instead competing with old folks for recycling? You have no shame.”



Tom didn’t argue. He reached down and took the can anyway.



The old woman stormed up and slapped him. Hard. More than once. Then she shouted, “Look at you, young man. Big body, empty brain. Utterly useless.” She snatched the can from his hand and walked off, still muttering under her breath.



Still, Tom didn’t get angry. He just sighed and kept looking.



Then, near a streetlamp, he spotted a dented Pepsi can. He looked both ways. No one around. He ran, snatched the can, stuffed it into his pocket—and then noticed someone standing beside the lamp post.



That someone was… actually… peeing.







Wrong Place, Wrong Can



Canelo immediately sensed someone had stepped into his territory. He let out a casual whistle, then turned around—with his dick still out—and aimed it straight at Tom’s face.



The stream hit dead on.



Tom was caught completely off guard. He flinched back, stunned, his eyes blinking fast. Then, slowly, he stood up, wiped the urine off his face using the hem of his filthy shirt, and mumbled, “That’s not cool, man.”



His face looked a little dazed, like he couldn’t tell if it had really happened. Then, without saying anything else, he turned and started looking for more cans.



Canelo slowly zipped up his pants. He looked at Tom, expression flat and cold, and said, “You think you can just walk away?”



Tom turned around, still a bit confused, and replied, “Sorry… I didn’t mean to bother you.”



Canelo didn’t say another word. He suddenly rushed forward and slapped Tom across the face—hard. Then again. And again.



Tom just stood there, blinking, completely lost. “What was that?” he mumbled.



Canelo didn’t answer. He spun around and kicked, aiming straight for Tom’s belly. But Tom reacted just in time—his hands came down and blocked the hit. Still, his face looked even more dazed than before.



He stared at Canelo and said, “Hey, bro… if you’re mad at me for… stealing your can, then… I’ll give it back. No need to get… physical.”







The Skyfall Kick



Canelo suddenly took a few slow steps backward. Tom watched him closely, unsure what Canelo was about to do.



He scratched his head—then accidentally let out a loud fart. The sound echoed for a few seconds, but no one seemed to notice… or maybe they just didn’t care.



Then Canelo burst forward, charging a few steps with explosive speed—then launched himself into the air, soaring nearly three meters high.



As he rose, his left leg curled inward while his right leg shot out straight, toes pointed like a spear. His whole body angled downward at 45 degrees as he plummeted straight toward his target.



It was his signature move—the Skyfall Kick. A brutal, precision strike aimed directly at Tom’s chest like it was meant to end him.



Tom threw his arms up and crossed them over his chest—just in time.



Canelo’s Skyfall Kick slammed down on him like a hammer from the heavens. The moment their bodies collided, a shockwave exploded outward. Sparks flew in every direction. The ground trembled beneath them, as if the very street shook from the impact.







The Powerful High Knees



The force sent Tom sliding backward—his feet scraping along the ground until he finally stopped.



Then came a sharp, clean snap. One of his arms broke right there, on the spot. The pain hit him like fire. Tom roared—raw, loud, and full of rage.



Even someone like Tom—clumsy, slow, dense, almost never sure of anything—could sense it: Canelo was a real threat. And that alone was enough to make him strike back.



Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the agony, and with both arms—one already broken—he grabbed Canelo out of the air and yanked him in close.



Then, without thinking, he started running in place. High knees. One after another. Each one smashing into Canelo’s gut—hard.



Thump. Thump. Thump.



Canelo’s body jerked with every hit, like his guts were getting jackhammered over and over. Using the last breath in his body, Canelo coughed—hard—and blasted a thick wave of blood straight into the air.



The spray burst upward, and the droplets scattered in every direction, hanging like red mist across every corner of the empty street.



His eyes flashed white and rolled back as all strength left his body. He was completely knocked out cold. He hung there—limp, heavy, and lifeless—like a discarded puppet in Tom’s arms.



Tom casually flung Canelo’s body down next to one of those giant trash containers—the kind with wheels and a metal lid.



He wiped the sweat off his forehead, let out a tired sigh. Then, as if nothing had happened, he casually turned and got back to work.



He still hadn’t made enough money for dinner.



Life on the streets wasn’t easy, not even for such a fierce fighter like Tom.


Chapter 2: Street Fighter Versus Machinery
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A New Day of Treasure Hunting



It was the next afternoon.



Tom was dragging his filthy, greasy old bag down the street, scanning the ground for cans and bottles. But luck wasn’t on his side—he hadn’t found much. A faint look of worry crept onto his face. He still didn’t have enough for dinner.



At a street corner, he noticed a small deli store with a few plastic stools out front. Sitting by the entrance was a little kid with his mom. The kid was sipping from a bottle of Pepsi—already more than halfway done.



Tom’s eyes lit up. Quietly, he approached, stopping literally one foot away. He stood there silently, eyes fixed on the bottle, waiting patiently for the kid to finish it so he could pick it up.



The kid noticed. His eyes widened. There was a huge, dirty man standing right in front of him, staring down like some kind of monster. His lips started to tremble, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears.



His mother turned to look—and immediately snapped.



“What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled at Tom. “Standing there and scaring a child like that?”



Tom mumbled, “I was just—”



“Get lost,” she cut him off, voice sharp and furious.



Tom didn’t argue. He just turned and slowly walked away, his bag dragging behind him, still light and mostly empty.







Stalking the Sip



Tom wandered a short distance away and crouched behind a bush, keeping his eyes locked on the mother and child from before—like a hunter silently watching his prey.



He stayed completely still, hoping they wouldn’t notice him.



Then, a stray dog wandered up behind him. The dog gave Tom a quick sniff, circled once, and apparently mistook this crouching, filthy man for just another trash bin on the street.



Without hesitation, it lifted its leg and sprayed a stream of urine right onto Tom’s shorts, soaking the entire crotch area and leaving a yellow stain.



But Tom didn’t even flinch. He was too focused and didn’t notice a thing. Still watching. Still waiting.



After more than ten minutes, the mother and child finally finished their soda and stood up to leave. The kid tossed the empty bottle into the trash can outside the deli store.



As they walked past the bushes, the mother suddenly noticed the large yellow-stained wet patch on the front of Tom’s shorts. She rolled her eyes and said, “What are you? Three years old? Wetting yourself in public like that? God, you’re pathetic.”



Tom blinked, a bit confused. He didn’t quite understand what she meant.



But the child, emboldened by his mother’s dominance, stepped forward—and without hesitation, launched a sharp, powerful glob of spit right into Tom’s face.



It landed with a splat, bursting slightly on impact, and sent tiny droplets flying across his cheek.







Back to the Cans



He’d already spent so much time out here and still hadn’t picked up much. That made him even more anxious.



The sky was getting darker by the minute, and he still didn’t have enough for dinner.



So he kept at it—scouring corners, peeking into bins, pacing up and down the streets like a stray.



Then finally, he saw it. Right in the middle of the road, catching the last bit of sunlight like a spotlight—a shiny, perfect Pepsi can.



He glanced around, checking all sides. Had to make sure that damn old lady wasn’t nearby, messing with his business again.



The coast looked clear.



Then he stepped into the street, quick and low, like it was a heist. He bent down, reaching for the can.







The Steel Beast



On the other side of the street, some young punk was behind the wheel of a sports car, music blasting like it was his personal concert. He’d probably just smoked some weed—eyes glassy, mood flying high.



He wasn’t paying attention to the road. Not even close.



The car tore down the street, tires humming over the asphalt.



Tom had just picked up the can. He turned around—and the headlights were already right in front of him.



There was no time to dodge. No time to think. It was too late. This was probably the end of Tom. No escape. No mercy.







Knee to the Steel Beast



Tom raised his right knee on instinct, trying to block the steel beast with his specialty move.



The car slammed straight into it. His knee instantly shattered on contact.



The force lifted him off the ground and launched him into the air—thirty, maybe forty feet up. He spun wildly, like a human windmill caught in a hurricane.



Then—crash.



He blasted straight through the front glass wall of a bakery, shattering the entire storefront like a bomb went off. The glass exploded in every direction—shards raining down like jagged hail.



His body flew deep into the shop, tearing through display racks and shelves, before slamming headfirst into a refrigerator—most of his upper body jammed inside, legs still hanging out.



His shorts had been yanked halfway down by the impact, now bunched around his knees. His right leg had snapped clean and was dangling by a thin strip of tissue, twitching slightly in the air. His left leg was still intact, though bent awkwardly on the tile floor.



The crash had been so violent, it made his intestines unload. His bowels burst. Feces smeared across the back of his thighs, leaking from his butt crack like a blown-out pipe.



It was disgusting. Really, truly disgusting.



This was probably the end of Tom.



Even after all that—after such a tragic scene—the young punk didn’t stop. He hit the gas and took off, tires screeching as he disappeared down the road, gone like nothing ever happened.







Old Geezer with a Goatee



The bakery exploded into chaos. People screamed and ran for the exit, flipping chairs, knocking over tables, crashing into each other.



A tray of buns went flying. Someone slipped on a puddle of spilled coffee and knocked over a display rack.



The floor turned into a wreck—glass, pastries, broken furniture, and panic all mashed together.



It looked more like a riot than a shop.



But one old man stayed seated.



He had a thin little goatee and wore what looked like traditional Qing Dynasty robes—deep blue, with a high collar and wide sleeves that draped past his wrists. The kind of outfit nobody’s worn in a hundred years.



It looked ridiculous—yet somehow fitting on an old geezer like him.



A newspaper lay open on the table in front of him. He calmly turned the page, took a slow sip of coffee, and didn’t even blink at the body sticking out of the refrigerator right in front of him.



Someone near the door shouted, panicked and loud:



“Somebody call an ambulance! Now!”



The old man paused, set down his cup, glanced over, and said,



“Oh, there’s no need for that. I believe he’s already a goner.”



Then he went right back to reading.


Chapter 3: Justice of a Street Hero
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The Devil in Broad Daylight



It was a sunny afternoon. From the shadows of a dark alley, a gangster in a hoodie slowly stepped out, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His name was Canelo—the infamous evil villain of the streets. People called him “The Peeing Man.” Just hearing his name was enough to make hands go numb and cold sweat break out for miles around. As soon as people saw him, they stiffened. No one dared to make eye contact. The air grew tense, like a storm was about to hit.



That’s when it happened—a short, pajama-wearing young guy named Benson, rocking a goofy watermelon haircut, walked straight toward Canelo with his head down, completely focused on his phone. He didn’t notice a thing. Not the tension in the air. Not the devil standing right in front of him. He bumped into Canelo’s arm by accident.



Startled, he looked up and said, “Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” Canelo took a slow drag from his cigarette, blew out the smoke, and said, “Nah, it’s fine. Just give me all your money before I smash that watermelon head of yours.”



Benson’s legs went weak. His hands trembled as he pulled out everything he had—five dollars. Canelo snatched the cash, looked at it, then grabbed Benson by the collar and lifted him clean off the ground. Benson dangled mid-air, legs still moving as if he were trying to find his footing while suspended. He was just walking in place—completely off the ground. It was pathetic—and kinda funny.



Then without warning—bam, bam, bam!—Canelo slammed three punches straight into Benson’s face. Fast, brutal, and unforgiving. In seconds, Benson’s head turned into a swollen, bleeding wreck. His jaw bent sideways, his nose was crushed, and even his lips looked shredded. His face was so busted up, even his mom wouldn’t have recognized him. He burst into tears mid-beating, sobbing and screaming like a toddler getting dragged to the doctor. He let out a loud, high-pitched scream—shock and panic.



As if that wasn’t enough, Canelo followed up with one final move. He swung a heavy kick from below—his foot crashing into Benson’s gut and launching him nearly seven feet into the air. As his body flew like a ragdoll, the whole street rang with one last scream, sharp and piercing. It sounded exactly like a woman screeching in terror.



Knight in Shining Armor



Benson flew through the air for a few seconds—flailing, crying, completely defeated—before landing perfectly in someone’s arms. That someone was Sean, a well-known street hero in the neighborhood.



Almost everyone around here knew him. He was that guy—the one who rescued stray kittens from flooded drains, chased down purse-snatchers, beat up local punks, and helped old ladies cross the street when the traffic light wasn’t working. In this part of the city, people called him a real-life hero.



Sean was tall and skinny, with slightly messy, side-swept bangs hanging over one eye. A silver earring dangled from one ear. He wore a button-up shirt, only half-buttoned to show off his slim but defined chest. His jeans were ripped and trendy—the kind young people wore when they wanted to look cool without trying too hard. On his feet, he wore shiny leather shoes, stiff and polished like he could kick through concrete if he wanted to. And draped across his back, flapping slightly in the breeze, was a bright red cape. But if you looked closer, it wasn’t a real cape—it was a Chinese flag, something he had conveniently taken from a public flagpole and just started wearing like part of his heroic outfit.



As soon as people saw him, whispers spread like wildfire.“Is that Sean?”“Yo, it’s Sean! He showed up?”“We’re saved…”Some of the older folks even clapped quietly. A little kid tugged at his mom’s shirt and whispered, “Mom, that’s the guy who saved Mr. Fluffy from the sewer!”



Sean stood calmly in the middle of the street, holding a bloody, pajama-clad Benson in his arms like it was just another Tuesday. Benson lay quietly, his arms gently wrapped around Sean’s neck, holding on like he didn’t want to fall. His head rested against Sean’s manly chest, tilted slightly upward, just enough for his eyes to lock onto Sean’s face. He stared up with a soft, glassy gaze—completely silent, completely locked in—as if the world around them had disappeared. His soft, moistened lips were slightly open. His expression was quietly tender. He seemed so helpless—somehow, yet it stirred a quiet, deep urge to protect him, buried somewhere in the back of the mind. Sean gently caressed the side of Benson’s face, his fingers slowly gliding down to his chin. Then, in a low, gentle voice—almost like a whisper meant only for him—he asked, “Are you okay?”



The Unspoken Past of the Local Hero



Just then, while Sean was still checking on Benson, Canelo suddenly spat with force—aiming straight at Sean’s face. But Sean didn’t even raise his head. He casually tilted it to the side, and the spit shot past him like a bullet. A wet splat echoed behind them.



“Holy fuck! Right in my eye!” someone from the crowd screamed.



Canelo stepped forward slowly, a mix of emotions written across his face—half amused, half bitter. “Long time no see, Sean. You turned your back on all of us. What the hell do you think you look like now? A clown… in a fake-ass cape?”



Fear crept up in Sean’s chest—not from Canelo’s threats, but from what he might say next. If Canelo brought up his past, everything Sean had worked for—his image, his reputation—could come crashing down. His face stiffened. His jaw tightened.



“Shut up, Canelo. That’s enough.”



With that, Sean flung Benson aside like a sack of laundry. From Benson came a sudden high-pitched scream—sharp and girly—as he flew through the air.



The crowd fell silent. No more talk. It was time to settle it once and for all.



But even in such a suffocating tension, whispers and chuckles broke through the quiet.“Damn… I thought they were in love,” someone muttered.“Bro got princess-carried and discarded like a banana peel,” another added.



The Thugs’ Fight



Very quickly, the two were locked in a brutal street brawl. Their fighting styles were nearly identical—raw, dirty, and straight out of gangland. No formal stances, no elegant moves—just ruthless punches, kicks, elbows, knees—anything that could hurt. They exchanged blow after blow, the sound of flesh-on-flesh ringing out with each connection.



Then, in one clean motion, Sean grabbed Canelo’s right arm and spun—executing a brutal over-the-shoulder throw. Canelo’s back slammed hard onto the pavement with a sickening thud. The impact alone could’ve ended a lesser man. But Canelo shot back up like a spring and darted backward a dozen steps, retreating fast—his eyes locked onto Sean with deadly focus.



Sean saw it immediately. Canelo was trying to build momentum—his signature move was coming: the Skyfall Kick. But Sean wasn’t about to let him pull it off. Without hesitation, he dashed forward and closed the gap, giving Canelo no room to charge. The two collided again, grappling and throwing wild hits at close range. Sean was clearly the better fighter. His technique, though just as brutal, was cleaner—sharper. And it showed.



With one textbook sweep kick from the ground, Sean’s leg struck Canelo’s ankle, knocking him off balance. Canelo crashed to the ground again, landing flat and stunned. Sean knew—it was time to end this. Everyone who knew Sean knew what was coming next.



He backed up slowly, eyes locked on his target. Then—he sprinted forward, building momentum with each step. At full speed, he leapt into the air, body twisting sideways. It was his signature finisher: the Horizontal Execution Kick. His left leg bent close to his body; his right leg shot out—extended straight like a spear. The toes of his stiff, gleaming leather shoe pointed forward, sharp as steel. This wasn’t just a move—it was a weapon. Rumor had it, this kick could punch through tree trunks, concrete walls, even heavy metal plating. And now, it was flying straight at Canelo.



The Justice Execution



Sean’s signature kick came flying in like a missile—straight at Canelo. In that split second, as the shining leather shoe tore through the air, Canelo saw death itself charging at him. A cold sweat burst from his forehead. On pure instinct, he dove to the side, tumbling hard across the pavement. He just barely escaped.



Behind him, a deafening crash rang out. Sean’s foot slammed into a large industrial metal trash bin, punching a gaping hole through it. The force was so violent, his leg became lodged deep inside. Gritting his teeth, Sean yanked hard, but it wouldn’t budge.



Canelo stood up slowly, dusting the grime off his clothes with eerie calm. A sly, dangerous grin spread across his face as he walked toward Sean, step by deliberate step. “Justice is for victors,” he said coldly. “Let me give you an execution, Sean.”



Trapped and frustrated, Sean glared back, jaw tight. “You wouldn’t dare,” he muttered.



Canelo stormed in, grabbed Sean by the collar, and slapped him—hard. Then again. And again. Each hit cracked through the alley like gunshots. Then came the fists. He pummeled Sean without mercy—punches and kicks flying in with full force, every strike thrown like he was trying to kill him. Knuckles slammed into Sean’s face, ribs, gut—brutal, unrelenting. There was no holding back. He wasn’t fighting anymore. He was punishing.



Sean, still stuck, couldn’t dodge or block. The crowd stood frozen, watching in horror as their local hero—once proud and unshakable—was beaten down, blow by blow, stripped of his power. Within seconds, Sean was barely moving, his breath shallow, eyes dazed, blood dripping from his chin. He was one breath away from collapsing.



Finally, with one last savage move, Canelo lifted his leg and delivered a straight, brutal kick to Sean’s chest. The impact was thunderous—Sean flew backward, dragged nearly ten feet across the pavement with the massive metal trash bin still stuck to his leg. The screech of scraping metal echoed through the alley as man and bin skidded violently along the ground.



When it stopped, Sean lay there—unmoving. Unconscious. Defeated.



The Public Humiliation



Canelo walked up to Sean’s crumpled body and let out a loud, triumphant laugh. Then, with a twisted grin, he reached down and unzipped his own pants, shamelessly exposing his junk in front of everyone. Gasps rippled through the crowd.



“What the hell is he doing…?” someone muttered in disbelief. Even the most hardened bystanders looked stunned. A few parents turned their children away. One man covered his face, half in horror, half in awe.



Canelo stood tall over Sean’s motionless frame, took a wide stance… and let loose. A steaming stream arced through the air, splashing directly onto Sean’s face and chest, soaking the once-proud red cape that still clung to him. It pooled over his ribs, trickled down his sides, and mingled with the blood on the pavement.



For a moment, the entire alley held its breath. Then came the murmurs—shocked, disgusted, amused.



“He’s pissing on him.”“No way…”“That’s the hero? That’s Sean?”



Canelo zipped up like nothing happened, slid his hands into his pockets, and strolled off slowly—like he’d just finished a cigarette break. At the end of the alley, he paused, lit a real cigarette, took one long drag… and vanished into the city smoke.


Chapter 4: Shadow From the Darkness (Part 1)
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The Girl in the Alley?



It was a quiet night. In a deserted alley, a series of high-pitched, agonizing screams echoed off the walls—sharp, desperate, unmistakably female. Mixed in with the cries were muffled English words: “No! Stop! Please—STOP!”



A man happened to be walking by. As soon as he heard it, he stopped. From the sound of it, someone—some poor woman—was being assaulted. Maybe even raped. The kind of scream that made your stomach turn. He hesitated… then curiosity got the better of him. He crept closer and peeked into the alley.



There were four gangsters standing around someone. Someone curled up on the ground, clearly the victim. From this distance, he was sure—it had to be a woman. He started to back away, muttering, “Not my business…” But just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye. The victim lifted his head.



Wait… his head?



It wasn’t a woman at all—it was a short dude, maybe five foot two, wearing pajamas. He had a ridiculous watermelon-shaped haircut and a terrified look frozen on his face. Just then, one of the gangsters smashed a punch straight into his gut. The man let out another piercing scream—even higher than the last one. “AIIIIEEEEEEEE!!”



The bystander froze, then blinked. “…My god,” he muttered. “How the hell can a grown man make a sound like that?” He shivered slightly. “…That’s disgusting.” And with that, he turned around and casually walked back home like nothing ever happened.



Canelo’s New Recruits



They were just kids—four teenage punks, freshly kicked out of high school for being too much trouble and too little brain. Now, instead of growing up, they signed up under Canelo and got thrown into the mugging business like it was some kind of summer internship. This was their first job. Their first mugging. And it was a mess.



Everything about them screamed amateur: the way they moved, the way they threatened, even the way they counted money—like they’d never held more than lunch change in their lives. They surrounded Benson, expecting a fat wallet, maybe even a little resistance. What they got was a single, wrinkled five-dollar bill.



All four of them just stared at it. The disappointment was instant. One of them snatched the bill and held it up like it was a bad joke. “What the hell is this?” he snapped. “Five bucks? A third grader’s richer than you. This can’t even buy a pack of smokes. You wasting our time, man. Wasting the mugging business’s time.”



The others didn’t laugh. They didn’t say a word. Their stares turned cold. To them, this wasn’t just about money anymore—it was about respect. And right now, Benson was pissing on the name of their crew. They stepped in closer, ready to deliver a lesson.



The Beating Begins



One of the boys stepped forward—young, twitchy, with a mean face and a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. Without a word, he marched right up to Benson and started slapping him. Not once. Not twice. Over a dozen times. Fast, sharp, unstoppable. His hand moved like a blur, cracking across Benson’s cheeks again and again, left-right-left-right like a malfunctioning metronome. Smack. Smack. Smack.



“You call yourself a man?” he barked while still slapping. “You pissed yourself, bro. Look at your pants! You think this is funny?” Benson didn’t even have time to cover up. He just stood there, eyes dazed, face bouncing from hit to hit like a human punching bag.



And that’s when it happened. From the side, the tall, skinny kid in the bright pink shirt leaned in silently. Benson didn’t even see it coming. The kid took a deep breath—and launched a fat glob of spit straight into Benson’s eye. Direct hit.



Benson shrieked, staggering backward, blinded and disgusted. “PLEASE! Please, stop! I’m begging you—just let me go!” But the slapping didn’t stop.



The boy with the cigarette finally paused, took one last puff—then pulled it from his mouth and pressed the red-hot tip straight onto Benson’s forehead. A sizzling sound. A flash of smoke. Then a scream loud enough to rattle nearby windows. The boy grinned and said, “Look at you. That dumbass watermelon haircut… man, the more I look at it, the more I wanna piss myself laughing.”



The Stocky Kid



While the others took turns humiliating Benson, one of the boys hanging back let out an irritated grunt. Short, thick-built, and solid like a concrete block, he looked like he didn’t have the patience for slow torture. Without a word, he shoved two of his crew aside, pushing them out of the way like they were plastic bags in his path. The moment he reached Benson, he didn’t waste time. He balled up his fist and drilled it into Benson’s stomach—deep, direct, and devastating.



The hit landed with a heavy, sickening thud. Benson’s body folded forward. His eyes bulged, and a second later, he vomited everything he had. Chunks of half-digested rice and meat sprayed across the concrete. The smell turned the alley into a gas chamber—sour, rotted, acidic. One of the boys gagged and took a step back. The stocky one didn’t even blink.



A pale, sickly-looking kid who’d been watching from the sidelines finally stepped in, clearly shaken. He rushed forward and grabbed the bruiser’s thick forearm. “Hey—yo, chill! Don’t beat him to death, man! If he dies, we’re done. We’ll all be in deep shit!” His voice cracked under the pressure.



But the warning fell on deaf ears. The stocky one yanked his arm free like it was nothing, then followed up with two more savage punches, both slamming into Benson’s ribs with raw power. Blood shot out of Benson’s mouth, splashing onto the ground and painting the puke with streaks of red. He collapsed to his knees, shaking, his entire body lurching with every sob.



“Please… it hurts…” he cried, his voice hoarse and broken. “Please… I’ll bring you the money next time. I swear… just let me go…”



The stocky kid wasn’t moved. No sympathy, no hesitation. He raised his fist again and swung it straight at Benson’s face. But this time, Benson saw it coming—clear as day. He knew if that punch landed, it would crack his skull in half. His instincts finally kicked in, and he jerked his head to the side at the last possible second.



The fist missed—and slammed into the wall behind him.



The impact exploded like a gunshot. The concrete split instantly, veins of cracks spiderwebbing out from the center. Chunks of dust and debris rained down, and the wall itself seemed to tremble. That punch was a death sentence.



Benson froze, breathing like a wild animal, eyes wide with terror. But instead of backing off, the stocky kid got even angrier. His jaw clenched. His shoulders tightened. It was the kind of fury that didn’t speak—it just acted.



Without a word, he reached behind his back and pulled out a chunk of old metal—a rusted iron pipe, thick and jagged at the edges, the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a condemned building. He twirled it through the air twice, and with each spin, the air grew heavier. The alley filled with a low, vibrating hum, like the sound before thunder rolls in. Even the other boys stopped moving.



Something very terrible was about to happen.



Mugging Gone Too Far



The moment the stocky boy pulled out the rusted iron pipe, the mood shifted. The other three boys rushed forward in a panic, grabbing at his arms from both sides. “Yo, what are you doing?!” one of them shouted. “Are you outta your mind?!” Another snapped, “This is already way too much. You gotta stop. Now.”



But the stocky one didn’t care. He let out a grunt and flung both arms outward—like swatting off insects. The three boys were sent flying through the air, landing hard on the concrete about six feet away. As they scrambled to their feet, they looked up just in time to see him raise the pipe high above his head. His muscles locked tight. His stance firm. Then—he jumped. Midair, he brought the weapon down with everything he had.



The iron pipe slammed straight into the top of Benson’s head.CRACK.



The sound exploded through the alley—sharp, violent, and final. The concrete shook. Dust fell from the walls. It was the kind of impact that made your stomach twist. Benson’s skull split open like a watermelon dropped off a rooftop. Blood and pulp burst in every direction—painting the walls, soaking the ground, even splashing back onto the attacker himself. It was fast. Messy. And way beyond anything they expected.



The alley fell silent. The tall kid in the pink shirt knelt there, frozen, eyes wide. “Did he… is he dead?” One of the others, still catching his breath, muttered, “Bro, if that’s not dead, I don’t know what the hell is.” The third one just shook his head slowly. “Man turned into a body. His whole head’s gone.”



They all looked down. Benson’s corpse lay slumped on its side like a discarded doll. Where his neck ended, there was nothing but red pulp and shattered bone. The head was simply… gone.



Benson was really, truly gone.



The Shadow Arose



The whole alley was a mess. The four punks stood frozen, staring at each other, unsure of what to do next.



Then the stocky one barked out, “What the hell are you waiting for? You wanna get caught by the cops? Move!”



He shoved both hands into his pockets and casually started walking toward the mouth of the alley, like he didn’t have a care in the world. The other three hesitated for a second, then quickly followed behind him, glancing back nervously as they walked away.



Behind them, the broken body on the ground began to twitch.



Chunks of bloodied flesh scattered across the pavement suddenly jerked, then shot through the air—rushing back toward the corpse. They gathered where a head once was, merging and reshaping into something new.



Sharp, glinting eyes. Bone-pale skin. A tall, rigid nose. Crimson lips curled into a sinister grin. And from that grin—two long, needle-like fangs gleamed in the dark.


Chapter 5: Shadow From the Darkness (Part 2)
==================================================

Prologue: The Darkness Within



No one ever paid much attention to Benson. He was the kind of kid who walked with his head down, spoke in whispers, and moved like he was trying to disappear. He had no friends, no confidence, and barely any presence at all. But sometimes, the quiet ones carry something else—something even they don’t know is there. Something waiting.



It didn’t come when he was hurt or bleeding. Pain wasn’t enough. It waited until Benson went limp—unconscious, fainted, or clinically dead. That’s when his alter ego took over.



It had no name. No past. Just one purpose: vengeance. Cold, merciless, and unnatural. Every second it existed drained the real Benson’s life force. Time was short. But even with that limit… it always made time to play. Before the punishment, it mocked. It toyed. It stretched the fear out slow—like a cat playing with a mouse.



And when it rose, the body changed: taller, stretched unnaturally. Nails grew into claws. Hair turned a ghostly white-gray. Its presence felt vampiric—quiet, sharp, and dangerous. Wounds didn’t matter. They sealed within seconds. Bones snapped back. Flesh stitched itself together. Regeneration kicked in faster than death could finish its work.



When it disappeared, Benson woke with no memory. No idea what had happened. No clue what he’d become.But tonight, in that alley—the very door had finally opened… once again.







Rise and Shine



The broken body twitched. Chunks of torn flesh slid across the pavement, pulled by some invisible force—merging, reshaping, rebuilding. A grin formed first. Then eyes—cold, sharp, unblinking. The figure stood up slowly, rising from the blood-soaked concrete like a ghost summoned by vengeance.



From the shadows, a voice whispered:




“Rise and shine, Benson…”




His eyes gleamed. His lips curled into a smirk.




“I’m back, baby.”




Yet the boys seemed completely unaware of what was happening just a short distance behind them. Three of them were still clearly nervous, glancing around like they half-expected someone to show up. But the stocky one just laughed, trying to play it cool.




“Man, what a weakling. Dropped dead after one swing? That’s boring as hell.”




He was even cracking jokes. The one with a cigarette, though still tense, chuckled along with him.




“Yeah, for real. Dude was weak as fuck. One hit and done. Not even fun.”








The Cigarette Burns



Benson gave the ground a gentle push with one foot, and his entire body slid forward—silent, smooth, like a gust of wind gliding across the pavement. He didn’t charge. He didn’t sprint. He simply glided toward the four teenagers.



Then—impact.



He went straight through the kid with the cigarette, crashing into him like a silent missile. Just before the moment of contact, Benson leaned in and whispered softly, almost polite:




“Excuse me… coming through.”




The smoker’s body flew back before he could react. There was a sharp, metallic clang as his spine slammed into the steel pole of a streetlamp. The impact echoed through the alley like a church bell cracked in half. His ribs caved inward. His lungs stuttered. A mist of blood flew from his mouth as he collapsed against the pole, then slid down slowly, arms limp, leaving a streak of spit and blood along the cold metal.



But he didn’t pass out. He was still conscious—barely. Head drooping, eyes half-open, chest rising in uneven, shallow gasps. His whole body trembled. Every breath hurt.



And then—Benson was in front of him. He crouched down slowly, calm as ever, like death in no rush. One hand reached out, and with a single finger, he gently lifted the boy’s chin. The smoker’s head tilted up—and when his eyes met Benson’s face, his entire body seized up in fear. What he saw wasn’t human. It was something twisted. Unnatural. And in that instant, he lost control. A dark wet patch spread down his pants. He had pissed himself.



Benson smirked.




“You’re shaking like a little bitch… and you pissed yourself.”“That’s just crazy. I didn’t even hit you that hard.”




The boy whimpered, tears mixing with blood.




“P-please… don’t hurt me…”




Benson stood up slowly, glancing down at the ground beside the kid. There it was—the cigarette he’d been smoking earlier. Still glowing faintly at the tip. He picked it up between two fingers.




“Looks like you forgot something.”




Then, with casual cruelty, he shoved the burning end straight into the boy’s right nostril.



A high-pitched scream tore out of the smoker’s throat—sharp, broken, almost animal.




“Aaaaghh—IT BURNS! OH MY GOD—IT’S BURNING!!”




He kicked weakly, hands flailing. His entire face twisted in raw pain as the stench of scorched flesh filled the air. Smoke curled from his nose, and his scream turned to gasping sobs.



Benson just watched—calm, cold, and utterly entertained.







The Spit Debt



Benson slowly straightened his body, then tilted his head just slightly as he turned to face the three remaining boys. They didn’t run. They didn’t scream. They just stood there—frozen in place, too shocked to move or think.



His voice came out soft, almost casual.




“Just now… who spit in my eye?”




The three boys glanced at each other in terrified silence. Whether it was fear or guilt, no one spoke. Then, without warning, Benson’s voice exploded—louder, sharper, and filled with rage:




“Who the fuck spit in my eye?!”




All three of them jumped. Their mouths opened but no words came. Then the tall, skinny one in the pink shirt suddenly pointed to the smallest boy—the pale one whose legs were already shaking.




“I-It was him! He did it! He’s the one who spit on you! I swear!”




The pale kid’s face drained of color. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. He shook his head in panic, trying to explain, to beg.




“I didn’t—It wasn’t me, I swear—”




But it was already too late.



Benson spat—a violent, laser-precise blast, fired like a bullet from his mouth. The glob of phlegm ripped through the air with a screech, sparked like static, and punched straight into the kid’s throat.



There was a small explosion inside his neck. He choked instantly—gagged—and threw both hands to his throat. Blood burst between his fingers and poured down his chest. He dropped to his side and started rolling, convulsing on the pavement like his body was trying to escape itself. His eyes bulged. His legs kicked uselessly. He clawed at the pavement with trembling fingers as if he could somehow crawl away from the pain, but it followed him with every breath. He coughed, gagged, sobbed silently.



His eyes locked onto the boy in the pink shirt. There was confusion, betrayal, and heartbreak in that look. He wanted to scream: “Why did you lie?” But his throat was already gone.



He rolled one more time, limbs weakening, body slowing. Then suddenly, his entire frame jerked—his back arched slightly, and both legs kicked out hard, then locked straight, stiff as boards. It looked like a seizure, or the final burst of a nervous system shutting down.



His eyes stretched wide, unblinking. The light inside them faded, the color drained.His chest stopped rising.An innocent soul was gone for good.







The Illusion of Strength



The stocky boy—the one who had laughed the loudest—took a deep breath. His chest rose. His eyes narrowed. Somewhere in that terrified little brain of his, something sparked.



Courage.Or at least, what he thought was courage.



He clenched his fists, flexed his arms, and gripped the old rusty pipe tighter. That thing—whatever Benson had become—was fast, yes… but maybe not unstoppable. If he gave it everything, maybe he could land a hit. Maybe they could go toe-to-toe.



With a final yell, he charged.




“AAAHHHHHHHH!”




Pipe raised. Body tense. Every ounce of power behind that swing—



Clink.



Two fingers. That’s all it took.



Benson caught the pipe between his index and middle finger—calm, effortless, unmoving. The boy froze, the metal locked in place like it had hit solid rock.



Benson tilted his head. Then, slowly, he raised his right hand and wagged his index finger side to side.




“No, no, no, no, no, no, no…”




His voice was soft, almost playful. Like a teacher scolding a toddler for drawing on the walls.



Then Benson released the pipe. The boy’s own momentum dragged it forward, and he stumbled backward a few steps, caught off guard.



And that’s when he snapped.




“KILLER MOVE—DRAGON PIPE DANCE!!”




He lunged in again, this time completely unhinged. He swung the pipe like a lunatic—slashing, jabbing, spinning. At least a hundred wild strikes in under a minute. His voice cracked as he screamed with each swing, eyes wide, body flailing.



But Benson didn’t strike back.He didn’t block.He didn’t even flinch.



He stepped around it all—smooth, clean, untouchable. A tilt here, a shift there, a lean at just the right angle. It looked more like dancing than dodging.



Then, in the middle of the chaos…Benson bent down and started tying his shoe.Calm. Slow. Like nothing else was happening around him.



The pipe kept flying past his head, his shoulder, his back—but he didn’t even glance up. He simply looped the laces, tugged them tight, and stood back up.



The stocky kid was soaked in sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps. His hands were shaking. His swings had slowed, grown sloppy.He had given everything he had.And Benson hadn’t even looked at him.







Stocky Kid’s Fate



The stocky kid could barely breathe. His chest heaved. His arms shook. Sweat poured from his face.



But then… he started laughing.At first it was weak, then louder—unhinged.



Without warning, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and ripped it open, tossing it aside. His upper body was packed with muscle—solid, veined, gym-hardened flesh he clearly thought would save him.



He squared up, flexing every inch like he was made of stone.




“You’re fast, and you’re mean,” he shouted. “But your attacks won’t leave a scratch on me!”“Come on then, demon—hit me!”




Benson just stood there.



He eyed the exposed chest, then slowly licked one of his long, curved claws—like he was testing the edge. Then he smiled faintly.




“You know public nudity’s illegal, right?”“Didn’t your gym teacher ever teach you that?”




The boy blinked, confused—then Benson moved.



His right hand slashed the air, smooth and clean, at least three feet away. No contact. No sound. Just a motion.



And for a few seconds… nothing happened.



The stocky boy stood still, confused. His brow furrowed. Ten seconds passed.



Then he laughed again.




“What was that? Some kind of dance move? You trying to scare me with shadow puppets? What a—”




He didn’t finish.



A thin red line bloomed across his abdomen.



A second later—his stomach opened.



A thick, wet tearing sound filled the alley as his intestines spilled out, heavy and coiled like a bucket of raw meat. His hands shot down to catch them—instinctively, hopelessly—trying to shove them back in.



But it was too wet.Too slippery.Too late.



His eyes widened in shock.His knees buckled.And then, slowly, he collapsed into the pile of his own insides.



Blood pooled beneath him. The alley stank of iron and death.



He didn’t say another word.He couldn’t.







The Last One



The tall boy in the pink shirt stood frozen—eyes wide, jaw slack, body stiff like carved wood. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t blinked. He just stood there, paralyzed, staring at the pile of intestines and the monster who made it.



Benson slowly walked toward him. Calm. Silent. No threat in his steps. No tension in his voice.




“What are you still standing here for?”“Get lost.”




The boy blinked, barely able to process what he just heard.




“I… I can go?”




Benson’s gaze stayed fixed, cold and even.




“Leave. Now. Before I change my mind.”“Crawl like a dog.”




The boy didn’t hesitate.



He dropped to the ground—hands, knees, elbows—and scurried across the alley floor without looking back. His limbs scraped along the pavement as he scrambled away, dragging himself low, frantic and wild.



He moved like a frightened dog escaping the butcher’s knife.



And then—he was gone.



Benson turned away and walked to the wall. His claws retracted. His spine relaxed. His breathing slowed.



The transformation was ending.



His body shrank back to its original shape. His features softened. The deadly tension faded from his limbs. His hair returned to its natural color, falling back into place like curtains after a show.



He sat down quietly, his back against the wall.



Then, without a word,he closed his eyes… and slept.


Chapter 6: Protest Party
==================================================

Live from the Alley




“We’re coming to you live from Flushing’s infamous back alley,” the reporter announced, trying to stay composed as background chants and chaos echoed around her.




Behind her, a ragtag group of locals waved signs, chanted nonsense, and argued about whose turn it was to hold the megaphone. The cause of the unrest? The Humble Organization’s plan to convert the alley into a homeless shelter.




“The proposal, while intended to help the city’s unhoused population,” the reporter explained, “has sparked outrage from nearby residents who claim it would destroy local culture and, quote—‘erase our childhood memories.’”




Front and center stood Canelo—leaning against a bent streetlamp, his signature hoodie and cracked leather jeans soaked in street attitude. A cigarette dangled from his lips, ash curling off in the wind. He held a big cardboard protest sign that read:




“GET OUT OF OUR ALLEY – PROTECT OUR CHILDHOOD”




Except… it was upside down. And he didn’t even notice.



He jabbed a finger at the camera, his voice rising above the noise.




“You think this place is just trash and concrete? We grew up here, bled here, fought here! This alley made us!”




Then, noticing the reporter too close with the mic, he took a slow drag of his cigarette and muttered:




“Get that mic outta my face… unless you want me to beat the crap outta you.”




The reporter blinked, half-froze, and quickly turned to the camera.




“We’ll now try to speak with other protesters… for a broader perspective.”








Wrong Man, Right Appetite



Just as she turned to find her next interviewee, she froze. Standing a few feet away was a tall, broad-shouldered man—filthy, sweaty, and wearing a torn, stinking T-shirt and a pair of stained shorts. The stains were suspicious. One of them might’ve been actual feces.



The reporter visibly recoiled, discreetly covering her nose with one hand while still holding the mic with the other. She walked toward him slowly, like approaching a wild animal.




“Excuse me, sir—could we ask you a few questions about the protest today?”




The man didn’t even look at her. His left hand was holding a full bottle of Pepsi, which he guzzled like it was his last drink on Earth. His right hand was gripping a half-squashed hamburger, already halfway into his mouth.



The reporter raised her voice.




“Sir, do you have any thoughts about today’s protest? Why are you here?”




The man, cheeks puffed with food, mumbled something barely intelligible. Through mouthfuls of burger and soda, he managed to say:




“Huh? Protest? …I dunno nothin’ about no protest. I just heard they had free food…”




There was an awkward pause.



The reporter let out a small, forced laugh.




“Looks like this gentleman isn’t part of the protest at all.”




Tom, still chewing, wiped his greasy fingers across his own filthy shirt and reached for a second burger from his plastic bag.




“Well, enjoy the food, sir,” the reporter said, backing away gently. “Let’s see if we can find someone actually involved.”








The Trapped Hero



As she walked away from Tom, a man’s voice echoed nearby.




“Damn it—get off me! Let go!”




She turned the corner and saw a man awkwardly twisted against the side of a wall, his right leg jammed deep inside a hole in the concrete. He was struggling violently, pulling and jerking with all his might.



He wore a half-buttoned shirt and had a Chinese flag draped across his shoulders like a cape. Even in distress, he looked dramatic.



It was Sean.



The reporter cautiously stepped forward.




“Sir… it appears you’re here for the protest. Mind telling us what’s going on here?”




Sean didn’t even look at her at first—he was too busy grunting and tugging.




“I—I kicked this damn wall too hard, okay? Now I’m stuck! Can you help me out? I’m Sean! Everyone knows me. I’m the hero of this community!”




The reporter blinked, surprised.




“Wait… you’re that Sean? The local hero?”




Then she squinted, as if recalling something from his past.




“Actually, I’ve been curious—how did someone who used to be a notorious gangster, who served three years in prison, end up as a respected figure?”




That stopped Sean cold. His whole body froze. His jaw locked. His eyes sharpened like daggers.




“Hey. Hey. Don’t start spouting rumors. You hear me? Slander is a serious offense. I don’t wanna hear that crap. Back off.”




The tension was sharp enough to cut through the wall.



The reporter, clearly unsettled, gave a small nod.




“Understood. Hope you can get yourself out soon.”




She turned to leave.



And just then—Sean let out a shriek.




“AAHHH—WHAT THE HELL?!”




He started kicking wildly, panicking.




“SOMEONE’S INSIDE! SOMEONE’S INSIDE THIS WALL! THEY TOOK OFF MY SHOE—THEY’RE TICKLING MY FOOT! I’M GONNA DIE IN HERE!”




His voice echoed down the alley. The reporter didn’t turn back. She picked up her pace.




“We’ll… check in with someone a little more stable.”








The Forgotten Perv



Next up… was Benson.



He had been staring at the reporter for a while now. Not because he had anything important to say—nah. He just wanted to get on TV. More importantly, he wanted her to notice him. Maybe even smile at him. Maybe he could say something smooth. Something impressive. Something that would make her look at him differently.



But really, he was just staring at her cleavage.



As she walked in his direction, Benson lit up. He quickly ran a greasy hand through his ridiculous watermelon-shaped hair. Tried to fix his shirt collar like that would help. Cleared his throat twice. Practiced a weak smile that ended up looking more like a constipation face.



She was getting close. This was it. His moment.



The reporter raised the mic—and Benson immediately reached out for it like a game show contestant getting his one shot. He had no real opinions about the protest. No clever slogans. He just wanted to say something. Anything. Impress her. Be seen. Maybe throw in a compliment like,




“I care about the community… and uh, you got pretty eyes.”




But it didn’t happen.



The reporter didn’t give him the mic. Didn’t even slow down.



She took one glance at him and turned to her cameraman.




“This guy looks like a total weirdo. Probably not even part of the protest. Let’s skip him.”




She walked right past without a second thought.



Benson froze. His arm was still halfway out. His lips were parted, but no sound came out. His half-smile slid off his face like a dying lightbulb.



He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at her back as she disappeared into the crowd. Like a lonely stray dog watching someone toss meat to someone else’s pet.



No quote.No screen time.Just another silent rejection.



The Forgotten Perv.







The Golden Bowl



The reporter continued walking through the crowd and came to a man sitting calmly near a wall. He wore an outdated railroad worker uniform—something straight out of the 1950s—and his skin looked oddly rough, almost wrinkled, like time had treated him unkindly. She assumed he must be one of the elderly residents.



With a polite nod, she raised the mic.




“Excuse me, old-timer, can I ask you a quick question? What are your thoughts on today’s protest?”




The man blinked, furrowed his brow, and leaned slightly forward.




“What are you talking about? I’m only 18 years old,” he said.




The reporter froze.




“Oh! I—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it… just a slip of the tongue!”




She gave a quick, nervous laugh and adjusted the mic.




“Anyway… could you share why you’re here?”





“I come here every day,” he said. “This is where I work. So of course, I don’t want it turned into some shelter.”




She blinked.




“Work? But… I don’t see any shops or offices here. What do you mean by work?”




He answered without hesitation.




“I’m a professional beggar.”




She gave him a puzzled look and laughed.




“A professional beggar? Really? That’s a new one, old-ti—uh…”




She winced slightly, realizing she’d slipped again.



Still calm, Lawson reached under his coat and pulled out a ceramic rice bowl. It was old, slightly chipped. But the moment he placed it down in front of him, it glowed faintly with a warm golden light.



The reporter’s entire expression shifted. Her eyes softened. Her lips parted slightly as a deep, genuine compassion rose in her chest. She didn’t hesitate. She opened her purse and began pulling out all the cash she had. Then, without blinking, she slipped off her diamond wedding ring and gently placed it into the bowl as well.



She looked him in the eyes with total sincerity.




“You deserve it,” she said. “People like you… you’re the soul of this city.”




Lawson simply nodded.



As the golden glow faded, she took a breath and smiled—not confused, not dazed, but absolutely convinced that she had done something meaningful and right.




“Well… take care, old–” she caught herself again, but it was already out.“–timer. Stay safe, alright?”




Then she turned and walked off, feeling strangely proud of what she’d done.



Lawson quietly slipped the bowl back into his coat, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes—like none of it surprised him at all.







The Quiet Cancellation



On the rooftop of a five-story building, a slim figure stood silently. He wore a black tank top and a pair of Nike shorts, his lean frame barely making a sound against the concrete surface. His eyes glowed faintly with a golden shimmer as he looked down at the crowd below, calmly observing everything that had happened at the protest.



The wind fluttered his shirt slightly as he remained still—watching, analyzing.



Suddenly, the scene cut to a pitch-black office.



Inside, a shadowy figure sat in a large executive chair, legs crossed, back facing the camera.



A faint voice came from the guy in the tank top, now standing near the office door.




“Boss,” he said, “I went to the protest site today. They’re all weaklings. Not a single one stood out in strength. But… I could tell they really love that alley. They’re attached to it. Deeply.”




The man in the chair leaned back slowly. A cold, bored voice responded:




“Oh, I see.”




The screen faded to black.



Later that night, a breaking news alert flashed across the TV screen.



The same female reporter appeared on camera, looking surprised but composed.




“This just in,” she announced. “The Humble Organization has suddenly decided to terminate its plan to build a large-scale homeless shelter in the alley. The project has been officially scrapped.”



Chapter 7: The Despicable Beggar
==================================================

The Beggar’s Melody



It was another hot summer afternoon.



In the corner of a quiet alley, surrounded by trash bins and old brick walls, a skinny figure crouched alone. His back was straight, body still—like he could stay that way for hours.



He wore an outdated railroad worker uniform, the kind you’d see in black-and-white photos from the ’50s. The shirt was buttoned up but faded, the pants were stiff and dusty, and the whole outfit looked like it had been pulled out of a museum closet. His skin looked dry and rough—almost wrinkled—like he had been sunburned for ten summers in a row.



In front of him sat a chipped ceramic bowl. One corner had a chunk missing. Probably found in a junk pile somewhere.




“Spare a little rice money… kind folks… spare some change…”




He said it over and over again, quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. Same words, same tone, not looking around, not begging with emotion. Just letting it play on loop.



He was squatting low, both feet flat on the ground, like he’d been in that position for hours. His back was straight, arms resting loosely on his knees. One leg bounced slowly—just the foot shaking up and down, like he was bored and killing time.



His eyes, though—they moved. Every time someone walked by, they followed.



And when it was a pretty girl? His eyes dropped straight to the chest.No shame. No sneaky look-aways. Just staring, bored and open, like watching clouds pass by.



One girl walked by wearing a black low-cut spaghetti strap top and a white lacy mini skirt that barely covered anything. Her heels clacked on the concrete. She paused, pulled a few coins from her bag, and bent down to drop them into his bowl.



When she bent over, the top dipped dangerously low—real low.Lawson’s eyes followed it naturally, and for a split second, he saw everything—the soft bounce, the faint curves, and a flash of pinkish flesh inside the black fabric, shifting gently as she moved.Clear as daylight. She didn’t even notice.



As she lingered there, she smiled at him and said, in a soft, teasing voice:




“You poor old geezer… sitting out here all day… ain’t your back hurting?”




That snapped something in him.



He blinked once, then replied, loud and straight:




“What the hell are you talkin’ about? I’m eighteen.”




The girl blinked, a little surprised. “Wait, seriously?”




“Yeah. I look damn good for my age.”




He kept staring—eyes still down the shirt like he wasn’t even hiding it.



She caught the look a second too late, gasped, and pulled her shirt up with one hand.




“Pervert!”




Lawson didn’t move. He just leaned back a little, resting against the wall, and said flatly:




“You wear something like that and get mad when someone looks? Try wearing something more covered.”




She scoffed and walked away quickly, muttering something under her breath.



He didn’t laugh. Didn’t react. Just went back to his usual spot—quiet, calm, like nothing happened.



Someone tossed a coin in his bowl. He didn’t look up.



This was Lawson.Weird. Blunt. Dry-skinned and dead-eyed.And still waiting.



A Truly Inspiring Story



It was around noon when Sean showed up.



He came strolling down the alley like he owned the place, a big cloud of vape drifting out of his mouth. A slim black vape pen dangled from his fingers, and his steps had that lazy sway—like a man with nothing to fear and even less to do.



Lawson didn’t even look up. Still squatting there with his back straight, he simply lifted the chipped ceramic bowl in front of him and gave it a little shake, just enough to catch Sean’s eye.




“Spare a little fortune money, boss,” he said calmly.




Sean slowed down, squinted at him through the haze, and raised an eyebrow. He looked Lawson up and down.



That uniform. That skin. That cracked voice.



This was no kid—this was clearly some worn-out old man just trying to survive.



As Sean stared, a warm golden light began to glow faintly from inside the rice bowl. It shimmered in the midday sun, like something sacred had been stirred.



And in that light… Sean suddenly saw a life story.A whole lifetime of suffering.The image of an old father pushing through poverty, age, and sickness just to put his beloved son through school.



Then Lawson spoke again—his voice low, with just the right amount of gravel:




“Please… help me send my son to college. You’d be doing a truly good deed, kind sir.”




Sean froze.



His throat tightened.He wiped at the corner of his eye with his wrist, pretending it was sweat.




“Seventy years old… still out here grinding for your twenty-year-old son’s education…”“Man. That’s real. That’s deep…”




Without another word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out everything he had—wads of folded bills, all of it. Several hundred dollars. He dropped it into the bowl, not even counting.



As soon as the last bill landed, the golden glow slowly faded—like the mission was complete.



Lawson looked up, completely flat-toned:




“Who said I was seventy? I’m eighteen.”




Sean paused. Blinked. Took a long look at him again. Then nodded seriously.




“An eighteen-year-old with a twenty-year-old son… putting him through college…”




He let out a soft whistle.




“Now that… that’s an even more inspiring story.”




He took a long drag from his vape, smiled with real satisfaction.Then he turned, walked off slowly, and disappeared down the street.



Sean didn’t get scammed.He got moved.



And for the rest of that day, he truly believed…he’d done something good.



Don’t You Call Me Old



Lawson flipped through the wad of cash in his hand—hundreds of dollars. Not bad at all.



He let out a quiet “Wow,” half to himself.




“Not bad for a guy who just got outta jail. Looks like being a ‘hero’ pays pretty damn well.”




Sean, who had only taken two steps away, stopped cold.



His shoulders tightened. Neck stiff. He slowly turned around.The vape still hung from his mouth, but the grin was gone.




“Hey—hey hey hey hey! What the hell are you talking about?!”“Who told you that? I’m telling you—none of that’s true. It’s all fake. All nonsense.”




Lawson blinked, still calm.




“My bad. I shouldn’t have brought up your… history. That was rude.”




Sean’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped:




“Watch your mouth, you crusty old fossil.”




That did it.



Lawson stood up fast and pointed right at him.




“Crusty?! You’re the one who went to jail! And you’re calling me old?”“Look at me! Do I look old to you?!”




Sean didn’t answer.



He stepped forward and punched Lawson clean in the face. The hit cracked loud, and Lawson stumbled back, off balance, nearly falling, arms flailing to steady himself.



But before he could even recover, Sean stepped in quick and wrapped his arms around Lawson’s waist.




“Let me show you what old school really looks like.”




He lifted Lawson clean off the ground and slammed him down with a textbook waist lock takedown—the kind they teach in wrestling class.



WHAM.



Lawson’s back and head hit the pavement hard. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.



Sean stepped back, raised his foot, ready to stomp his face in.



Lawson rolled away just in time.He crawled back, shaking, coughing. Completely outmatched.



Sean was bigger, meaner, and pissed.



Lawson?



He was scared.



He dropped to all fours.Hands and knees on the ground. Head lowered till his forehead touched the pavement.




“Please…” he said, voice shaking.“Spare me… don’t kill me…”




The Golden Bow



As Lawson’s forehead gently touched the ground, a soft golden glow flickered—brief, almost unnoticeable.



Sean’s eyes instantly lost focus. He froze on the spot.



In an instant, his mind was flooded with fast, flashing memories—images of Lawson’s past.He saw him as a kid in a school courtyard, getting beaten down by older students…His martial arts book snatched away and torn up…Blood running down his face in a hospital bed, eyes swollen shut.



Sean’s heart twisted.




Man… this guy’s had a rough life.




What Sean didn’t know… was that this wasn’t just some random emotional overload.It was a technique—an old, subtle golden art known only to a few.



They called it the Golden Bow.



It didn’t overpower or hypnotize. It didn’t blind or paralyze.Instead, it slid in quietly, cracking open the heart, and flooding it with deep sympathy.No matter how strong you were, you’d let your guard down.And Sean… just did.



He let out a soft sigh, fists unclenching.



Then, gently, he reached out a hand.




“You alright? Sorry about earlier. I got carried away…”




Lawson looked up from the ground. He hesitated for a second, then reached up and grabbed Sean’s hand.



Slowly, he stood up—shoulders weak, like he needed help balancing.



But just as he rose to full height, his other hand slipped into his coat pocket.



Click.



In a flash, he whipped out a spring-loaded knife and jammed it into Sean’s side, right above the hip.



Sean gasped, his eyes wide with shock. Before he could react, Lawson twisted the blade, grinding it around inside—tearing flesh, nerves, muscle.



Sean let out a howl of pain and kicked Lawson away, stumbling back with one hand pressed hard to his bleeding side.




“Why… Why would you do that?!”




He wasn’t even angry. He was confused.That sympathy was real. Those feelings were real.




“I really meant it… I really felt bad for you…”




Blood trickled down the side of Sean’s shirt, his face turning pale.



One of his kidneys had been completely destroyed—shredded into unrecognizable chunks of bloody meat.



But even now, he didn’t fall.



Sean gritted his teeth, squared his stance, and steadied his breathing.



He was still in this fight.



The Last Drops of Strength



Lawson let out a twisted laugh—




“Hahahahaha…”




His grin stretched from ear to ear, smug and full of cruelty.




“You’re such a weakling,” he sneered. “So damn stupid. So gullible.”




Then, without warning, he lunged forward, swinging fists and feet straight at Sean’s face. The attacks weren’t fast, and they weren’t heavy—but they kept coming.



Sean, holding his side, was still bleeding out. But more than the pain… there was hesitation. Somewhere in his mind, the flashbacks from earlier still lingered—those scenes of Lawson being bullied as a kid, beaten up, hospitalized, abandoned.



He could still feel it—that sympathy. That pity.And it was holding him back.



It didn’t just cloud his judgment—it cut his attack power in half.He simply didn’t want to hurt this guy. Not really.



He gritted his teeth, raised one hand to guard, and started blocking the strikes.



Even with less than 10% of his strength, Sean managed to hold his own. For a moment, they were surprisingly even—trading blows, dodges, footwork. A few rounds passed, back and forth.



But time was not on Sean’s side.



The blood loss got worse. His body slowed down. His vision blurred. His arms felt like lead.



Now, maybe only 5% of his power remained.



And the gap started showing.



Lawson saw it—and didn’t hold back. He laughed harder, mocking him with every word:




“What’s wrong? Didn’t eat breakfast? You’re pathetic! Come on, hero—show me something!”




He charged again, fists flying. Left, right, left again—this time landing cleanly across Sean’s face. The hits weren’t strong enough to swell it up or knock him out, but blood started streaming from his nose.



Sean stumbled but didn’t fall.



Then Lawson, satisfied with his little performance, decided it was time to end it.



He reached into his coat and pulled out that same spring-loaded knife. Without hesitation, he jammed it deep into Sean’s left side, grinding the blade in again and again, spinning it like a drill.



This time, it wasn’t just another wound.



Sean’s remaining kidney—the only one he had left—was torn apart, shredded into chunks of bloody meat.



His body jolted from the shock. He could feel the pain ripping through him, raw and absolute. His legs buckled. Everything in him screamed collapse.



But he didn’t.



Not yet.



With the last bit of strength, Sean surged forward.




“I can feel it… My strength’s fading fast…”“…but at least…”“…I can still do this. Just this one move.”




He grabbed Lawson and, using perfect form, swung his leg behind for a textbook takedown—hooking the leg, shifting the weight, and slamming Lawson to the pavement.



Lawson hit the ground hard.



Sean staggered back, wobbling on his feet.



His lips had gone pale. His legs were shaking. His hands were trembling.



And as he stood there, eyes dimming and lungs burning—He knew.



The next moment… he would collapse.



Collapse and Disgrace



Sean was swaying in place, barely staying upright—but he refused to fall. Not yet. He kept his head high, clinging to the last shred of pride he had left. As one of the local heroes, he couldn’t go down that easily.



More people began to gather in the alley. No one really knew what had just happened, but the gossip had already started.



Then, a sudden gust of wind blew through the narrow passage. Sean’s cape—stitched from a Chinese flag—flapped wildly and tore loose, flying up and getting caught high on an electric pole. It hung there like a tattered symbol of everything he’d lost.



Then, without warning, his knees gave out. He dropped to the ground hard—kneeling first, then his upper body slumped forward, face hitting the pavement with a dull thud. His butt stuck up awkwardly in the air, the whole position looking more embarrassing than painful.



The crowd gasped. Their so-called hero had collapsed right in front of them.



Lawson stood nearby, watching it all with a grin. He slowly strolled up to Sean’s unmoving body and chuckled.



“This is the guy they call a hero?” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “A guy who spent three years in prison, pretending to be some kind of savior now? That’s hilarious.”



Some people in the crowd stayed quiet, unsure how to feel. Some found Lawson heartless. Others found him disgusting. And a few… were just enjoying the drama.



Then came the final insult. Lawson leaned down with a mocking smile. His fingers pinched the waistband of Sean’s pants and started rolling them down—slow, almost ceremonial—until they bunched around the knees. Sean’s backside, now fully exposed to the open air, pointed upward in that same helpless pose.



With a despicable grin, Lawson raised his hand and smacked it down with a loud pop, followed by a sticky spit that landed right in the center.



He turned to the crowd.



“Don’t worry, folks. I already gave him the lesson he deserved.”



Then he casually strolled back to his original spot, squatted down again like nothing had happened, and resumed shaking his leg out of boredom.



And Sean… was still lying there in that ridiculous posture—his knees on the ground, upper body collapsed forward, face down in the dirt, and his butt awkwardly sticking up—like a piece of absurd modern art put on display for the pedestrians to stare at.


Chapter 8: Clash of the Golden Users
==================================================

Noonday Visitor



It was noon the next day.



Lawson was back in his usual spot—same alley, same cracked brick wall, same broken-down trash bins cooking in the heat. He wore the same outdated railroad worker uniform and squatted in his signature pose, arms dangling over his knees while one foot bounced lazily.



Just then, a tall, lean man came walking down the alley.



He wore a tight black tank top, Nike shorts, and athletic sneakers. His physique was clean-cut—athletic, but not bulky—and his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. He looked like someone who didn’t belong in a place like this.



As he passed, he casually lifted his sunglasses just a bit and glanced toward Lawson. His eyes briefly shimmered with a soft golden glow.



Lawson didn’t notice. He remained motionless, his eyes low, foot still bouncing.



A moment passed.



Lawson finally gave his chipped ceramic bowl a casual shake and said, “Spare some change, good sir? Haven’t eaten all day.”



The man stopped.



“I’m Brian,” he said calmly. “One of the senior members of the Humble Organization. I’m here on assignment.”



Lawson raised his eyes, confused. “Huh? I’m just a broke, ordinary guy trying to get by. What could someone like me possibly have to do with your organization? You sure you’ve got the right person?”



Brian gave a faint smile.



“Yesterday, one of our businesses—a massage parlor—filed a report. Said a customer received two hours of our most… specialized services and walked out without paying. Not only that, but he also tricked our masseuse out of all her tip money before leaving.”



Lawson blinked and tilted his head. He seemed to realize something but kept his act straight.



“I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’ve got money to give, I’ll take it. If not, kindly move along. I’m trying to run a business here.”



He lifted his chipped bowl again and gave it a gentle shake.



A soft golden glow shimmered from within.







The Golden Light That Failed



The two of them stood there, unmoving. Ten… maybe twenty seconds passed. Nothing happened.



Brian gave a small, knowing smile—like he’d already expected this outcome.



Lawson, on the other hand, frowned. He glanced at his bowl, then back at Brian. He shook it again, harder this time. The golden glow grew brighter, warmer, more pronounced. But Brian just kept watching, completely unbothered.



Lawson gritted his teeth.



He gathered every ounce of mental energy he had. Every brain cell, every last drip of inner power was focused on the bowl. His hands trembled. The glow intensified until it looked almost blinding.



But still… nothing.



Brian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even move his hands. His eyes remained fixed on the glowing bowl, calm and unfazed.



Lawson’s breath turned shallow. He was panting like someone who had just sprinted ten miles. His head started to spin, his body felt light. That same dizziness you get when your blood sugar crashes hit him all at once.



Then Brian spoke—calm, cold, and to the point.




“Alright. Let’s talk about your debt.”





“The room fee… plus the tip… plus the cash you stole from our massage technician’s purse… plus the penalty. That adds up to about a thousand bucks. Hand it over now, and I’ll pretend this never happened. Just a warning, since it’s your first offense.”




Lawson immediately shook his head, breathing hard.




“No way. You’re not getting a cent from me. I don’t care who you are.”




Brian’s smile faded.




“Well then,” he said, voice dropping into something quieter—sharper.





“If that’s how you want it… I’ll take it by force. One way or another.”








The Golden Eyes



Lawson’s smirk vanished the moment Brian brought up the debt. His body stiffened. He looked around nervously, then nodded quickly.



“Alright, alright! I’ll pay up—just don’t hurt me.”



He reached his right hand into his pants pocket and began rummaging around. His fingers moved slowly, like he was trying to dig out crumpled cash.



Brian’s golden eyes shimmered faintly, catching the light. Without emotion, he said:




“Don’t even think about it. If you’re about to fake a coin search and throw a cheap sucker punch at me… don’t.”




Lawson froze mid-motion. His fingers, just inches from curling into a fist, stiffened. He looked stunned, as if Brian had read his mind.




“H-how did you…?”




Brian stared calmly at him and answered:




“It’s called the Golden Eyes. I can see through every twitch, every muscle shift, every data point your body gives off. I know what you’re going to do before you know it. If it’s physically possible, I can even mimic your moves. All of them.”




Lawson’s expression twisted—part disbelief, part resentment. But he quickly realized he had no chance in a straight fight.



Then suddenly, his face changed.



A glint of resolve flickered in his eyes.



In one quick motion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a spring-loaded knife—a compact switchblade with a thin, jagged blade. With a yell, he lunged forward and thrust it toward Brian’s chest.



But before the blade even got close, Brian moved.



A sharp crack! rang out.



Brian’s hand shot forward like lightning—a single knifehand chop slammed down on Lawson’s wrist. The blade clattered to the ground.



Lawson staggered backward, stunned and winded.




“W-what the hell? How are you so fast?!”




Brian shook his head.




“It’s not that I’m fast. It’s that your attack was painfully predictable.”




Lawson clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together in silent fury. But beneath the anger… was helplessness. Frustration. Defeat.



Brian took a step forward and rose his voice.




“Now! Last chance!”








The Golden Bow



Lawson stood frozen, unsure what to do.



Across from him, Brian calmly crossed his arms and started tapping one finger against his elbow. He didn’t speak—just stood there in silence, watching, waiting. The steady tapping echoed through the alley. You could tell his patience was wearing thin.



Finally, Brian spoke.




“I’ll give you five seconds. I don’t want this to get ugly.”




But Lawson kept standing there, caught in his thoughts.



Brian didn’t wait for the countdown.



In a flash, he sprinted forward and launched his first punch.



Honestly, even without Golden Eyes, Brian completely outclassed Lawson in speed, strength, and precision. Within seconds, he had landed several clean hits—one to the jaw, two to the ribs, and a few more across the legs. Lawson stumbled and staggered, already bruised and battered.



Then Brian decided to show off a bit. He grabbed both of Lawson’s shoulders and yanked him forward, bringing him in close.



With a sudden burst, he started doing high knees in place—knees flying up like a cartoonish runner. It was the same move Tom had once used in the alley against Canelo. The motion looked ridiculous, almost comedic—but the power behind it was no joke.



Brian’s knees slammed into Lawson’s gut and chest, again and again. Blood sprayed from Lawson’s mouth. He couldn’t even raise his arms to block anymore.



After barely ten seconds, Brian let go and stepped back.



Lawson collapsed instantly—falling forward, limbs sprawled out on the ground. Then, trembling, he pushed himself up slightly, shakily got to his knees, and bowed down.




“Please, please… spare me,” he stammered. “I-I’ll pay… I’ll pay whatever money I owe you. Please, just don’t hurt me… don’t kill me… I’m begging you…”




As his forehead hit the ground, a soft golden light flickered from the center of his forehead—the signature glow of his technique, the Golden Bow.







The Truth About Golden Techniques



Brian froze for a moment. His eyes were locked ahead, unmoving. The glowing light from Lawson’s forehead had stopped him in his tracks—or so it seemed.



Then, from the ground, Lawson let out a strange, creepy chuckle.



In an instant, he grabbed the switchblade that had fallen earlier and sprang up with a sudden burst of energy, driving it straight toward Brian’s chest.



But Brian had been playing along the whole time.



Just before the blade could reach him, he let out a grin and struck Lawson’s wrist with a brutal kick. A loud crack echoed through the alley. The blade flew into the air, spinning wildly before landing ten feet away with a clatter.



Lawson collapsed to his knees, clutching his broken wrist and crying out in pain.



Tears streamed down his face as he screamed, “Why?! Why didn’t my Golden Technique do anything? Why didn’t it work?! I don’t understand!”



Brian, arms calmly folded across his chest, gave a composed reply:




“Golden Techniques have limits. They’re based on intelligence. The greater the IQ gap, the stronger the effect.But if the other person has the same IQ—or higher—it usually doesn’t work.Golden Techniques are a form of IQ-based domination. They only work when you’re smarter.”




Lawson stared up at him, eyes wide with disbelief.



Then… he lowered his head.



The fight was over. Completely and utterly over.



Lawson had finally given up.







The Last Grab



Brian crossed his arms, tapping one finger against his elbow, visibly running out of patience. His voice was sharp and impatient.



“Alright, alright. The debt still needs to be paid. Hand it over.”



Lawson was still kneeling, sobbing, ignoring him completely.



Brian narrowed his eyes. His golden eyes flickered faintly as he scanned Lawson from head to toe. Something didn’t sit right.



His gaze locked onto Lawson’s crotch area.



It looked… unusually bulky. Suspiciously bulky. A bulge that didn’t match the rest of his skinny frame.



Brian’s expression shifted. Without a word, he stepped forward—fast.



His hand dove straight into Lawson’s pants. Fingers gripped around the bulge, yanked hard, and pulled with full force.



Lawson let out a scream of pure agony.



“OH NO! AHHHH! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! MY GOD!”



Brian froze mid-motion, eyes wide.



“Oh my god…” he muttered. “I thought that was a wad of cash. Turns out it was just a gigantic cock…”



A heavy silence followed.



Lawson, still weeping, reached into his actual pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled bills. He handed them over without a word. Brian took the money, counted it quickly—exactly one thousand. Not a cent more, not a cent less.



He turned to leave, shaking his head.



“If you’d just cooperated from the start, we wouldn’t have had to go through all this embarrassment.”



He paused, then tossed one final remark over his shoulder:



“You’re the number one in this begging business. You don’t even need money. With that Golden Bowl trick of yours, you could make a thousand bucks in a day just begging. So why the hell did you go out, hire a prostitute, enjoy the whole service, and then run off without paying like a total douchebag?”



Lawson didn’t respond.



He stayed kneeling there, hunched over in silence, completely still—deep in thought.


Chapter 9: Legend of the Golden Techniques
==================================================

Back Then, Before the Power



Brian returned to the office with the thousand bucks. As he passed by Colin’s door, he slowed down and gave a casual greeting.



“Hey, Colin. You doing alright?”



Colin didn’t even look up. He sat there, leaned back in his chair, legs crossed. His voice came out light—flat, distant.



“Good. Thanks.”



That was it.



His tone wasn’t rude, but there was a kind of wall behind it. A quiet authority. Maybe even boredom. Like everything around him was just mildly dull.



———



Later that night, Brian dragged his tired body back home.



He stripped off his tank top and lazily flung it toward the washing machine. It missed and landed right in the trash can next to it. He didn’t even flinch. Whatever.



He dropped onto his couch, arms folded behind his head. One foot kicked up over the top cushion, the other lying flat. Just breathing. Not asleep. Just… out of energy.



His eyes burned.



He’d overused the golden eyes today. The flickering, scanning, pulsing light—no matter how sharp they looked to others, they drained him fast. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but just to shut everything out. To let the strain fade a little.



His mind started drifting.



By now, he was making tens of thousands a month. He was a higher-up at a publicly traded company. His name had weight. His career was solid.



And yet… it all seemed to trace back to one person.



Colin.



The one who gave him a shot. Who pulled him up the ladder. Who saw something in him back then, and kept opening doors.



Brian stared up at the ceiling.



They went way back—years before the titles, the suits, the golden techniques. Back to when they were just two skinny kids at some average elementary school.



He could still picture the playground. Sunlight. Dust. Colin’s goofy little run. The way they’d chase each other across the field like idiots, laughing so hard their sides hurt.



No status. No pressure. Just freedom.







The Giant in First Grade



It started with a memory.



Back on that elementary school field—dust in the air, sun blazing down—Colin and a bunch of kids were just messing around after lunch. Everything was innocent, normal. Until he showed up.



A massive kid walked onto the field.



Same grade, supposedly. But this kid? Easily five feet tall—at least twice the size of everyone else. Nobody knew if it was genetics, hormones, or just too much steak at home. He looked like a middle schooler who got lost.



His name? Brian couldn’t remember. Not even a hint. So for now, let’s just call him Dudu—short for “douchebag.”



Dudu didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to.



He walked straight over to Colin.



No warning, no reason—just started picking on him. Maybe it was Colin’s face. Maybe it was the way he stood. Who knows. But Colin didn’t back down. He threw a few punches—fast little swings from a scrawny first grader.



Didn’t land a single one.



Dudu, with zero effort, lifted a leg and kicked Colin so hard he flew ten feet across the playground. Slammed into the dirt. A moment later—blood.



Brian didn’t even think.



He just ran in. Full sprint. No hesitation.



He leapt at Dudu and started swinging like a madman. It actually turned into a fight—ten, maybe fifteen rounds. Brian wasn’t bad for a kid.



But the ending was the same.



One kick. Ten feet. Blood.



Now both of them were lying there, side by side, wheezing on the ground. Faces smeared with dirt, blood in their mouths, no pride left to speak of.



And Dudu… that monster… he started walking toward them.



Slow. Heavy steps.



Like some kind of schoolyard god of destruction. No mercy. No logic. Just force.



Unstoppable.







Gold in the Dirt



Dudu stood over them like a king, sneering down at their broken little bodies.



“You two weaklings are pathetic,” he laughed, loud and nasty. “I could beat both of you into a pile of crap—with one hand!”



He didn’t even have to gesture. Ten feet behind him sat a real pile of dog shit—fresh, fat, and steaming under the sun. Flies were buzzing around it like they’d been invited to a buffet. Honestly? The whole thing needed a censor blur.



Colin stood up.



Slowly. Stiffly. He brushed the dirt off his shirt. Not for pride—just instinct.



Brian tried to rise too, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. That last kick wrecked him. All he could do was lie there and watch.



Colin stepped forward.



Something shifted.



His body was small, but his focus sharpened like a blade. His brain kicked into overdrive—neurons firing like sparks inside a machine pushed past its limit. If you could see inside his head, it’d look like a supercomputer melting down from pure effort.



Then—just as a breeze passed—Colin smirked.



And said it.



“If you like shit so much… why don’t you go eat that one over there?”



The words weren’t just words.



As they left his mouth, golden energy shimmered in the air. Letters—real, glowing, golden English letters—came flying out like bullets. Like magic with punctuation.



They zipped straight toward Dudu and slammed into his chest.



For a second, nothing happened.



Then Brian’s eyes went wide.



He couldn’t believe it.That was the first Golden Technique ever born in this world.The very first one—Golden Speech.



Colin’s favorite move. His signature. The only technique on Earth that couldn’t be dodged, blocked, or reasoned with. The one that hit your mind harder than your body.



Brian didn’t say a word.



He just stared at Colin—like he could see the next legend rising up from the dirt.







The Installation



Colin’s words didn’t just hit Dudu’s chest—they entered him.



The golden letters melted into his skin, then flowed through his nervous system like coded instructions. As they reached his brain, something eerie happened: the words turned into logic. Syntax. Belief.



The data etched itself into his brain’s storage system, altering his memory and rewriting his understanding. What had been a random insult now became a meaningful truth—one that made total sense to him.



His brain cells tried to resist.



They really did.



But… Dudu wasn’t exactly the sharpest kid in class. His neurons weren’t fast enough. His system lacked firewall.



So the logic slipped through.



Like clean code passing validation, the new belief installed itself and began running—flawlessly.



A few seconds passed.



Then, slowly, Dudu turned his head.



He saw the blurred object ten feet away. The pile.The one with flies still buzzing over it.



Something clicked.



He remembered that smell. That… flavor. A nostalgic joy washed over him, like rediscovering your favorite childhood snack. It had been so long. So very long.



A smile spread across his face.



Without hesitation, he ran over, dropped to a squat in front of the pile, and reached out with both hands.



He picked it up like it was something sacred. Something beautiful.



Held it right under his nose and took a long, deep sniff.



“Mm…”



His whole face lit up with satisfaction.



Then—grinning—he raised it with both hands, like it was a fresh burger straight off the grill, and took a giant bite.



“OH YEAH!” he shouted, mouth full. “So GOOD!”







The Legend Begins Here



Dudu was still going at it—chewing, chomping, savoring.



His face was lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. He took big, proud bites like he was eating a five-star meal.



And that’s when the screaming started.



The other kids—dozens of them—burst into chaos.Shrieking, crying, tripping over each other, sprinting off the field like they were running from a monster.



Some yelled. Some just froze in shock. A few even threw up.



Teachers came running from all directions.



“WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”



Three adults tackled Dudu to the ground, trying to pry the rest of the blurred object from his hands. But Dudu wouldn’t let go. He thrashed like a wild animal, still trying to get that last disgusting bite in.



“I’M NOT DONE!” he screamed.



One teacher actually fainted.



By the time the school had fully descended into madness, both an ambulance and a psychiatric van were pulling up to the front gate.



Sirens howled.



Someone shouted over the loudspeaker for all students to return to their classrooms and avoid looking out the windows.



———



But on the edge of the field, away from the noise, two small boys stood quietly.



Colin smiled.



It wasn’t smug.It wasn’t proud.It was… innocent.



A soft, dreamy grin—like something out of a storybook. Almost angelic.



He walked over and held out a hand.



Brian looked up, still aching, still stunned. He reached out and grabbed Colin’s hand.



Colin helped him up.



Without a word, the two of them turned and started walking.



Colin gently supported him, one arm over Brian’s shoulder.



Together, they made their way back toward the classroom—like none of the chaos had ever happened.



———



Back in class, the bell rang like nothing was wrong.



Colin sat in front of Brian, quietly turning around in his seat.



He stared at Brian for a long second, eyes scanning up and down—like he was evaluating something.



Then, with total confidence, Colin said:



“Brian, your eyes are really big. And honestly, you’re pretty good-looking. Almost as handsome as me. Maybe slightly less.”



He grinned.



“But I think you’re smart too. Like… really smart. High IQ. You’ve definitely got what it takes to learn a Golden Technique.”



Brian blinked. “What?”



Colin leaned in just a little.



“You should try the Golden Eyes. I think it suits you.”



And just like that, the seed was planted.



Brian lit up.



“YEAH!!” he shouted, jumping to his feet.



“I’m gonna train my own Golden Technique! One that’s totally mine!”



He jumped again, spinning around in pure excitement.



The entire class turned to stare.



Kids blinked. A few whispered. Most looked confused.



Nobody knew why Brian was so hyped all of a sudden—why he was dancing in the middle of the room like he’d won the lottery.



But Brian didn’t care.



He didn’t hear their whispers.Didn’t notice their stares.



He was too busy being happy.



Simple, dumb, honest joy.







When Roads Diverge



After that day, Dudu was never seen again.



Some said he moved to another city. Others whispered he was checked into a lunatic asylum deep in the hills.



No one really knew.No one really asked.



———



Time passed fast.



Brian finished elementary school, then middle school. And through all those years… he still hadn’t mastered the Golden Eyes.



He tried. He believed. But it never came.



Meanwhile, Colin had gone far—very far.



He kept developing his Golden Techniques. What started as one strange, brilliant ability had grown into a whole system—dozens of unique moves.



Golden Eyes.Golden Tongue.Golden Bow.Even one called Golden Dick.(Yes. That exists. Nobody talks about it, but it’s real.)



Colin was no longer just some gifted kid. He became a man with power, mystery, and reach. The kind people whispered about, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything anymore.



And Brian?



He and Colin—childhood best friends, BFFs, inseparable—slowly drifted apart.



Different schools. Different paths. Different lives.



Colin changed.



From that innocent, sharp-eyed boy on the playground, he became someone colder. More distant. Maybe even arrogant.



But maybe that was what power did to people. Or maybe it was just the way the world worked.



Colin eventually built his own company—Humble Inc.—which later evolved into the powerhouse known as Humble Organization.



And because of their shared past, Colin gave Brian a seat at the table. No questions asked.



Of course, Brian wasn’t just a charity case. He earned his place.He worked hard. He had talent. He got things done.



But that childhood connection?That mattered too.



———



Brian sat on the couch.



Eyes open now. Mind still floating somewhere in the past.



He exhaled.



Then blinked.



“…Should I just make instant noodles today?” he muttered. “Or go get McDonald’s?”



He thought about it for a second.



Then stood up.



———



A few minutes later, Brian stepped out into the street.



Shirtless.



Totally forgot to put one on.



But he didn’t care.



All those years at the gym had paid off—his body was lean, toned, and pretty damn sexy.



As he walked down the block toward McDonald’s, more than a few women turned to look.



Some did double takes.



One nearly walked into a parking meter.



Brian didn’t notice.



Or maybe… he did.



———



He turned down a small side street.



That’s when someone passed him—a really short guy, barely five feet tall.



Brian blinked.



Something about that guy felt… familiar.



Then it hit him.



Dudu.



After all these years—he hadn’t grown an inch.



Turns out, Dudu wasn’t a giant back then.He’d just hit puberty early… and then stopped.



Before Brian could even call out his name, Dudu slipped into a nearby alley.



Then came the sounds.



Thuds.Kicks.Fists landing on flesh.



And Dudu’s voice—strained and desperate:



“Please! Don’t hurt me! I’ll give you everything I have! I swear—just don’t hit me anymore!”


Chapter 10: Path to the Golden Eyes
==================================================

Fast Food and Flashbacks



Brian sat in a McDonald’s, slowly biting into his McNuggets and taking sips of Sweet Tea. After a long, exhausting day of work, there was something weirdly satisfying about eating a greasy, unhealthy meal. It felt like one of the few real pleasures left in life.



As he ate, his mind drifted back—to those early days, way before the power. Before people called him Golden Eyes. Back then, nothing came easy.



It might seem now like the ability was something he was born with. But that’s only what people on the outside saw. The truth was, it came from a long, brutal process. One that almost broke him.



His thoughts went back to one summer during high school.



He and Colin were sitting in another McDonald’s, just like now. Back then, they ordered Big Nuggets and talked for hours.



“I’ve been training for months,” Brian had said. “Still can’t get the golden eyes. Seriously, man. Is there some secret you’re not telling me?”



Colin stayed calm, as always. “You have to focus. Like, really focus. Put all your attention into your eyes. Every bit of brainpower you’ve got—channel it into one single point.”



He paused, thinking how to explain it. “It’s hard to put into words, but if you do it right, you’ll feel something strange. Like a wave moving through your whole body. First from top to bottom, then bottom to top. And if your focus is sharp enough, there’ll be a split-second where something clicks. Like a soft ‘ding’ in your mind, and a flash of light behind your eyes.”



“That’s when you know you’ve touched it. The golden technique.”



Brian had blinked at him. “Jesus Christ… That made a lot of sense… and also zero sense at the same time.”



He sighed, then smirked. “Alright. I’ll give it a shot. I’ll try your weird eye meditation thing, Boss.”



Obsessed



After that day, the neighborhood gained a new local weirdo—someone who would squat in the same spot all day, not moving, not talking. Sometimes he’d even fall asleep while squatting, head drooping forward like a scarecrow about to tip over.



Summer burned the city alive.On a blazing afternoon, inside a nearly empty subway train, Brian locked his focus straight ahead. He was trying to concentrate all his energy into his eyes—just like Colin had taught him.



A few minutes later, a girl sitting across from him suddenly stood up and slapped him hard across the face. She looked about nineteen, maybe twenty—dressed in a tiny crop top that barely covered her chest, with ripped jean shorts and fishnet stockings. Her cleavage was practically out in the open, and her tone was furious.



“You sick bastard! You’ve been staring at my tits this whole time—fuck you!”



Before Brian could even react, she lifted her foot and stabbed the sharp heel of her stiletto right into the inside of his thigh.



He screamed, jumped back, and bolted out of the train as soon as the doors opened at the next stop.



Autumn drifted in, slow and dreamy.The trees turned red, and the wind scattered maple leaves through the air like floating fire. Brian climbed into a massive tree in the middle of a residential street. He perched himself on a thick branch and stared forward without blinking. He stayed up there for days and nights, not eating, not sleeping.



Eventually, a police car pulled up below. Two officers stepped out, shining flashlights into the branches.



“We got reports someone’s been spying from this tree,” one of them shouted. “Neighbors say you’ve been watching their house for days. Might be a robbery setup… or maybe peeping… or maybe just some one-sided love stalker nonsense. Either way, get down now—you’re coming with us for questioning.”



Winter came crashing down.On one of the coldest nights of the year, snow blanketed the city. No one was out. Snow on the ground was over a foot thick. Brian had been squatting in the corner of a street all day, so still that he was now nearly buried under the snow. Only two eyes were visible, wide open and unmoving, peeking out from the white.



Around midnight, a young couple walked by and sat down on the bench right in front of him. They started chatting, their breath fogging in the air. Over the next few hours, the conversation got more intimate. They held hands. Hugged. Kissed.



Eventually, the guy slipped a hand into the girl’s coat, gently grabbing one of her breasts through her top. He didn’t rush—just kept softly squeezing, letting his fingers pinch and brush over her nipple, teasing it lightly. She didn’t push him away. In fact, she leaned in closer, eyes half-closed, breathing slower.



She climbed into his lap and straddled him. Their bodies started moving—her squatting in a steady rhythm, his hands on her waist, pulling her in, pushing deeper with each motion. The tension rose, their breathing quickened, and they lost themselves in the moment—oblivious to everything around them.



And just like that, in the middle of the freezing night, they were completely unaware that two wide, snow-covered eyes were watching from just a few feet away.



As they neared climax, the girl suddenly froze.



“Holy fuck… someone’s been watching us. This whole time.”



The guy turned his head.



Both of them went pale.



Just behind the bench, they saw him—Brian, buried under snow, unmoving, his face blank and eyes wide open. The snow had covered everything but those two haunting eyes.



They screamed. Without saying another word, they scrambled to grab whatever they could—purses, handbags, maybe a backpack—and ran off into the night. They didn’t even look back, convinced they’d just been watched by some snow-covered pervert from a horror movie.



And just like that, the years went by.



Brian graduated from college. He even got a job at the Humble Organization.



But even after all that time…



He still hadn’t unlocked the golden eyes.



Bruised and Enlightened



In the past few years, Brian had beaten up all kinds of people—good guys, bad guys, it didn’t matter. He did it all in the name of the Humble Organization.



But one day, during a routine debt collection job, he ran into someone truly formidable. The fight didn’t go well. Brian got completely wrecked. He was knocked out cold and rushed to the hospital, barely hanging on.



When Colin came to visit him, Brian lay in bed, looking ashamed. But he wasn’t ashamed about losing the fight—he was ashamed he couldn’t complete the mission.



“I’m sorry, Boss,” he said softly. “I failed the Organization. I couldn’t even get that three hundred bucks back.”



He paused.



“I’m just too weak…”



Colin stood beside him, arms crossed. Then he spoke with calm authority.



“If you fully master the Golden Eyes, your power will increase by N times.”



He paused for dramatic effect.



“And that N is greater than or equal to 2.”



Brian stared at him.



He was amazed.



Not only did it sound profound—it sounded scientific. That level of philosophical precision… that beautifully empty number… it was random, but it made sense. Somehow.



Brian nodded deeply. He looked like he’d just understood the secret of life.



“Boss… I get it now. I’ve learned so much from you. I hope I can keep learning from you forever.”



Colin gave a slight nod and gently patted Brian on the shoulder.



Unfortunately, that was the exact shoulder that had been broken during the fight.



Brian’s face twisted in pain. It felt like someone stabbed him with a red-hot spear. But he didn’t say a word. He just smiled and clenched his teeth—he couldn’t let his Boss know. Couldn’t let him realize he’d just accidentally made things worse.



Brian respected Colin too much. He would rather suffer in silence than let the man feel guilty.



Colin, completely unaware, continued, “You don’t always have to push yourself too hard. Sometimes, it’s okay to relax.”



He paused again, thoughtfully.



“This weekend, you should take a walk by the beach. It’s summer. There’ll be lots of girls. A lot of beautiful ones. You should go take a look.”



Brian’s eyes lit up.



He nodded quickly, inspired. The Boss was right—again. Every sentence he spoke sounded like a quote from an ancient book of wisdom.



Brian grabbed his phone the second Colin left the room. He started searching: “Which beaches have the hottest girls this weekend.”



His soul had already flown to the coastline.



He couldn’t wait for the weekend to arrive.



A Breeze, A Click



The weekend arrived quickly, and Brian’s injuries had mostly healed. More or less.



He hopped on his beloved motorcycle and blasted down the highway, heading straight toward the beach. The hot wind whipped past him as the coastline came into view. The air was warm, salty, and sweet. The beach was packed—an ocean of people. And with them, came waves of bikini-clad girls running, jumping, laughing under the sun.



Of course, where there were beautiful girls, there were also greasy middle-aged men squatting not too far away, pretending to check their phones or read magazines, all while sneakily watching. Some of them were clearly just quietly waiting for something to slip off… to expose their goodies… or whatever.



Brian found a nice spot and set up a beach chair. He slid into it, leaned back, and let his sunglasses drop into place. The sun warmed his skin. The ocean breeze cooled it down again. He wasn’t even trying to think too deeply. Life was good. Sand, sun, wind—and girls everywhere.



Hours passed in a blur. The sun had started its descent, dipping lower into the horizon. The beach, still crowded, now had a different feel. The golden light softened. The wind picked up slightly. The vibe turned from chaotic and playful… to peaceful and romantic.



Brian casually glanced forward.



That’s when he saw her.



A tall, long-legged beauty in a soft pink bikini. She stood against the golden sunset, the ocean wind playing with her hair, tossing it lightly across her shoulders. She wasn’t dancing, or doing anything special—just standing there, looking out to sea. She looked elegant. Confident. All woman.



She was exactly his type.



Then, it happened.



A sudden blast of wind howled through the beach. Sand kicked up into the air, umbrellas ripped loose and went flying, towels twisted into the sky like flapping flags. One guy’s toupee spun through the air in slow motion like a seagull with no wings.



The girl raised her arms to shield her eyes from the sandstorm. Her hair whipped wildly around her face. Then, without warning, the knot behind her bikini top came loose. The entire top tore free and flew up into the sky like a pink flag of surrender.



Brian stared.



Right in front of him was a living statue—like the Venus de Milo, but real. Natural. Moving.



Her breast, full and perky, caught the fading sunlight like a marble sculpture. Her areola was a soft pink, about the size of a quarter—just right. Not too big. Not too small. Not exaggerated. Just perfect.



And in that instant, Brian saw everything.



He saw the double-helix of DNA spiraling endlessly in time. He saw a fish blowing bubbles deep in the sea. He saw the moment a primitive creature crawled out of the ocean and touched land for the first time. He saw a baby crying, and the warmth of a mother’s embrace. He saw life.



He saw the source of life itself.



A current ran through his body—from head to toe. He tingled all over.



Then the current reversed—from toe to head. Something clicked inside him. His spine straightened. His brain lit up.



That sensation—was this it?



Was this the “click” that Colin had told him about?



The moment of connection. Of awakening.



The Spark of Soda



The scene cut back to Brian’s office.



He stood at the sink, splashing cold water on his face. After a few moments, he looked up at his reflection in the mirror and let out a long, heavy sigh.



Turns out, that feeling he had at the beach—that rush, that spark, that cosmic “click”… it wasn’t the Golden Eyes.



It was just a hard-on.



Just a dumb biological reaction. A blood flow thing.



Nothing more.



He walked over to the mini-fridge, grabbed a bottle of Coca-Cola, and leaned back against the counter. He cracked it open and took a sip. His thoughts were all over the place. A little disappointed. A little embarrassed. But mostly… scared.



Scared that he wasn’t the chosen one.Scared he wasn’t meant to unlock the Golden Technique.Scared that maybe he just wasn’t built for greatness.



At that moment, Colin walked into the office kitchen.



Without a word, he opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of Pepsi, and stood next to Brian—also leaning against the counter, bottle in hand, like nothing mattered.



Colin spoke casually, like he was just thinking out loud.



“You know something?” he said. “Scientific research shows a bottle of Pepsi has 48 grams of sugar. Coca-Cola only has 46.”



He turned the bottle in his hand.



“That’s just a 2-gram difference. But Pepsi always tastes way sweeter, right? Way more satisfying. You feel that?”



Brian furrowed his brow.



He honestly didn’t care about this kind of sugary science talk.



Then Colin handed him the bottle of Pepsi.



“Stop drinking Coke,” he said. “From now on, just drink Pepsi.”



He took a sip of his own bottle.



“More sugar makes your brain more excited. Fires up your nerves. Anytime I hit a wall mentally, I take a sip of Pepsi and boom—clarity.”



He nodded toward Brian. “Try it.”



Brian didn’t argue. He grabbed the Pepsi, and without thinking, tossed the Coca-Cola into the trash.



He raised the Pepsi like it was a beer and started chugging. Full-on tilt, like a man downing liquor. In just a few seconds, he drank the whole thing—every last drop.



Then came the burp.



BURP!



“Wooooo!!” he shouted. “That’s the good stuff!”



Suddenly, he felt something shift inside his body.



A rush of dopamine hit him like a truck. Happiness surged through his brain. The so-called “happy fat-guy soda” was not a myth—it was absolutely real.



His whole body lit up with excitement. Energy surged through him like lightning. And then it happened.



That feeling.



The same sensation Colin once described—a wave rushing from top to bottom, then bottom to top. A burst of electricity shot through his nervous system, and his brain suddenly felt crystal clear.



And in that moment, his eyes changed.



They glowed faintly.



A soft golden shimmer.



He could see everything.







The Value of N



Not long after that, the same formidable opponent who had once beaten Brian now owed the Humble Organization another hundred dollars. And once again, Brian was sent to collect.



The two old rivals finally crossed paths again.



But this time, Brian stood tall, eyes steady, not even looking the guy in the face. He was filled with confidence. The Golden Eyes had fully awakened.



They clashed immediately.



Brian could see every move coming—every step, every strike—before it even happened. Although his opponent still had the edge in raw power and speed, Brian’s vision and timing completely controlled the pace of the fight. Every hit he landed punished his opponent harder than the last.



Before twenty exchanges passed, Brian slipped behind his enemy and raised his hand.



With a clean, sharp chop, he struck the back of the man’s neck.



CRACK.



The spine broke. The man collapsed hard on the ground.



Brian stood still, stunned. That hit was much stronger than he’d intended. More precise. More devastating. He had underestimated how much power he now held.



The man twitched on the ground, gasping. With the last ounce of breath, he tried to spit out some final words:



“Son of a—”



But he never finished the sentence. He died right there.



Killed over a hundred-dollar debt.



Brian looked down, a little embarrassed. “Oops,” he muttered, then reached into the man’s pocket and pulled out the hundred bucks. Mission complete.



On his way back, he remembered something Colin once told him:




“Once you master the Golden Eyes, your power will increase by N times. And that N is always greater than or equal to 2.”




Brian took a moment to assess himself. He felt like he was about 2.5 times stronger than before. So… N = 2.5.



Of course, Colin had only said that line casually—just some random words thrown into the air without much thought. He’d already forgotten he even said it. But Brian took it seriously. The fact that his actual power matched that number made him admire Colin even more. His boss wasn’t just smart—he was a prophet.



That night, in the Humble Organization’s office, Colin, Michael, and Brian sat around a round table deciding what to eat.



Michael said, “How about some pizza?”



Colin nodded. “Sure.”



Brian asked, “How many slices should I get?”



Colin replied casually, “Just get N slices. Should be enough for the three of us.”



Brian nodded and went downstairs to buy it.



He came back a little later with a pizza box in hand.



Michael opened the box, blinked, then frowned.



“What the hell…” he said, staring at it.



Inside were just 2.5 slices of pizza.



Colin raised an eyebrow and leaned over.



“You’re being weird again, Brian. What the hell is this?”



Brian scratched his head, confused. “You said N slices. I calculated N equals 2.5.”



Colin looked completely baffled. “Come on, man. Stop being so weird. I just said a number. I wasn’t being literal.”



The room fell into awkward silence.



Michael slowly adjusted his golden-rimmed Glasses, then stood up with a small smile. “I guess this is what it’s like when geniuses try to do normal things. Their logic just ain’t the same as ours.”



He headed for the door.



“You guys split the 2.5 slices. I’ll go grab some McDonald’s and be back soon. We’ll eat together after that.”



Then he walked out the office, leaving the geniuses to their math and their mystery pizza.


Chapter 11: Quest of Bottled Pepsi (Part 1)
==================================================

The Mission Begins



Michael stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his golden-rimmed glasses and brushing the dust off his polished leather shoes. He straightened the collar of his crisp white button-up shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles in his dark slacks. It was a new day, but this one came with a special assignment. His boss—Colin, the mysterious and cold leader of the Humble Organization—had given him a mission.



Not to eliminate a rival.Not to infiltrate enemy territory.But to go outside… and buy a bottle of Pepsi.



Michael turned around and barked, “Let’s move out!” Behind him stood five of his underlings, each one less impressive than the last. Together, they stepped into the hustle and bustle of the city streets.



Their first stop was a local deli. But to their disappointment, the shelves carried only Coca-Cola.



They quickly moved on, checking store after store, but the result was always the same: rows of Coca-Cola, but no Pepsi in sight.



Among his team was one underling who stood out—but not in a good way. He looked incredibly dumb, and yet funny in a way that made it hard to stay mad at him. His lips were outrageously thick and puffy, like someone who had eaten too much chili pepper and suffered permanent swelling. People called him Sausage-Lips.



Sausage-Lips scratched his head and asked, “Captain Lam, why can’t we just grab a Coca-Cola? They’re 100% the same.”



Michael stopped walking.



He turned to face him slowly, his face dead serious. “You naïve fool,” he snapped. “Our boss is a perfectionist. He notices everything. If we bring him the wrong drink—if we even dare bring him a Coke—he will explode in wrath. Do you want to die over a soda, you idiot?!”



Sausage-Lips immediately threw both hands over his massive lips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it,” he whimpered. His voice was muffled behind his comically oversized mouth.



Michael sighed, calming down a little. “It’s fine… As long as we keep trying, we’ll find one.”



They continued walking, and for a while, everything was quiet.



But Sausage-Lips just couldn’t help himself. “Captain,” he said again, “I mean… is Colin really that scary? He doesn’t seem that strong.”



Michael stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned his head, his expression unreadable.



“Our boss might not be physically strong—he might not even be a good match for some medium-level fighters. But his intelligence… it’s vast. Beyond your imagination.”



Then, with a subtle shift in his tone, Michael added, “Oh, I remember what happened three years ago. That’s something you might want to hear.”



He glanced at the team. “Our boss is by no means a forgiving person. So, if you guys are interested… I can share the story about what terrible thing happened to me back then.”



The other five underlings all went quiet. Their faces turned pale. And then… they nodded.



Michael adjusted his glasses and looked up at the sky, his voice low and heavy.



“Then listen…”







The Sandwich Incident



Three years ago, the clock turned back to a gloomy afternoon inside the Humble Organization’s office. Michael had just finished his morning task and returned to the office, worn out and starving. The kind of hunger that made even leftover crumbs seem divine.



As he stepped into the quiet space, he noticed something on a nearby desk—a half-eaten sandwich. He glanced around. Not a soul in sight. He figured someone probably forgot to toss it out, or left it behind by accident. The sandwich was still fresh.



Driven by hunger and not wanting to waste good food, he walked up, looked around one last time to make sure no one was coming, and then—bite after bite—devoured the entire thing in under thirty seconds.



Just then, a bathroom door creaked open. Colin emerged, wiping his hands, casually scanning the room. His eyes landed on Michael.



“Captain Lam,” Colin asked, “have you seen my sandwich? I’ve been looking for it—thought I left it right here.”



Michael, caught off guard, let out a slightly awkward chuckle. “I believe I’ve eaten your sandwich.”



Colin’s expression dimmed, his mood visibly shifting. A shadow clouded over his face. But Michael, oblivious to the change, casually returned to organizing his papers.



Moments later, Colin muttered coldly, “I heard a rumor… that your feet stink.”



Michael, thinking it was a joke, laughed loudly. “Ha! I’ve heard some rumors too—that your breath isn’t exactly pleasant.”



Still smiling, he continued tidying up his desk, humming one of his favorite songs—completely unaware of the storm about to break behind him.







The Taste of the Sock



Colin had finally had enough. He looked at Michael and said in a heavier tone—not exactly a command, but not light either:



“Why don’t you take off your sock and give it a sniff? See if your feet really stink.”



As he spoke, a light glowed inside his mouth. The words shimmered gold—each letter floating out and gently shooting into Michael’s body.



This was the legendary Golden Speech—Colin’s signature technique. A powerful ability known across the Kung Fu world, feared by all the formidable fighters.



Michael didn’t even question it. He sat down, pulled off his sock, gave it a twist, and brought it to his nose. The moment the smell hit him, his face twisted like he’d just sniffed a rotting animal.



“It really does stink,” he mumbled, almost gagging.



Colin leaned back and added, “Why don’t you taste it too? Just to be sure.”



Again, light flickered inside his mouth as golden letters floated into Michael’s body.



Michael paused this time. His face said it all. His rational mind was screaming at him to stop—trying to hold back the strange logic starting to form in his head. This was getting out of control.



Colin gave a small shrug and said, “Go on. Try it now.”



His voice was calm, but the glowing light inside his mouth burned brighter. The golden letters this time came out faster, sharper, more urgent.



That pushed Michael over the edge.



His doubt disappeared. He had to know. Curiosity overwhelmed him like it was the most important question in the world.



What does his sock taste like?



He stuffed it into his mouth.



Right away, the taste hit him—salty, bitter, sour. It was awful.



But something inside him pushed him further. He licked it. Bit it. Rolled it around. The flavor exploded—burnt plastic, sewage, vomit, rotting meat, moldy cheese, expired milk—all smashed together like the worst thing he’d ever tasted.



Goosebumps broke out over his arms. His stomach flipped. But he didn’t stop.



He needed to know everything.



Then finally, his body gave up.



Michael’s eyes rolled back. His balance failed. One knee dropped to the floor—but somehow, he stayed upright. Still kneeling. Still stiff. Like a fallen soldier refusing to collapse all the way.



To him, it felt like an eternity of torment.



In reality, he lasted less than thirty seconds.







Golden-Rimmed Glasses



Sausage Lips scratched his head and began tearing up as he walked alongside Michael and the others.



“I didn’t think Captain Lam would die like this… I feel so sorry…”



Michael turned and glared at him, then slapped him hard across the face.



“I’m alive and kicking, you idiot! What are you even saying?!”



Sausage Lips clutched his swollen lips and blinked, confused. “Oh right… you’re still alive. My bad—I got the wrong idea.”



He rubbed his head again and added, “But hey, maybe one day I’ll unlock a golden technique too—maybe something like Golden Lips.”



Michael didn’t hesitate—he slapped him again.



“Naive fool,” Michael said coldly. “Even someone like me, with a high IQ, hasn’t been able to master a single golden technique all these years. You think you can do it?”



He paused, then looked around at his crew and lowered his voice.



“Let me tell you a truth most people don’t know. Every golden technique you’ve ever seen—every last one—was created by Colin.”



The group gasped in unison.



“Wait… for real? You’re saying our boss invented all of them?”



Michael nodded and sighed. “Yeah. You guys are still too young to understand. Anyone who knows a golden technique—no matter who they are—has some connection to Colin. He’s the origin. The creator. That’s why he’s on a different level.”



Sausage Lips stared in awe, his fat lips slightly parted.



Michael adjusted his gold-framed glasses and added with a smirk, “Even though I couldn’t learn any golden technique myself, Colin still gave me a gift. These golden-rimmed glasses.”



He pointed to his frames.



“He told me, ‘You might not know the techniques, but if you wear these, people will mistake you for some harmless intellectual. They’ll underestimate you—and in battle, that means a free advantage.’”



The others looked at the glasses with newfound respect.



Michael nodded. “That’s why I wear them every day.”







Sock Attack



They kept walking down the road, heading toward the next store. As they moved along the sidewalk, Michael spoke up.



“You know, after that day when I tasted my nasty sock… it wasn’t all just pain and suffering. Something came out of it.”



He looked at the group and continued with a slight grin.



“A new technique was unlocked.”



The underlings looked surprised.



Michael nodded. “I realized how powerful my sock really is. That’s when I developed a new move—the Sock Attack.”



“I can shove my sock into someone’s mouth—hard—and in just seconds, the smell overwhelms them, shuts down their body, and takes them out of the fight. It’s been one of my signature moves over the years. I’ve taken down a lot of strong opponents with it.”



He looked ahead, eyes calm. “These days, when people hear the name Captain Lam, they think twice.”



The others all nodded, clearly impressed.



Sausage Lip, however, looked especially excited. His eyes were wide, and his thick lips curled up into a goofy smile.



“Captain, I’ve learned so much from you,” he said, voice full of admiration.







The Last Bottle



The group continued down the street, heading toward another store. As they passed a cozy-looking bakery with big glass windows, they stopped. Inside, the place looked clean and warm, filled with young people chatting over cakes and drinks.



But what caught their attention wasn’t the atmosphere—it was the sign at the entrance:



“We sell both Coca-Cola and Pepsi.”



All their eyes lit up. Without hesitation, they rushed inside and headed straight for the counter.



Unfortunately, the staff at the counter gave them some bad news.



“Sorry… someone just bought the last bottle of Pepsi.”



Disappointment hit them hard. Their faces fell in unison.



Meanwhile, Sausage Lip was looking around the room—clearly not paying attention. His eyes were scanning the girls sitting around the bakery.



Michael walked over and slapped him across the face.



“What the hell are you doing? We’re in crisis mode and you’re out here checking out girls?”



Before Sausage Lip could even explain, he suddenly pointed toward a nearby table and shouted, “Captain! Over there! I found it!”



Everyone turned.



At a table near the window sat six people. Right in the center was a guy who hadn’t shown up in any recent chapters—Canelo.



He was surrounded by five younger guys, each holding a bottle of soda, laughing and chatting.



And in Canelo’s hand… was a bottle of Pepsi—still sealed, untouched.



The thing they’d been searching for all day.



There it was. Right in front of them.


Chapter 12: Quest of Bottled Pepsi (Part 2)
==================================================

The Cola Conflict



Michael politely stepped up to Canelo’s table. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, held it in both hands, and offered it forward with a slight bow.



“Sir, would you be willing to sell me that bottle of Pepsi for twenty dollars? My boss is in urgent need of it. I hope you can help us out.”



Canelo didn’t look at him. He barely tilted his head, casting a quick glance at Michael’s neat outfit—golden-rimmed glasses, tucked-in shirt, shiny leather shoes. The type he hated the most: refined, proper, and polite.



Without a word, he reached over, snatched the bill from Michael’s hands, and casually slipped it into his pocket.



Then he said with a smug tone, “No way. No fucking way.”



Michael frowned. “Then why did you take my money?”



Canelo gave a sideways grin. “Your money? My money is mine. And your money… is also mine. Hahaha. Man, you really are a loser.”



That arrogant act flipped the atmosphere in an instant. In less than a minute, the entire bakery fell into chaos.



One of Canelo’s lackeys went flying through the air—he must’ve taken a heavy kick. He soared over several tables and crashed into the glass wall, shattering it with a thunderous smash. His body rolled onto the sidewalk outside, bloodied and limp.



Another thug swaggered over with a lit cigarette in hand. He aimed the glowing tip at Michael’s face, trying to burn him.



But before the ember got even an inch close, Michael’s arm moved like a whip. The back of his hand cracked across the thug’s face.



The guy slid backward like a hockey puck, skidding over the tiles until he hit the far wall with a dull thump.



His cheek swelled instantly. His lips quivered. He tried to hold in the tears, but they came anyway—along with something worse: a dark wet stain spreading across his pants.



The bakery exploded into a full-blown brawl. Customers screamed and scattered. Chairs, trays, and plates flew through the air. Even a few unlucky bystanders got caught in the storm, knocked out by airborne debris.







Sausage Lips



In the middle of the chaotic fight inside the bakery, Michael’s team had clearly taken the upper hand.



Right in the center of the store, Sausage Lips landed a wide low sweep, knocking down a thug who had been charging at him with a rusty iron pipe. The thug hit the floor hard. Sausage Lips quickly jumped on top of him, pinned his head down with one hand, and gave him two fast slaps with the other.



“You’re too weak!” he shouted. “I’m gonna teach you a real lesson today. Just earlier, I learned a new move from dear Captain Lam!”



The thug begged desperately, “Please… show some mercy. Don’t go too hard on me, I’m begging you!”



But Sausage Lips wasn’t listening. He kicked off his right shoe, pulled off his Hello Kitty sock, crumpled it into a tight ball, and stuffed it straight into the thug’s mouth.



“Sock Attack!!” he yelled.



A few seconds passed… nothing happened.



Sausage Lips stood frozen. Inside, his confidence crumbled. Why didn’t it work? he wondered.



The truth was simple—his sock wasn’t smelly at all. He changed socks every day, and they were always clean and fresh. There just wasn’t enough stench to deliver the same devastating effect Captain Lam had demonstrated.



As Sausage Lips hesitated, the gangster thug seized the moment. With a sudden kick, he knocked Sausage Lips off of him. Then, in one smooth motion, he slammed his palm on the floor, bounced back up, and swung the rusty iron pipe through the air. The pipe sliced downward with a sharp hiss, sparks flying from the speed and friction.



It landed right on the top of Sausage Lips’ head.



His skull split open like a cracked watermelon. Blood and flesh sprayed in all directions, splattering across the bakery’s walls and onto the stunned faces and clothes of nearby thugs.



The top half of Sausage Lips’ head was gone—only his lower jaw and his famously thick, swollen lips remained. His knees buckled. His body dropped hard to the ground.



The thug walked up, kicked Sausage Lips’ lifeless body once for good measure, then spat out the sock in disgust.



He looked down at the twisted figure, grunted, and launched a fat glob of phlegm into the air.



The spit arced perfectly—and landed right inside Sausage Lips’ wide open mouth.



“What the hell was that even supposed to be?” the thug muttered. “Sock Attack? Freakin’ clown.”







The Last Sip Struggle



Amid the chaos—smoke rising and debris flying through the air—Michael stood near the counter, his hand firmly gripping Canelo’s neck, pinning him up against the wall.



“Give it up,” Michael shouted. “Hand over the Pepsi. Now.”



Canelo clawed at Michael’s arm, struggling to break free. His legs kicked wildly in the air, but Michael didn’t budge. He wasn’t even sweating—completely calm.



With a steady tone, Michael said, “By now, you should realize we’re on different levels. You’re outmatched. Don’t waste any more time. Give me the Pepsi, and I’ll let you go.”



Canelo let out a dry laugh. “Over my dead body.”



Suddenly—before Michael could react—Canelo launched a disgusting counterattack. He spat a thick, yellow glob of phlegm straight toward Michael’s face at point-blank range.



But Michael tilted his head to the side at the last second. The phlegm missed him clean.



It continued flying forward—right into the eye of a man standing in the middle of the bakery.



The man had a ridiculous mustache, a skinny frame, and wore a kitchen apron. Clearly, he was the shop owner.



“Holy fuck, right in my eye!” he screamed.



Michael knew he had no time to waste.



He quickly slipped off his right shoe, pulled out a sock, and held it in the air. The sock dangled from his hand like a cursed relic—dark fumes practically visible around it. The smell wasn’t even necessary. Its appearance alone told you how dangerous it was.



Canelo’s eyes went wide. Actual tears began to fall. “No! Please—NO!”



Fear finally gripped him.



Without hesitation, Michael shoved the sock deep into Canelo’s mouth and clamped it shut with the same hand.



In less than three seconds, Canelo’s legs shot straight. His whole body stiffened.



And then—he passed out cold.



Michael didn’t even pause. He reached into Canelo’s pocket, grabbed the bottle of Pepsi, and held it in his hand at last.



After everything—the chaos, the injuries, the madness—they had finally secured the legendary bottle of Pepsi.







The Spit of Defeat



The bakery had finally returned to silence. Canelo and all his lackeys were knocked out cold, lying scattered across the floor like trash after a storm. They had been completely wiped out.



In the center of it all, Michael stood tall, holding the last bottle of Pepsi high above his head like a trophy. His four teammates turned toward him, their eyes lighting up. Victory was real. They had fought hard, and now… they had won.



Cheers erupted. One of them even had tears in his eyes.



Michael smiled. “This is our victory,” he declared. “They say justice always wins in the end—and they were right.”



The four lackeys crowded around him, their eyes fixed on the bottle as if it were a rare treasure. The moment felt pure. Unforgettable.



Until one of them suddenly froze.



His face went pale. His voice trembled.“Wait… look inside the bottle.”



His finger pointed shakily toward the side of the Pepsi bottle.



Everyone leaned in.



There it was.



Floating inside—clearly visible under the dim ceiling light—was a glob of spit. Thick, yellow, disgusting. Suspended right in the middle of the dark soda like a curse.



The group was struck like lightning. Shock exploded across their faces.



Michael slammed his fist down on the nearest table, shattering it into splinters.“That son of a bitch!” he growled. “Even at the edge of defeat, he managed to pull off one last disgusting move?”



Outside the broken window, the sun was setting. A faint orange glow spilled across the ruined street.



And in that light, Michael realized something—



After all the pain, the chaos, and the sacrifice…Today’s mission may have ended in failure.







The Long-Awaited Victory



Michael waved to his crew with a heavy sigh. “Let’s pull back, guys. It’s been a long day.”



They all walked out of the bakery, heads down, dragging their feet. As they stepped out the front door, one of the lackeys accidentally kicked something soft—Sausage Lips’ body. His oversized lips absorbed the blow, but no one even seemed to realize who it was.



As they gathered at the entrance, one of the guys suddenly turned back, glancing inside the shop like he’d forgotten something.



Michael asked, “What’s up? Leave something behind?”



The guy paused for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Nah… absolutely nothing important. We’re good.”



It was clear—they had completely forgotten about the dead Sausage Lips, lying cold on the floor behind them.



Out of nowhere, one of the lackeys dropped to his knees. He began pounding the concrete with both fists and started bawling uncontrollably. “Why? Why did we fight so hard and still fail to complete such an important mission?!”



Everyone stood in silence.



Then—he froze.



His eyes lit up. He pointed at something in the storm drain and shouted, “Captain! Look! There’s a Pepsi bottle in the gutter! I think it’s unopened!”



Michael dashed over, reached into the filthy water, and pulled out the bottle. But when he turned it around… he saw the back was smeared with dried feces.



The group looked at each other, stunned, unsure what to do next.



But Michael… he smiled.



Without hesitation, he ran back into the bakery, straight to the sink. He cranked the faucet and started scrubbing the bottle like his life depended on it—rinsing it again and again until the surface gleamed with a polished shine.



Then, holding it high with pride, he turned to his team and declared:



“Brothers! Our mission is complete.”



He raised the bottle like a trophy. “Let’s move out. Time to head back to the office.”







Mission Complete – Sort Of



Michael finally returned to the office. Inside the dim room sat the boss, Colin, arms crossed and legs casually propped up in a lazy cross.



Without saying a word, Michael stepped forward and handed over the Pepsi bottle.



Colin took it and said loudly, “Excellent job, Captain Lam. Very well done.”



A bead of sweat rolled down Michael’s forehead. He was nervous—nervous that Colin might figure out where exactly this bottle had come from. But he forced a smile and said cheerfully, “Just doing our job. I hope you don’t mind the mission took a little longer than expected.”



Colin waved it off. “It’s fine.”



Then, with one hand, he twisted the cap open—pshhh!—that satisfying fizz escaped with a crisp hiss. He removed the cap, brought the bottle up, and slowly licked from the side of the bottle up to the rim with his tongue… and then took the first sip.



“Ahhh,” he sighed. “So refreshing.”



Michael said nothing. Deep down, he made a silent vow: this secret—how they really got the bottle—he’d take it to his grave. No one could ever know.


Chapter 13: Humble Organization – The Absolute Authority
==================================================

The Mall Clash



Inside a nearly empty shopping mall, right in the center atrium, a tall and skinny young man was in the middle of a fight.



He wore a red tank top and a pair of Adidas athletic shorts, matched with black running shoes. His arms moved continuously, drawing circles in the air with both hands—almost like he was performing a Tai Chi routine. Or perhaps… executing some kind of mystical technique, like the legendary Heaven and Earth Shift.



From above—at a sharp 45-degree angle—someone came diving down at full speed, his leg extended in a deadly arc. The air around his toes sparked from the sheer force of the motion.That man was Canelo. And the move? His signature attack: Skyfall Kick.



But the guy on the ground—still calmly drawing circles—had something else prepared. Between his hands, a swirling vortex of air formed, catching Canelo’s Skyfall Kick midair and completely neutralizing its force.



Without hesitation, he grabbed Canelo’s leg with both hands and hurled him ten feet across the atrium.



Canelo hit the ground, rolled twice, and immediately sprang back to his feet. He landed in a wide stance, his body slightly crouched, breath heavy.



With a short laugh and a few deep pants, Canelo smirked.




“As expected… Robinson. That Tai Chi crap of yours lives up to the rumors.”




Robinson’s expression didn’t budge. He stared Canelo down and said coldly,




“Give it up. This shopping mall territory—we’re taking it back. Walk away now, and you won’t get hurt.”




Turns out, this was a turf war between two gang factions.Robinson’s crew was trying to reclaim this shopping mall to reestablish control and squeeze protection money from the businesses inside—much needed income for their crumbling finances.Meanwhile, Canelo was holding it down for his side, unwilling to let go of such a prime source of revenue.







Spin Kicks and Total Collapse



The battlefield wasn’t just a duel between two top-tier bosses—behind them, a dozen or so underlings from both sides were clashing in chaotic hand-to-hand combat.



Among the crowd, two individuals stood out—not necessarily for their skills, but for their looks.



The first was a man with an unbelievably long neck—at least five times longer than the average person’s. And not just long—it was thin, too. The guy towered at around two meters tall, looking like something straight out of a circus freak show.He was one of Robinson’s crew, and everyone called him Long Neck.



The second standout was a man with an enormous belly. His arms and legs were stick-thin, almost bony, but his stomach looked like he was six—no, maybe even nine—months pregnant.People didn’t bother giving him a cool nickname. They just called him The Male Pregnant Guy.



While the freakish fighters brawled in the background, Robinson suddenly spun in place—twice—and with the momentum, launched himself into the air.As he rose, he unleashed a powerful spinning kick straight into the gut of one of Canelo’s lackeys.The poor guy was launched like a rocket, flying upward until his head smashed into the ceiling panels. His skull got stuck, and the rest of his body dangled there like a ridiculous piñata.



From the look on Canelo’s face, it was obvious—his crew was getting completely wrecked.One by one, his underlings were either knocked out, injured, or kicked across the floor like rag dolls.



Seeing how bad things were going, Canelo panicked and shouted:




“Fall back, everyone! Retreat! RETREAT NOW!”




No sooner had the words left his mouth than a wave of terrified lackeys scattered, fleeing the shopping mall in pure chaos.



Canelo stayed in his fighting stance just a moment longer, watching the last of his allies vanish through the exit—Then, without hesitation, he spun around and sprinted out of the mall at full speed.



Robinson raised his hand triumphantly and shouted:




“Victory is ours!”








A New Order



Robinson took two quick steps forward and leapt onto a table about a meter high.



Standing tall above the crowd, he raised his voice and dramatically announced:




“From this day forward, the rules of this shopping mall have changed!”





“All shop owners—your protection fee will officially increase from ten percent of your monthly income… to eighteen percent.”




Gasps rippled through the bystanders.



But Robinson wasn’t finished. He raised one finger and continued, his tone theatrical and full of flair:




“In return, I promise you this—this mall will receive better, stronger, superior protection. We will use every ounce of our strength to ensure your safety… and the prosperity of your businesses!”




The way he spoke—grand, exaggerated, like a stage actor delivering his final monologue—left the room hanging somewhere between awe and disbelief.



The shopkeepers standing nearby looked stunned. Some shook their heads. Others began murmuring complaints.




“Business is already so hard these days…”“How are we supposed to survive with fees this high?”“What are we even paying for?”




Just then, a commotion broke out at the mall’s entrance.



A chief officer, dressed in full police uniform and cap, marched in flanked by a squad of officers.The store owners turned toward the sound—And for a brief moment, glimmers of hope appeared on their faces.



The chief walked straight toward Robinson.



Robinson gently stepped down from the table, landing without a sound. The two stood face to face, staring at each other in silence for a few seconds.



Then, the chief reached up and removed his police cap.



Underneath… was a bald head. He only had hair on the sides—and on one side, it had been grown out ridiculously long and combed all the way over the top of his head in a desperate, obvious combover.



The scene looked almost comedic.



But there was no mistaking it—this was Grayson, the local chief of police. Everyone in the district knew him.



Grayson broke into a wide smile and said cheerfully:




“Big Brother—congrats on claiming a new turf!”




Turns out—they were blood brothers.



At that moment, whatever hope the shop owners had… was completely shattered.



They knew Grayson all too well.A corrupt, shameless cop.And if there was one thing he loved more than his combover, it was working both sides of the law.







The Golden Eyes Arrive



Just then, another unexpected guest entered the mall.



He wore a black tank top, Nike athletic pants, and clean white sneakers.



It was none other than the man everyone had heard of—Brian, the Golden Eyes.



As Brian casually walked into the mall and made his way to Robinson’s side, some of the underlings took notice.



One of them leaned over to Robinson and asked:




“Hey Robinson, is this that younger brother you’re always bragging about?”




It wasn’t a weird question—Brian and Robinson looked strikingly similar. From their outfits to their height and build, they could’ve passed for twins.



But someone didn’t take that comment too well.



Grayson, the bald-headed chief officer with the tragic combover, suddenly snapped.




“The fuck you talking about?! I’m his little brother, motherfucker! That guy’s just some random punk off the street!”




The others looked around awkwardly.Honestly, Brian did look way more like Robinson than Grayson ever had.



Grayson looked nothing like him.He was shorter, visibly older, and his sad attempt at covering his baldness only made things worse. The more people stared, the harder it was to unsee it.



And yet, while that identity drama played out, one of the weirder underlings had already started to panic.



The Male Pregnant Guy—still sporting his grotesquely swollen belly—was clearly nervous the moment Brian stepped into the mall.Without saying a word, he quietly shuffled behind another lackey, trying to hide himself from view.



But Brian had already noticed.



He calmly approached and said:




“Come on now. You showed up at our nightclub last night, tried to get a girl, and skipped out without paying. You still owe us $150.”




Then, with a colder tone:




“Add the penalty fee. That’s $300. I’m here today on behalf of the Humble Organization… to collect.”




The moment that name was spoken—Humble Organization—a shiver rippled through the room.Everyone froze. That name wasn’t just familiar—it was dangerous. No one wanted to cross them.



But the Pregnant Guy acted out of fear.



While Brian’s attention seemed elsewhere for a split second, he suddenly pulled out a fruit knife and lunged forward in desperation.



Too slow.



Brian’s eyes flickered—just faintly—with golden light.



Then, without warning, his fist shot forward and punched straight through the man’s bloated stomach, tearing a hole clean through.



The Male Pregnant Guy collapsed on the spot.Dead. Instantly.







Zero Respect



What a brutal attack.



Even Grayson—usually cocky and careless—was completely stunned.He opened his mouth so wide in shock that his jaw just… came off.Literally. It dropped right off his face.



Panicking, he scrambled to catch it with both hands and awkwardly shoved it back into place.



Everyone stood frozen.No one moved.No one spoke.



And in that stunned silence, Brian walked away calmly—completely unbothered.



He strolled over to a nearby water fountain, turned the tap on, and slowly rinsed the blood off his hand and forearm. Every move was relaxed. Controlled.As if he’d just finished washing up after lunch.



Grayson, now fuming, clenched his teeth.Brian had just killed one of his brother’s men right in front of him—without warning, without permission.



He reached down toward his waist, fingers wrapping around the grip of his pistol.



But before he could draw, Robinson gently pressed a hand on his wrist and shook his head.




“Don’t do anything stupid,” he said quietly.“He’s from the Humble Organization. We still need to show them respect… We can’t afford to offend them lightly.”




Grayson pulled his hand back, reluctantly.



Brian, meanwhile, had already finished washing up.He walked slowly back into the center of the group, right up to Grayson.



He gave him a small, amused smile and said:




“Guns are for the weak.You really think a little pistol like that… could hurt me?”




Then Brian tilted his head back and laughed out loud—a bold, echoing laugh that lasted a few seconds.



After that, he looked straight at Grayson and said:




“To be honest?To me… you’re no different from a random bystander on the street.I mean it. A cop, a chief, a big-shot like you? In my eyes, you’re nothing.”“I show zero respect to you. Understand?”




Grayson’s face turned bright red.His fists clenched tight.His breathing grew heavier.



He took a step forward.



Brian stood his ground—calm, silent.He didn’t move.He didn’t dodge.He didn’t block.He didn’t even lift a finger to strike back.He just stood there, perfectly still, watching Grayson with golden eyes that flickered faintly.



Grayson threw the punch.A clean hit.A powerful, rage-fueled blow—Right across the face.




“AAHHH! DAMN, THAT HURT!!”




A voice cried out.



But it wasn’t Brian.



It was just some random guy who happened to be standing nearby—caught in the perfect angle between them.



Grayson had missed.Or rather, he couldn’t bring himself to hit Brian.So he hit someone else instead.



The poor guy collapsed to the floor, holding his face, groaning in pain.



Brian slid his hands into his pockets, turned slightly, and said with a calm grin:




“See ya, Mr. Chief Officer.”




And with that, he slowly walked out of the mall.







Humble Organization – The Absolute Authority



After Brian walked out of the mall, the room stayed silent for a few seconds—still tense, still stunned.



Then, one of the underlings finally spoke up, scratching his head with a confused look:




“Hey… Chief… why’d you punch one of our own guys?”




Grayson turned around, furious.




“Dickhead, no one said you were mute just ’cause you shut the hell up!”“You want me to punch you too, huh?!”




The underling immediately straightened up and shook his head innocently.




“Nope, sir.”




Suddenly—A fist smashed straight through the wall behind them, cracking the concrete and leaving a jagged hole.



It was Long Neck. His long, thin body was trembling, and tears streamed down his face.




“That pregnant guy… he was my brother,” he said, voice shaking.“We’d been through life and death together. We’ve known each other for years…”“And now he’s just—gone. Just like that.”




He clenched his fist tight, his face twisted with grief and rage.




“I won’t forgive them. I don’t care how powerful the Humble Organization is.I heard their boss—Colin—isn’t even that strong of a fighter!”





“If I ever see him on the street… I swear I’ll beat the living shit out of him!”




There was a long pause.



Robinson didn’t say something like “I understand how you feel.”He just stared at Long Neck for a few seconds, then sighed.




“That’s a stupid idea.”




He stepped a little closer, voice low and deliberate.




“You probably don’t even realize it… but you’ve never seen him in public, have you?”





“If my memory serves, he’s not just powerful—his golden speech can bend all of us combined like a toy. But that’s not all.”





“He’s crafty. He always hides himself behind the shadow.”





“Colin doesn’t stroll through open streets like the rest of us. He doesn’t need to.”




Then Robinson slowly stepped up beside Long Neck and gently patted his shoulder.




“In this world… there’s a kind of power far scarier than cops or gangs.”




He paused, his voice heavy.




“It’s called the Humble Organization.”



Chapter 14: Humble Organization – The Absolute Power
==================================================





No Appetite for Victory



Originally, Robinson’s gang had planned to celebrate their victory by going to an all-you-can-eat hotpot buffet.It was supposed to be a big night—new turf, successful mission, and good food.



But now?



No one felt like celebrating.



Instead, the whole crew walked slowly down the street, heads low and shoulders heavy.There was no chatter, no laughter—just quiet footsteps under flickering streetlights.They were still on their way to find a place to eat, but no one was in the mood for anything anymore.



That’s when one of the more innocent guys mumbled:




“Didn’t we say we were going to hotpot buffet tonight?Why are we just looking for a four-dish set meal now?”




Robinson shook his head.



This kid had no clue.



And Long Neck—still burning with grief—snapped.




“I’m not in the fucking mood for hotpot.”




He stepped forward and slapped the boy across the face, hard.



The group went silent again.



Then, in the middle of the street, a new figure appeared.



A man walked toward them—dressed in a sharp suit and polished leather shoes.He carried a black messenger bag in one hand, and on his face was a pair of elegant, golden-rimmed glasses.



Long Neck spotted him immediately.



He knew who it was.Michael.Michael from the Humble Organization.



Long Neck’s heart began to pound.



His rage—which had been boiling beneath the surface ever since the death of his brother—suddenly surged.



He couldn’t hold it in anymore.



This guy didn’t look dangerous at all.He looked soft. Polite. Fragile.



Maybe it was those golden-rimmed glasses—they made him seem harmless, almost weak.



But that was the trick.That was the deception.



And Long Neck was about to fall right into it.







Reflex



Without any warning—no signs, no shout—Long Neck suddenly sprinted forward and threw a punch straight at Michael.



The attack came out of nowhere.



Even someone as powerful as Michael didn’t see it coming.He was just walking down the street.He had no reason to expect someone would try to hit him in public.



He didn’t dodge.He didn’t think.His body simply reacted.



A split-second reflex.Before Long Neck’s fist could even reach him, Michael’s own punch had already connected—and Long Neck went flying.



He crashed all the way across the street, rolled over the sidewalk, and tumbled ten or more times before finally managing to get up.



Luckily, Long Neck was tough.He didn’t suffer any major injuries. Just a few bruises. But the hit was clean—and devastating.



Michael immediately looked concerned.




“Oh no—I’m sorry,” he said quickly.“That was just a reflex. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”




He walked over to Robinson and said politely:




“Is your guy okay? I don’t know why he came at me like that.I really hope he’s fine.”




Michael then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp $100 bill.




“If he needs to go to the hospital, and it ends up costing more—you can come find me anytime at the Humble Organization.”




What Michael didn’t know was that earlier that same day, Brian—another member of the Humble Organization—had killed one of their underlings in front of the whole gang.



Michael was completely unaware.



Robinson accepted the money, sighed, and said calmly:




“It’s fine. I’ll talk to him later. He needs to learn some self-control.”




Michael nodded, left hand tucked casually in his pocket, right hand still holding his messenger bag.He turned and continued walking slowly down the street.







No Mercy



Michael hadn’t walked far when he heard rapid footsteps thundering behind him—fast, heavy, filled with rage.



“Stop! Don’t!” Robinson shouted from behind, but it was too late.



Michael didn’t even turn his head. He could already feel the intensity of the killing intent rushing in.This wasn’t some clumsy follow-up or accident—this was vengeance. Something deeply personal. Something dangerous.



He could sense it: this man carried hatred. Not just toward him—but toward the Humble Organization.And that was something Michael could not allow.




“If it were just me,” Michael thought, “maybe I’d let it slide.But this man’s rage is aimed at the Organization—our name, our people.I may be gentle… but I am still a royal. And a royal doesn’t forgive enemies of the House.”




He calmly tossed his briefcase from his right hand to his left.Then, without warning, he swung his right arm backwards in one clean arc—not a punch, but a razor-sharp hand chop.



CRACK.



Long Neck’s elongated, fragile neck came clean off. His entire head—along with the upper half-meter of that ridiculous neck—spun through the air like a loose rope and hooked perfectly onto a traffic light pole.



And somehow, as the momentum carried it, the neck wrapped around the pole and tied itself into a loose, dangling knot, like a grotesque ribbon on display.The head dangled there, swaying softly in the wind—silent, lifeless, and disturbingly poetic.



Michael slowly turned around.



In a soft, almost casual tone, he said:




“I may look gentle. I may seem kind.But let’s get one thing straight—I’m not soft.And I’m definitely not merciful.Especially when it comes to the Organization.”




Screams erupted.



People on the nearby sidewalks began shrieking in terror. Cars slammed their brakes.Pedestrians ran in all directions.The street devolved into a panicked frenzy, filled with yelling, horns, and chaos.



Back in the middle of it all, Robinson stood still, head down.



A single teardrop slid from his eye and hit the ground.



In the same day, within just a couple hours, he had lost two of his most loyal brothers.



He clenched his fists tightly, breathing hard.A faint darkness seemed to rise from within him—like a wave of something evil beginning to stir inside.







The Brotherly Power



Robinson stood still, fists clenched tight, tears streaming down his face.



He muttered to himself, “It’s all my fault. As your big brother… I failed to protect you.”Then, his voice hardened. “But revenge… that’s the only thing I can still do for you.”



Without another word, he sprinted forward.



Usually a calm and rational man, Robinson had lost control. Right before reaching Michael, he spun three times on the spot, leaped into the air, and delivered his signature spinning kick—aimed straight at Michael’s face.



Michael raised his right arm just in time to block, but the impact was brutal. The force slid him back half a meter across the pavement.



Robinson, propelled by the recoil, landed two meters away, knees bent, body tilted forward, one hand bracing the ground to stabilize himself.



Michael, now steady, flung his document bag to the ground with his left hand.Then, with his right, he stepped in and threw a punch toward Robinson.



Reacting fast, Robinson drew a circle in the air, masterfully deflecting the blow and redirecting its energy.But before he could even attempt another move, Michael’s left fist had already come swinging in.



In a split-second decision, Robinson crossed both arms over his chest to block.The punch landed with bone-crunching force.



Robinson’s body slid back over two meters.His shoes were dragged so hard against the pavement that the soles flattened.



Behind them, their gang of underlings shouted in unison, cheering for Robinson.“Let’s go, Big Bro!”“Get him!!”



But they didn’t know what had just happened.



Both of Robinson’s forearm bones were already fractured.







The Strongest Muscle



Michael already knew he had won. He could feel it in the impact of that last punch—the resistance in Robinson’s arms had crumbled. Both forearms were broken.



But he didn’t follow up. He stopped.



To him, Robinson was still a man of blood and flesh. A fighter with honor. And for that, Michael chose to show him respect.



He raised his voice and said loud and clear, “You’re a powerful opponent. Seriously strong.”



Michael paused a moment, then added with a calm smirk, “Probably just a little stronger than a gang boss I fought a few days ago.”He was referring to Canelo—but he didn’t mention Robinson’s fractured arms. He didn’t want to humiliate him in front of his crew.



Robinson, swallowing the pain, crossed his arms over his chest—pretending like nothing was wrong. His voice remained steady.



“We’ve got other business to handle today,” he said. “Next time, we’ll have a proper fight. For now… let’s call it early.”



The pain had brought his rationality back. Just minutes ago, Robinson had lost control, but now, through sheer willpower, he had returned to his usual self.He understood clearly—he was no match for Michael.



Michael’s strength wasn’t flashy or filled with tricks. It was raw. Pure muscle power—on a level Robinson had never encountered before.



Michael gave a small smile, bent down to pick up his briefcase, tucked his right hand back into his pocket, and casually walked away.He didn’t rush, didn’t look back. Just strolled toward the far end of the street and disappeared into the distance.



Then, the same innocent underling—the one who had been slapped by Long Neck earlier, the one who had been spouting clueless nonsense all day—spoke up again.



“Boss, we actually don’t have any plans for the rest of the day… Why didn’t you keep fighting? I think just a few more rounds and you would’ve taken him down! Avenged our brothers!”



A blue vein twitched on Robinson’s forehead. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.



Even the normally composed Robinson had his limits.



He snapped:“Shut the fuck up!”







Humble Organization – The Absolute Power



Robinson’s underlings stood frozen, stunned. None of them had ever seen him curse like that before. He was usually calm, collected, the type of guy who didn’t lose his temper. They couldn’t understand why he suddenly exploded at the innocent one—especially since, in their eyes, Robinson and Michael had only fought to a draw. Nothing more.



As they stood there processing what just happened, a loud thud landed not far from them—a man, clearly a gangster, had crashed face-first onto the ground from the sky.



Everyone turned in confusion.



Then, every two or three seconds, another body flew in from above—thud, crack, slam—one after another, slamming into the pavement like dumplings being dropped into a boiling pot of oil.



It was chaos.



These were all gangsters—young, tattooed, some still holding onto weapons, others knocked clean unconscious. The rain of bodies continued. A few had blood on their noses, a few had broken limbs, and one still had a cigarette dangling from his lips, barely conscious.



From around the corner, a furious voice echoed down the street.



“You bastard! You dared to spit in my Pepsi and then didn’t even apologize!”



It was Michael’s voice.



Only a few days ago, Canelo had tried to claim a bottle of Pepsi that Michael was also after. They’d gotten into a fight over it. At the time, Canelo thought he had the upper hand. He didn’t know that bottle meant everything to Michael—a sacred mission from the top.



Now he was paying the price.



Whoosh!—another man came flying.



He landed hard, rolling like a ragdoll across the sidewalk. He wore a hoodie, a crooked expression on his face, and had a cigarette still clamped between his teeth. It was Canelo—the infamous punk. His gang had clearly been crushed.



Whoever they had messed with… didn’t hold back.



Robinson stared at the pile of broken men with wide eyes. His face remained composed, but his legs… his legs gave out slightly. His knees buckled, his body lurched just a bit forward. That was fear. Real fear.



For the first time, he had witnessed—in first-hand experience—the terrifying power of the two high-ranking enforcers from the Humble Organization.



And it was too much.


Chapter 15: The Innocent Perv (Part 1)
==================================================

Broadcast of a Broken Arm



It was just another regular night.



The screen lit up with a live TV program — one of those late-night current affairs shows trying to appear serious and socially aware. The set was dimly lit, with two men seated at a round glass table. One of them, dressed in a navy blazer and holding a cue card, was the show’s official host. The other wore a dark floral shirt under a charcoal blazer, paired with perfectly pressed slacks and a lazy half-smile — a visiting sociology professor brought in for expert commentary.



Between them sat a man named Marvel, tonight’s guest.



His hair was parted neatly down the middle, just like Kim Jong-un’s early public appearances back when he first took power. His outfit looked decades behind the times, with every button fastened tight up to his neck. Round-rimmed glasses rested awkwardly on his face, completing the look of someone permanently out of sync with the current era.



Marvel sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly, as if he were waiting for a hymn to begin.



The host cleared his throat and looked into the camera.



“Good evening, everyone. Tonight’s topic has been making the rounds online, stirring up a mix of outrage and fascination. You may have seen the footage already. Three days ago, our guest here — Marvel — was caught on security camera in a local café, walking up to a college student and snapping his arm.”



The professor chuckled under his breath. The host smiled faintly, then added:



“No shouting. No fight. Just a clean, quiet— snap —like a chopstick.”



They both glanced at Marvel, waiting.



Marvel returned a small, polite smile. His voice was calm, almost gentle.



“That boy was pathetic,” he said. “Trying to act cool. Thin little arms. Hair dyed like some fashion magazine model. One of those soft, no-good types girls seem to go for these days.”



He leaned back slightly, as if the memory annoyed him.



“A girl had walked over to ask for his number. I couldn’t take it. He’s the type who’d scream before ever throwing a punch. Someone like that… shouldn’t be treated like a man.”



The professor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. The host gave a slow nod, almost impressed.



“Well then,” the host said, tone still casual. “That’s one way to open a discussion on modern masculinity.”







A Question Too Far



The camera panned slightly as the host adjusted his blazer and leaned toward Marvel.



“Before we jump into the incident, Mr. Marvel,” he said with a polite smile, “would you mind introducing yourself to the audience?”



Marvel nodded calmly, voice steady and measured.



“My name is Marvel. I’m a junior-level accountant. I graduated from Harvard—”



“Whoa, Harvard?!” the host cut in, eyes lighting up. “No way! A top graduate! We’ve got ourselves a real intellectual here, folks.”



Marvel blinked. His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to clarify — but the host had already moved on, grinning as he signaled toward the man beside him.



Marvel had actually been about to say “Harvard Avenue Community College.”But the moment passed. No one asked again.



“We’re also honored to be joined tonight by Professor Stiffen Hawking,” the host continued. “From St. John University. He’s a leading expert in behavioral sociology and modern dating. It’s a real privilege to have him here tonight.”



The professor gave a half-lazy nod, still scrolling on his iPad. Then, leaning forward, he addressed Marvel directly.



“Mr. Marvel,” he said, “from what I saw in the footage, you were seated in a café, looking at your laptop. Could you walk us through what happened that day?”



He paused, his smirk creeping in.



“And — maybe I’m wrong — but it looked like you were watching porn, weren’t you?”



SLAP!



The host’s hand smacked the table.



“What the dickhead did you just say?!”



His voice echoed across the studio. He jabbed a finger at the professor, scowling.



“Watch your language! There are children and minors watching this program!”



The professor froze. His face flushed — not with embarrassment, but pure annoyance. Without a word, he leaned back into the couch, stretched one arm out, and slowly dug a finger into his nose.



He was done.



A heavy silence followed. Five long seconds passed.



Then, as if nothing had happened, the host turned back to Marvel with a rehearsed smile.



“So, Mr. Marvel,” he said brightly, “can you tell us what really happened that day?”



Marvel gave a calm nod.



“Yes,” he said. “I remember it clearly.”



The timeline shifted.We went back to three days ago…







Sunshine, Milk Tea, and Rage



It was a bright, sunny afternoon.



The air was light and fresh, filled with a youthful energy — the kind that made you think of spring.Somewhere outside, birds were singing. Butterflies flitted through the breeze. The world, for a moment, felt gentle.



Inside the café, Marvel sat alone at a corner table, sipping from a King Size, Extra Large cup of bubble milk tea. The drink was so big it looked like it belonged at a theme park. The tapioca pearls slid through the fat straw with a satisfying rhythm, each one vanishing into his mouth with a soft thump. As he drank, he absentmindedly rubbed his round belly with one hand, slow and circular, like he was comforting a pet.



In front of him, his laptop glowed.He was watching his favorite genre of film: romantic action cinema.More specifically… porn.



A few tables ahead, directly in Marvel’s line of sight, sat a college-aged boy.



He was tall and slender, with clean, golden-blonde hair and sharp, symmetrical features — the kind of face that might belong on a perfume ad or the cover of a fashion magazine. He wore a crisp white shirt and sat with perfect posture, flipping through a paperback novel. Every movement of his fingers seemed quiet, deliberate, almost elegant.



His expression was gentle. His eyes dreamy. He looked calm, a little shy, and effortlessly attractive.



Marvel stared at him with narrowing eyes.



Too skinny. Too delicate. Too feminine.



He took another long sip of milk tea, this time louder, more forceful.



No wonder he’s still single, Marvel thought. Boys like this — they look good, but they’re useless. They can’t protect anyone. They don’t deserve to be chosen.



Then, like a drop of ink falling into water, something disrupted the stillness.



A young woman approached the boy’s table.



She wore a white blouse, a black skirt, and had long black hair that swayed gently with each cautious step. Her expression was nervous, almost panicked — the kind of fear only seen in moments that matter too much.



She stopped next to the boy’s table and spoke, voice soft, breathless.



“Um… excuse me. Are you single?”



The boy looked up, blinking, then smiled politely.



“Yes, I am. Is… something wrong?”



The girl hesitated. Her face turned red. She shuffled slightly in place, then gathered herself.



“Can I… have your phone number?” she asked. “I thought… maybe we could go see a movie sometime. If you don’t mind.”



Marvel froze.



He was really jealous.So jealous it turned into pure adrenaline.The adrenaline surged through his body, transforming instantly into muscle energy, raw and twitching beneath his skin.



Within seconds, Marvel’s entire body was flooded with a wild, irresistible force — a surge of power he couldn’t control. Like a volcano bracing to erupt.



His fingers curled involuntarily.



Crack.



Without realizing it, he had crushed the wireless mouse in his hand. Plastic shards scattered on the table beside his milk tea.



He stared down at the broken shell. His breath was heavy. His body was heating up from the inside, like a machine overheating.



But at the front of the café, the boy and the girl were still talking. Still smiling. Still unaware.



They had no idea what was coming.







The Break



Marvel stood up.



He didn’t say a word. No shouting. No dramatic warning.Just quiet. Smooth. Controlled.



He walked over to the young couple’s table like a shadow — silent and slow, like a waiter delivering the check.



The boy glanced up, confused by the sudden presence.



“Excuse me, can I hel—”



Marvel didn’t let him finish.



In one swift motion, he grabbed the boy’s right wrist. The boy jolted, startled but still unsure of what was happening.



Before he could react, Marvel’s other hand clamped down on the boy’s forearm — firm, deliberate.



Then, with just a small twist of his thick fingers, he applied pressure and bent.



A loud, sickening CRACK echoed across the café.



The bone in the boy’s arm snapped clean, like a dry stick of bamboo.His skin didn’t tear, and the flesh looked untouched — but the forearm now dangled helplessly in the air, disconnected from its structure.



The boy’s eyes widened. His mouth opened.



“Wh-what’s wrong with you?!”



He dropped to the floor, clutching his broken arm, rolling in pain, screaming loudly as he twisted on the ground.



Marvel stepped forward.



He reached down with one hand, grabbed the boy by the collar, and lifted him into the air like a bag of trash.



His eyes narrowed.



“I can tell just by looking at you,” Marvel said coldly. “You’re scum. You’re probably already married — and yet here you are, luring in innocent young girls. You’re disgusting.”



The boy, pale and trembling, cried out:



“I’m just a college student! I’m not even married!”



But Marvel didn’t care.



He raised one hand and unleashed his move:MACHINE GUN SLAP.



In two seconds, ten slaps rained down on the boy’s face.PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK.



The speed was ridiculous — like a malfunctioning printer slapping out paper.



The boy screamed and began to cry. A dark stain spread across his pants.He had pissed himself.



“Please! Please stop!” he sobbed. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please… spare my life…”



Marvel’s eyes burned.



He shouted back:



“UNFORGIVABLE!”



His right fist clenched.



He charged it with all his might — his body tensed like a coiled spring — and then he launched his signature move:



FACE DESTRUCTION PUNCH.



The fist landed square in the center of the boy’s face.A brutal THUMP.The impact was massive — his facial features instantly caved inward, blood bursting out across his cheeks. Nose shattered. Eyes swollen. Mouth torn.



The force of the punch ripped the boy’s shirt from the collar where Marvel had been holding him. He flew horizontally — like a crash test dummy — across the café.



He slammed into a concrete wall several meters away with a hollow BOOM, then collapsed to the ground like a broken mannequin.



Unconscious.Possibly dead.Definitely no longer pretty.







Restraint



A wave of screams erupted through the café.



Chairs scraped. Glasses spilled. Dozens of customers scrambled to the exit as panic spread like fire. The once-sunny afternoon was gone. In its place: chaos.



A few large-bodied men — along with the café owner — rushed forward, trying to restrain the attacker. But Marvel, still riding a high of raw adrenaline, swung both arms outward in a wide arc.



WHAM.



The group of men were knocked back several meters, crashing to the floor like bowling pins.



Marvel’s breathing was heavy. Wild.He turned to the girl — the one who had approached the boy just minutes earlier. His eyes locked onto her like she was the last piece of something missing.



He stormed forward.



Before she could react, he grabbed both of her shoulders with shaking hands and shoved her back against the wall.



“Help! Somebody help me!” she screamed, eyes wide with terror.



Marvel held her tightly, face close, speaking with twisted intensity.



“I’m the good guy,” he said. “He was the bad one. I saved you. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’re safe now. Safe because of me.”



His fingers dug into her shoulders. His voice shook — not with fear, but desperation.



“Guys like him, they’re all liars. What’s so good about him, huh?!”



Then — without warning — he grabbed the front of her blouse and tore it open with both hands. The fabric split with a loud rip, exposing her bra and the upper curves of her chest.



She gasped, shocked, frozen for a moment.



“You don’t need that kind of boy,” Marvel muttered. “He doesn’t deserve you. None of them do.”



The girl tried to push him away. “Get off me, you sick freak!” she shouted, struggling hard against his chest. “Don’t touch me!”



Marvel didn’t move. He leaned in closer, breath hot and shaking.



“If I were the bad guy… what would you do?” he whispered.



Before the girl could respond, he tilted his head and, without warning, pressed his lips against hers.



She froze, eyes wide, too stunned to react.



But Marvel didn’t stop there.



His mouth lingered — and then, slowly, his tongue began to move.



It flicked in and out, sharp and quick — unnatural, reptilian. Snake-like.



The girl jerked her head back, but Marvel’s grip on her shoulders held firm. His tongue found its way into her mouth, slithering past her lips for a few horrible seconds.



She let out a muffled, horrified cry.



Her stomach turned. Her eyes welled. Her whole body recoiled.



Then came the scream — louder than anything so far.



“STOP! HELP ME! GET OFF!”



That’s when the men got back up.



The café owner — blood running down one arm from the earlier scuffle — saw his chance. He noticed something had changed. Marvel’s movements were slower. His grip weaker.



The adrenaline was fading.



In a split-second decision, the owner charged.



He tackled Marvel full force, wrapping both arms around his waist and slamming him down to the floor. The impact rattled the furniture nearby.



Marvel let out a choked grunt.



The café owner climbed on top, shoved Marvel’s face against the floor, and pressed down hard with his forearm.



“You’re done!” he roared.



Marvel twitched beneath him, exhausted, powerless.



The girl backed away, crying uncontrollably. Clutching her torn blouse, she stumbled toward the door, arms shaking, then broke into a full run — disappearing into the street outside as the sound of sirens began to rise in the distance.







Return to the Studio



Marvel stopped speaking.



The story ended, not with triumph or clarity, but in silence.The camera slowly zoomed out, bringing the audience back to the present — back to the quiet tension of the studio.



The host smiled like he’d just finished a good bedtime story.



“Wow,” he said softly. “What a breathtaking, emotional journey. I haven’t heard something so dramatic and tear-jerking in years.”



He turned to his right, facing Professor Hawking.



“Professor,” he said, “after hearing this entire account, do you have any insights you’d like to share?”



Professor Hawking didn’t answer right away. He was sitting with his back pressed against the chair, one hand lazily pinching something between his fingers. After a second or two, he gave the booger a soft flick — it flew forward into the studio lights and vanished somewhere offscreen.



Still reclining, he finally muttered,“I’m here only for the paycheck.”



The host gave a small chuckle.



“Ah, our Professor Hawking. Witty and philosophical, as always.”



He turned back to the camera.



“Now, let’s check in again with Mr. Marvel himself. After everything that’s happened… how are you feeling now?”



Marvel had his head lowered. One hand was gently covering his eye. His voice trembled slightly when he answered — quiet, almost tearful.



“I still couldn’t save her,” he said. “It’s all my fault. I failed her.”



The host leaned in kindly.



“It’s okay. I’m sure next time, you’ll be able to save someone else. I believe in you.”



Marvel nodded silently, eyes never lifting.



The host turned back to the audience, beaming.



“Well, dear viewers — that brings us to a short commercial break. But don’t go anywhere! When we return, we’ll continue our conversation with Mr. Marvel. If you have any questions or thoughts, send them via text to the number on the screen. He’ll be answering them live, right here with us.”



The screen faded out.



A bright jingle began to play, and an upbeat voice announced:




“If you or a loved one is struggling with infertility, don’t wait! Call Dr. Zhang today. Our state-of-the-art treatments are helping families across the country. Don’t let hesitation steal your future — Dr. Zhang is here to help!”







Chapter 16: The Innocent Perv (Part 2)
==================================================

Viewer Questions



After the commercial break, the program returned to the live studio. The host was once again smiling warmly as he addressed the audience.



“Welcome back, everyone,” he said. “In just the few minutes during the break, we received a flood of viewer questions. We’ve picked the most interesting one to ask our guest, Mr. Marvel.”



He lifted a cue card and read aloud:



“This viewer writes — and I quote — ‘Marvel is basically a pervert who almost raped someone. So why the hell is he sitting here on a talk show like he’s some kind of guest speaker? Shouldn’t he already be in jail? I’m really curious what happened afterward.’”



The room went still.



The camera turned to Marvel, who nodded slowly. His voice was calm, even serene.



“I think a lot of people misunderstood me,” he said. “They call me a pervert. Say I’m violent. But honestly… I’m a good person.”



He folded his hands politely.



“I never litter. If I saw a dog fall into a river, I’d save it. I always help old ladies cross the street. Deep down, I think I’m a very innocent dude. I’ve never even been in a relationship.”



The host suddenly cut him off.



“Boring,” he said flatly. “Mr. Marvel, our audience wants to know what actually happened. We heard the police showed up that day. Can you walk us through it? Why weren’t you arrested? Why aren’t you behind bars right now? I think we’re all dying to know.”



Marvel gave a small nod.



Then, quietly, he continued.



The screen faded out once again—



—back to that chaotic, insane afternoon.







Misunderstood



A squad of police officers rushed into the café.



Leading the group was a short, half-bald officer with a proud swagger — his name was Grayson.



He stopped dramatically in the middle of the chaos, planted one hand on his hip, and pointed forward with the other like he was posing for a movie poster.



“Move in! Apprehend the suspect!” he shouted with exaggerated authority.



The officers looked around.



Then at each other.



None of them knew who the suspect actually was.



Their eyes scanned the mess — overturned tables, spilled drinks, crying staff, and debris everywhere. In the middle of it all, there was one guy who looked especially aggressive — big build, bleeding arm, furious expression — the café owner.



The cops made their decision.



They charged forward and tackled the wrong man.



“Don’t resist!” one officer yelled, pinning him to the floor.



“What the hell are you doing?!” the café owner shouted. “I’m the one who called you, idiots!”



Meanwhile, Marvel slowly stood up nearby.He dusted himself off, brushed some dirt off his slacks, and stood still — calm and blank-faced, like a man who had just finished gardening.



The café owner yelled from the ground, pointing furiously.



“That’s the guy! That’s the suspect! He beat that boy half to death and tried to rape the girl!”



Grayson turned and squinted at Marvel.



He looked him up and down — the stiff posture, the round glasses, the awkward hair, the confused expression.



He didn’t look threatening at all.



In fact, he looked like a total nobody—just some harmless pedestrian you’d pass on the street without a second glance.With his shirt buttoned all the way to the top, he looked more like an elementary school kid who only knew books and exams than someone capable of hurting anyone.So stiff, so old-school—so innocent.



Grayson stepped forward and asked:



“You. Are you the suspect?”



Marvel shook his head softly. “No. I’m not.”



Grayson pointed to the unconscious boy on the ground. “Did you do that to him?”



Marvel nodded. “Yeah. I gave him a good beating—to teach him a lesson.”



SMACK!



Grayson slapped the back of Marvel’s head with the palm of his hand.



“You dumbass! You beat someone up — that makes you the suspect!”



Marvel didn’t react. Just a slow, quiet shake of the head.He still didn’t acknowledge that he’d just committed a crime.In his world, he wasn’t the villain. He never was.







Standard Procedure



One of the officers stepped forward, ready to cuff Marvel.



But Grayson raised his hand and barked, “Hold it.”



“I’ll search him first,” he said. “Need to make sure he’s not carrying a weapon.”



Without waiting for approval, Grayson casually ran his hands over Marvel’s body — barely pretending to conduct an actual search. His motions were lazy, half-hearted, like he’d done this more for show than substance.



Then, by accident, his hand brushed against the inside of Marvel’s thigh.



Grayson suddenly recoiled.



“The hell is this?!” he shouted. “Why the f**k are you this stiff?! What the hell are you thinking right now?!”



Marvel scratched his head awkwardly.



“Ah… sorry,” Marvel said, his voice soft and trembling. A bit of drool shimmered at the corner of his lip, and his cheeks flushed bright red like a schoolboy in love. “That kiss earlier… it really got to me. I don’t know what’s happening, but… I think I’m falling for her. I feel like my heart’s pounding so hard I’m about to have a heart attack.”



As he spoke, his breathing quickened—and so did something else. The excitement surging through his body built like pressure in a boiler. For a terrifying moment, it looked like his arousal might punch a hole clean through the fabric, threatening to explode his giant cock in public.



Grayson blinked.



And then… he didn’t laugh. He didn’t roll his eyes. He just stood there for a moment—completely still, quietly moved.




This guy’s not a creep, he thought. He’s just… overflowing with love. Pure, raw, fearless love.




Then, without a word—and without even breaking eye contact—Grayson casually slid his hand into Marvel’s coat pocket, like he was grabbing gum or keys, and pulled out a thick wad of cash—about five hundred dollars.



He waved it in front of Marvel’s face.



“What’re you doing walking around with this much cash? You got some sketchy plans or what?”



A cold drop of sweat slid down Marvel’s temple.



He looked genuinely rattled — like someone had just read his diary out loud.



“N-no,” he stammered. “I was… I was just gonna buy groceries. That’s all. I swear.”



Grayson looked him dead in the eyes.



Then, without a word, he slid the cash into his own pocket.



He clapped his hands and turned to his men.



“Well, folks,” he announced. “Looks like this was all just a big misunderstanding. No one got seriously hurt, and nobody died.”



He pointed toward the door.



“Pack it up. We’re done here.”







An Innocent Dude



Grayson walked up to Marvel and gave him a firm slap on the shoulder.



“I think you’re a good man,” he said with a grin. “One day, you might grow up to be as excellent as I am.”



With that, he turned on his heel and led his officers out of the café, leaving behind a trail of confusion and disbelief.



The customers, staff, and the injured boy all stared at each other — stunned, speechless, unable to comprehend what just happened.



Marvel, too, stood still for a moment. Then, slowly and silently, he turned and walked out of the café, his expression blank and unreadable.



—



On the way back to the station, one of the younger officers jogged up next to Grayson.



“You, uh… you really took a liking to that guy, huh?” he said. “Why’s that?”



Grayson nodded thoughtfully.



“He reminds me of me. When I was young,” he said. “Just an innocent dude.”



He let out a nostalgic sigh.



“He’s not evil. He’s just like a big kid. Naive. Romantic. That punch? That kiss? All of it — it came from a weird sense of justice. A burning desire for love. You can’t arrest someone for being too emotional.”



He glanced at his officer.



“If I threw a guy like that in jail, you know what I’d be doing? I’d be destroying the last bit of innocence left in this rotten world.”



The officer blinked.



Then slowly nodded. “Yeah… when you put it that way…”



But another cop in the back—short buzzcut, acne scars—raised his voice toward Grayson, clearly unsettled:



“Innocent? That guy didn’t look even slightly innocent. He looked like a full-on basement dweller. The way he just stood there all calm and blank—it sent chills down my spine. Honestly, he made my skin crawl.”



Grayson stopped walking.



He turned around.



Without warning, he slapped the cop hard across the face.



The sound echoed down the street.



Grayson’s voice roared like a dog off its leash:




“You f***ing fast food leftover! Open that sewage hole of a mouth again, and I’ll send you back to your mother’s womb—maybe you’ll come out next time with a cleaner mouth!”




The officer staggered back, stunned, one hand clutching his cheek.



Grayson glared at him.



Nobody else said a word.



They just kept walking—silent, tense—as the wind brushed past their badges.Grayson walked tall, even though he was kind of short.Chin up.Genuinely proud of himself—for standing up for an innocent dude.







The Final Question



The screen cut back to the studio.



Professor Hawking was now lying sideways on the couch, bored out of his mind. One leg was resting on the cushions while the other hung loosely off the edge. He casually scratched his crotch and hadn’t spoken in almost half an hour.



The host, still grinning like nothing was strange, turned to the camera with a cheerful gleam in his eyes.



“Well! What a touching and powerful story,” he said.



Then, with a theatrical pause, he placed one hand over his chest.



“I really appreciate Chief Officer Grayson for keeping our city safe. I feel safer now—knowing he’s out there watching over us. That man… that man is a true protector of the people.”



He then turned to Marvel.



“Mr. Marvel, we’re almost out of time,” he said gently. “But I’d like to ask one last question—if that’s alright with you.”



Marvel gave a slight nod.



The host leaned forward and lowered his voice with a sense of tension.



“A lot of viewers wrote in asking the same thing, and I feel I owe it to them to ask you directly: Did you really try to rape that girl?”



Silence.



Marvel looked directly at him. His expression didn’t change, but his tone grew sharp—scolding, almost angry.



“Have I ever peeked under a girl’s skirt during class? Huh?”“Have I ever fantasized about my best female friend? Huh?”“Have I ever pretended to accidentally bump into a woman’s chest with my elbow? Huh?”“Have I ever stayed up late at night jerking off to porn while crying in the dark? Huh?”



The host looked stunned. He straightened his tie, then quickly stammered:




“Well—huh—I mean… No, sir! Absolutely not!”




Marvel’s eyes flared.His voice exploded.




“OF COURSE I HAVE!”




It echoed. The studio went dead silent.



Then—like a light switch—his tone dropped. Calm. Steady. Almost gentle.



“But that day… I swear to God… I never once thought about raping that girl. Not even for a second. That was never what I wanted.”



A brief silence followed.



Then Marvel gave a strained, awkward smile—half nervous, half exhausted.



The host looked at him for a beat, then softened.



“Oh… with that innocent smile, I fully believe you. I trust you.”



He turned back toward the camera with a big closing grin.



“Well, folks, life is complicated. And sometimes, the truth… just isn’t black and white.”



The episode ended moments later.



Marvel was quietly handed a $500 appearance fee backstage.



The next week, the host earned a new nickname across the city: Indifference.



He was fired shortly after.







Epilogue



Although Marvel and his story once set the city ablaze with gossip and debate, it didn’t take long for people to forget.



In a city flooded with scandals, trending dramas, and endless entertainment news, public attention shifted quickly. One hot topic replaced another like fast food orders. Most headlines didn’t last more than a week.



And so, Marvel faded from memory.



But the same couldn’t be said for one particular moment from that broadcast.



The host’s infamous outburst—




“What the dickhead did you just say?”




—refused to die.



It lived on, passed down not through newspapers or court records, but through playgrounds and lunch breaks.



At a local elementary school, on a sunny afternoon, a group of kids were huddled in a corner of the sandbox, laughing and pretending to be ninja warriors.



Suddenly, one child stood up, puffed out his chest, and pointed at another.




“What the dickhead did you just say?” he shouted with perfect mimicry.




The other kids burst into laughter, falling over each other in the sand.



And so, through no effort of his own, the disgraced host left behind a legacy.



Not one of journalism, or truth, or justice—



—but of profanity and absurdity, echoing across a generation too young to know where it came from.


Chapter 17: The Innocent Beast
==================================================

A Normal Conversation



The bathroom door swung open with a soft squeak, releasing a puff of steam into the living room.



The young woman stepped out barefoot, her hair still damp and clinging gently to her neck. She was wrapped in nothing but a white bath towel—tucked tight under her arms and barely reaching mid-thigh. Her walk had a slight limp to it, each step uneven, like her hips and thighs were still sore from a long, exhausting workout. But it wasn’t the gym she went to last night.



Beneath that towel, her body was a masterpiece. Her curves flowed in all the right places—tight waist, full hips, smooth thighs. The outline of her figure beneath the damp fabric left little to the imagination. If the towel slipped just an inch, the whole apartment complex might’ve gone silent.



She plopped down on the couch next to her mom, who sat comfortably in pajamas, half-watching TV while peeling an orange.



The girl sighed. “I quit.”



Her mom didn’t look away from the screen. “The job?”



“Yeah. I quit being a professional prostitute.”



Her mom finally turned her head a little, but only to glance briefly at her daughter’s legs before nodding with calm acceptance—like she’d just heard the most normal thing in the world.



“That fast?”



“Mm-hmm. One shift.”



Her mom pulled another slice of orange, then paused. “Are you sure? You know how hard it is to land something like that? Those interviews aren’t easy. That’s a competitive position. You passed.”



The girl gave a tired little laugh. “Thanks, I guess.”



She pulled the towel tighter around her chest and leaned back into the couch, legs curled up beneath her.



“I thought it’d be easy money. Thirty, forty grand a month? But after one night, I was done. It’s way more tiring than I expected. And… something just felt off.”



Her mom nodded again. “Then don’t go back.”



She offered her daughter a slice of orange. “You’re young. Try stuff. Quit fast. That’s what this phase is for. Just don’t stick with anything that drags you down.”



The girl smiled faintly. “Yeah.”



She paused, then added quietly,“I mean… I did get my master’s degree in accounting. Maybe I should just start applying for some low-paid desk jobs, like everyone else.”



Her mom let out a soft sigh and said plainly,“That’d be a waste of your beauty.”



She gave a small, fake smile



Then her mom asked, almost offhandedly, “So what happened last night?”



The smile faded.



The girl stared ahead, eyes slowly losing focus.



Outside, thunder rolled in the distance.



And the scene began to dissolve—Back to the storm.Back to that night.







Premium Sex Service Only



It was a stormy, thunderous night.



Inside the massage parlor, everything was still.



Rain slammed the windows like fists. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the empty street in split-second bursts. The young woman stood near the window, wrapped in a thin robe, silently watching the storm.



There wasn’t a single person outside.



The rain had chased everyone off the street. No cars, no footsteps, just wind and water. It looked like the world had emptied itself out.



And then—A man came flying across the street, skidding full-length across the soaked asphalt.



He hit a wide puddle, and water exploded outward in both directions—just like a car tire slashing through it. The splash arced up and crashed against both sides of the curb.



He only stopped when his back slammed against a utility pole with a dull, wet thump.



It was Chief Grayson.



He wore a drenched police uniform, half-slumped against the pole, dazed. His infamous combover had been destroyed by the rain—long strands of hair from the left side now dangled down like dead seaweed across his face.



Less than a second later, a second figure walked into frame.



Calm. Steady.White button-up shirt.Golden-rimmed glasses.



His fist was still clenched.



It was Michael.



Grayson threw up both hands, panicked. “Please! Please don’t hurt me!”



Michael stepped forward, voice cold and quiet.



“How dare you try to enjoy a premium sex service without paying? You’re not broke.”



He adjusted his glasses.



“The fee is $150. Plus a $150 penalty for wasting my time. Total: $300.”



Grayson stammered. “Isn’t that a bit much?!”



Michael didn’t answer.



He gestured to the body lying face-down nearby, headless.



“That guy owed me only $70.”



Then he turned back, calm as ever.



“You’re lucky you’re the police chief. That’s the only reason I’m going a little easy on you.”



He reached down and grabbed the long strand of Grayson’s combover, yanking him upright like wet laundry.



“That’s why your head’s still attached.”



“AAAH—wait! Careful with my hair!” Grayson yelped. “I only have two sides left!”



Michael stared blankly.



Grayson, shaking, dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of rain-soaked cash. He handed over the $300 with both hands.



Whether or not he pissed himself in fear—Well, in weather like this, there was no way to tell.







The First Time for Both



The storm outside hadn’t let up. Rain crashed down in sheets, soaking everything. The street below was empty—completely deserted. Not a soul in sight.



A man stood outside the massage parlor, holding a small black umbrella.



His outfit was stiff and old-fashioned: dark pants, an outdated suit jacket, and a white shirt buttoned all the way to the top. His hair was neatly parted and combed flat like he hadn’t updated his look in twenty years.



His name was Marvel.



The same man who snapped another guy’s forearm clean just a few days ago.



But now, standing in front of this building, he looked hesitant—almost anxious. He wasn’t here to fight.



He was here because he was a virgin.



And tonight, he was thinking about doing something he’d never done before.



His plan, at first, was simple: sneak in, get the service, and slip out without paying. Dash it and dash.



But just as he was working up the nerve to go inside…he saw something that changed everything.



Across the street, a police officer went flying, skidding across the wet road and crashing into a pole. Then, a man in a soaked white button-up shirt and golden-rimmed glasses stepped into view. Michael.



Marvel saw him calmly speak to the officer, gesture toward a headless body nearby, then pull cash from the terrified man’s pocket.



Marvel didn’t stick around.



He turned around and disappeared into the storm.



—



Thirty minutes later, he returned.



Still holding his umbrella, but now with a white envelope in hand.



He climbed the stairs slowly, face blank, mind steady. He had gone to the bank. He had made up his mind.



At the top of the stairs, the young woman greeted him gently.



She was wrapped in a soft robe. Her face was fresh, calm, a little curious.



“Good evening,” she said.



Marvel gave a small nod. “I… I’m interested in the premium sex service.”



She looked at him—his stiff posture, the way his shirt was buttoned to the very top, and the tension clinging to his fingers.



Without thinking, she muttered aloud, almost to herself:



“…Oh. He must be a virgin.”



The words slipped out before she realized.



She blinked. “Ah—sorry! That just came out. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”



Marvel flinched.



His eyes widened, and he took a step back like someone had just seen through his clothes.



“Y-yeah…” he stammered. “How… how did you know?”



She smiled nervously. “I didn’t. I was just thinking out loud. Sorry.”



He looked away, clearly rattled.



Then he cleared his throat. “…How much is it?”



“$150.”



Marvel hesitated. His hand went into the envelope and gently touched the folded bills.



“I’m really tight on money lately,” he said. “Could you maybe… lower it a bit?”



She paused.



She didn’t want to lose her first customer.But she also didn’t want to start her first day by lowering her price.



Still, she gave in.



“I’ll do 30% off,” she said quietly.



“…So that’s $100?”



She nodded. “Yeah. That works.”



Marvel pulled the cash from his envelope and handed it over with both hands.



She accepted it gently, then reached out and took his hand—slow, careful, warm.



“Come on in.”



She led him into the massage room, fingers lightly wrapped around his.



Marvel followed, his heart pounding.Her hand felt soft. Softer than he imagined.And for a moment… he felt genuinely happy.







A Gentle Start



The room was dimly lit, soaked in a soft red glow. The lights hummed faintly overhead, casting a romantic haze across the walls. It was quiet inside—only the muffled sound of rain tapping against the windows broke the stillness.



Marvel sat stiffly on the edge of the massage bed. His hands were planted on his knees, posture locked, and his eyes darted everywhere except forward. He looked like someone waiting for a surprise exam—nervous, frozen, and trying not to breathe too loud.



The young woman stepped in from the side and slowly approached him. Her robe hung loosely around her figure, tied casually at the waist. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid way he held his back, the sweat starting to form just above his collarbone.



“Don’t be nervous,” she said softly, her voice like warm water.



Marvel gave a slight nod, swallowing hard.



Without another word, she untied the sash at her waist.



The robe parted and slid off her shoulders, letting gravity do the rest. It slipped down her body and pooled softly at her feet.



She stood fully nude under the red light, skin still glistening from the shower. Her breasts were pointy and perky, and with each step forward, they bounced softly—subtle and natural. Her whole body moved with quiet confidence, graceful and unashamed.



She smiled at Marvel gently, and then leaned in to press a light kiss to his forehead.



Marvel froze. His entire body began to tremble.



He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. It was as if his mind had stalled—but his body hadn’t. A rush surged through him, hot and uncontrollable.



His adrenaline exploded.



In that moment, something inside him snapped. His breath caught. His pants bulged sharply as his junk grew stiff and steep, pressing hard against the fabric—until it punched through and stuck out in public like a long rod.



He didn’t bother taking his clothes off.



His humanity faded in an instant, swallowed by raw instinct. He morphed into a beast.



He lunged.



The bed cracked as he landed on her. It rocked back and forth in rhythm.



Clunk…



Then again.



Clunk… clunk…



Their motion started slow, like a train pulling out of a quiet station—hesitant, uneven.



Then the tempo picked up. The bed frame echoed louder, sharper, like wheels clacking over track plates in perfect rhythm.



She smiled, and for a moment, they just looked at each other.



Marvel reached out and gently caressed her breasts. She let out a soft gasp.



Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in close.Marvel lowered his head and kissed her—fast, messy, desperate.His tongue pushed into her mouth, spinning wildly like a jet engine.Without warning, he slipped down to her cheek, licking all the way across.Then, his tongue circled gently around her areola, slow and focused—for a good ten seconds.



Suddenly, he shouted:“MACHINE GUN LICK!”



He flicked his tongue across her nipple—quick, light, like a snake—while one hand squeezed her other breast with reckless enthusiasm.



Her gasps grew louder with each movement—but it didn’t matter. The storm outside was loud. No one could hear. As the heat built, a splash of warm lubricant hit Marvel’s face.



A deep, content feeling spread through her as she moved her thighs in rhythm beneath him.







The Strongest Discount



Though he had no real combat experience, Marvel moved like he’d trained for years.He had learned every move from porn, and practiced them obsessively in his mind.



Sitting. Climbing. Squatting. Standing. Holding.He circled through all the sets—again and again, non-stop…



She didn’t expect it at first.But it happened—once… then again…And again.



Her legs twitched, her fingers curled, and her voice let out loud gasps each time. She wasn’t counting, but by the fifth orgasm, she started to panic a little.



This isn’t normal, she thought. This guy’s not human.



It wasn’t even pleasure anymore—it was too much pleasure.Like being tickled past the point of laughter, or forced to laugh when your stomach already hurts.



Then came the dryness.Totally depleted of lubrication.



Her body had stopped responding—no more warmth, no more flow.It was just raw skin, grinding.



Every thrust rubbed against the sore spots like sandpaper on a burn.She clenched her teeth. She shifted her hips, trying to adjust, to make it bearable—but nothing helped.



And still, Marvel kept going.



At one point, his rhythm turned unnatural.His hips began snapping forward at high speed—sharp, relentless, almost mechanical.



Tap tap tap tap tap—His thrusts moved like a woodpecker on crack.Each thrust landed with mechanical precision, the kind of ridiculous speed that shouldn’t be possible outside of anime or malfunctioning robots.



Then he yelled it—“MACHINE GUN FUCK!!”



It wasn’t a joke.It was his final form.His hips went wild, vibrating like a jackhammer.



She winced.Her hands clutched the edge of the massage bed—until the pain in her lower body grew sharp, piercing, unmistakably real.It was no longer sex. It was survival.Please, she thought. Please finish.



But she said nothing.Not a word of protest.Because she was a professional.



Even as her expression twisted from fatigue, even as her eyes watered from the sting, she forced a weak smile—just to keep the mood alive.Just to help him finish.Because this was her job.



And in her mind, she whispered:I will never offer a discount again.



—



Time slipped by—five hours, then six.



Her body had long gone numb. Muscles drained, nerves dulled, she simply gripped the sheets tighter and endured. No more sounds came from her lips. Not out of peace—but because the sensations had crossed into something she couldn’t even describe anymore.



Then—Crack.One of the massage bed’s legs snapped clean off.The frame tipped and tilted.Slow at first.Then it suddenly shifted — and dropped fast.



As they slid off, the girl instinctively clung to Marvel. Her body pressed tightly against his—urgent, automatic. Her chest slammed into his, and her breasts, like two soft, elastic rubber balls, mashed hard against him.



The sheer pressure and tension from the contact sent his arousal surging past its limit.



In that exact moment, Marvel lost control.A sharp jolt fired through his body. His thighs clenched.And mid-fall, a powerful release erupted from deep within—like a shockwave tearing through him.



A silent blast. A full-body tremor.Like a Kamehameha blast shooting out—unstoppable, raw, and tearing through the condom before landing deep inside her uterus. She felt a warm rush deep inside her, filling her to the core, like something was being claimed—unseen but undeniable.



Marvel let out a wild beast’s roar.And then, at last…



The storm cleared.



Marvel had long gone.She still lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.Her legs remained wide apart—couldn’t close, her lower half completely spent, with thick white semen slowly leaking out from between her parted lips.







The Day After



The next morning, Marvel sat at his small desk, a soft ray of sunlight brushing over his notebook. He held a black pen between his fingers, writing carefully—each stroke slow, thoughtful, like he didn’t want to forget a single detail.




“Yesterday was the happiest day of my life,” he wrote. “I feel like I’ve entered a new phase of adulthood. My virginity is gone, and I’m glad it happened with someone so kind… so beautiful… and not to mention, that body—wow. Those eight hours felt like eternity.”




He smiled to himself as he paused, tapping the pen on the edge of the desk. His heart was light.



But in another part of the city, at that same hour, a girl slowly rose beside a broken massage bed.



She moved carefully—aching, drained. Her robe barely hung on as she wrapped it around her sore body. Her eyes were tired, not just from lack of sleep, but from the weight of disappointment.



She thought back to last night… to the man with his shirt buttoned all the way up, who had looked so shy and polite.




“There’s no way that guy was a virgin,” she muttered to herself, bitterness thick in her voice. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”




She limped to the sink, splashing water on her face, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked worn down—physically and emotionally.




“I could’ve endured the pain. But being lied to…”




She shook her head. That was what stung the most.More than the soreness, more than the exhaustion—she hated being lied to.



After a long pause, she took a breath and said aloud, with quiet finality:




“I’m withdrawing from this industry. Indefinitely.”



Chapter 18: The Innocent Adrenaline (Part 1)
==================================================

Too Innocent to Punch



In the middle of a bustling commercial district, there was an open-air barbecue joint—one of those loud Korean-style places with smoke and sizzling meat everywhere.



Brian sat on a wooden stool, elbows resting lazily on the greasy table, devouring a fat, juicy skewer of grilled lamb. On the table were several empty beer bottles and one half-finished one still sweating in the heat. He wasn’t working today. No missions, no orders—just a rare, peaceful afternoon off. He came here to rest, to enjoy the food, the beer, and the calm.



Not far ahead, a figure swaggered down the sidewalk. Hoodie. Tough walk. That unmistakable gangster vibe. Brian spotted him immediately—it was Canelo.



He smirked a little.



That bastard’s probably out to rob someone again, like he does every day.



Brian took a slow swig of beer, then another. He didn’t care. Not today. Let the world spin on.



Just then, Canelo stopped in front of a boy—one who looked completely out of place on this street. He had a pudgy belly and wore an outdated Zhongshan suit, buttoned all the way to the neck. His hair was parted neatly down the middle, Kim Jong-un style. Everything about him looked innocent, even dumb.



It was Marvel—today, just another unlucky target.



Without a word, Canelo raised his hand and slapped Marvel hard across the face.



A clean hit. Left a visible red mark.



Marvel blinked. But instead of reacting with anger or fear, he looked at Canelo with quiet politeness and asked, totally serious:



“Excuse me, is there anything I can help you with?”



Canelo stared at him—at that goofy, outdated outfit, that calm, clueless look, that weird kind of innocence.



Something shifted.



He didn’t throw another punch. Didn’t scream. Didn’t threaten.



Instead, he sighed, reached into Marvel’s coat pocket, and pulled out a few crumpled bills—maybe not even a hundred bucks.



He muttered, “I don’t know why… but when I look at you, I just don’t feel like fighting.”



He stepped back.



“Alright, you can go.”



Marvel paused, stunned, then gave a small nod and calmly walked away.



Canelo turned and continued his swagger down the street.



From afar, Brian exhaled and shook his head with a faint grin.



“Huh,” he murmured. “Who would’ve thought… even Canelo has a soft side.”







Too Damn Wrong



Marvel continued past the barbecue stand without stopping. His pace was steady, eyes calm. But a short distance ahead, he caught sight of a familiar figure.



The man wore a nearly identical outfit to Marvel’s own—an old, outdated railroad worker uniform from the 1950s. It looked like it had been fished out of a forgotten wardrobe. The man’s frame was disturbingly thin, his skin wrinkled and weathered, like someone in his seventies or eighties.



That man was none other than Lawson—the legendary Golden Bowl Lawson.



But what stopped Marvel in his tracks wasn’t just Lawson.



It was who Lawson was walking with.



Beside him was a girl, no older than eighteen or nineteen. She was young, strikingly pretty, with a dangerously seductive figure. Her white tank top clung tightly to her chest, revealing the top curve of her breasts and a deep, unmistakable cleavage.



Marvel froze.



Even Brian, still seated at the barbecue stand, squinted at the scene, a subtle look of surprise crossing his face.



Then he chuckled to himself and muttered, “Damn. This creepy old fossil’s got game.”



There was no jealousy in his tone—just amused surprise. Brian, after all, was no stranger to women. If anything, he found it impressive.



At that moment, a loud crack ripped through the air.



Everyone turned to see a streetlight pole snap clean in half and topple sideways into a tree, lodged awkwardly among its branches.



Heads turned.



Marvel stood nearby, his fist still clenched and trembling.



He had punched the pole.



Brian’s eyes widened—and a soft shimmer of gold flickered in them.



Through the faint glow of his Golden Eyes, he scanned the boy again.



This kid’s jealous. Intensely jealous.And his adrenaline just spiked like crazy. His strength… it must’ve multiplied eight, maybe even ten times.



Lawson slowly turned around.



He saw a Zhongshan suit. A clenched fist. A head lowered.



Marvel stood there, mumbling to himself. His body tense. His eyes locked onto Lawson with a disturbed kind of stillness.



“This is wrong,” Marvel muttered. “This is absolutely wrong… too damn wrong… a monstrous violation of nature.”



His voice trembled with disgust. His words spilled out faster now.



“How can an 80-year-old man seduce… a girl barely out of high school? This isn’t just sick—it’s illegal. Immoral. Inhuman.”



His breathing grew heavier.



His body shuddered.



His face twisted slowly—less like a human’s, more like something else.



Something feral.



Something beastly.



Something that didn’t belong in the world of reason or restraint—



…a beast.







Face Destruction Punch



Marvel had been standing behind Lawson. But in a sudden leap, he sprang forward and landed directly in front of him, eyes blazing.



He jabbed a finger toward Lawson and shouted:



“You creepy old fossil! You’ve got one foot in the damn grave, and you’re still out here seducing clueless underage girls?! Have you no shame?!”



Lawson looked completely baffled.



“What are you even talking about? My God. I’m only eighteen. My girlfriend’s two years older than me!”



Marvel’s expression twisted in disbelief.



“Eighteen? You expect me to believe that? With that saggy, wrinkled-ass face? I wouldn’t believe you if you said sixty-eight. Got proof? Show me your damn ID!”



Lawson fumbled into his pocket and pulled out his driver’s license.



It said he was born in 2006. He wasn’t even nineteen yet.



Marvel took the license in one hand—then clenched his fist.



The plastic ID crumbled like brittle glass, falling from his fingers as tiny fragments, like grains of sand.



“No,” Marvel growled. “That’s messed up. I didn’t think you could sink this low—faking your ID, seriously? You’re despicable”



He took a step forward, fire in his voice.“I’m putting an end to this today—for the good of society.”



Lawson instantly realized—no matter what he said or how he explained, this beast wouldn’t listen. Things were about to get very ugly. He raised his guard and braced for the worst.



Marvel twisted his hips, dropped low, then snapped forward with a roaring punch.“FACE DESTRUCTION PUNCH!!” he yelled.



Lawson panicked and ducked behind his girlfriend, using her as a shield. Classic coward move—zero hesitation, all survival instinct.Caught off guard, she tried to dodge—but it was too late. She took Marvel’s punch to the face at full explosive force.



Her face shattered. Everything caved in—nose, cheeks, eyes—just a mess of broken flesh, with blood spraying from every angle.



She flew back like a ragdoll, soaring over ten meters before slamming into a distant wall and landing sideways on the pavement.



Dazed, bruised, and soaked in blood, she slowly began to crawl back up.Through the chaos, she spotted a teenage boy strolling by with his hands in his pockets.



He looked clean. Normal. Kinda handsome.



“Hey, cutie,” she called out weakly, flashing him a sweet, vulnerable smile. “Mind giving me a hand?”



The boy turned to look at her.



She batted her eyes, trying to sound soft and flirty—completely unaware that her face no longer looked pretty.It looked more like a pile of smushed pork meat.



The boy looked down at her.Then recoiled in disgust.“Holy shit—hell no! Get away from me, you fugly freak!”



With a grunt, he kicked her square in the chest, knocking her flat on the ground again.Then, calm as ever, he slid his hands back into his pockets and walked off—slow, casual, like nothing had happened.







The Flying Ambush



Marvel looked down at the girl he had just disfigured. Bloodied, broken, and humiliated.



His face twisted—part grief, part fury.Tears welled in his beast-like eyes, spilling down his cheeks.



“I’ll never forgive you…” he muttered. “You made me destroy her face. How dare you…”He pointed at Lawson and shouted, “You call yourself a man?! Hiding behind a woman?!”



Lawson flinched, his cowardice fully exposed.His lips parted, but his voice trembled—thin and shaky, revealing the fear beneath.



“If I hadn’t hidden behind her… I’d be the one without a face right now.”



Suddenly—



From across the street, a figure blasted forward in a dead-straight horizontal line, one leg stretched out in front like a spear, the other tucked behind. The tip of his leather shoe tore through the air, trailing sparks.



He didn’t look like a man.He looked like a missile—his half-buttoned shirt flapping violently, chest fully exposed. Behind him, a long red cape whipped through the wind like a streak of warning.



He was fast.He was precise.He was Sean. The Local Hero.



And this was his signature move:The Horizontal Execution Kick.



Marvel instinctively raised his palm, aiming to catch the incoming foot—but the impact was too powerful.He barely managed to block it.



A loud crack echoed as Marvel was shoved backward by sheer force. Sparks exploded between his shoes and the pavement as he slid helplessly.



Ten meters. Fifteen. Twenty.



Only once the forward momentum halted did Sean flip backward midair—just before Marvel could grab his foot. He landed cleanly, two meters away, poised and ready.



Marvel came to a stop, standing scorched and rattled—right in front of Brian’s table.



Brian looked up briefly.He blinked once.Then casually grabbed another lamb skewer, took a bite, and returned to sipping his beer like nothing had happened.



Sean adjusted his footing and stood tall, fists down at his side.His half-open shirt swayed in the breeze. That chest—exposed like a war hero’s.His red cape fluttered behind him, dancing like fire in the afternoon light.



He glared at Marvel, his voice stern and dramatic.



“You seriously dare treat a blooming young maiden like that—in broad daylight?” he barked. “Look at her now! You turned her face into a pile of ground beef. Don’t you feel even a little bit ashamed?!”



He pointed straight at Marvel.



“I’m gonna teach you a lesson. Right here, right now. As a hero should.”



Brian raised his eyes again.A faint golden shimmer crossed his pupils.He already knew the outcome of the fight.



Without saying a word, he lifted one hand and signaled the waitress.



“Check, please.”







The Silence After



“Keep the change,” Brian said to the waitress with a lazy smile. Then he gave her a little wink—half playful, half careless.



Just then, behind him—



Sean’s voice cut through the air, loud and urgent: “Lawson! Hurry up and get that girl to the hospital! She’s bleeding bad!”



He turned around, searching—But Lawson was already gone, having slipped away the moment Sean’s flying ambush kicked in.Typical coward.Vanished without a word.



Sean muttered, stunned, “Damn… he really isn’t a man.” He shook his head. “Just left her there like that. Despicable. What a coward!”



Brian rose from his stool, hands slipping casually into his pockets. He walked away from the barbecue stand like it was just another lazy afternoon.



Behind him, two men burst into motion.



One draped in a red cape, dramatic and self-righteous.The other trembling with beast-like rage, suit still buttoned up tight.



Brian didn’t look back.



But just as he rounded the first corner, two sounds cracked the air behind him—sharp, brutal, and final.



The first: the raw thud of a punch driving into flesh.The second: a body slamming into the pavement, loud and final.



Then—Silence.



No shouts. No groans. No movement.



Just a strange, still quiet.



Brian kept walking down the block.



A black car with Chinese embassy plates rolled past him slowly, a red flag fluttering behind it with official flair.



Nothing seemed out of place—Until the car turned the corner.



That’s when Brian caught a glimpse.



Under the rear bumper—Sean.



Unconscious. Arms dangling, chin swaying slightly with the car’s motion. One of his leather shoes was gone, leaving only a sock-covered foot bobbing in the wind.



Brian blinked.



By the time he looked again, the car had disappeared.



He muttered quietly: “Whatever.”



And kept walking—hands in his pockets, mind already elsewhere.



Marvel is way stronger.Sean never stood a ghost of a chance.







Adrenaline Potential



The next day, Brian returned to the office.



He stepped in quietly and approached Colin’s desk with a respectful tone.



“Yesterday, I ran into a pretty interesting fellow,” he began. “Most of the time, he seems like a complete nobody. Weak. Ordinary. But when his adrenaline kicks in… his strength multiplies. I’d say at least eight to ten times his base level.”



Colin rested his chin on one hand, looking utterly bored. He replied flatly, “Oh. Interesting.”



Brian continued, “If we can bring him into the Humble Organization, he might be a worthy candidate. Someone worth cultivating.”



He pulled out his phone and scrolled through a few photos. “I snapped one at the barbecue stall where I ran into him.”



He handed the phone over to Colin.



The photo was blurry—Brian clearly wasn’t much of a photographer. Still, the image showed enough: a man in a fully buttoned-up Zhongshan suit, belly poking slightly out, hair parted straight down the middle, with a round, chubby face.



Colin stared at it for a moment.



His eyes sharpened.



Then he leaned forward slightly, suddenly more serious.



“Hell no,” he said. “He looks kind of weird.”



Leaning back again, Colin crossed his arms and added, “Still, I’m curious about the power he’s gained through adrenaline. You can check him out some more if you’d like. Want me to send Michael with you?”



Brian smirked. “No need. Even if his strength is boosted tenfold, I could still beat the crap out of him… with both hands in my pockets.”


Chapter 19: The Innocent Adrenaline (Part 2)
==================================================

Brewing Jealousy



The next day, inside a bustling shopping mall, Marvel walked with his head down, wandering aimlessly.He didn’t have anything to do today. And when boredom struck, he’d often drift into crowded places just to sneak glances at women’s cleavage.



At that moment, three people walked toward him.Marvel looked up briefly.



In the middle was a tall, lean young man in a black tank top and Nike athletic shorts—Brian.He had his arms around two women, casually slinging an arm over each of their shoulders as they walked alongside him.



Marvel’s face tensed.Jealousy surged through his chest—fast and sharp.But then, it slowed. Leveled off.He thought to himself, Well… he is pretty good-looking. I guess it’s understandable.



Just as Marvel lowered his gaze again, ready to mind his own business, the handsome guy beside him—Brian—suddenly said loudly to the girls:



“You two have been with me for a whole week now… I’m getting bored.I think next week, we should break up. I kinda wanna look for new girlfriends.”



In truth, the two women were hired actresses—temporary companions Brian had recruited from a massage parlor, both of whom worked there as prostitutes.He wasn’t dating them at all.



This was a setup.



Brian’s goal was simple: to provoke Marvel.He wanted to ignite that jealousy.To trigger the hormonal storm—an explosive spike in adrenaline.



And sure enough, it worked.



Marvel stood frozen on the side.His fists clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white.He muttered to himself, teeth gritted:



“This bastard…He’s the type who breaks hearts without a shred of guilt.I can’t forgive him. He’s living the dream life I’ve always wanted—surrounded by women, flaunting it all without remorse.I won’t allow someone like that to stand before me.”



And in that moment—From within the crowd—A beast began to emerge.







It’s Over 9000!



Brian sensed the storm brewing.



He quickly patted the shoulders of the two prostitutes beside him. “Flee now. Quickly.”



The two women took one glance at Marvel—whose body was beginning to tremble with raw tension—and ran off, disappearing into the crowd without a word.



Brian’s eyes began to glow faintly gold.



He stared at Marvel, analyzing him.



Ten times… twenty times… thirty…



Brian’s jaw dropped. “It’s over 9000,” he muttered in disbelief.



He had severely underestimated this beast.



The Marvel standing before him today wasn’t even close to the one from yesterday. His power had skyrocketed—like he’d evolved into a completely different creature, something several levels beyond.



Brian instantly realized it must’ve been his earlier show-off moment that triggered this. Flaunting two girlfriends in front of Marvel—especially when Marvel was already emotionally unstable—had pushed the man’s jealousy over the edge. And with that, the adrenaline followed.



But there was no time for regret.



Marvel roared, his voice primal. “Face Destruction Punch!”



He launched a brutal, explosive punch directly toward Brian.



Brian dove out of the way just in time—rolling across the floor in a rough tumble.



The punch missed—but it didn’t matter.



The shockwave alone ripped through the mall like a cannon blast. Storefronts cracked, shelves toppled, products went flying. Even people standing ten meters away from the punch were blown off their feet—collapsing where they stood or slamming backward a meter or more.



Brian climbed to his feet, teeth clenched.



He looked at Marvel—now fully transformed, a beast in human clothes.



Brian exhaled sharply.



“Oh… shit.”







Machine Gun Punch



Brian dashed forward and launched a flurry of attacks. He and Marvel immediately clashed in a fierce close-quarters brawl.



Within moments, Brian realized something strange—this beast had overwhelming strength, far beyond his own. But… his movements were wild, clumsy even. His rhythm? Totally untrained.



He doesn’t know any real fighting techniques, Brian thought.



Still, Marvel’s raw power kept the pressure high. Blow after blow rained down. But thanks to his Golden Eyes, Brian was able to read every motion. After ten… maybe twenty exchanges, he finally started to gain the upper hand.



Brian slammed a series of solid punches into Marvel’s thick belly. Each hit echoed with force, knocking Marvel back a few steps—but oddly, he didn’t seem hurt at all.



Then—



Marvel shouted, “Machine Gun Punch!”



At first, Brian thought he was just being ridiculous.



Until the punches came.



Like a real machine gun—Marvel’s fists flew in a blur, alternating at lightning speed. Brian could see every detail, every motion… but there were just too many. Too fast.



In less than half a second, five punches smashed into Brian’s chest.



His body was sent flying—slamming into the wall, then crashing back down to the floor.



He coughed up a thick mouthful of blood.



He’s too strong, Brian thought, dizzy. I can’t win this… should I retreat?



Just then, someone landed in front of him.



A calm figure. With one hand, the man gently adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses.



Then he looked at Brian and said softly,“Apologies. I’m late.”







The Fight Gets Real



The man who had just arrived was Michael.



Without saying a word, Michael swung his right arm and flung his leather briefcase to the ground.



Brian, still crouched on the floor, looked up and asked, “Colin sent you?”



He wiped blood from his lip and added with a weak grin, “Guess our boss already predicted this monster would be stronger than expected.”



Michael shook his head. “No. I was just passing through—wanted to shop for a shirt. Saw you two fighting and figured I should jump in.”He adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses and narrowed his eyes. “Anyway… we need to focus. He’s tough.”



Then, Michael pointed straight at Marvel and shouted,“Hey! Look behind you. There’s a super hot girl back there. All naked.”



Marvel’s jaw dropped. Drool spilled from the corner of his mouth as he spun around in a daze.There was nothing behind him.



That second of distraction was all Michael needed.



He dashed forward and slammed a powerful punch into Marvel’s cheek, followed instantly by a devastating side kick to the chest.Marvel flew ten meters, crashed into a wall, and hit the floor hard, coughing up a mouthful of blood.



The damage was real—but so was the rage.



Now injured, the beast snapped.



Marvel dropped to all fours and charged like a wild animal, hands and feet pounding against the ground with terrifying speed and force.



Michael yelled, “Brace yourself!”



The two of them rushed forward at the same time, meeting Marvel head-on.



A violent exchange of punches and kicks followed—less than twenty rounds—and both Michael and Brian were struck by Marvel.Each was sent flying.



Brian hit the floor hard and didn’t get back up. He’d already vomited blood several times and was clearly too weak to continue.



Michael landed farther away, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, but he remained on his feet. His physique was clearly much stronger than Brian’s.



Still, Michael could feel it too—this wasn’t going to end well if it dragged on.



Across from them, the beast let out a feral roar into the sky.



Michael clenched every muscle in his body, preparing for the worst.







Innocence at the Edge



Marvel’s beastly roar faded into silence.



Kneeling on the floor, Brian’s eyes held a faint golden glimmer. Despite the bruises on his face and the blood at the corner of his lips, he smiled softly to himself—as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment.



He whispered, “It’s about time.”



Marvel’s adrenaline had finally run out.



The wild energy vanished. The animalistic presence dissolved. What remained was just a regular young man, breathless and drained, his limbs limp with fatigue.



Michael, still tensed like a spring, noticed it immediately—the vulnerability.



He stepped forward.



His right hand rose, forming a knife-hand shape. His left foot slid back slightly, steadying his stance. His whole body leaned forward, ready to launch.



Marvel looked up.



His eyes widened. His pupils shrank.



Michael was already in motion—charging in fast. One clean slash.



Marvel’s neck twisted.



His head flew into the air, spinning as blood sprayed in a high arc. His headless body dropped to its knees, then flopped face-first onto the tile floor. Blood pooled rapidly beneath him, spreading in a wide, glossy puddle.



And then—



None of that happened.



It was just Marvel’s imagination.



Because before Michael even took a full step, Brian darted forward and grabbed his wrist.



“That’s enough,” Brian said firmly. “We’re here to test his limits—not to punish him. Not to collect any debts.”



Michael stopped, completely unfazed.



“Oh,” he muttered casually. “Almost killed such an innocent little kid. Good thing you jumped in just in time.”



Marvel sat there frozen, too dazed to speak. His entire body trembled, and from the edges of his pants… a slow, yellowish stream began to seep onto the tile.



He’d wet himself.



Michael didn’t react. He simply walked over and gently draped Brian’s arm over his own shoulder.



With calm, steady steps, the two men turned and walked away—leaving the wreckage and the broken beast behind.







The Adrenaline Experiment



The next day, Brian and Michael were both back at the office.



Colin walked in, leading a very short, extremely skinny man wearing a white doctor’s coat that looked two sizes too big. His face was pale, and his arms looked like sticks barely holding up his sleeves.



“This is Mildy,” Colin announced casually. “An old classmate of mine from elementary school.”



He gave the strange little man a pat on the shoulder.



“He’s an uncertified back-alley doctor,” Colin said casually. “No license, no diploma, no medical background whatsoever—just started patching people up on the street one day and somehow turned it into a career.”



Mildy said nothing. He just nodded once, then popped open his worn-out medical box and pulled out two syringes—both already filled with a transparent liquid.



Adrenaline.



Brian and Michael exchanged a doubtful glance—did this short dude actually know anything about medicine? Seriously?But before either of them could say a word, they each got a shot in the arm.



“Now,” Colin said cheerfully, “head over to the gym and test your power output.”



The Humble Organization’s private gym was quiet that day. They stepped up to the heavy-duty punching machine, the kind usually used for internal ranking evaluations.



One by one, they delivered their strongest punches.



Then again.



And again.



After several rounds of testing, the results came in.Their power levels had increased… but just barely.



Less than 1%.



And once they accounted for experimental error, it was basically no improvement at all.



Mildy spoke in a calm, reedy voice.“Seems like adrenaline only works for certain individuals. Maybe there’s a genetic factor.”



Brian gave a small smile.“Guess becoming a beast isn’t as easy as it sounds.”



Michael shrugged and pushed his golden-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.“Yeah… honestly, golden-rimmed glasses don’t exactly fit the ‘beast’ look.”



The four of them—Colin, Michael, Brian, and the calm, confidently composed Mildy—sat around the office afterward, sipping tea and trading sarcastic remarks.



Just another calm, slightly bizarre afternoon in the Humble Organization.


Chapter 20: The Unlicensed Doctor
==================================================

Shady Clinic in Alley



Ever since that night he went to the prostitute, Marvel had been completely obsessed with one thing—the moment of ejaculation.



He thought about it every single day.He wanted to relive it. To retaste it. To feel that surge again.



It wasn’t just memory—it was ritual.Each morning, he’d close his eyes and recall the exact sensation: the buildup, the explosion, the trembling that followed.He never wanted to forget it.It was, to him, the purest moment of bliss.



Even in his dreams, it would return—amplified into wild metaphors.



Sometimes, he’d dream of a gigantic cannon firing a massive shockwave that flattened an entire city.Sometimes, it was a meteor—engulfed in flames—crashing violently into Earth, shattering the planet into dust.And other times, it was the moment the universe began: a tiny glowing speck erupting in a Big Bang, giving birth to stars and galaxies.



But one morning, reality interrupted the fantasy.



He woke up and noticed something strange on his knees—clusters of red rashes, painfully itchy and oozing a little clear fluid.His heart skipped.Was this an STD?



He didn’t even eat breakfast.He just bolted out the door, dashed down the stairs, and ran into the street, panic in his eyes.



He rushed into the same filthy alleyway he always passed through.



Nothing had changed.



Canelo was peeing on an electric pole.Tom rummaged through the trash, looking for recyclables.Lawson squatted beside his broken porcelain bowl, silently begging.And Benson—Benson was curled up in the shadows, getting mugged by a gang of punks.Someone had shoved dog feces into his mouth.He was kneeling, chewing through it, begging for mercy with tears in his eyes.



Marvel didn’t stop.



He kept running until he reached a shady little clinic tucked at the back of the alley.Inside, behind the counter, sat a short man with pale skin and an oversized white coat. He looked up and gave Marvel a faint, unreadable smile.



Marvel didn’t say hello.



“I don’t know what’s wrong. My skin—my knees—there are these red spots… they itch and leak. I’m worried I caught an STD.”



Mildy glanced at him flatly.



“You? Caught an STD? Come on, kid. You still smell like a virgin.”



Marvel looked nervous. “Actually… I went, uh… a week ago, I—”



Mildy waved it off before he could finish.“Say no more. I get it. Men have needs.”



He stood up calmly and opened a door to a private room.



“Come on, I’ll take a look.”



Marvel followed him inside.



Mildy shut the door behind them and began to examine the rash—with total, unnerving composure.



Unprofessionalism



Mildy took a closer look at Marvel’s knees, gently poking at the red, irritated patches with a gloved finger.



“Hmmm,” he muttered. “Yeah… this could very well be an STD. But let’s run a blood test to be sure.”



He reached for a syringe. Marvel noticed a faint smear of reddish residue on the needle.



“Uh… doctor? Are you sure that’s clean?”



Mildy gave a casual, confident smile. “Of course. I rinse it thoroughly under tap water for a full minute after every patient. Completely safe.”



Marvel looked unconvinced, but it was already too late. The needle slipped in smoothly, drawing a full tube of blood.



“All done,” Mildy said. “You’ll get your results in about thirty minutes. Please wait out front.”



Marvel shuffled back to the waiting area and sat near a buzzing floor fan. The plastic seat creaked beneath him. Time ticked by, painfully slow.



Then, the clinic door opened.



A young woman walked in—stylish, well-groomed, with a neat ponytail and a white tank top. She stepped lightly to the front desk.



“Hi, I think I caught a cold,” she said. “Just feeling off.”



Mildy nodded with a brisk professionalism. “Got it. Let’s begin with a basic checkup.”



He stepped around the counter.



“I’ll start with a routine breast examination,” he added plainly.



The woman blinked. “Wait—breast exam? I just have a cold.”



“It’s part of a full-body screening,” Mildy replied, as if it were common knowledge. “Sometimes symptoms manifest in less obvious places.”



She opened her mouth to object, but before she could, Mildy gently slid down the left strap of her tank top and shifted the bra cup aside—exposing her breast in the middle of the waiting area.



Marvel, seated nearby, froze.



The woman gasped, covering part of herself with one arm. “Here? In front of someone?”



Mildy remained calm. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen thousands. Totally normal.”



With one hand, he carefully cupped the underside of her breast, lifting it slightly. Then, with a slow, focused motion, he began pressing gently around the tissue—rubbing in small, practiced circles like he was following a mental checklist.



Marvel’s eyes widened. His mouth hung slightly open.



This is insane, he thought. This is what being a doctor is like? I should’ve gone into medicine.



Mildy continued with the same professional face. After a few moments, he brought up his other hand—adding light pressure from above—and gave the area a careful squeeze, shaping it slightly so the nipple would stand out more.



Then, as if inspecting even closer, he leaned in… his face drifting toward the breast.



Marvel leaned forward in his seat, hypnotized.



Mildy’s tongue flicked out slightly, approaching the exposed skin.



The woman immediately stepped back, pulling her shirt up with sharp precision.



“No. Nope. I don’t think this is appropriate at all. I’m leaving.”



She turned and stormed toward the door.



“Wait!” Mildy called after her. “If you leave your condition untreated, it could lead to serious complications!”



She didn’t look back.



“You haven’t paid!” he added, louder.



The door slammed.



Silence.



Mildy shrugged and strolled back to the counter.



Marvel, still sitting frozen in his chair, finally turned his head.



“She just left?”



Mildy sighed. “Some patients just don’t understand what proper care looks like.”



Marvel nodded slowly, still in awe.



I really, really should’ve gone to med school.



The Diagnosis



Not long after, Mildy emerged from the lab room holding a test report in his hand.He walked up to Marvel and said solemnly,“I’m sorry, Mr. Marvel. I’m afraid I have to inform you… your result is positive.You’ve contracted an STD.To be precise, it’s HIV.”



Marvel trembled instantly. His legs went weak.He asked, “Doctor… is there any hope for me?”



Mildy answered flatly, “According to the report, you likely have less than three months to live.My advice is—enjoy your time while you can.Eat what you want. Play, drink, sleep with whoever you want.Say farewell to your friends and family.”



Marvel broke down on the spot. He cried out, loud and raw—like a child who had just lost everything.“I only did it once… How could I get HIV so fast?”



Mildy shook his head and replied,“I once had a patient who got HIV from shaking hands.Sometimes it’s just that easy.Like winning the lottery—but the bad kind.”



Marvel completely collapsed.He held his head in both hands,tears dripping onto the cold floor one by one.“I’m such a loser,” he sobbed.“How do I tell my mom about this?How do I explain something this shameful?”



Mildy stared at the broken man in front of him.After a moment, he spoke with cold calm:“Sir, I understand your pain.But I have more important matters to attend to.You take some time to process your emotions.Life… is fragile like that.”



Then he turned around and walked back toward his room—likely to take a nap.



What remained behindwas a dim, chilly waiting room,and a ruined mancrying his heart out alone in an old, plastic chair.



Mistaken Results



As Mildy walked down the hallway toward his room, one of his assistants stepped out from the lab and handed him a freshly printed paper.



“Doctor,” she said. “This is Mr. Marvel’s actual test result.”



Mildy took the sheet and glanced down.



He blinked.



The name on the result he had just delivered? Jackie Chan.



The one he was now holding? Marvel.



The air felt still for a moment. The cheap fluorescent light above buzzed faintly.



“…Ah,” Mildy muttered. “Well. That explains it.”



His expression barely shifted, but he forced out a professional smile—a polite curve of the mouth that didn’t quite reach the eyes.



“Jackie… Marvel… the names really do look alike,” he said lightly. “Very easy to mix up.”



Back in the waiting area, Marvel shot to his feet. His tears stopped immediately.



“Wait—what? So I don’t have HIV?? I’m okay??”



Mildy raised a hand to calm him. “Hold on. You’re clear on that… but that doesn’t mean everything’s fine.”



Marvel’s trembling eyes began to well up again.



Mildy glanced at the correct report and said plainly, “You’ve got a heat rash.”



Marvel gasped with relief, like he had just escaped death itself. He dropped to his knees in the center of the room and clutched his forehead.



“Mom… I’m safe… I really thought it was over. I didn’t even know how I was gonna tell you… about what I did…”



After a few heavy breaths, he scrambled to his feet and rushed over to Mildy.



“Doctor, so what do I need? Pills? Ointment? Some kind of cream?”



Mildy remained calm.



“No need. I’ve developed a new method. It’s fast, effective, and a little unconventional.”



He gave a faint, unreadable smile.



“Just wait here. I’ll get it ready.”



Marvel nodded eagerly, completely relieved.



The clinic felt warmer now, almost sunny—like the tension had lifted from its dusty walls.



Dog Therapy



A few minutes later, Mildy walked into the clinic, dragging along a black German shepherd. The dog was excited and friendly, its tongue hanging out like it was smiling at everyone.



Marvel asked, “Doctor, is that your dog? Pretty cute. But… why are you bringing it in here?”



Mildy replied, “This dog is here to treat your heat rash.”



Then he unhooked the leash and said, “Go on—lick his knees.”



Marvel felt something was off, but before he could say no, the big dog was already going to town, frantically licking his knees and the irritated patches of skin. Oddly enough, it actually felt… soothing. The burning sensation seemed to ease, and it felt like he was already halfway cured.



Marvel gave a small, awkward laugh. “Doctor, your method is… kind of interesting.”



Mildy looked proud and smug, resting his fingers under his chin with a self-satisfied pose. “This is a treatment I developed myself. It’s very effective. As long as the dog doesn’t have rabies, I’d say the risk is basically zero.”



Marvel chuckled. “Well, I assume you tested the dog for rabies, right?”



Mildy casually replied, “Nope.”



That night, Marvel went home. His legs didn’t itch anymore. He was thrilled. He watched porn while humming a tune—his skin finally felt better, and that annoying itch was unbearable before.



But the next day, Marvel ended up in the ER.



The real hospital doctor told him, “I don’t know what happened to you, but your skin has developed a severe infection, and now you’ve got a high fever. Good thing you came in when you did. This could’ve been fatal. Where did you even catch such a strange bacteria?”



Marvel sat still, staring blankly.



He didn’t answer.



Public Statement



The next evening, Marvel sat slumped on his couch. His fever still hadn’t gone down completely. Weak and drowsy, he leaned back and stared blankly at the TV. It happened to be tonight’s news broadcast.



The first segment showed the country’s top leaders visiting the poor and offering aid. The news anchor described a powerful speech delivered at a large public square. Marvel glanced at the screen and muttered casually, “Boring…”



He grabbed the remote and switched to another channel.



This time, it was a press conference—and the speaker was none other than Mildy.



A reporter asked, “Regarding today’s deceased patient… Sources say he died during a tooth extraction surgery because you forgot to administer anesthesia. He went into cardiac arrest from the intense pain. Do you accept responsibility for this medical incident?”



Mildy remained calm and professional.



“In this city,” he replied, “there are people who die from medical accidents every year. But those numbers fall within the expected margin. Take last year’s records, for example—we had over a million surgeries, and only nine people unfortunately passed away. That’s a very low probability.”



He paused meaningfully before continuing.



“But just because the odds are low doesn’t mean surgery is risk-free.”



Another reporter chimed in, “But according to last year’s data, out of those nine deaths, eight were your patients. How do you explain that?”



Mildy didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t heard the question—or more likely, he simply ignored it. He carried on, wearing his signature professional look, speaking with the tone of a motivational speaker.



“Our society is progressing every day. I sincerely hope that, in our lifetime, we can bring that number even lower. One in a million. Maybe even zero. Every doctor, every citizen in our society is working toward that goal. And for that collective effort, we should all show the deepest respect.”



At the end of his speech, he gave a ceremonial bow and turned to walk backstage.



As he left, a few men in black suits came forward and announced, “Thank you all for attending today’s press conference.”



Despite the statement being over, the room was still filled with unanswered questions. Some reporters tried to break through the security line to ask more, but Mildy had already disappeared from view.


Chapter 21: Ph.D. in Seduction
==================================================

The Cult of the Book



It was a strange sight for a Thursday afternoon.



Inside the downtown bookstore, a long, winding line of young men stretched from the checkout counter all the way past the manga section, wrapped around the cookbooks, and spilled halfway into the emergency stairwell. Some were sweating nervously, others adjusted their glasses or tapped their fingers against their phone screens, fidgeting like caffeine-starved squirrels.



Most of them shared a certain look — not ugly, not poor, just… invisible. The kind of guys who always raised their hands in class but never got called on. The kind of guys who apologized when someone stepped on them. Quiet, geeky, polite, and painfully single.



They were all here for one thing.



A newly released book titled “The Final Equation: Unlocking the Female Mind Through Logic” — written by the legendary street philosopher and dating theorist, Stiffen Hawken.



He held a real PhD in sociology, but nobody cared about that.They called him PhD because of his deep, ongoing “research” into seduction, female psychology, and what he described as “erotic power dynamics in a post-modern transactional market.”



His words, not anyone else’s.



The book’s cover was dramatic: a silhouette of a man rising up with arms stretched wide toward a glowing crowd of women. His jawline looked chiseled, his eyes glowed with mystery, and his body was stacked like a gym god. It was obviously photoshopped—badly. One of his hands had six fingers. His neck looked like it had been borrowed from a giraffe.



Still, it sold.




“He solved time. Now, he solves women.”— Stiffen Hawken (a.k.a. PhD)




Posters around the store featured quotes from the book:



“Seduction is just persuasion with better math.”“Touch her soul… before you touch her hand.”“Every rejection is just poorly framed data.”



Near the front, staff members were overwhelmed, constantly restocking the book table. Each new stack disappeared within seconds. The line kept growing.



One guy clutched his copy to his chest like it was a sacred artifact. “He’s not just a theorist,” he whispered. “He’s a practitioner. A field agent. He’s… living proof.”



Another nodded. “He literally cataloged over a hundred women he’s slept with. Details, techniques, timestamps. It’s like… dating science.”



Across the street, inside a small bubble tea shop, PhD sat alone at a window table.



He wore a sharp blazer over a bold floral shirt — stylish, colorful, and unmistakably attention-seeking. His build was lean and athletic, with the kind of casual posture that came from knowing exactly how good he looked. Curly hair, pale skin, thin wireframe glasses. Above average in appearance, but not quite handsome — and yet, he radiated something stronger than looks: control.



He drank red bean bubble tea through a thick straw, calmly observing the crowd through the glass.



And he smiled.







The Ticket to Salvation



Marvel stepped out of the bookstore like he’d just been anointed. The moment the automatic doors whooshed shut behind him, he paused mid-sidewalk, hugging the book tightly against his chest. People flowed around him like water around a rock, but Marvel didn’t notice. He stood there, blank-eyed and radiant, like a monk who had just seen God… or at least a very convincing diagram.



After a moment, he unwrapped one arm and opened the book.



He flipped randomly, letting fate guide him.



Page 127.Case Study: Crimson Bloom at Union SquareField Record #39




“Let me start by saying this: looks and money are illusions. At best, they’re shortcuts. At worst, they’re traps.”“Sincerity… sincerity is the scalpel that cuts through everything. Pride, fear, doubt — hers and yours. Most men don’t even realize it exists.”





“There I was. Union Square. Bright day. Pigeons flapping, skateboarders zooming by, someone was playing the violin under a statue of Gandhi.”





“I held 99 roses in my arms. Not 100. Not 98. Exactly 99 — the symbolic number of unspoken desires in classical Confucian romantic theory.”





“Then I saw her. A stranger. Tall. Angelic. Hair tied in a loose bun. She was reading a book with her back against the monument. She looked up.”





“I stepped forward and said: ‘Excuse me… I know this is random… but I think I was meant to meet you today.’”





“I handed her the roses and let the silence carry the weight.”





“She blinked once. Then again. Then she smiled.”





“We walked. Talked. Shared stories over green tea. Hours passed like clouds. That night, I made love to her like I’d known her for years.”





“She said I made her feel seen. I told her the truth — that I didn’t do this often. That was a lie. But my sincerity? That was real.”




Marvel slowly closed the book.



His fingers lingered on the cover, tracing the embossed title with a kind of reverence. The core message echoed in his mind like a bell:




Sincerity… is the scalpel.




He looked up, eyes glowing faintly with determination.



He needed 99 roses.He had about fourteen bucks and a metro card.No fancy looks. No fancy wallet. But sincerity?He could summon that.



Marvel took one step forward—



—but before he could take the second, something else caught his attention.







A Familiar Face and a Salty Memory



Marvel was just about to step off the curb and hunt for roses when something stopped him.



Across the street, inside the bubble tea shop, he spotted a man.



Floral shirt. Curly hair. Wireframe glasses. Muscular frame, blazer tight across the chest.He sipped a red bean bubble tea through a fat straw, slowly, like he had all the time in the world.



Marvel’s eyes narrowed.There was something familiar about him. That lazy posture… that smug half-smile…



And then it hit him — hard.




Wait… that’s him. That’s… Professor Stiffen Hawken… from the TV interview.




A memory flashed in his brain like a spotlight flicking on.The night of the broadcast.The dim-lit studio. His trembling voice. The full confession. The failed kiss. The tears.



And on the couch beside him — the man who said almost nothing the whole time.The one lounging like he was half-asleep.



Marvel remembered him now.




He didn’t comment, didn’t judge… just watched. And flicked a booger at me during the commercial.




Marvel’s eyes widened even more.




I ate that.




In a trance, Marvel crossed the street, pushed open the door to the bubble tea shop, and headed straight for the table.



“You!” Marvel blurted. “You’re PhD! From the book! From the interview!”



PhD looked up slowly. He blinked once behind his glasses, then gave a lazy smirk.



“Oh?” he said. “You saw that episode?”



Marvel nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! You were the one lying on the couch the whole time! I was the guest!”



PhD let out a breath through his nose. “Right… Yeah, I was asleep through most of it. The host was way too rude. I just tuned out.”



“Oh… I see.” Marvel rubbed the back of his neck, then lowered his voice. “But… you remember the booger?”



PhD looked mildly confused, then chuckled. “Hmm. I wouldn’t recommend doing something like that, but… I hope you feel alright now.”



Marvel smiled nervously and sat down.



“I’ve been your fanboy for a while now, Mr. Stephen Hawken.”



PhD raised a brow slightly. “Please, don’t call me that. People usually just call me PhD.”



“Oh. Okay. Mr. PhD…” Marvel sat up straighter. “I really admire your techniques. And your mindset. Your book really opened my eyes. May I… ask you a few questions? About love?”



PhD glanced at his watch and gave a small shrug.



“Sure. I’ve got five minutes.”







The Numbers Game



Marvel leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table, eyes shining with hunger — not for food, but for knowledge.



“Okay, Mr. PhD,” he said breathlessly. “I’ve always wanted to ask… What’s the real secret of love?”



PhD leaned back, tapping one finger against his mostly empty cup. He let the silence stretch for a second or two, then exhaled slowly — like he was about to recite a sacred truth.



“The secret of love,” he said, voice low and meaningful, “is sincerity.”



Marvel blinked.



“Sincerity?”



PhD nodded solemnly.



“When you look someone in the eye, and you strip away all your armor — no filters, no fronts, no pretensions — that’s when you connect. That’s when love becomes real. You let her see the chaos inside you… and somehow, she still wants to stay. That’s sincerity.”



Marvel stared at him like he was witnessing a miracle.



“Wow… That’s deep.”



PhD gave a soft smile and sipped the last bit of bubble tea.



Inside, his mind wandered.




That sounded kinda cool. I should use that line in the next book. Or a podcast.




Marvel hesitated, then cleared his throat.



“Uh, if you don’t mind… Can I ask something a little more personal?”



PhD shrugged. “Sure. I’m open to anything.”



Marvel leaned in like he was sharing a secret.



“How many girls have you slept with?”



PhD didn’t even flinch.



“Oh… that,” he said, as if it were a weather report. “Too many. Honestly, I lost count years ago.”



Marvel’s eyes widened.



PhD went on casually, “But if you want a rough idea, I can tell you something based on what I wrote in the book.”



Marvel nodded eagerly.



“Well,” PhD said, “excluding the massage parlors… I’d say I’ve grabbed about a thousand boobs.”



Marvel’s jaw dropped. “A… a thousand?!”



“Yeah,” PhD replied, adjusting his sleeve. “Now, remember — one girl has two boobs. So a thousand boobs divided by two…”



He held up two fingers and drew the imaginary equation in the air.



“…means roughly five hundred girls.”



Marvel whispered, “Holy crap… five hundred…”



“That’s not even counting repeat visits,” PhD added with a smirk. “Or massage rooms with curtains.”



Marvel looked like he was having a spiritual awakening.



“I feel like… I learned something powerful today,” he said.



Then, after a pause, he extended his hand. “Can I… shake your hand?”



PhD looked at it for a second.



Then he shrugged and shook it — firm, brief, with zero emotion.



As he stood up, he crumpled the empty plastic cup and dropped it into the nearby trash bin without missing a beat.



“Well,” he said, “I gotta go. Be good. Be sincere.”



And just like that, he walked out the door, floral shirt catching the wind, curly hair bouncing slightly with each step.



Marvel watched him disappear down the street like a prophet returning to the clouds.



He sat there for a long moment.







One Man’s Ruin



Marvel remained seated in the bubble tea shop, quietly sipping his drink as he watched PhD stroll out into the sunlight. The man’s colorful blazer caught glints of gold under the afternoon rays. With his polished shoes clicking softly on the pavement, PhD looked like he had not a care in the world.



But someone had been waiting for him.



A young man stepped forward from the side of the street and blocked his path. His face was pale. His fists were clenched. His body trembled with something far more explosive than nerves.



“You bastard,” he growled. “How dare you sleep with my wife?!”



PhD stopped.



He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just tilted his head ever so slightly and replied with a calm, almost puzzled voice:



“Oh? Your wife? Which one?”



The man’s voice cracked, his chest heaving. “Julie! You know damn well which one!”



PhD gave a slow blink.



“I know a lot of Julies,” he said. “You’ll need to narrow it down.”



The man stepped closer, spitting out the details like bullets.



“The one with the ponytail. Always wore a pink blouse. Works at an insurance company. Gets tipsy off half a beer.”



PhD gave a soft “ah,” like something finally clicked.



“That one.”



The man didn’t stop.



“She used to be a really nice girl. We met years ago. We just got married—less than three months ago. I thought everything was finally going in the right direction.”



His voice grew shaky, barely holding together.



“We were gonna have kids. We were gonna grow old together. We had dreams. A whole future. All laid out.”



He swallowed, but the pain pushed through anyway.



“But now… it’s gone. All of it.”



He looked up. His eyes, now glassy, were locked on PhD’s.



“She looks at me like I’m a stranger. We don’t talk. We don’t touch. We sleep in different rooms. She doesn’t smile anymore. Not at me.”



His voice cracked again.



“We’re not the same people. Not after you. You broke something I can’t fix.”



He choked out the last words.



“There are so many women in the world. So many. Why her?”



PhD stared at him in silence for a beat. Then let out a faint exhale and shrugged.



“Why her?”



He tilted his chin.



“I don’t know. I’ve had… so many. I don’t remember their names. Or what they do. Their backgrounds. Their stories. None of that matters.”



His voice was smooth. Cold. Almost businesslike.



“I just have fun. Add to the count. That’s all.”



Then, as if flipping through mental flashcards, PhD drifted into thought.




Ah… that one.





She had a really nice body… her face always a little flushed… her gasps — soft, playful, just the right amount of seductive… feminine in all the right ways.




He snapped back to the moment.



Still expressionless.



Still calm.



Marvel, watching through the glass, felt a chill crawl down his spine.



The man across from PhD said nothing now.



He simply stood there. Shaking. Cracking from the inside out.



And something in the air shifted — thickened — like the seconds before a storm.



But PhD… just casually checked his watch.







The Man I Want to Become



The tension in the air finally snapped.



The young man took one shaky breath—and screamed.



“RAAAAAAHHHHH!!!”



His body tensed, veins bulging, eyes wild. He roared to the sky as his hair shot upward, turning bright gold like a Super Saiyan. A violent gust of energy exploded from him, rattling windows and shaking lamp posts. Pedestrians screamed and ducked for cover.



Without warning, he grabbed a nearby parked car—a blue Toyota sedan—and hurled it like a discus straight at PhD.



Marvel, from behind the bubble tea shop window, gasped and stood up.



The car spun midair, flipping side-over-side toward PhD like a flying wrecking ball.



But PhD didn’t move.



He casually raised one arm and caught the car with a single hand—stopping it completely, as if catching a slow-moving beach ball. The metal groaned against his palm.



He looked down at it, sighed, and gently placed it back onto the ground, making sure not to dent the fender.



Then he looked up.



“Are you done?” he asked flatly.



But the golden-haired man was already charging.



He launched forward with a roar, fists blazing like meteors. His feet cracked the pavement with every step. The first punch flew in—a straight jab.



PhD leaned sideways, letting it brush past his cheek.



The second was a wild hook.



PhD ducked under it without blinking.



Third, fourth, fifth—rapid combos, raw power, no control.



PhD finally stepped forward and delivered a single punch to the man’s ribs. The sound echoed like a drum.



The golden-haired man gasped, mouth open, eyes wide. He staggered back, coughing blood.



But he wasn’t done.



He screamed again, leaping up and trying to come down with a two-fist smash from above.



PhD stepped aside and let him crash into the sidewalk.



As the man clumsily stood up, PhD adjusted his sleeve.



Then came the final blow.



PhD spun his torso slightly, planted his feet, and punched the man square in the chest.



The impact shot the man backward like a missile. He smashed into a nearby streetlamp, bounced off, and hit the ground with a sickening thud.



His golden hair faded back to black.



Silence fell.



PhD adjusted his blazer, then bent down to pick up something he had dropped earlier—a used condom wrapper that had fallen from his pocket mid-fight. He brushed a speck of dirt off it, and casually tossed it into the trash.



Then he walked away. Calm. Unbothered. Like he had just finished filing paperwork.



Inside the bubble tea shop, Marvel stood frozen.



His lips parted. His eyes sparkled with a weird kind of admiration.



He had just seen a man catch a flying car. Knock out a Super Saiyan in five moves. Walk away like it was nothing.



But more than that—he had seen the same man talk about women like they were numbers on a scoreboard.



Strength. And romantic success.Power in body, and power in charm.



Marvel’s grip tightened around his drink.




“That’s the man I want to become…”







Chapter 22: The Strongest Muscles
==================================================

Lavender Scented Tension



The supermarket lighting buzzed softly above the nearly empty hygiene aisle.



On the shelf: one solitary roll.Lavender-scented. Heart-embossed. Extra-soft. Ultra-absorbent.A limited-edition masterpiece of modern toilet paper engineering.



PhD spotted it from the left end of the aisle, holding his bubble tea with one hand and pushing his shopping cart with the other.Michael came from the right, carrying only a small basket — mostly empty, except for a carton of milk and a bag of rice.



Their eyes met at the shelf.Their arms extended.Their fingers touched the packaging at the exact same moment.



They both froze.



Michael looked up. Calm. Steady.



PhD blinked. Then smiled politely. “Oh. You’re going for this one too?”



Michael replied, “Yes.”



They kept their fingers on the roll — not tugging, not fighting. Just holding.



PhD gave a friendly chuckle. “Funny thing. This is actually the only brand I use.”



Michael nodded. “Same.”



PhD raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”



Michael answered flatly. “Yes. I’ve tried other brands. They don’t… work for me.”



PhD tilted his head. “Work?”



Michael lowered his voice slightly. “They interfere with my bowel movements.”



PhD blinked again.



Michael added, “If I use anything else, I get blocked up. Like, dangerously. This brand’s softness and scent help relax the lower abdominal pressure.”



A pause.



PhD gave a thoughtful nod. “Huh. Well, I respect that. For me, it’s more spiritual. This is the only brand that feels aligned with my lifestyle philosophy. I meditate with it in the room.”



Michael: “That’s… nice.”



PhD: “It has a calming field. Lavender and hearts. It resets the soul.”



Michael didn’t react.



They both stayed still. Still holding the roll.



Neither pulled. Neither backed off.



PhD eventually said, “Look, if there were another, I’d let you have this one.”



Michael: “Same.”



They looked around the shelf.Empty.



Silence settled.



A toddler passed by in a shopping cart seat and pointed. “Mommy, why are those men touching toilet paper for so long?”



Neither of them moved.



PhD looked back down at the roll and let out a quiet sigh.“You know… even with your situation, I just can’t let this go. I barely have time to go shopping these days. This is the one thing I absolutely have to get today. No matter what.”



Michael didn’t flinch. His voice stayed flat, but there was a quiet urgency behind it.“I get it. But I really can’t hold it much longer. It’s been building up for three days. If I don’t use this roll today… things might get messy.”



More silence.



Their grips tightened.



Not aggressive. Just… protective.



The lavender-scented prize sat there, wrapped in foil and destiny, as two grown men stood frozen in complete, mutual, absurd sincerity.



It was still only about the toilet paper.



But that didn’t make it any less serious.







Toilet Paper Duel



Michael moved first.



Without a word, he tightened his grip on the lavender-scented toilet paper and slid it slightly toward his basket.



But before he could lift it—



Thwack!A clean downward hand chop landed squarely on his wrist.



Michael’s fingers opened reflexively. The toilet paper slipped from his grasp and rolled gently back into its original resting spot on the shelf.



PhD, unfazed, reached for it with confident fingers.



But just as his hand got close—



Clack.Michael’s hand latched onto PhD’s wrist like a bear trap, locking it in midair.



PhD narrowed his eyes. His fingers twitched.



With a subtle twist of the forearm and a gentle pivot of the wrist, PhD slipped free from Michael’s hold.



Then, suddenly—



Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.



The two men exchanged five hand chops at lightning speed. Their palms and knuckles struck each other in sharp, controlled bursts—clean and direct, almost like a schoolyard slap game. To a casual bystander, it might’ve looked like two grown men pretending to karate-chop each other like kids.



But the intensity was real.



Each strike was dead-on, calculated, and so precise that even the toilet paper inches away vibrated under the invisible shockwaves in the air.



After the fifth exchange, both men paused.



Breathing steady.Eyes locked.



PhD tilted his head, impressed.



“…We could keep going like this all day,” he muttered. “But I’ll admit—it’s been a while since someone matched me like this.”



Michael gave a subtle nod. “Same to you.”



Then added, matter-of-fact:



“If we fight in here, we could easily, accidentally kill a few bystanders.”



PhD glanced around. Kids. Old folks. Couples.



“Too many people,” he agreed. “I’d rather not make a mess of this place.”



Michael’s gaze stayed fixed. “The parking lot out back?”



PhD gave a calm smile. “Lead the way.”



They stepped back in sync, quietly letting go of the precious roll.



And just as they turned—



A frail old lady shuffled past.Snatched the toilet paper.And walked off like nothing happened.



Neither of the men noticed.



They were already headed outside.







Parking Lot Showdown



They walked toward the parking lot outside the supermarket.Michael led the way.PhD followed behind at a steady pace.



As they reached the center of the lot, PhD suddenly spoke.“Oh, I never asked your name.”



Michael replied flatly, “Michael. You?”



PhD grinned. “Stiffen Hawken. Most people just call me—”



He didn’t finish.



Michael spun around mid-step and launched a straight kick—driving the sole of his foot hard into PhD’s chest.PhD shot backward nearly five meters, slamming into a steel billboard frame. The impact made a loud metallic boom.He coughed up blood.



And yet, he smiled faintly.With the back of his hand, he wiped the blood from his lips and said, “Nice ambush. That one hit hard.”



Michael was never one for fair fights.He believed in strategy—deception, surprise, whatever worked.Victory was all that mattered.



He turned and walked over to the nearby fruit stall, grabbing a full basket of durians.Without warning, he began tossing them one by one at rapid speed—fast, sharp, unrelenting.



PhD raised both arms, shaping his hands into blades.With surgical precision, he began slicing the flying fruit midair like a real-life Fruit Ninja.Within ten seconds, he had cut apart more than thirty durians.



Still, his hands were showing signs of damage.Small cuts opened across his fingers from the harsh impacts.



He turned his body and slipped behind the tall billboard, using its large frame as cover.



But Michael had already anticipated his position based on the angle of his dodge.He threw a clean punch straight through the billboard sheet—his fist tore through the metal and landed flush on PhD’s face.



PhD spun twice in midair and crashed several meters away.



Slowly, he got up again.Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his right cheek was visibly swollen.



Michael approached calmly, with a faint smile.“Way too easy,” he said. “I thought you were supposed to be strong.”



It was clear—he had begun to underestimate PhD.



He suddenly lunged forward again with a fast straight-leg kick—But the form was sloppy this time. Too casual. Too arrogant.



In that instant, PhD grabbed Michael’s leg.His grip locked tight as he said,“You’re overconfident. That’ll be your undoing. Don’t think a sneak attack means you’ve already won.”



Michael realized it too late.



PhD let out a breath, twisted his waist, and lifted Michael completely off the ground.He spun him in the air several times, then hurled him straight into the billboard structure.



Michael’s body slammed through it like a cannonball.The entire metal frame burst apart, pieces of twisted iron flying everywhere.



Bruised and battered, Michael slowly got back on his feet—still smiling.



The two of them locked eyes.



Now, for real this time—The fight had officially begun.







Fists Don’t Stop



In the distance, the church bell rang.



Without a word, both Michael and PhD suddenly accelerated, charging toward each other into a close-range fist-and-kick battle.



They were still dead even—neither one giving an inch. From time to time, they landed clean hits to each other’s faces, chests, and limbs. Bruises began to bloom all over their bodies. Their clothes tore here and there from the intensity of impact.



But they didn’t back down. They remained rooted to the same ground, exchanging faster and faster attacks. In the blink of an eye, they had already been fighting for hours—two, maybe three.



To outsiders, it looked… ordinary. Just two guys punching and kicking, like a low-budget street fight. There were no flashy sound effects or cinematic shockwaves—just fists, sweat, and raw willpower. But the explosive force behind every move was monstrous.



A parking lot security guard, who had been watching for a while, finally couldn’t take it anymore. He stomped over and shouted for them to stop. When they didn’t respond, he boldly stepped in, trying to separate them.



It was a fatal mistake.



The moment he got too close, one stray punch—no one knew whose—smashed straight into his chest. His torso exploded on the spot.



Blood and flesh flew in every direction. His limbs and head blasted apart like a firework. One arm crashed through the window of a high-rise office. Another landed inside the church across the street. A foot spun through the air and landed in a nearby elementary school. The other flew straight into a police station.



His head? It shot directly into a crematory furnace inside a funeral home down the block. The flames were already roaring—his skull vaporized instantly.



Michael and PhD didn’t even flinch.



They had no time to mourn. Their battle raged on, fast, ruthless, and utterly relentless. Neither showed signs of stopping.







The Long-Lasting Fight



Fists kept flying. Kicks kept landing.



Before they knew it, the sky had turned dark. Another three hours had passed.



Their movements had slowed significantly. Their strength had dropped. It was clear they were both exhausted—yet neither was willing to give in. They kept trading blows out of sheer willpower.



PhD landed a kick to Michael’s stomach. Michael responded with a heavy punch to PhD’s jaw. Both men stumbled back several meters.



Then, a strange sound came from Michael’s gut.



A deep, wet gurgle.



Michael’s eyes widened. His face froze.



A low, shameful moan escaped his throat.



Then came the unmistakable sound—long, slushy, and horrifically audible.



Michael had lost control.



For nearly twenty seconds, the parking lot echoed with the sound of poop forcing its way out of him. And then… silence.



PhD slowly covered his nose. “Did you… soil your pants?”



Michael forced a weak smile. “I’m afraid I did.”



Turns out, that kick to the stomach had knocked loose three days’ worth of backed-up waste. He had shit himself right there—completely.



Strangely, the moment also brought relief. The tension in his gut disappeared. After days of suffering from constipation, Michael suddenly felt… free. It was disgusting—but somehow, miraculous.



PhD blinked, then asked, “Remind me… why are we even fighting?”



Michael looked down at the ground and shook his head.



They’d been at it for so long, they had completely forgotten what started the fight.



Without saying another word, both men turned and walked in opposite directions, away from the parking lot and toward home.



Their faces were swollen. Their bodies, bruised all over.



Michael’s upper-body clothing had been completely shredded—his muscular chest and abs exposed to the night air.



PhD’s lower-body clothing was obliterated, revealing his toned thighs and his… disproportionately large cock.



And so, the two of them casually walked down the street—battered, filthy, and utterly silent—on their separate ways home.







The Golden Dick



The next day, Michael returned to the office.



When Colin saw him, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of Michael’s swollen face.“Who the hell managed to beat up our so-called formidable Michael like this? That guy must be a real monster.”



Michael nodded.“Yeah… he was really strong. I realized he and I were evenly matched—same level of power. We fought so hard our clothes got shredded. My upper half was completely ripped apart… and his lower half was torn to shreds. That’s when I noticed… he had a giant cock.”



Colin paused, his expression shifting slightly.“Did you catch his name?”



Michael replied, “He said it was Stiffen Hawken. Honestly… kind of a funny name. Stiffen—as in, stiffen like a cock?”



Colin didn’t laugh. Instead, his face turned completely serious.“You’re saying… his lower clothes were torn off? And you saw a giant cock?”



Michael straightened up and answered, “Yes, sir.”



Colin’s eyes narrowed.“Good thing he didn’t use his ultimate move… the Golden Dick.”



Michael blinked. “The what?”



Colin continued, his voice low and tense.“It’s one of the forbidden Golden Techniques. Most people think it’s just a dirty joke. But it’s real. And he’s the user. He’s the rumored one… the man with the Golden Dick.”



Michael looked stunned.“So… what does it do? Is it powerful?”



Colin leaned back, his tone suddenly grim.“Anyone who sees the Golden Dick falls hopelessly in love with him. No resistance. No escape.”



Michael frowned.“But I’m a guy. I don’t like guys.”



Colin shook his head slowly.“That doesn’t matter. That’s the true terror of the Golden Dick. Even straight men can be bent.”



Michael felt a chill run through him.



Colin added quietly,“I used to be his friend, you know. That’s why he now has a 99% success rate when it comes to seducing women… all thanks to that terrifying Golden Dick.”


Chapter 23: The Innocent Confession
==================================================

Pissant vs. Pissant



Ever since Marvel read PhD’s book, he had been itching to try out the techniques it preached. But there was just one problem—he had no money. Not even enough to buy the 99 roses required for the first “romantic gesture” described in the book.



So, he decided to “borrow” some cash first.



He wandered into a narrow alley and spotted a short boy with a watermelon-shaped haircut wearing pajamas, head down and scrolling on his phone.



It was Benson.



Marvel hurried over and blocked his path.“Hey, you little pissant,” he said. “Mind lending me some money?”



Benson looked up at him. His face changed instantly.“W-what? Are you trying to rob me?” he stammered in panic.



Marvel wore his most innocent expression.“Just a little cash,” he said softly.



Benson sized him up. From head to toe. A buttoned-up Zhongshan suit all the way to the collar, stiff and formal. Suddenly, his fear disappeared.



With a sharp slap, Benson smacked Marvel across the face.



Then he grinned—an almost deranged, squealing smile. Turns out, Benson was the type who bullied the weak but feared the strong.



Marvel, now angry, lunged for Benson’s pockets. They struggled. But it wasn’t a kung fu brawl—it looked more like a messy catfight.



Ten minutes of chaotic grappling later, Marvel finally got Benson pinned to the ground, grabbing him by the hair.



Tears streamed down Benson’s face.“Please don’t hurt me! My money’s in my pocket!” he sobbed.



Marvel reached in and pulled out a five-dollar bill.



He stared at it, unimpressed.“This is all you got?”



Benson nodded pitifully.“Yes…”



Marvel glanced at the ground.



Right next to them… was a steaming dog turd.



Without hesitation—driven by disappointment and anger—he picked it up and shoved it straight into Benson’s mouth.



Then he stood, wiped his hand on his pants, pocketed the five bucks, and walked away without a word.







Edge of Crime



Marvel walked down the street, a faint criminal impulse stirring in his subconscious—just a little flicker, like maybe he could rob someone. He glanced toward a nearby Chase Bank and eyed the entrance.



Two armed guards in military gear stood watch at the door.



Marvel gulped. The thought hit him—This is wrong. Completely immoral. And illegal too. No way. That’s my bottom line.



He shook his head and kept walking.



Before long, he’d wandered into the red-light district. Neon signs buzzed softly above rows of massage parlors. He stared at them with disgust.



These people are all just making fast money… It’s shameful, he thought.I should do something. Someone has to clean up this kind of behavior… and if I happen to make a quick hundred or two in the process, well… fair’s fair, right?



As he turned a street corner, he suddenly froze.



Sitting casually on top of a headless corpse was a man in a white dress shirt, gold-rimmed glasses glinting under the streetlight. One hand held a Red Bull. The other rested lazily on a briefcase set atop the dead body.



It was Michael—Michael from the Humble Organization.



Marvel’s eyes widened in horror as he stared at him.



Michael looked so calm, casually sipping his Red Bull like it was wine. The image sent chills down Marvel’s spine.



Michael glanced up and immediately recognized him.That beast of a man he’d fought dozens of rounds with before.



But now… there wasn’t even a flicker of wildness in his eyes. No adrenaline. Nothing.



Michael narrowed his gaze.“What are you staring at, beast guy?” he said. “Never seen someone get beaten to death in public before?”



Marvel’s voice trembled.“N-no… Not at all,” he stuttered, quickly shaking his head.



Michael took a deep gulp of Red Bull, then added nonchalantly,“This guy tried to steal twenty bucks from our store just now. So I cut off his head.”



Marvel’s stomach flipped. His legs turned to jelly.



“Y-yeah! Right!” he stammered, nodding quickly. “That kind of person totally deserves it!”



Then he spun on his heel and walked away.



The thought of robbing anyone vanished from his mind—completely and forever.







Inside the Flower Shop



Marvel walked into a flower shop.He only had twenty bucks on him.



At the counter stood a stunning woman in a frilly apron.Her figure was generous, especially around the chest.



Marvel approached and asked,“Excuse me, how much is a bouquet of 99 roses?”



The shop owner smiled and replied,“About a hundred dollars.”



Marvel frowned slightly. “Isn’t that a little steep? I don’t have that much. I only have twenty.”



The woman looked him up and down.Zhongshan suit, collar buttoned all the way up.His vibe was innocent, gullible… almost naïvely honest.



She said gently,“Well, actually… you could buy 13 roses. Thirteen means ‘forever love.’Usually it’s fifteen bucks, but just for you, I’ll give it to you for twenty.”



Marvel thought it over.It sounded pretty meaningful.He smiled and pulled out his twenty, handing it over gratefully.



“Thank you so much… thanks for the discount,” he said sincerely.



Of course, he didn’t realize she’d actually charged him more, not less.



The shop owner carefully trimmed the roses, made them neat and tidy, then wrapped them in a soft silk ribbon. The final result looked like a beautiful, romantic gift.



Marvel took the bouquet with a wide, joyful smile.Under the dim shop lights, his face looked stiff and serious—like a meme frozen in time.



He held out the bouquet to the woman and said,“Actually… I love you. Will you be my girlfriend?”



The shop owner gave an awkward smile.“Thank you… but I’m sorry. I’m already married.”



Marvel replied without hesitation,“That’s okay. True love doesn’t care if someone’s married or single.”



The woman gently pushed the flowers back into his hands.“You’re handsome. You deserve someone better. Go walk around Union Square—lots of pretty girls there.”



Marvel glanced at himself in the mirror.He nodded. “Yeah… she might be right.”



Holding the bouquet tightly, he stepped out of the shop and made his way toward Union Square.







Love at First Sight



Marvel arrived at Union Square with the bouquet in hand.



He sat on a bench, quietly observing the beautiful women passing by.He needed to pick the right one—the perfect recipient for his roses and confession—just like the story described in the PhD book he had read.



A tall, long-legged woman passed by wearing a tank top.Marvel stared for a moment, then muttered to himself,“Too skinny. Looks like an airport runway.”



Next, a short and chubby middle-aged woman walked past.Marvel immediately turned his head away and made a gagging motion to the air.He mumbled, “Yeah, definitely not her.”



Then, not long after, he saw her.



A young woman jogging through the square, wearing a pink sports bra and tight athletic shorts.Her skin was a healthy sun-kissed brown—glowing with vitality.With each step, the “two little rabbits” on her chest bounced rhythmically in sync with her footsteps.



Sometimes Marvel would fantasize—what if the bouncing was so intense they just popped out of her clothes?The mental image nearly knocked him out.



His crotch reacted before his brain did.His erection pressed firmly against his pants, throbbing with excitement.For the first time in his life, Marvel felt it.This must be what love at first sight is.



Without hesitation, he grabbed the bouquet, ran forward, and jumped in front of her, blocking her path.



The jogger slowed down, a bit confused.“Sir? Can I help you?”



Marvel didn’t speak.



He dropped to both knees with dramatic force, held the bouquet high over his head, and declared his feelings.



People around them immediately turned to watch.



A young girl nearby gasped, hands over her mouth.“So romantic… Right here in the park. He’s so brave, confessing to the one he loves…This is such a powerful moment. So romantic. So brave.”







Love Interrupted



Marvel spoke with the most sincere voice he could muster.



“From the moment I first saw you… I fell in love. Deeply. Truly. You’re like a goddess, lighting up the path ahead of me.From this day forward, I’ll never sleep again—because every night, I’ll be thinking of you.I can’t live without you. You are everything to me.”



The jogger stood frozen.



She had never seen this man before in her life.And everything about him screamed creepy.



Without saying a word, she stepped around him and resumed jogging—completely ignoring his grand confession.



But Marvel wasn’t done.



He spun around and reached out, grabbing her wrist.“I want to hold your hand. I want to hug you. I want to kiss you. I want to make love to you.”



And that really was what he honestly felt.It was the raw, unfiltered truth—straight from the teachings of the PhD book.



Just then, a man walked by.



He wore a white, sleeveless crop-top shirt.And the moment he saw Marvel, something in him snapped.



In Marvel, he saw the image—the cursed shadow—of someone he hated more than anything: PhD.



His fury surged instantly.His energy began to concentrate.His hair started rising. Sparks flickered around him.



He transformed into a Super Saiyan.



His appearance changed:Golden hair stood upright, glowing with power.Blue aura burst from his body, crackling with energy.His eyes turned turquoise, filled with focused rage.Muscles bulged under his clothes, as if the very air around him had grown heavier.



In one explosive dash, he launched himself straight at Marvel.



BOOM!A vicious uppercut slammed into Marvel’s chin, lifting his entire body two meters into the air.



The man leapt upward, caught up with him mid-air, and pressed both palms into Marvel’s stomach at point-blank range.



With a fierce shout, he unleashed an energy blast right into Marvel’s gut.



The glowing orb of destruction carried Marvel far into the sky—blasting off like a human firework.



A split second later, it detonated.



A blinding white flash lit up the sky for a moment—so bright it made everything else seem darker by comparison. The earth itself seemed to pause.



All eyes in the park turned skyward, jaws dropped.



Marvel’s charred body spiraled down from the heavens……and crash-landed through the open window of a nearby museum.







The Living Exhibit



Marvel’s body, still smoking from the blast, shot through the air and crashed straight into a museum window.



The energy blast had completely shredded his clothing—except for one last scrap:The very top button of his Zhongshan suit had somehow survived, clinging tightly around his neck like a choking collar.That one piece of fabric caught on the edge of a metal display frame—a minimalist steel rack used to hang contemporary installations.



And so, Marvel dangled there—suspended in mid-air, his half-naked body hanging awkwardly from the rack by just that tiny piece of fabric.



From a distance…He looked like modern art.



Within minutes, a crowd gathered around him.



Some people tilted their heads in confusion.Others frowned.“This piece is kind of vulgar,” one woman whispered.Someone else muttered, “He’s got a little belly.”And then someone pointed and said, “Wait, look at that… his dick is humongous.”



The murmurs grew louder.



Then a man stepped forward—an old geezer with a goatee, dressed in full Qing dynasty robes.



He clapped his hands loudly.“BRAVO!” he shouted. “This—this—is the pinnacle of human art!That saggy belly, the clumsy muscle distribution, the unintentional exposure—You can see the innocence and sincerity in that dumb-looking face.”



He raised his voice passionately.“The imperfection of this obscene body somehow reveals perfection—It’s like the sculpture of Venus de Milo.This is post-human art at its finest!”



The crowd fell silent for a moment… then erupted in agreement.Everyone nodded like they’d just witnessed a miracle.Several pulled out their phones and began snapping photos.



A group of young girls approached the exhibit, giggling.They stood beside Marvel’s dangling, mostly-naked body and posed for selfies—peace signs, tongue out, finger heart, even duck lips—smiling as the flash lit up the surreal scene behind them.


Chapter 24: The Innocent Love Seeker
==================================================

Another Failed Love Confession



In front of a small stationery shop, a familiar figure came flying out.



His Zhongshan suit was buttoned all the way to the top. His hair was parted straight down the middle like Kim Jong Un. His face radiated innocence and pure sincerity.



It was Marvel—our most naive and hopelessly honest character.



He rolled twice across the sidewalk and quickly sprang back to his feet.In his hand, he still held a small bouquet—just three roses, likely due to budget limitations.



Inside the store stood a beautiful young woman.Her top had been completely ripped apart. She crossed her arms over her chest in rage and embarrassment.



“You sick freak!” she screamed. “If you ever come near here again, I’m calling the cops!”



Marvel took one desperate step forward and shouted:




“I admire you! I adore you! I worship you—from across the street!The moment I first saw you, my heart exploded—my soul ignited!I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t breathe—your beauty haunts me!I just wanted to be near you, to touch you, to hold you—No, not just hold you—grope you!I wanted to grope your chest, your waist, your everything—I wanted to melt into you, become one with your flesh!Please! I’m not lying—I say this with pure love in my heart!!”




Before he could say anything else, a handful of fountain pens shot out of the store like throwing knives—sharp, fast, and headed straight for his groin.



Marvel dove to the side and barely dodged them.



One of the pens flew past him—and struck a random jogger passing by.



It pierced her heart.



She collapsed immediately, dying on the spot.



Marvel froze.Cold sweat trickled down his neck.



“…Oh sh*t.”



And just like that, he dropped everything—including love—and ran.







Seducing the Elderly



After a long morning of rejection, Marvel was physically and emotionally drained.



He walked into a convenience store and bought himself a bottle of Pepsi. Cracking open the tab with a snap, he took a deep swig and let out a loud, satisfied “Ahhh—”.



Instantly, his insulin and dopamine levels surged.His energy returned. His mood lifted.He was fully restored.



Full of new life, Marvel continued his quest.He held his little bouquet of three roses and strolled down the sidewalk, eyes scanning for his next romantic target.



As he passed a large industrial dumpster, he noticed someone lying beside it—a tall man, about 6’3″, wearing filthy, torn clothes with a huge belly exposed.



It was Tom.



Tom was peacefully napping on the ground during his lunch break, enjoying life like a human cat under the open sky.



Marvel glanced at him and muttered judgmentally:“People like him don’t want to work. No wonder he’s homeless. Not worth anyone’s pity.”



He kept walking.



A few minutes later, at a quiet intersection, he spotted an elderly woman hunched over with age, shuffling slowly across the street.



Marvel paused.



Maybe I should try someone easier, he thought. Build my confidence first… just get one success… validate my charm score… and then go after the more difficult targets.



He approached the old woman, bouquet in hand.



At first, he planned to confess his feelings sincerely—but the moment her mouth opened to speak, something felt off.He couldn’t even fake it properly.



Marvel blurted out:“I… I love ya… your… hunched back…”



Even he didn’t know what he was saying.It was random. Completely unhinged.



The old lady slowly stepped closer… then smacked him across the face—hard.



“Young man,” she scolded. “This goofy lifestyle of yours will get you nowhere. Go home and study if you’ve got time to waste!”



Then, without hesitation, she snatched the Pepsi can right out of Marvel’s hand—he had only taken two sips.



She poured the remaining soda onto the street, dumped the empty can into a black garbage bag, and shuffled off while grumbling:



“Back in the day, young men worked hard and said little. Nowadays, they beg their parents for soda money and spend the day wandering aimlessly with flowers.”







The Kung Fu Dog



Marvel kept walking along the main road, feeling defeated, helpless, and lonely.He thought to himself, If I can’t even seduce an old lady… who the hell can I seduce?



As he passed a convenience store, he noticed a large golden retriever tied to a parking meter pole.The dog barked wildly at him.



Marvel was furious.



“Even dogs look down on me now?!” he shouted.



He decided to take out all of his pent-up frustration on the dog.He stepped back, swung his leg, and aimed a harsh kick right at the dog’s nose.



But right before impact, the dog stood up on its hind legs and crossed its front paws in front of its face—blocking the strike perfectly.



Marvel froze.



“Holy fuck…” he whispered in shock.



The dog, still standing upright like a human, launched a flurry of claw swipes toward him.Marvel’s clothes were shredded in seconds—only the topmost button and a thin loop of fabric from his Zhongshan suit remained wrapped around his neck like a collar.



Then, in one smooth motion, the dog flipped backward and double-kicked Marvel in the chest.Marvel was sent flying several meters, skidding along the ground before finally coming to a stop.



The dog sprinted after him but was suddenly yanked back by the leash, which had reached its full length.With its front paws stretched forward, hind legs planted firmly on the ground, and head arched toward the sky, the dog barked madly in Marvel’s direction.



When Marvel was kicked, his bouquet of three roses flew from his hand and landed near the dog.He didn’t dare go back for it.



He turned and ran away as fast as he could.



Who would’ve thought… even a dog knows Kung Fu?!







A Glimpse of God



Marvel kept walking down the street with his upper body still half-naked, wandering aimlessly.



Frustration. Loneliness. Helplessness.All of it weighed heavy in his chest.



Suddenly, from up ahead—around a street corner—he heard a girl’s voice crying out:



“Don’t come any closer! You perverted freak!”



The words jolted him. Curiosity kicked in.And honestly, what else did he have to do?



He sped up and headed straight for the corner.



As he got close, a strange golden light flashed—just for a second—then vanished.



And after that… silence.



No screaming. No running.Just eerie quiet.



Marvel cautiously peeked around the corner.



It was a dead end.



Standing there, with his back to Marvel, was a man in a floral shirt, blazer, and slacks.Even from behind, the figure was unmistakable.



It was PhD.



In front of him stood a girl in heels, staring off into space with a blank, almost dreamlike expression.



Then, without warning, tears began to stream down her cheeks.



She stepped toward him slowly, like she was drawn by some invisible force.



And in a trembling voice, she said:



“I love you… I’ve missed you so much it hurts…”



PhD gently reached out his right hand and stroked her hair.His voice was soft, calm:



“It’s okay. It’s all over now. I’m right here.”



Marvel gasped.



“That’s him… that’s the man… the guru… the god… the living legend…”



Not only was PhD standing right there—he was demonstrating a live, unscripted romance technique tutorial, right in front of Marvel’s eyes.



And somehow, it felt sacred.



Marvel didn’t feel jealousy. Not even a little.



Just pure admiration.



He watched with his whole heart, holding his breath like a monk in a holy ceremony—too respectful to make even a sound, afraid to disturb the perfect rhythm unfolding before him.







The Sacred Act



PhD gently stroked the girl’s hair, his fingers trailing down to her earlobes. He brushed them tenderly—then touched her cheek, her jawline, tracing it like it was something precious.



With a soft voice, he murmured,“All these years… every day, every night, I’ve thought of you. Did you know that?”



The girl leaned in, resting her head against his chest, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist.“Really?” she whispered. “I’m just… so happy to see you again. I missed you so much it actually hurt.”



PhD placed both hands lightly on her shoulders—right on the fabric of her tank top—and slowly slid it down. Inch by inch, the top slipped off. Within seconds, the girl’s entire upper body was bare.



“I think a lot of people might see,” she said softly. “But… it’s okay. I’ll use my body to shield you.”



From a short distance away, Marvel watched with wide, unblinking eyes.But PhD’s broad shoulders blocked everything.Marvel clenched his fists and muttered under his breath,“Damn it… could you just lean a little to the side?!”



Then the two started kissing—deeply.PhD caressed her body with expert hands, every motion slow and deliberate.



Marvel’s face flushed bright red. His ears, too. His blood was rushing fast through his veins, his heart pounding wildly—ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum—



Then he saw it.



PhD’s meat stick—at least thirty centimeters long—rose into view like a divine artifact. It pulsed once. Then again. Like it had its own heartbeat.



PhD’s hands softly pressed on the girl’s shoulders.And with graceful submission, she sank to her knees.



She closed her eyes. Then leaned forward.



Her tongue slowly licked along the base, tracing it with affection.Then—calmly, deliberately—she opened her mouth… and began to take the whole thing in, inch by inch, as if savoring a sacred experience.



From the shadows, Marvel stared—motionless.



His eyes focused like a student at a masterclass.He promised himself:“I have to remember every move… Every angle… Every rhythm… I’m gonna learn from this.”







The Taste of Romance



PhD closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly upward, savoring every second of pleasure. His hands gently cupped both sides of the girl’s head, his fingers guiding the rhythm and speed like a maestro conducting a symphony.



Her movements began slow and tender… then gradually quickened—faster, more intense. She panted softly as her pace accelerated, and soon, saliva streamed from her lips, dribbling down the shaft and glistening under the dim streetlight. It nearly touched the pavement.



After five, maybe ten minutes, PhD’s body gave a small tremble.



Everything stopped.



The girl slowly rose to her feet, her expression glowing with quiet joy. A faint smile spread across her face, even as a small trail of thick white fluid clung to the edge of her mouth.



They redressed calmly.



PhD took out a tissue and gently wiped her lips clean. Then, in a low voice filled with warmth, he said:



“You’re amazing… You really are the one I love most in this life.”



Tears filled her eyes again. She replied:



“Darling… I don’t know when we’ll meet again. Please… come see me often. I’m scared of losing you again.”



They held hands and began walking down the street, whispering sweetly to each other. Michael thought he overheard something about seeing a movie together.



He stood frozen in place, his expression still dazed.



His breath was uneven, his mind foggy, his cheeks burning red like apples. He was dizzy, flushed, overwhelmed.



“Is this… love?” he wondered.



Then, like a light bulb flicking on, an idea struck him.



He decided: starting tomorrow, he would follow PhD everywhere. Every step. Every move. He had to observe. He had to study. Because buried in PhD’s every gesture, every glance, was the ultimate secret…



The secret of seduction.






Chapter 25: The Innocent Finale (Part 1)
==================================================

A Perfect Disguise



Marvel woke up early the next morning.



He put on his favorite Zhongshan suit, buttoned all the way to the top. Today was not a day for casual wear. Today… was a mission day.



But if he was going to stalk a master like PhD, he needed the perfect disguise.



He rummaged through his messy room, tossing aside books, socks, a broken electric fan, and half a sandwich he had forgotten about two days ago.



And then—he found it.



A pair of black pantyhose. He didn’t remember where it came from. Maybe he stole it. Maybe it was a souvenir from a strange night. Who knew?



Either way, he grabbed a pair of scissors and went to work.



First, he cut the pantyhose in half, separating the two legs.



Then, using a careful eye and shaky hands, he cut small holes—two for the eyes, one for the mouth, and an extra one for the nose. He didn’t want to suffocate. Dying while spying would be embarrassing.



He pulled one leg over his head. The nylon hugged his face tightly, warping his features into something between a bank robber and a deformed fish.



The leftover fabric dangled behind him like a long, limp tail, swinging with every move.



He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment.



“…Not bad,” he muttered. “Stylish… practical… slightly disturbing… but just the right amount.”



Then, he walked downstairs.



Out on the sidewalk, he spotted a young man passing by.



Marvel waved. “Hey bro, can I ask you something real quick?”



The guy paused, gave him a strange look, then nodded.



Marvel leaned in. “Do you think I look… too weird today? Like, is my outfit too much?”



The guy raised an eyebrow. “Weird? Nah. You’re fine.”



Marvel squinted. “Are you sure?”



The guy smiled and started listing examples. “Man, I once saw an eighty-year-old grandpa wearing his old high school uniform and actually going to class like he still belonged there. I’ve seen a guy walking home late at night, pantsless, just straight-up letting his giant dong swing around.”



Marvel blinked. That was… a little convincing, but not fully.



The guy noticed Marvel’s hesitation, then pointed across the street.



“See that dude over there?”



Marvel turned.



Across the road, a ripped, muscular man was strolling casually down the middle of the street wearing nothing but a woman’s pink triangle underwear. It was tight. Ridiculously tight. The fabric looked like it was fighting for its life.



No one even looked at him.



“He’s wearing that in public,” the guy said. “And no one bats an eye. So trust me—you? You’re nothing special. Totally normal.”



Marvel stared at the underwear man for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.



In that moment, he fully believed.



He was ready.







Two PhDs, One Girl



Marvel walked past an open-air barbecue stand and was surprised to spot PhD so quickly. He saw the man sitting beside a petite young woman, dressed in his usual blazer, floral shirt, and slacks. However, today, PhD wasn’t wearing his glasses—probably swapped them out for contacts.



PhD had one arm draped over the girl’s shoulders and kept leaning his face closer to hers, whispering, “Let me kiss you… just one kiss…”



The girl was clearly resisting, pushing hard against his chest with both hands and saying, “No! Stop it!”



Marvel watched in admiration from a distance.“Now that’s our PhD. A real scoundrel. I’ve got to learn from him,” he thought.



Suddenly, the man in the chair was kicked several meters away, tumbling across the ground in a ridiculous mess.



Marvel looked up—Standing nearby was another PhD—same floral shirt, same blazer, same slacks.This one was wearing glasses.



Marvel looked closely.This man had a clean, sharp face and moved with elegant precision.The one who got kicked? His nose was pig-like, eyes tiny like slits—nothing like the real PhD.



The real PhD quickly rushed to the girl, gently held her right hand with both of his, and said warmly,“Miss, are you okay? That pervert didn’t scare you too much, right? Don’t worry—I’m here now. I’ll protect you.”He smiled softly. “By the way… do you have a boyfriend? If not, maybe we could go out sometime?”



The girl gave him a look of pure fear and pointed at the man still groaning on the ground.“That’s… actually my boyfriend.”



PhD glanced over and paused.The guy looked awkward as hell—shame all over his face.



But PhD smiled anyway. “Ah, I see… sorry about the misunderstanding.Still, even if you do have a boyfriend… that doesn’t mean I can’t try, right?”He leaned a little closer. “Tell me… do you like him more, or me?”



The girl stiffened. “I still really like my boyfriend. Can you please let go of my hand?”



PhD’s smile twitched.Once again—just like always—he had opened boldly and ended in rejection.



He slowly let go of her hand, frustrated.Then, casually, he reached for his zipper with one hand… about to unzip… ready to release his ultimate technique.



But he paused.Looked around.Too many people.Way too many bystanders.



He sighed and lowered his hand.There’s no way he could release the Golden Dick in a situation like this.







Don’t Copy My Outfit



Just as PhD was turning to leave, the fake PhD suddenly stood up and shouted in a deep, dramatic voice,“You! Stop right there!You think you can just walk away like that?!”



He raised his fist, which began to glow faintly, and declared with passion:“I’m going to beat you up—and this time, I won’t lose… because I’m in love!”



PhD stopped in his tracks.He calmly picked his nose.Pulled out a dry chunk.And started rubbing it between his fingers like it was Play-Doh.



The fake PhD roared and launched himself forward, hammering PhD’s body and face with a flurry of punches—over ten solid hits, each landing with dramatic, echoing thuds.



PhD casually flicked the booger away.Then, warm and polite, he asked:“Excuse me. Are you finished?”



He hadn’t taken a single point of damage. Not even a bruise.Then—boom!—he casually unleashed a Shoryuken uppercut.The fake PhD was launched straight up, flying nearly three meters into the air before crashing back to the pavement.He let out a loud cry of pain.



PhD strolled over to the guy, squatted down, grabbed the collar of his shirt with both hands, and ripped it into scraps.He tossed the shredded cloth into the air.The pieces fluttered down like cherry blossom petals—soft and romantic.



PhD stood tall.“Next time, don’t copy my outfit.I really hate that.”



The girl ran to her injured boyfriend, throwing her arms around him and begging PhD not to hurt him anymore.



PhD sighed and gently patted his own forehead.“Ah… shit.Guess today’s just not my day.”



Then he turned and walked off down the street.



And Marvel… quietly followed behind him.







Behind The Disguise



For the entire week that followed, Marvel wore the same black pantyhose over his head every day and stalked PhD’s every move, determined to uncover the legendary secret behind his seductive success.



He witnessed PhD’s antics in a crowded subway station—kneeling on the ground with a bouquet of roses, confessing his love in the middle of the train door, blocking passengers from exiting, and causing several to miss their stops. The girl, flustered and annoyed, ultimately rejected him.



He followed him to a McDonald’s, where PhD casually sat down across from a random girl and picked up her fries, eating them as he delivered a cringey pick-up line:




“Such naughty fries… with such a naughty girl… what are you doing here, beautiful?”The girl was unimpressed—and rejected him again.




Then there was the haunted house incident. A group of girls nervously wandered through the dark halls, clutching each other in fear. Suddenly, PhD descended from the ceiling on a hidden rig—hanging upside down like a ghost—expressionless, and asked them:




“Would you like to be my girlfriend?”The girls screamed, wet themselves from terror, and ran out crying.




Marvel kept watching and recording. And the deeper he dug, the more confused he became.



PhD’s success rate wasn’t as high as he claimed. In fact, it was shockingly low.



Until—finally, one day—PhD succeeded.



Marvel watched from the shadows as PhD held a girl’s hand and led her into a love hotel. Marvel squatted at the entrance for three whole hours, waiting. Eventually, PhD came out… alone.



But something about him had changed.



His posture was upright, but his eyes were distant. There was no joy in them. No pride. No triumph.



Only… emptiness.



Marvel stared at him, heart pounding.




“Could it be… that this legendary ladies’ man isn’t happy at all?”“Could it be that he does this just out of habit… not because it brings him joy?”




For the first time, Marvel saw PhD not as a seduction god, but as a lonely man searching for something—or someone—far away.A distant gaze. A longing in his pupils.As if somewhere out there… was the one.The one he still hadn’t found.



The Forbidden Flash



One week later, Marvel was still following PhD.



At first, he only wanted to learn PhD’s seductive secrets. But now, something deeper had taken root—he also wanted to understand why PhD always looked so empty inside. Why were his eyes always distant? Who was he really searching for?



On a bustling street, both Marvel and PhD were suddenly drawn to the same person—a woman on the phone, walking ahead.



From the very first glance, they were stunned.



She was flawless. No weak angles. She wore a flowing white dress. Her face was soft and angelic, but her body was the definition of temptation. A perfect storm of elegance and danger.



PhD immediately began tailing her from behind. Marvel followed him.



But this time, PhD noticed the figure behind him—someone with a black pantyhose over their head.



He glanced back briefly, then smirked.Makes sense, he thought. With a girl this hot, of course I’m not the only one stalking her. That pervert’s probably after her too.



PhD chuckled to himself.“Well, brother… you might have to wait in line. I’ll get the first taste. You can be second if there’s anything left.”



The pursuit lasted almost thirty minutes. They followed her past a park, a supermarket, down winding alleys.



Finally, she turned into a dead-end street, still chatting on her phone, seemingly unaware of the two men behind her.



PhD’s eyes lit up.Perfect spot. No witnesses. Time for the Forbidden Golden Skill.



He called out:“Hey! Beautiful lady—could you turn this way for a second?”



The woman paused and turned her head slightly.



PhD adjusted his stance. Then, with complete seriousness, he reached down and unzipped his pants.A faint golden glow sparked from beneath his blazer.



Yes. It was time—to unleash the Golden Dick.



But just as he began to channel the forbidden power…



The woman suddenly exclaimed into her phone, “Okay, I’m coming now! I’ll be there ASAP!”



Without another word, she turned back around—and leapt.



Effortlessly, she cleared the five-meter-high brick wall at the end of the alley and vanished onto the other side.



PhD froze in disbelief.Before he could even chase, he felt a presence behind him.



A head was sticking out from behind the alley wall. A pair of wide, glassy eyes stared at him with overwhelming emotion.



Marvel stepped out from the shadows, pantyhose still on his head.



He whispered:



“Holy shit… I finally discovered your secret…”







The Long-Lost Feeling



There was a flash of golden light in Marvel’s eyes.



That light pierced straight into his nervous system, rushing along his tangled network of neurons. Within seconds, the current spread across his entire body, and a jolt of energy paralyzed his heart.



His eyes began to shimmer.



Then tears—hot, relentless—gushed out like a fountain.



He clutched his chest, gasping, overwhelmed by a strange, painful warmth. His lips trembled. His mouth opened. He muttered over and over:



“It’s you… it’s really you…”



PhD stared back, blinking slowly. After a few seconds, he quietly said:



“…Holy fuck.”



Suddenly, Marvel’s vision flooded with memories—shards and fragments of a time long gone.



The world blurred. Ten years peeled away.



He was back in high school.



Back in that classroom.



He could feel the desk under his arms. The dusty chalk scent in the air. He remembered… he was wearing a black pantyhose over his head, even back then.



He sat beside a girl, talking to her nonstop—about bones, about essence, about current events, the universe, love, careers… every topic under the sun. They talked for over an hour. She laughed. He laughed. It was one of the happiest memories of his youth.



But in the corner of that memory… someone was watching.



A boy sat in the far corner of the classroom.



His eyes were soft. Jealous. Also hurt. It looked like he wanted to speak, but couldn’t. That boy wasn’t looking at the girl—he was looking at Marvel.



That longing… that quiet suffering… was meant for him.



Marvel’s memory zoomed in.



The boy wasn’t wearing a school uniform. He wore a floral shirt. A blazer. A pair of slacks. His hair was curly. On his face—a pair of wireframe glasses.



Marvel’s lips parted as he whispered the name.



“…PhD.”


Chapter 26: The Innocent Finale (Part 2)
==================================================

The One and Only



It was a scorching summer day—part of a class-wide field trip to a remote hot spring resort in the mountains.



In front of the entire class, a girl shyly handed PhD a tiny plush doll, no bigger than the palm of a hand. The moment he accepted it, the whole class erupted in teasing laughter.



“Awww, they’re dating!”“They’re such a perfect match!”



They clapped and cheered, egging them on.



Marvel happened to walk by at that moment. He looked at PhD and smiled politely.



“Actually… I think you two do look good together,” he said. “I wish you both happiness.”



Then they passed each other, shoulders brushing.



Back then, Marvel didn’t think much of it.



But now—standing in the present, his eyes flooded with tears—he dove deep into that old memory. He examined every little frame of it, as if rewinding a dream in high resolution.



That’s when he saw something he had missed.



After Marvel turned and walked away, PhD’s expression suddenly collapsed. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks.



And under his breath, he muttered:



“I never wanted to be with her… The one I wanted to be with… was you. Don’t you get it, Marvel?”



Then the memory snapped forward—to a snowy winter’s day.



The streets were blanketed in white. Marvel and PhD crossed paths again by pure chance, both bundled in coats, their breaths misting in the air.



They greeted each other casually.



“Hey.”“Hey.”



PhD had a letter in his hand. He looked at it, hesitated, and tried to pull it out.



But in the end… he couldn’t.



He shoved it back into his coat pocket, quietly swallowing the words he couldn’t say.



Now, Marvel reexamined the memory in sharp detail—zooming in on the envelope in PhD’s hand.



He finally read the words scribbled on the front:




“I love you, Marvel.From the bottom of my heart,—Stiffen Hawken.”




Back to the present, beside a trash can on a sunlit city street…



Marvel’s tears wouldn’t stop.



He whispered, again and again through trembling lips:




“So all along… the one and only…It’s always been me.”








The Beast Within



PhD stood frozen, staring at Marvel as he approached—step by step—like something out of a fever dream.



Sweat poured down PhD’s face. “Hey! Snap out of it!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Nothing ever happened between us, okay? You just accidentally got hit by my Golden Dick’s flash. Those weren’t real memories!”



But Marvel didn’t hear a word. His eyes were misty, his voice trembling with emotion.“All these years… I ignored you. I never saw the love you had for me. But deep down, I think… I’ve always loved you too, PhD.”



PhD suddenly sensed it—Marvel’s adrenaline was spiking, rising fast like a volcanic eruption.Marvel’s face began to distort, muscles twitching, eyes gleaming with tears. He had transformed… into a beast.A weeping beast.A horny beast.



PhD instinctively backed up several steps, alarm in his voice.“Hey—HEY—don’t do anything crazy! Don’t do anything… inappropriate!”



He muttered under his breath in panic:“Holy fuck… I have no idea how to cancel the effects of Golden Dick.”



And then—it happened.



Marvel lunged forward and wrapped PhD in a massive bear hug. PhD tried to dodge, but Marvel’s speed was unnatural—animalistic. Within a second, both of Marvel’s arms locked around PhD’s waist like steel cables. Even PhD’s arms were pinned inside the hug. He couldn’t move.



PhD gritted his teeth and poured every ounce of strength into his hands, but it was no use.The beast holding him was too strong.Even someone as powerful as PhD was now no more than a helpless prey caught in the embrace of a passionate, trembling animal.



There was no escape.







The Beastly Passionate Love



Marvel felt the embrace like something he had waited ten years for. He held PhD tightly, as if finally catching hold of a long-lost truth.



PhD tried to wriggle free, but Marvel’s grip was intense—fueled by a strange, emotional energy. It was like trying to contain a beast that had been growing in silence for years. PhD’s arms were pinned, his muscles straining, but he couldn’t break loose.



Suddenly, Marvel dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around PhD’s legs. PhD’s expression shifted drastically.



With his hands now free, PhD struck Marvel’s head repeatedly, but the blows had no effect. Marvel appeared lost in a trance—completely unfazed.



Then came a powerful shove—PhD was slammed against a wall, his arms forced above his head. He was fully restrained, locked in place, unable to gather any strength. A cold shiver ran down his spine.



PhD screamed, “Help! Someone help! This guy’s crazy!” But the street was busy, and in this chaotic Kung Fu world, scenes like this played out daily. No one even glanced.



And then… Marvel leaned in, his tongue moving toward PhD’s most private place.



PhD’s voice cracked. “No—please don’t. Oh my god…”







The Dead End Finale



The whole street was eerily calm, as if nothing had happened. But inside this dead-end alley, the dramatic finale was still raging on.



Marvel’s tongue moved up and down—PhD could feel the tickling sensation. He bit down, holding it in, refusing to make any pleasured sounds. But PhD’s body betrayed him. An elongated, rock-hard erection pushed Marvel back horizontally—about thirty centimeters. The scraping of his shoes on the ground sounded like tires screeching in an emergency brake.



Marvel shouted:




“Machine gun suck!”




His head began thrusting back and forth at a speed like a machine gun—so fast it turned into a blur. PhD kept moaning, sounding almost like a woman. Within ten minutes, they reached the climax.



PhD’s entire body convulsed violently as he let out a final, low moan. For a moment, time itself seemed to freeze. Kneeling before him, Marvel gazed into his eyes with unsettling affection—then swallowed the thick liquid in a single gulp. A large glob slid down his throat, while a smear of semen clung stubbornly to the corner of his mouth.



PhD’s body went limp. In a faint, broken voice, he muttered:




“This… can’t be real… I can’t believe this nightmare actually happened to me…”








The Forbidden Love



Marvel knew—deep down—there was no future between them.It was a forbidden love.Beautiful, intense… but doomed.



Without hesitation, he turned around—dropped to all fours, and like a beast, he sprinted into the crowd, limbs flying, heart pounding.Within moments, he vanished into the city, swallowed by the waves of human life.



Meanwhile, PhD remained where he was.He slowly dropped to his knees, hands on the ground, head hanging low.This was the worst day of his life.



In that silence, his mind wandered. He began to recall all the awful things he had done—regrets piling up like shadows, heavy and unshakable.And somehow… it felt like this was the moment everything had come crashing back.



Not far away, in a small patch of grass, Marvel lay flat on his back—exhausted. His arms and legs were spread wide. He stared up at the blue sky.



He had finally found it.After all these years… after all the rejections… after being called a pervert over and over again… he had finally discovered the true love buried deep inside his heart.



And that love…was PhD.



Of course, what Marvel didn’t realize…was that this was simply the effect of Golden Dick.



But to Marvel, it all felt real. Every thought. Every action. Every emotion.He had no idea his heart had been hijacked by a forbidden golden technique.



But maybe…Maybe that didn’t matter.



Because the golden technique was that powerful—so powerful it could rewrite a person’s emotions, their memories, even their destiny.



And maybe, just maybe—Marvel’s entire life was quietly thrown onto a new track that day.A track he could never walk back from.







The Fall of a Legend



Since that day, PhD never published another book.He vanished completely from all public appearances.



He quietly resigned from his university position, and no one ever found out what had happened that day.No one knew where PhD went.



Some said he had developed PTSD.



Others believed he had finally found happiness—that he and someone special had immigrated to a faraway place, built a house on a beach, and now lived a quiet life by the sea, where the breeze was warm and the flowers always bloomed.



Maybe…every legend has its time to fall.



But for those who had read his books, who had listened to his lectures, who had once seen him walk proudly through the campus gates—they would always remember him.Not just as a scholar, but as a master of seduction, a man who understood desire like few ever could.Not as a broken man, not as a mystery—but as a brilliant, untamed soul…who burned too bright for too long.


Chapter 27: The Underwear – Road to the Strongest
==================================================

Ten Years Underground



Just a few days ago, in the basement of a small house, there lived a man—completely naked, with a body made entirely of muscle. His physique looked like steel, glistening under the dim light. Every muscle clung tightly to his body like diamonds fused into his skin—massive, dense, and perfect.



His head was clean-shaven into a sharp crew cut.His name… was Dave.



“Ten years… Just like that, ten years are gone,” he muttered, clenching his fist.



Dave gently pushed open the basement door. A beam of sunlight shot into the darkness, blindingly bright. He raised one hand to shield his eyes.



“I haven’t taken a single step out of this basement for a decade. I haven’t breathed fresh air… haven’t felt real sunlight.”His voice was steady, but filled with intensity.“For ten years, I’ve had only one purpose—to get stronger.”



“Every day, I trained. I trained my biceps, triceps, abs, chest, glutes… every single muscle on my body.”



Now, as sunlight gleamed across his mountainous form, he took a deep breath and declared:



“I’m back.”



Then he paused. Something felt… off.



He looked down.



He was still naked.



Oh right.



He hadn’t worn clothes in years. Every piece of fabric he once owned had been shredded during training. Slowly, one by one, they disintegrated from sweat, friction, and sheer muscle mass—until even his last pair of underwear gave out during a heavy squat session.



But he never cared.“Training’s more comfortable without clothes anyway. Sweating feels cleaner, cooler, more natural.”



Still, he was going outside now.And walking around the street completely naked wasn’t really an option.



He looked up—and spotted something.



A pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear was hanging from a neighbor’s balcony.



The moment he saw it, his eyes widened.That… was his favorite kind of underwear.



Without hesitation, he climbed up like a beast. One leap, then another—He reached the balcony, grabbed the panties gently, and slipped them on.



They were a bit tight.



But honestly… they looked fantastic on him.The snug fit accentuated his massive muscles, showcasing his raw masculinity in the most unexpected way.



After acquiring the Triangle Women’s Underwear,he walked confidently toward the street, each step firm and proud.



But what Dave didn’t realize—was that in the ten years he’d spent locked in that basement…



The world had changed.







A Strange New World



Dave stepped out onto the street for the first time in ten years.



What he saw… was bizarre.



Everyone he passed had their heads down, staring at little glowing rectangles in their hands. Their fingers slid and tapped across the screens nonstop, like they were hypnotized. Dave squinted.



“What the hell are these things? Are they phones… or miniature computers?”



He kept walking.



Then he noticed something even stranger—The men on the street didn’t really look like men anymore.



Many had long, flowing hair. Some bleached their hair blonde. Their skin was pale, their bodies thin. Some wore makeup. A few even wore skirts.



Dave paused, frowning in confusion.It made his stomach twist a little.But he shrugged.“Whatever. Not my business.”



Then, something even more unsettling:



An old man—probably in his seventies or eighties—was strolling down the sidewalk, hand in hand with a girl who looked barely twenty. The man wore a faded railroad worker’s uniform, like something straight out of the 1950s—worn-out overalls, dusty boots, and a cap that looked like it had survived a century.



Now and then, the girl would turn to him with a soft giggle and kiss his wrinkled cheek.



Dave stared in disbelief.“So people are into grandpa-granddaughter romances now?”



He walked on, but things just got weirder.



He saw someone in a hoodie peeing against a lamppost, fully out in the open, totally shameless.Someone else strutted past wearing a Chinese flag as a cape, like it was Comic-Con.And there was a man in a Zhongshan suit, head wrapped in pantyhose, creeping behind buildings and peeking at passing women like a cartoon villain.



Dave stopped, took it all in, and slowly nodded to himself.



“…Yeah. Ten years really passed. The world has gotten weird.”



But the weirdest part wasn’t any of the people he just saw.No—it was the fact that nobody reacted.



Everyone just kept walking, swiping their screens, scrolling their phones, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.As if all this madness… was completely normal now.



Dave looked down, then to his own hands. He whispered to himself:



“It doesn’t matter. Now I… I possess absolute power.”



He picked up a small stone from the pavement.



With a slow, steady squeeze—CRACK.



The rock crumbled into dust in his fist.The powder drifted away with the wind.







The Rise of “The Underwear”



Dave wandered from gym to gym, dojo to dojo, even stepped into a few kung fu academies and athletic clubs.



And everywhere he went—chaos followed.



People inside were left groaning on the floor, limbs twisted, some crashing through windows, others embedded halfway into crumbling walls. A few were even launched straight out the front door like ragdolls, screaming midair.



In just one day, Dave had crushed ten locations.Every time he stepped out of one, the scene behind him was a mess of cracked tiles, broken bodies, and shattered pride.



Outside the tenth place, Dave shook his head slowly.



“Too weak. Every single one of them went down with just one punch.”He looked at his own fist.“Maybe… maybe I’ve become too strong. Maybe I’m now… the strongest person on Earth.”



Just as he was soaking in the moment, a small-time gangster strolled by, smoking a cigarette. The thug noticed Dave walking toward him—shirtless, muscles rippling, and unmistakably wearing a tight pair of pinkish women’s triangle underwear.



He smirked.



“Hey, loser,” the thug said, blowing out smoke. “What kinda grown-ass man walks around wearing pink panties? That’s hilarious, bro.”



Dave didn’t flinch.He just kept walking.



The thug stepped directly into his path.



“You hear me? I’m talkin’ to you, princess. What’s your name, muscle clown?”



Dave calmly stopped, looked him in the eye, and said:



“I’m the strongest man in the world.”



The thug scoffed, “Hah! Well, I’m the strongest man on this street. So why don’t you—”



BOOM.



A gentle-looking punch from Dave sent the thug flying—launched from one end of the block to the other, screaming as he crashed into a pile of garbage bags at the far corner of the street.



He didn’t move again.



People nearby screamed and scattered. Someone caught the moment on their phone.



And just like that—Dave’s legend exploded across the city.



Everyone was talking about him.Not just the insane strength. Not just the clean punches.But that ridiculous pink triangle underwear.



Memes spread. Hashtags trended. Rumors flew.People didn’t even know his real name.



They just started calling him…



“The Underwear.”







The Curse of Power



For eight… no, ten straight days, Dave continued his rampage—going from gym to gym, dojo to dojo, challenging every fighter he could find.



And yet…



Not a single one of them posed a threat.There were no battles. No real exchanges.Just one punch. That’s all it ever took.



One punch. Every time.



Dave would return home each night completely untouched—no bruises, no scrapes, not even a drop of sweat on his massive, polished muscles.



He’d splash cold water on his face, stare into the mirror, and think:




“Is this really what I wanted?To be the strongest man on Earth…Is this what it feels like?”




There were no rivals. No excitement. No meaning.



Just endless domination.



And for the first time… he started to feel something he never expected:Regret.



He had become too strong. So strong that even combat—the thing he trained for ten years to pursue—no longer gave him joy.He felt… bored.



One day, at a traditional dojo, Dave challenged the headmaster to a fight. But this time, he made a choice:



He didn’t fight back.



He stood completely still, arms at his sides, feet planted.



The headmaster attacked him with everything he had. Fists, kicks, elbows—hundreds of strikes over the course of ten… maybe fifteen minutes.



Dave didn’t block a single blow.



He didn’t even blink.



And yet—nothing happened to him.



Eventually, the headmaster’s punches slowed. Then stopped. He fell to his knees, gasping, trembling.



And suddenly… the man burst into tears.



Dave looked down at him and asked calmly,




“What’s wrong, Master?”




The man clutched his arms, sobbing.




“My bones… they’re all broken.I’ve thrown everything at you…But your body—it’s untouched. Not a single bruise. Not a scratch.Your muscles… they’re still so smooth…”




Dave slowly reached out and helped the man to his feet.




“You did well,” he said softly.“After all… I’m the strongest man on Earth.But you—you’re already very strong.You should be proud of yourself.”




The dojo master stared at him in awe, eyes wide with emotion.



That night, the man couldn’t sleep at all.



He just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trembling with excitement—haunted and inspired by the words of The Underwear.







Where It All Began



Dave stepped into a supermarket.



He wasn’t looking for a fight this time.Just groceries.Some greens, maybe a few eggs.



But as he stood there holding a bag of onions, his mind drifted away.



A memory hit him—ten years ago.



It was evening, just like now.Back then, Dave wasn’t strong. He was just a regular guy, walking out of a supermarket with a bag of instant noodles in one hand and a cheap drink in the other.



That’s when he appeared.



A man in a half-buttoned shirt, showing off his manly chest.Long bangs covered one eye, and a single silver earring sparkled in the dusk light.He looked like the small-time squad leader of some local gang—young, cocky, and cruel.



He didn’t say a word.



He just walked up to Dave… and slapped him across the face. Then again. And again.




“Hand over your money,” the thug said lazily.




Dave had always believed in justice.Even back then, though weak, he had guts.He clenched his fist, raised it, and threw a punch.



But that punch never landed.



The thug caught it mid-air with ease, used Dave’s own momentum, and slammed him to the ground with a sickening thud.Dave’s back snapped—he felt something inside him break.



He coughed up blood.



Then the guy started stomping on his chest.Over and over.Finally, he picked Dave up, turned him upside down, and piledrived his head straight into the sidewalk.



Dave blacked out.



He woke up in a hospital, barely alive.All his money was gone.



But something inside him had changed forever.



That night, lying in a hospital bed, he made a vow—not just for revenge, but for transformation.




“I will become the strongest man in the world.I will make sure everyone knows my name.”




And now… ten years later…He had done it.



He was stronger than anyone.He was feared, respected, even worshipped in some corners of the city.



But there was one problem.




“The Underwear.”




That’s what people were calling him now.It was on the news, printed in the papers, going viral online.



“The Underwear.”



He winced just thinking about it.




“This… isn’t really the name I wanted,” he muttered to himself, placing the onions in his basket.




Too late.The city had already decided.And changing it now?



Might be harder than becoming the strongest man alive.







One Punch… Again?



It was nighttime.



Dave lay alone on a worn-out couch, staring at the ceiling, doing absolutely nothing.



He had nothing else to do.



No one to fight.No one left to defeat.No goal, no challenge.Just… him and a bag of frozen dumplings slowly thawing on the table.



He grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV.



Click. Commercial.Click. Drama.Click. Some guy crying on a talk show.Click—



Anime.



He blinked.It was some kind of Japanese cartoon.He was about to change the channel again, but paused.



The animation was surprisingly intense.



On screen was a bald man—ordinary-looking, wearing a plain yellow suit—with a deadpan expression on his face.And yet, somehow, this man was beating monsters with a single punch.



Dave sat up slightly.



“…Huh.”



The next scene played:The bald man obliterated a city-sized creature with one clean hit.No tension. No buildup. Just boom—done.



Dave furrowed his brow.He turned up the volume.



The more he watched, the more he leaned forward.



Episode after episode, it was the same thing:This man, this hero, destroying every opponent with exactly one punch.



And the strangest part?



The bald guy looked bored.Miserable, even.Everyone else feared or admired him, but he… didn’t care.



Dave’s expression slowly flattened.His jaw tightened.



He sat completely still, staring at the screen.




“…Is this… me?”




He watched as the anime character sat at home, watching TV, sighing with existential exhaustion.




“Being too strong is boring.”




Dave lowered the remote.The screen faded to black.A commercial came on for dish soap.



He didn’t change the channel.



He just sat there, silently.



For the first time in his life…



He felt understood.


Chapter 28: The Underwear vs. Gangsters
==================================================

Ramen Above the Chaos



It was a typical noisy afternoon at the mall’s food court.



The air was thick with oil smoke and the sound of kitchen exhaust fans. Neon signs flickered above ramen stalls, burger stands, and fried chicken counters. People bustled in and out—until chaos struck.



In one corner, a nearly naked man sat quietly at a table.He wore nothing but a pair of pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear.His body was absurd—like someone had photoshopped muscle onto muscle.He sat still, focused, slowly eating a bowl of ramen.



This was Dave.The man known throughout the city as The Underwear.



But elsewhere in the mall, two street gangs had erupted into a full-on brawl.



One side was led by Canelo, loud and aggressive, backed by his reckless crew.The other side—Robinson’s gang—was fighting to take over protection of the mall.



Tables flipped, soda machines exploded, food trays flew through the air. Shoppers screamed and ran in every direction.



Amid the chaos, one of Canelo’s underlings was grabbed by the neck and flung like a ragdoll—crashing directly into Dave’s chair, shattering it into pieces.



CRACK.



The stool broke.But Dave didn’t move.Even with the seat gone, he continued sitting in the exact same position, floating in the air like nothing had happened.



Still eating ramen. Still calm.Like Buddha. But buffer. And in panties.



The gang fight raged on.Chairs were thrown. Bottles smashed. The air smelled like sweat, fear, and miso broth.



But Dave?



He stayed right there—levitating on pure muscle and inner peace.



Eventually, Canelo noticed.



Everyone else had run.The food court was empty.But that one dude… was still sitting there.



Still eating ramen.Still terrifyingly unmoved.



Canelo, blood on his lip and irritation in his voice, stomped over.




“Hey! We’re fighting over here!What the hell are you doing still sitting there eating noodles?You got a death wish or something?”




He came closer, ready to scare this idiot off.



But when he got a good look—his steps slowed.His smirk faded.



Dave… had no chair.



He was just squatting in mid-air, in a perfect sitting posture—legs bent at a perfect right angle, back straight, arms steady—like he was still sitting on a stool that no longer existed.



Canelo blinked.




“Bro… how long have you been like that?”




Dave looked up casually, slurping the last of the noodles.




“Hmm? About… twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”




Canelo took a step back.



That wasn’t something a human body should be able to do.That wasn’t balance. That was some kind of muscle demon sorcery.



The man had been hovering in a perfect sit position, without a chair, for half an hour—just to eat his noodles.







Canelo vs. The Underwear



Canelo raised a hand toward Robinson and shouted across the food court:




“Hey! Time out! Just gimme a sec—I need to take care of something. This idiot over here is really messing with my eyes.”




Robinson paused mid-punch, then raised both hands and called out to his gang:




“Alright, everyone—pause the fight! Take a breather!”




Instantly, both gangs dropped their fists.



Some sat on benches, catching their breath. Others leaned on pillars scrolling through their phones. A few crossed their arms, curious to see what Canelo was about to do.



Even Robinson walked over to join him and nodded.




“Yeah, I’ve noticed that guy too. Just been sitting there forever. It’s kind of creeping me out.”




As Robinson looked closer, he finally realized—



Dave had been sitting on nothing this entire time.



No bench. No chair. Just mid-air.



His legs were bent at perfect right angles, posture flawless, as if he were seated on an invisible throne.



Robinson gasped.




“Oh my god…”




At that moment, Dave calmly stood up. He had just finished the last bite of his ramen.



He dusted off his pants, expression unreadable.



That’s when Canelo charged.



Without warning, he sprinted forward, took three fast steps, then leapt—three meters straight into the air.



Mid-air, his body twisted: left leg tucked tight, right leg extended straight down like a lightning bolt. At a sharp 45-degree angle, he came crashing down—



Skyfall Kick.



The air around him sparked as his foot tore through it, glowing with friction. His descending figure looked like a missile with a shoe on it.



He aimed straight for Dave’s face.



But Dave didn’t dodge.



He simply crossed both arms in front of him, forming a shield with his forearms.



BOOM!



The impact was thunderous. Sparks flew. Wind blasted outward.



Dave was pushed back a full meter, sliding across the floor—but still upright.



And then—he pushed forward.



His arms uncrossed and shoved with sudden force.



Canelo was launched back up—but not backward. Upward.



Like a ragdoll fired from a cannon, he soared through the food court atrium.



Five meters… ten… fifteen…By the time he hit peak height, he was eye-level with the fifth or sixth floor.



Then—he dropped.



Hard.



He hit the ground feet-first.



But his right foot landed just before the left.



And that tiny misstep changed everything.



CRACK.



His right knee shattered. His left ankle twisted grotesquely.



He lost balance on impact, and his body flipped, tumbled, rolled across the tiles like a human piñata that had outlived the party.



He tried to stand.Nothing worked.His body said no.



His underlings, now pale with panic, rushed in to help. They grabbed him by the arms, lifted him carefully.



Canelo’s face was sweaty and pale. He didn’t scream. He didn’t rage.



He just whispered:




“We’re done here. Fall back, everyone.”




That was it.



No dramatic speech. No threats.



He didn’t even glance back at Dave.



He just limped away—quiet and broken.



And his men followed.







Robinson vs. The Underwear



Robinson glanced at the aftermath of Canelo’s defeat and muttered casually:




“Tsk… Canelo really is a loser.”




Then he swaggered up to Dave, raised his middle finger right in his face, and grinned:




“I’m gonna beat you up… and f*** you good.”




Dave blinked slowly.He didn’t respond—but the air got heavier.



He despised vulgar threats.Especially ones like that.



Without hesitation, he threw a solid punch toward Robinson’s torso.



But Robinson was quick.He twisted both arms in circular motions—And redirected the force, clean and precise, like a martial artist redirecting a river.



Dave was stunned.Someone actually absorbed his punch?



Robinson didn’t brag.



He stepped back twice, then began spinning in place—One revolution, two revolutions—Then suddenly, he flung himself into the air.



One hand slammed onto a table.



His body twisted upside down, then rotated again—



A flawless aerial inverted spin kick.



His men started cheering like mad:




“Go, boss!!”“That’s it!! Style and power!!”“Finish that ramen freak!”




The move was fast.Too fast.



Dave barely raised his right arm—



CRACK!!



A sharp, echoing snap pierced the food court.



Everyone flinched.



A bone had clearly broken…But whose?



Dave was pushed back two full steps, his body shuddering from the blow.



His arms dropped slowly.



He turned his head side to side, cracking his neck, stretching the tension—



A dark purple bruise was now visible along the side of his neck.



But he was still standing. Calm. Unshaken.



Robinson’s grin faded.



He stared at Dave’s neck… then down at his own leg.



Pain surged up from his heel.



And that’s when it hit him—



The snap wasn’t Dave’s.



It was his own leg.



The fibula at the angle of his right leg had snapped on impact.



His technique was too clean.Too sharp.Too fast—



And Dave’s body had been too damn solid.



Robinson grimaced and murmured:




“I… I admit it. You’re stronger than I thought…”




Dave nodded modestly.




“That spin kick… was the most elegant and dangerous one I’ve ever seen.”




He didn’t say it mockingly.



He meant it.



But in his mind, he quietly added:




Then again… I am the strongest man on Earth.




Robinson exhaled hard.



He turned, limping toward the mall entrance, one leg wobbling as he forced each step.



His gang followed in silence—One man supporting his arm, another picking up his dropped phone.



The cheers had stopped.



Dave just stood there, stretching his neck gently, the bruise already starting to darken like a badge.



Sean vs. The Underwear



And just like that, Dave had effortlessly defeated not one, but two gang leaders in broad daylight.



The two rival gangs—Canelo’s and Robinson’s—withdrew from the mall, licking their wounds and carrying off their injured bosses.



As silence returned, the store owners across the food court slowly emerged from behind their counters. Then, one by one, they began clapping.



Some clapped with both hands. Some pounded the tables. A few even shouted, “We’re free!”



Thanks to Dave’s unexpected intervention, they had been spared from falling into the hands of gangsters—no more extortion, no more “protection” fees.



Dave stood there with a blank expression. He didn’t smile. He didn’t pose like a hero. He didn’t care about justice.



He had simply appeared at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and got dragged into the chaos. That’s all.



Just then, a tall and skinny man in a red cape stepped forward from the crowd. He walked slowly, dramatically, until he stood face-to-face with Dave.



It was Sean.



He placed one hand on Dave’s shoulder and declared with great emotion:




“You truly are a future hero. We sensed your righteousness from far away. You’re the kind of person this society needs—one of the pillars of humanity’s future.”




Dave looked overwhelmed, unsure how to respond.



Sean continued proudly:




“Actually, I was eating stinky tofu by myself just a few stores away when the fight broke out. I wanted to help… but I held back. Why? Because I wanted to give the next generation a chance to shine.”




Then, suddenly, Sean’s eyes fell on Dave’s outfit—specifically, the glaringly obvious pink women’s thong he was wearing.



Sean’s expression tightened.




“Oh—by the way,” he said, “Why the hell are you wearing such a nasty-looking pink thong?! That’s not heroic at all! If you plan to follow in my footsteps as a local hero, I strongly recommend you upgrade your wardrobe.”




But Dave didn’t reply.



His attention had shifted to Sean’s own outfit—long bangs covering one eye, a flashy silver earring, and a half-buttoned white shirt revealing his muscular chest.



Then Dave’s eyes widened.



He remembered.




“Wait… it’s you. Ten years ago… you’re the gangster who mugged me. You beat me so bad, I was hospitalized for a month!”




Sean froze. His face turned black. His whole body stiffened like a corpse.



Then he erupted:




“Hey hey hey hey hey! Who are you calling a gangster?! Where do you see gangsters around here?! Are you a gangster? Is your mom a gangster?! Watch your damn mouth!”




Without waiting for a response, Sean turned to leave.



But Dave grabbed his forearm, trying to stop him.



Sean struggled, flailing.




“Let go! LET GO! I said—”




But Dave, without realizing his own strength, squeezed a little too hard.



CRACK.



The bone in Sean’s forearm snapped.



Sean’s face twisted in pain as he fell silent.



Dave quickly let go, startled.




“Ah—sorry! I sometimes forget how strong I am. It’s just… I’m too strong. I didn’t mean to break your bones.”




Sean’s expression contorted with agony. But even as he gritted his teeth, he forced himself to act calm.




“It’s fine… I forgive you,” he said, trembling. “As my future successor… as the next local hero… you must continue the path of justice.”




He forced a nod.




“But right now… I have something more important to take care of.”




And with that, Sean took off running—Not toward danger, not toward crime…



But toward the nearest hospital.







Prison Years – The Secret Past of Sean



Far in the distance, two very pretty, feminine-looking boys sat gossiping at a quiet bubble tea table.



Both had long, silky blond hair and pale white skin—classic pretty boys, often referred to as “little milk puppies” in the city.



One of them leaned in and whispered:




“Heyyy… have you ever heard that Sean actually went to prison before?”




The other one widened his eyes dramatically:




“Ehh?! For real?! No wayyy, I’ve never heard that!”








The scene suddenly cuts to seven years ago, during a scorching hot afternoon in the very same shopping mall.



A fat, ugly guy with huge ears stood awkwardly in the center of the food court, chewing on fried chicken.



Suddenly, Sean charged at him full speed, slapped him hard across the face three times, then shouted at the top of his lungs:




“Hand over your money, you pig-faced bastard!!”




The fat guy wiped his nose and sneered:




“No f***ing way! You know who my dad is?! My dad is the mayor, idiot!”




Sean froze for half a second, then gave the most dismissive shrug in human history.




“So what?”




And with that, the fight broke out. The two wrestled like angry alley cats—punches flying, knees smashing, shirts getting torn.



It looked like a chaotic mess… but they were evenly matched.



Suddenly, Sean grinned.



The corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. And then he whispered:




“Looks like you’re forcing me to use… my ultimate move. Don’t blame me if you regret it.”




He reached down to his waist and pulled out two giant wrenches.



The moment he unsheathed them, the metal glinted under the skylight. He twirled them in his hands like a deadly dance.



Then he shouted:




“DRAGON-TIGER RAMPAGE!!”




The two wrenches spun and flashed like dual silver comets. Sean moved so fast they blurred—like a kung fu dance gone berserk.



Within less than a minute, he had struck the fat guy over 120 times.



Each hit landed with a sickening thunk. The poor guy’s brain couldn’t keep up.



Finally, his body stiffened. His eyes rolled back.He collapsed to the floor like a lifeless puppet—knocked into a coma on the spot.



He was rushed to the hospital… and remained in a vegetative state ever since.



Sean, meanwhile, was sentenced to three years in prison.







Back at the table, the second pretty boy sipped his taro bubble tea and nodded:




“Honestly, that’s not even that shocking. In this city, people get beat up every day. Being turned into a vegetable? That’s like… Tuesday. Heck, if that’s a crime, then Brian and Michael should’ve been executed like, fifty times by now.”




The first boy rolled his eyes and said:




“But you’re missing the point—Sean beat up the mayor’s son. If it had been a random dude, he wouldn’t even have to apologize.”




The second boy went quiet for a moment… then nodded seriously.




“Wow… Sean really is a ruthless gangster.”




The first boy instantly shushed him, placing a finger to his lips:




“Shhhhhh! Keep your voice down! Sean hates it when people talk about his gangster past. These days, he wants everyone to see him as a respectable local hero. Every time someone brings up his history, he totally freaks out.”




The second boy gently flipped his golden hair over his shoulder and giggled:




“Wow… you really got the juiciest tea, huh?”








The Newspaper



The next morning, every local newspaper and newsstand was plastered with the same headline:



“THE UNDERWEAR VS. THREE GANGSTERS”



Standing outside a small convenience store, a young man in a half-buttoned white shirt—exposing a clearly defined, manly chest—reached out with his uninjured hand and grabbed a copy from the newspaper basket.



His left arm was wrapped in a plaster cast and hanging from a neck sling.



He squinted at the front page.



There, in full color, were four mugshot-style photos lined up across the top:



First: Dave, completely naked except for a pink women’s thong, standing confidently with his muscles rippling.Second: Canelo, hoodie up, cigarette dangling from his lips, looking like a low-level menace.Third: Robinson, in a red tank top, looking serious and stiff like he was posing for a gangland yearbook.And last: Sean—his face partly obscured by a long bang covering one eye, a shiny silver earring glinting on his ear, and most embarrassingly… wearing a prison jumpsuit, black-and-white striped, clearly taken from seven years ago during his jail time.



Sean froze.



Then his fists clenched around the paper. His hands began to tremble with rage.



His voice hissed out in frustration:




“What the hell… out of all the photos of me in this city… they picked this?!”





“And what’s this crap about calling me a gangster? These trash reporters… they’re doing this on purpose to humiliate me!”




He flipped the page open angrily.



Right there, bolded in thick font amidst otherwise normal print, it read:



“Sean, former convict, served three years in prison.”



Sean’s face twitched.



His entire mental dam burst.



With a furious roar, he tore the newspaper in half, then slammed it onto the ground and began stomping on it repeatedly, grinding his heel left and right like he was trying to erase the humiliation itself.



Then he shouted:




“FUCK YOUR UGLY FONT CHOICES!!”




At that moment, the store owner ran out, waving his hand:




“Hey! Sir! You haven’t paid for that newspaper!”




Sean froze mid-stomp.



A moment of silence.



Then he calmly walked up to the owner, reached into his pocket, and handed him a single dollar bill.




“Oh. My bad.”




Then he turned away slowly, without another word.



As he walked down the street, his red cape fluttered gently behind him, catching the morning breeze.



It flapped and waved like a wounded flag, following him until he faded into the distance—a hero humiliated, but still walking tall… sort of.


Chapter 29: The Underwear on the Loose
==================================================

High Butt Tom



From inside a small bakery, the automatic door slid open with a soft hiss.Out walked an old man with a goatee, wearing a Qing dynasty-style robe.His back was slightly hunched, and he held a rolled-up newspaper in one hand.



He slowly made his way along the sidewalk…Until—suddenly—A human-shaped object flew past him from behind.



It spun violently like a windmill and slammed headfirst into a large industrial trash bin.The man’s head and upper body were lodged deep inside the bin,while his legs dangled outside, his loose pants slipping down just enough to expose his butt crack.



The old man turned his head slowly, squinting.“…Oh,” he muttered.“It’s Tom.”



He chuckled softly to himself and said,“Oh, funny that… Every time you show up, your butt’s always facing me.Maybe I should stop calling you High Knee Tom… and start calling you High Butt Tom?”



Across the street, a familiar figure stood still.He wore nothing but a pair of pink women’s underwear—a tight, triangular thong.It was Dave.His fist was still raised mid-air—tense and clenched—clearly the punch that had launched Tom was his.



Dave began walking slowly across the street, passing in front of the old man.The old man looked at him and asked,“That your doing?”



Dave nodded.“Yeah. Who are you, old man?”



The old man let out a quiet chuckle.“Heh… Most people just call me Mr. Sang. I’m the Vice Chairman of the Kung Fu Association.”



The moment Dave heard “Vice Chairman” and “Kung Fu Association”,his eyes sharpened and flared with heat.He turned toward Mr. Sang, glaring.His fist tightened.He was ready to fight.







Twin Tails of Destruction



Dave looked at the old man in front of him—plain appearance, frail build.Nothing about him looked like a kung fu master.But if this guy really was the Vice Chairman of the Kung Fu Association,then there had to be something deadly hiding underneath that robe.Dave knew—he couldn’t let his guard down.



He focused all his energy, all his senses, onto Mr. Sang.Somewhere deep in his instincts, he began to sense a dozen possible next moves—A straight punch.A tornado kick.A rising dragon fist.Even a microwave energy blast…Or worse: instant transmission.He visualized them all, preparing his counters one by one.



Mr. Sang noticed the shift.Dave’s fists were clenched, and his eyes were burning with focus.



Sang smiled awkwardly.“Hey hey, kid—don’t be so tense. I’m not what you think I—”



BAM!



Before he could finish the sentence, Dave charged forward and smashed a punch straight into Mr. Sang’s face.



Mr. Sang’s face twisted from the impact.The momentum lifted his entire body into the air—he spun like a turbine, limbs flailing,and went flying over ten meters across the street.



CRASH!!



He slammed right into the glass wall of the same bakery he had just exited.The glass shattered into a storm of shards, and Sang flew headfirst into the store’s refrigerator unit.His legs and bare ass now hung in the air—exactly the same pose as Tom.



Except this time, his clothes had torn in half from the glass impact.His butt was fully exposed, twitching slightly in the cold air.



Then it happened.



His body convulsed once—and his exposed butt erupted with violent diarrhea,a volcanic blast of yellow sludge,spraying across several nearby tables,coating customers’ faces, pastries, and freshly toasted bagels in steaming, foul-smelling horror.



Screams filled the bakery.People ran. People slipped.Some trampled others, some fainted instantly,and one poor customer projectile-vomited all over their own untouched quiche.







The Pink Terror



“OMG.”Dave stood frozen in place, muttering those three letters in disbelief.



How could a Vice Chairman of the Kung Fu Association be this weak?He stared blankly at the ruined bakery, a little dazed.What he didn’t know…was that Mr. Sang only handled paperwork.He wasn’t a fighter at all.



Dave shook off the disappointment.He reminded himself of his true mission—As The Strongest Man on Earth,he had to find someone worthy.Someone who could match his strength.Anything less would be a waste of his ten years of training and the perfect kung fu body he’d built.



So he kept walking the streets, searching.Whenever he spotted someone who might be a fighter,he’d march straight over and challenge them.



Along the way, he beat the crap out of dozens of people.Most of them, unfortunately… weren’t fighters.Just regular folks.



But in Dave’s eyes, anyone could be a warrior.A chef holding a kitchen knife?To Dave, that might be a legendary swordsman in disguise.He constantly imagined people unleashing bizarre, magical kung fu moves—even if they were just cashiers or taxi drivers.



And so, chaos followed wherever he went.



Before long, a local police station had been turned upside down.Four or five officers had already been punched through the second-floor window,crashing down onto the street below like ragdolls.



Inside, a balding man with a pathetic combover stood trembling in front of Dave.“Please don’t hit me,” he begged.“If you must… please, just don’t hit the face.”



It was Grayson.



Earlier, he’d been slacking off at his desk like usual,when a man wearing nothing but pink women’s underwear stormed into the stationand challenged everyone inside.



Grayson had laughed.He laughed at the underwear.He laughed at how “gay” it looked.He was still laughing when—his officers were already flying out the windows.



Then Dave’s fist came.



It smashed straight into Grayson’s face.Grayson spun like a broken ceiling fan,twirling violently through the air,and was launched clean out the second-floor window—landing face-first in the middle of the street.



Luckily, cars on both sides screeched to a halt just in time.But traffic instantly backed up.Horn blasts echoed across the neighborhood.Sirens wailed in the distance—police and ambulances rushing to the scene.



And just like that,the entire city plunged into chaos—hunted, haunted, and helpless…under the unstoppable force of The Pink Terror.







One Punch Granny



Dave walked slowly down the street.Every passerby who caught sight of him quickly ducked out of view, hiding behind corners and lamp posts.



That’s when a female reporter stepped forward, holding a microphone.



“Mr. Dave, hello! May I ask you a few questions?”



Dave glanced at her sideways.She was dressed in a sharp blazer, a white button-up shirt, clearly professional.Her frame was slim, delicate—nothing like a fighter.



Dave asked flatly,“Are you a fighter?”



She blinked.“No, sir. I’m just a reporter here to interview you. We’re live right now.”



Dave replied coldly,“Then step aside. I don’t have time for meaningless things.”



The reporter’s entire body trembled.She instinctively backed away several steps.But she and her camera crew continued filming—broadcasting everything live to the entire city.



Dave walked over to a nearby soda vending machine, bought a bottle of cola,and sat down beneath the shade of a tree.



As he sipped it slowly, he muttered to himself,“Even the strongest man on Earth needs a break. Gotta hydrate. It’s too damn hot out here.”



Suddenly, an old lady appeared in front of him, eyes locked on his drink.It was the same cranky old woman who had bullied Tom for years over recycling cans.



She reached out—trying to grab Dave’s half-full cola.



Dave’s instincts kicked in.



In that split second, he imagined her pulling out a hidden kung fu technique—some deadly chokehold to crush his windpipe and kill him instantly.



His blood surged with excitement.A potential new challenge.



He slapped her hand away with one arm,then launched a full-force punch straight into her face with the other.



Her head twisted violently on her neck.Crack. Crack.The sound of bones shattering.



Her head spun a full 720 degrees, then stopped—right back at the starting point.Her eyes still locked on the cola bottle.



But now, her pupils were fully dilated.Lifeless.No focus.No soul.



And just like that,the old woman who had competed with Tom for years over recycling canswas dead.



“OMG,” Dave muttered again.He hadn’t expected that.She… wasn’t a fighter either?



He stood still for a few seconds, actually feeling a little guilty.Then he told himself,“It’s fine. She probably would’ve died sometime this year anyway. She was really old.”



Little did he know—the entire encounter had just been aired live on television.



And across the city,viewers leapt out of their chairs in horror.



“MY GOD!”they screamed.“He even punches old ladies! The underwear shows no mercy!”



Not Today, Bro



Inside a bustling Cantonese banquet restaurant,two large groups of gang members crowded around two giant round tables.There were so many people that several underlings had to stand on the chairs and even the table edges, plates wobbling as they tried to balance.



In the center of one group sat Canelo—but instead of a cigarette, he had a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth, chewing it slowly with an attitude.



Across from him sat Robinson,with one finger jammed between his teeth, casually scraping out plaque like it was just another Tuesday.



They were in the middle of plotting a joint operation—a surprise ambush, a public beatdown, a make-Dave-scream-for-his-mama type of punishment.They talked about surrounding him, humiliating him, beating him so badly his mom wouldn’t recognize him.



But just then…from the nearby wall-mounted TV, the news broadcast cut to a moment:



The 720-degree spinning neck shot.The old lady’s head twisting around like a cursed doll.Still staring at the cola.



Silence.



Canelo’s toothpick dropped to the table with a soft tap.Robinson’s fingernail froze mid-scrape, still buried in his molars.



They stared at the screen.Then at each other.



Their eyes widened.Their faces turned pale.



They didn’t say a word.Not one.



But in that exact moment,they both knew.



This Dave situation?Yeah… maybe another day.







Scene shift.



Inside a massive police headquarters conference room,uniformed officers from every division packed the room.Tension filled the air like smoke.



At the center sat a man—unmoving, composed, commanding.A bucket hat tilted low over his head.A long trench coat draped across his shoulders like a cape, not worn properly.His arms were folded.Sunglasses on, even indoors.



He was Chief Commissioner Khan,the undisputed pinnacle of the Kung Fu world.Not self-proclaimed like Dave—but universally recognized as the real strongest man alive.



All around him, officers spoke one after another.



“Sir, our station’s been humiliated.”“Our reputation’s ruined.”“He even turned Commander Grayson into a street meme…”“Should we send you to deal with this… underwear guy?”



Khan didn’t move.



Then, calmly and coldly, he said:



“No need.”



A pause.



“He’s just a minor nuisance. Not worth the effort.”







Cut to darkness.



Inside a dimly lit office,Colin sat lazily in a chair, feet kicked up on the desk.



He looked bored out of his mind.



Brian stood in front of him, hands behind his back.



“You think I should go deal with this Dave guy?” Brian asked.



Colin gave a small shake of his head.



“No need. He’s just someone who looks powerful among the weak…but among the powerful, he looks weak.”



He sighed.



“But if you’re curious—go ahead. Use your Golden Eyes. Gauge his level.”



Brian nodded silently.







Scene shift again.



Inside a tiny apartment,Marvel sat hunched in front of a flickering TV, chin resting in his palm, eyes dull.



He was watching the news.



On the screen: the old lady’s 720-degree neck spin in slow motion.



Marvel yawned.Loudly.



He gave his wide-open mouth a lazy tap with his palm.



“This news is so boring,” he muttered, then clicked the TV off.



He opened his laptop.



Tonight, before bed, he planned to continue watching the same porn he started yesterday—his favorite: a teacher-student romance series.



Whatever chaos was happening out there…he didn’t give a single fuck.







And finally—in another small apartment, somewhere across the city…



A man stood in front of a mirror.



He buttoned up his shirt—but only halfway,deliberately exposing his manly chest.



Then, with a dramatic motion,he reached for a red Chinese flag and draped it across his shoulders like a cape.



He stared into the mirror, eyes fierce.



“Alright… it’s my turn now.”







In the Name of the Local Hero



Sean stepped onto the street, slowly walking toward the source of the chaos.



Along the way, he saw bodies scattered on the sidewalk—some even lying in the middle of the road. One of them had already become a flattened pulp of meat, ground over and over again by passing traffic. No one had even noticed the corpse. Or maybe they had… and just didn’t care anymore.



He saw two more bodies with their heads jammed inside trash cans or fridges, their butts sticking out in the air like broken mannequins. Inside a nearby bakery, food was splattered everywhere, flour mixing with smashed pastries—and scattered throughout the mess were piles of human feces.



Sean clenched his fists. His jaw tightened. His heart ached.



Just yesterday, this city was vibrant and full of life. And now, just a matter of hours later… this? This was hell.



Then, as he passed a vending machine, he spotted an old granny kneeling on the ground, her eyes wide open, staring forward, already dead.She had died right there on the street—just trying to snatch a can of soda.



That was the final straw.



Sean burst into tears.



“I won’t forgive you,” he muttered through his sobs. “As the Local Hero, I swear—I will protect this city. In the name of the people.”



Suddenly, Dave launched another man across the street with a single punch. The body crashed against the metal shutter of a hardware store, collapsing on the ground, totally unconscious.



“Stop right there.”Sean stepped forward, blocking Dave’s path, standing exactly five meters in front of him.



He raised one hand like a cop calling a halt.



“Enough is enough. You’ve crossed the line. I’m going to teach you a lesson. As a Local Hero, I’ll protect this city and its people—with everything I have.”



The surrounding civilians, drawn by the tension, formed a circle around them, watching closely. Among them stood a tall, slender young man in a black tank top and Nike shorts. A faint golden shimmer danced in his eyes.It was Brian.



He blended into the crowd, just observing—no intention to fight, no intention to interfere. He was simply here to gauge Dave’s power.



Dave looked up. That half-buttoned white shirt… That manly chest… The silver earring, the bangs covering one eye…



He sneered.



“I finally found you again. Do you remember what you did to me ten years ago… you damn gangster?”



But Sean didn’t respond. Being called a gangster meant nothing to him now. Not after seeing the ruined streets. Not after seeing the pain of the people.



His heart was no longer in the past. It was with the victims.



“I don’t remember what happened ten years ago,” Sean said coldly. “Nor does it matter.”



He narrowed his eyes, stepping forward.



“I’ll beat you up and fuck you good… One way or another.”


Chapter 30: The Underwear vs. Wanna-Be Justice
==================================================

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 nosewas 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.


Chapter 31: The Underwear vs. The Embodiment of Crime
==================================================

Dragon Tiger Rampage



Sean didn’t say a word.Not a second wasted.



With both monkey wrenches in hand, he charged forward like a missile, hurling himself straight at Dave—and unleashed his ultimate technique:



Dragon Tiger Rampage.



Dave instinctively reached out, trying to grab any part of Sean’s body.He knew—if he could just get a hold of him, he could end this with a single punch.



But he couldn’t.



Because Sean’s every move… was aimed to kill.



The wrenches sliced through the air like twin silver flashes—targeting only Dave’s vitals:his eyes, his throat, his crotch.



Dave couldn’t attack.He couldn’t even blink.All he could do… was defend.



And on that battlefield, the sound of war rang out—CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!



Metal crashed against steel muscles again and again.It sounded like someone was forging a weapon on Dave’s body.



From the outside, it looked like two silver streaks dancing wildly around Dave’s enormous frame.But this dance… was deadly.



Sean didn’t stop.The strikes kept raining.



Ten. Twenty. Thirty…



He called out a number after every ten hits.…Nine hundred. Nine-ten. Nine-twenty…



Three minutes had passed.Dave’s abs, chest, shoulders—his iron body—were finally starting to crack.



Muscle fibers tore. Blood seeped out.



Sean could feel it.He was close to breaking through.



If he kept going, Dave’s legendary defense would collapse.



And Dave… would die.



But Sean didn’t notice something else—



The same cracks forming…Not on Dave…



But on the wrenches.



Another minute passed.



Sean shouted, “One thousand nine hundred seventy!”Then—“One thousand nine hundred eighty!”“One thousand nine hundred ninety!!”



And finally, with a war cry, he screamed:



“TWO THOUSAND!!”



He slammed both wrenches down hard—straight into Dave’s massive chest.



CRACK!



Dave coughed out a fountain of blood.His body lurched backward.



But before Sean could celebrate—



SNAP.



The two monkey wrenches in his hands split in half.The broken pieces spun through the air and landed far down the street.



Sean’s heart dropped.



He quickly jumped back several steps—eyes locked on Dave, bracing for a counterattack.



Dave stood still.Bleeding. Wounded. But still upright.



Sean looked at his empty hands.Then muttered under his breath—



“Goddamn it… They broke… at the worst possible time.”







The Hardware Store Bombardment



“This must be made in China…” Sean muttered, glancing at the two broken wrenches on the ground.



Then he turned and looked toward the hardware store.



He spotted a few more wrenches sitting neatly on a shelf inside.



“I can’t beat him barehanded without weapons,” he whispered to himself.



Without hesitation, he dashed toward the store.



But Dave had already guessed his intent.



He knew he couldn’t outrun Sean—but he didn’t need to.



Instead, Dave grabbed a pile of rocks from the ground and began hurling them, one after another, in a furious volley toward the shop.



Sean felt the air behind him ripple.



He instinctively considered dodging, but quickly realized—



those rocks weren’t aimed at him.



They flew past him like a meteor shower, crashing into the hardware store with terrifying force.



The store erupted.



It was like a warzone—an endless missile strike.



Rubble exploded in all directions—twisted steel, shattered shelves, dust, splinters. Everything inside went airborne.



Sean had no way to enter. He halted just outside the blast zone, shielding himself with one arm.



When the dust finally began to clear… what was left was nothing but wreckage.



The store had become a ruin.



Tools lay shattered across the floor. Splintered, cracked, broken beyond use. He spotted several destroyed wrenches—some bent, others twisted into unrecognizable shapes.



And then… he saw the shopkeeper.



Lying in a pool of blood.



Sean rushed over.



“Hey! You okay?” he shouted, crouching down. “You still owe me money, remember?!”



The shopkeeper didn’t respond.



Sean leaned in closer—



And froze.



The man’s heart was still beating… but it wasn’t inside his chest.



It was a severed heart, pumping rhythmically a full meter away, lying on the ground like a twitching fruit.



“…Oh my God,” Sean whispered. “He’s dead.”



He paused, unexpectedly somber.



And then, in the shopkeeper’s stiff, bloodied hand—he noticed something.



Gripped tightly was a solid, untouched piece of steel.



Sean reached for it.



A wrench.



Brand new.



He pried it from the shopkeeper’s cold fingers and held it tight.



Then, almost ceremoniously, he picked up the dislocated heart and placed it gently back near the man’s chest—so at least his body was complete.



Standing up slowly, wrench in hand, Sean turned back toward Dave.



His grip tightened.



His eyes narrowed.



Round two was about to begin.







The One-Handed Rampage



Sean gripped the wrench tightly in his hand. But deep down, he knew—



With only one wrench, he couldn’t unleash his full technique: Dragon Tiger Rampage.



After all, Dragon Tiger Rampage wasn’t just a flurry of attacks. It was a two-part dance:



The wrench in his left hand? That was the Dragon Swing.The wrench in his right? That was the Tiger Swing.Together, they moved like flowing water—seamless, relentless, with no blind spots. A total assault on every vulnerable point of the enemy.



But with only one wrench, the motion couldn’t flow. The rhythm was broken. He couldn’t lock down Dave’s counterattacks the way he used to.



And then—Sean coughed violently and spat out a mouthful of blood.



That last punch from Dave had done more damage than he thought. His insides were rattled. His speed was down. His stamina had dipped. He couldn’t afford to let Dave get close again.



This next round had to be all about spacing.



He had a weapon. And Dave was already seriously wounded.If he could just land a few more solid hits…



Maybe, just maybe—he could end this.



The fight resumed.



Sean and Dave clashed again—up close, personal.But this time, Sean was smarter.



He kept just the right amount of distance—close enough to strike, far enough to dodge.



They exchanged twenty, maybe thirty attacks in rapid succession.



Dave swung, but every punch missed.Sean’s lone wrench, however, connected five or six times, each one a brutal hit to Dave’s battered body.



Blood sprayed from Dave’s mouth again—thick, dark, and sudden.



Sean’s heart surged with hope.



If he kept this up…



Victory might still be his.







The Cornered Beast



Ever since emerging from ten years of seclusion, Dave had been full of confidence. In his mind, he was untouchable—the strongest man on Earth. He had never once considered defeat.



But now, standing bloodied and staggering, he felt it for the first time—the creeping possibility of failure.



Every time that wrench slammed into his body, the pain was unbearable. It was like being struck in the heart by a hammer. His nerves screamed. His vision blurred. And worst of all—he couldn’t even close the distance.



Sean kept weaving in and out, never too far, never too close—just perfectly placed to land those brutal hits. Dave had nothing to counter it with.



That thought sank in deep:




“Maybe… I’m not as strong as I thought.”




All he had were muscles. No technique. No style. Just brute force and blind confidence.If only he had learned even one real skill…Maybe he could’ve turned the table around.



As that doubt tore through his mind, another heavy blow landed—this time, a crushing hit to the chest. Dave staggered. Blood spilled from his mouth again. He reached out instinctively, trying to grab something—anything. But Sean had already backed away.



He gasped for air. His lungs burned. His entire body ached. At this rate, he knew—three to five more hits like that and he’d collapse for good.



He felt like a rat cornered by fate. No way forward. No way back. No way out.



But sometimes… it’s only at the edge of death that a man finds his true self.



Suddenly, a bright image flashed in his mind—a crackling lightning bolt. In that instant, something clicked.



He had awakened a new technique. A move unlike anything he’d ever used before. And he smiled to himself, naming it on the spot—something cool, something powerful.



Just then, another vicious strike landed—this time to the back of his head. His body jerked forward, stumbling a few steps. His vision swam. His mouth filled with blood.



But when he lifted his head this time…



Sean had already pulled back again, keeping distance like before.



Only now—Dave wasn’t afraid.



A smile crept across his face.




“I’m going to end this war… once and for all.”








Muscle Dash



Sean braced himself, whispering under his breath:



“Just two more hits… just two more heavy strikes and that muscle freak will be down—for good.”



Suddenly, Dave let out a deafening roar and shouted:



“MUSCLE DASH!!”



Sean paused—then burst out laughing.



“Muscle Dash?!” he yelled. “Who the hell comes up with a name like that?! That’s gotta be the dumbest move name I’ve ever heard. Only Dave would think of something so… stupid.”



But before he could even finish laughing—



Dave’s right foot slammed into the ground with terrifying force.



The floor caved in. Spiderweb cracks exploded outward in all directions.



And using that explosive recoil, Dave’s body launched like a missile—a horizontal cannonball screaming across the street—straight at Sean.



In the blink of an eye, Dave was already inches from his face. Nose-to-nose. Zero distance.



Sean’s brain screamed:“Shit—SHIT—why is he so fast?!”



But it was too late.



Dave’s fist was already driving forward.



A straight punch to the chest—simple, direct, and absurdly powerful.



Sean’s body shot backward like a ragdoll launched from a slingshot.



He smashed through a concrete wall.Then another.And another.



His ghostly blue eyes flickered—then went completely white.



CRASH. CRASH. CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.



Five walls.



Sean finally landed on a sidewalk far down the street, limbs limp, eyes rolled back.



He was completely unconscious.



Back at the launch point, Dave stood motionless, arm still extended.



He didn’t move for five whole minutes.



Then, slowly, he retracted his fist… and smiled.



For the first time in his life, Dave had felt it—the true pleasure of combat.The thrill. The satisfaction. The raw, primal joy.



It lingered in his chest, even stronger than pain.



Finally, his knees gave out. He dropped to the ground, panting hard.



He was exhausted.



And in that quiet moment, he thought to himself:



“Maybe I still have a long way to go… maybe I’m not really the strongest man on Earth… not yet.”



A few bystanders—those who still hadn’t left—peeked out from behind cars and rubble, clapping softly.



Someone whispered,



“Damn… that was better than the NBA Finals.”







Until We Meet Again



Soon, the ambulance arrived.



Paramedics quickly lifted Sean—unconscious and battered—and placed him onto a stretcher. Two medics, one at the front and one at the rear, began wheeling him toward the back of the ambulance.



At the same time, news reporters swarmed the scene.



It was the same female reporter from earlier, along with her team. She rushed up to the stretcher and began her live broadcast.




“What unfolded here today was an extremely violent street battle. One dead, one critically injured. Multiple buildings have been destroyed or severely damaged. And behind me—lying unconscious on this stretcher—is one of the fighters involved. His name is Sean. He’s a former gangster… and a man who served three years in prison for violent crime.”




Suddenly, Sean sat up on the stretcher, face pale, lips purple—and started yelling:




“Hey hey hey hey hey! You standing there, wide-eyed, spitting lies?! Should I say you used to be a prostitute? That you were raped by different men and had a dozen abortions?! How would you feel if I said that on live TV?!”




He shouted with every ounce of strength left in him—then collapsed back onto the stretcher and immediately passed out again.



The reporter froze.



Mouth wide open. Eyes locked on Sean’s motionless face. The camera kept rolling.



A full ten seconds of awkward, unbroken silence filled the live broadcast.



Nothing but the sound of the wind… and the collective shock of everyone watching.



Far away—in the darkness of unconsciousness—a faint flicker still glowed.



A ghostly blue flame, dim but resilient.



And in the depths of his fading mind, Sean heard a strange voice whisper:




“Sean… until we meet again.”



Chapter 32: The Underwear Meets the Fallen Legend
==================================================

Milk Tea and Muscles



Dave stepped out of a shady little clinic tucked deep in an alley.



The air smelled faintly of old grease and disinfectant. He took a slow breath and ran his hands across his biceps, his chest, and then his thighs. Solid. Real solid. He felt… pretty damn good.



He remembered clearly—just a few minutes ago, inside that sketchy clinic, the unlicensed doctor Mildy had patched him up. Literally.



Using some kind of industrial-grade adhesive—probably meant for fixing broken machines—Mildy had glued all of Dave’s torn muscles back together. The ripped fibers and bruised tissues from his last fight with Sean? Gone. Sealed. Like new. Maybe even better.



Dave nodded to himself.




Not bad, that Mildy guy.




Before he left, Mildy even gave him a little advice—told him to load up on protein over the next couple of days. Specifically, protein milkshakes. With fruity flavors. Vanilla was his favorite. Caramel wasn’t bad either. Dave remembered every single word.



Without thinking much, Dave wandered into a bubble tea shop run by a Taiwanese couple. It had a row of small tables and clean, mellow lighting. Pretty cozy.



He walked to the counter and ordered an extra-large caramel-flavored protein bubble milk tea, just like Mildy suggested. Then he sat quietly in a corner booth, sipping slowly.



As the sweet, creamy liquid slid down his throat, he could feel it: his muscles soaking up the nutrients, rebuilding themselves—tougher, stronger, more resilient. The body knew what it needed. All he had to do was feed it.



Across the room, at a nearby table, a girl was slumped over her laptop, fast asleep. The screen was still glowing, her assignments still open. She must’ve passed out from sheer exhaustion.



Dave glanced at her absentmindedly.



It reminded him of his own training days—those long, brutal hours of building muscle until he blacked out mid-rep. The difference was, even when he was unconscious, his body would keep doing reps on autopilot.



Then his eyes flicked back to the girl. She’d forgotten to button the top three buttons of her shirt.



Her chest was practically hanging out—her bra dangling from gravity, barely hanging onto her shoulders.



Her entire breast, from the soft curves to the tip of the nipple, was exposed and visible in full view—just out there, wide open to the world.



But Dave… wasn’t Marvel.



He didn’t care about that kind of thing. Strength was all that mattered.



He turned away, uninterested, and looked forward.



Two pretty boys with long blond hair were sitting at a table nearby, giggling and gossiping in soft, delicate voices. They looked painfully fragile. Dave’s first instinct was to walk over and snap their forearms like twigs.



One of them had sharp features and a tall, pointed nose—let’s call him Sharknose.The other had enormous, watery, sparkly eyes and a soft round face—Bigeyes.



But just as Dave was about to rise from his seat, something caught his attention.



They were talking about Kung Fu legends.



He froze.



Sharknose leaned forward with a serious whisper:




“You know who’s actually the strongest man in the world right now? It’s Khan. He’s the Police Commissioner of our city.”




Bigeyes gasped, blinking rapidly.




“Really?”




The moment Dave heard that—someone calling another man the strongest in the world—his whole posture shifted.



He straightened his back, leaned in slightly, and tilted his ear toward them, locking in with laser focus.




Khan? …Who the hell is that?




Dave genuinely didn’t know.



He’d spent the past ten years living in a basement, doing nothing but lifting weights and eating frozen chicken breasts. He barely had a phone, let alone a TV or news feed. He didn’t keep up with anything. He didn’t need to. Everyone he ever needed to beat was already beaten—at least back then.



But now, suddenly… this name—Khan—it echoed in his mind.



And apparently, everyone else already knew.



Sharknose kept talking.




“There’s more. Khan’s got two senior brothers—same master. Same style. A few years ago, people said the three of them were basically untouchable. Even now, no one’s sure if Khan is actually stronger than them. They’re that close.”





“No way,” Bigeyes whispered.





“I’m serious. Back then, the three of them were like gods. There was this one time—”




Sharknose’s voice dropped into an excited hush, like he was about to tell a fairytale.




“Once upon a time…”




Dave took another sip of his milk tea—slowly, silently.But in his mind, something had shifted.



He wasn’t going anywhere.Not until he heard the rest of this story.







The Four Corners of Power



According to rumor, Khan wasn’t the only monster trained by that elusive Chi master hidden deep in the mountains.



He had two martial brothers—one senior, one junior.



Both were legends in their own right.



Franklin—the elder brother—was unlike anyone else.



No one ever saw him walk. He glided.



His movement was iconic. Arms held out diagonally at a 45-degree angle—low and steady, like wings maintaining perfect balance. His torso leaned slightly forward, his right leg bent in front at a sharp 90-degree angle, while his left leg stretched far back, foot gently dragging along the ground, pushing him forward in a perfectly controlled slide.



His entire body moved with eerie smoothness, riding on streams of Qi that lifted and guided him across the floor. He hovered just barely above the surface—no footsteps, no sound—just pure momentum. One blink, and he’d already flown fifty meters ahead.



He didn’t run. He didn’t jump. He just… slid.



People said you never saw Franklin arrive—you only realized he had already passed.



And then there was Joshua—the younger brother.



If Franklin was air, Joshua was metal.



He wore a full suit of golden armor. No patterns, no ornaments. Just heavy, solid, gleaming plates wrapped tight around his frame. From head to toe, encased in raw, oppressive presence.



He didn’t just wear it.



He became it.



Years of war, blood, and time had fused the armor to his body—merged into his nerves, his skin, his bone. The golden suit was no longer a piece of gear. It was part of his anatomy. He didn’t take it off. He couldn’t.



His strength came from the weight of the armor. And the Qi that filled it. And the countless wounds that made it whole.



It’s said he once punched a garbage truck across the bay.



There was a time, back then, when the world hailed the four dominant figures of the city:



Some even referred to them as Four Kings.East Franklin. West Joshua. North Khan. South Mario.



Each man ruled over his corner of the city, his presence so overwhelming that stories naturally grew around him—tales of strength, mystery, and fear.



Then there was one legendary battle that shook the entire world—the clash between Joshua and Mario.



Mario, known in the underworld as Silent Shadow, was a blade-wielding phantom. His ninja techniques were ghostly, his speed inhuman. He moved like whispers and struck like lightning.



When he crossed paths with Joshua, the heavens shook.



Their battle lasted a full twenty-four hours—nonstop.



By the end, both were wrecked beyond recognition.



Joshua had a hole torn clean through his chest—his golden armor punctured straight through by Mario’s blade, blood pouring out in waves. But before collapsing, he landed a devastating counterattack—a single punch that shattered Mario’s knee and tore off his entire right leg at the joint.



They each left a permanent mark on the other.



Just as they lay bleeding under the cold sky, unable to move, a man happened to pass by.



Not a hero. Not a medic. Not even someone particularly clean.



Just a short, calm man in oil-stained clothes: Mildy.



He had just clocked out of his job at a nearby machine repair yard.



He took one look at Joshua’s gaping chest wound—said nothing—then turned back toward the junkyard and yanked out a rusty piece of metal piping from an old faucet.



It happened to match the length of Joshua’s torso.



Mildy calmly jammed it into Joshua’s chest to plug the wound, and in doing so, pushed the broken armor back into shape. The bleeding stopped.



Then he scavenged a pile of dead machine parts, slapped them together, and screwed out a rough prosthetic leg. Without anesthesia. Without hesitation. He strapped it straight onto Mario.



Two god-tier warriors were saved… by an unlicensed mechanic.



But the price of that “field repair” was steep.



They never made it to a real hospital.



In the Kung Fu world, proper treatment would’ve fully healed both men. But they missed the window.



And their bodies paid the price.



Joshua permanently lost one lung. His Qi circulation, once fluid and full-body, now struggled to flow beyond half his chest.



Mario never got his right leg back. He could still fight—but he’d never again perform his signature ground-gliding, split-second step.



Two of the greatest fighters alive… quietly erased from the god-tier list.



Dave sat in silence as the story ended.



He slowly looked down at his own chest, his fingers brushing the freshly glued muscle sealed just hours ago with industrial adhesive.




“Holy fuck…”




His heart sank.




“Did my fighting career just got… ruined by Mildy too?”




Fucklin Returns



“That means only two of the four powerhouses are left, right?” Bigeyes asked, eyes wide with curiosity.



Sharknose shook his head slowly.




“Mmm… no. Just one. Only Khan remains.”




Bigeyes blinked.




“Wait—something happened to Franklin too?”




No one knew exactly what.



One day, on a quiet school campus, Franklin appeared wearing a tight white shirt that clung to his sculpted torso—his abs clear as day. Across his chest, in bold, all-caps lettering, were seven black letters:




FUCKLIN




Nobody knew why.



Maybe it was a misprint of his name.Maybe someone was messing with him.Didn’t matter.



No one questioned it.Not even Franklin.He just kept wearing that same shirt. Day after day. Year after year. He still wears it now.



The only thing people did know… was what happened that day.



Franklin, by accident, killed his childhood fiancée with a single move.



No one knows how. No one knows why.



But after that, Franklin was never the same.



He withdrew from school. Dropped out of the legendary mountain martial academy. Quit everything. He made a vow that day:




He would never use his martial arts again.




He didn’t finish high school. He had no skills. No degree. No connections. No direction.



Last anyone heard…He was working as a food delivery guy, riding a red scooter around town.



Bigeyes nodded thoughtfully.




“Makes sense. So that’s why Khan is the only real powerhouse left in the world now.”




He sighed, smiling faintly.




“I didn’t know there were so many legends before him. But I guess that’s all they are now—legends. Legacy stuff.”




And just like that, the two pretty boys went back to chatting about makeup and outfit pairings. Nail polish tones. Softboy accessories.



Meanwhile, Dave had just finished the last sip of his caramel protein bubble milk tea.



He tossed the empty cup into the trash with a flick of the wrist, patted his pink women’s underwear, and casually stepped back onto the street.




The world’s bigger than I thought…





If I’m gonna be the strongest man on Earth, I can’t slack off.




He scanned the sidewalks, looking for worthy challengers. Nothing.



Everyone looked weak.



Then—out of nowhere—a red scooter came rolling toward him. Slowly. Riding right up the sidewalk in blatant violation of local traffic laws.



The rider wasn’t trying to hide.



Oversized white shirt, stretched over a large gut. Seven bold letters printed across the chest:




FUCKLIN




His right hand was on the handlebars.His left hand? Deep in his nose, digging with lazy expertise.He wore a bicycle helmet—worn-out, mismatched—and looked like he’d gained two full body sizes since the stories of old.



It was Franklin.



And Dave didn’t even hesitate.



He jumped directly into the scooter’s path, arms out wide like a wall, feet planted.



Franklin barely had time to blink.







Denied by the Deadpan



Franklin’s eyes widened. Both hands clutched the brake handle as tightly as he could.



The scooter’s wheels screeched across the pavement—gliding nearly two meters before coming to a halt. He wasn’t even going that fast. The problem was… Franklin hadn’t changed his brake pads in years.



He knew they were worn out.He knew they needed replacing.But he just couldn’t bring himself to spend the money.



The scooter finally stopped right in front of Dave.



Frank’s foot hit the ground to balance himself. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.




“Whew… that was close. Good thing I grabbed the brakes in time. That could’ve gone bad.”




Dave stood there, face twitching, teeth clenched.




“If you had braked 0.01 seconds earlier… that would’ve been great.”




Apparently, the scooter had stopped just a hair too late—its front panel grazed Dave’s groin.A soft, heart-splitting pain shot through him. He didn’t scream. Didn’t fall.



But it was the kind of pain that would make most men roll on the ground crying.



Dave, however, stood firm.



With tears barely forming in his eyes, he grinned and said:




“You must be the legendary fighter… the East King. Franklin. Right?”




Franklin casually reached into his nose and dug out a long, twisted glob.



He rolled it around between his fingers and replied in a slow, deadpan tone:




“That was a long time ago.Feels like a hundred years now.Almost like… a lifetime ago.I haven’t fought in years.”




Dave clenched his fists in excitement.




“Please. Let me challenge you.Just a light spar. I’ve always wanted to test myself against someone like you.”




Frank didn’t react. Just flicked the booger between his fingers.



It sailed through the air and—somehow—landed squarely on Dave’s pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear.



Perfect placement. It stuck there. Glowing.



Dave didn’t even notice.



He was too focused. Too hyped. Too locked in.



Frank inhaled sharply.



His eyes widened.



Then, slowly… he gave a weak, awkward smile.



Dave interpreted it instantly.




“So that means you accept the challenge, right?”




Frank’s face dropped back into his emotionless deadpan expression.




“Nope, sir.I’ve got food to deliver.Customer’s still waiting.”




Dave’s expression darkened. His entire face sank into fury.



He took one step forward, voice low and trembling:




“How dare you…You’re a disgrace to every fighter who trained hard and gave it their all!”




Frank looked at him for a second—expressionless.



Then he twisted the throttle.



The engine hummed.



Looked like Franklin was about to drive off.







The Passionate Speech



Dave threw one arm out, blocking Franklin’s path.



“Frank,” he said with urgency, raising two fingers. “Just give me two minutes. That’s all I need. Two minutes.”



Franklin gave a subtle nod. His face didn’t change—still deadpan. “OK,” he replied simply.



Dave took a breath and began.



“I don’t know what happened to you in the past… but it’s been long enough. Don’t you think it’s time to step out of it?”



He clenched his fists, voice gaining strength.



“I’ve been training my muscles every single day—for ten years. And I’m still going. Every day. Because we all want the same thing. To become the strongest fighters. That passion, that pursuit, that dedication—don’t tell me you never felt it before.”



Dave’s eyes shut tight. His fists trembled with emotion.



“Frank… I believe in you. I believe you can rise again—like a phoenix from the ashes. Not just the old you—but something even stronger. Even greater.”



His voice cracked now. A few tears slid down his cheek.



“I believe in you, Frank… Let’s embrace the joy of fighting again. That acceleration. That rush. That satisfaction…”



He opened his eyes, searching for connection.



“You feel the same way… don’t you?”



But the spot in front of him was empty.



Frank had already long left.



His scooter was now all the way at the end of the block, idling at a red light in traffic—calm and still, as if none of this had ever happened.



Dave stood there, completely still.



His lip curled as he muttered through gritted teeth:




“Oh, imbecile… fuck him.”




And just like that, the passionate speech vanished into exhaust fumes.







The Rock of Wrath



Dave stood alone, his chest rising and falling after pouring his heart out.



Far ahead, at the end of the block, Frank sat quietly on his red scooter. One foot on the ground. Hands resting on the handlebars. He didn’t even glance back. Just waiting at the red light.



Dave’s jaw tightened.




“Oh, you jerk… You just ignored me? Unbelievable.”




He clenched his fists.




“I opened my heart to you, damn it…”




Then his voice dropped low and cold.




“You’re not getting away.”




He bent down, grabbed a jagged chunk of concrete—roughly the size of an apple—and with a single whip of his arm, launched it like a missile.



The rock tore through the air.



CRACK—BOOM!!



It struck Frank square at the back of the neck.



A violent shockwave erupted on impact. The stone didn’t just bounce—it exploded into fine dust mid-air, atomized by the absurd density of Frank’s body.



Frank flinched slightly. His head tilted forward.




“TSSSHHH—!! …Shit… that hurt…”




He rubbed the back of his neck lightly. His nerves still registered pain like any normal person—but structurally? He was completely fine. Not a scratch. Not a dent.



Then the light turned green.



Without a single glance behind him—



Frank drove off.



Effortless. Deadpan. As if nothing had happened at all.



Dave stood frozen.




“He felt that… I know he felt that…”




But Frank never stopped.



Never turned.



Never said a word.



Dave’s fists loosened at his sides.



Then he let out a furious shout:




“COME BACK AND FIGHT ME, YOU DELIVERY FOSSIL!!”




Across the street, a guy holding a sandwich whispered, “Yo… is that the underwear dude yelling at a scooter?”



His friend glanced over.




“Yup.”







Chapter 33: The Underwear vs. The Golden Eyes
==================================================

The Humble Hit Job



The room was dim—lit only by a single lamp dangling above the roundtable. The rest of the office was drowned in darkness.



Four men sat beneath the light.



Colin lounged back in his chair, arms crossed, legs casually draped over one another. His tone was flat, indifferent—almost lazy.




“I heard you got your ass kicked recently,” Colin said, glancing at Mr. Sang. “By some… perverted freak in women’s underwear. That’s unfortunate.Let’s get to the point. Tell us what you want. Don’t be shy.”




Mr. Sang’s face twisted in fury.



He slammed his palm against the table—once, twice, then again—his voice shaking with rage.




“That bastard! He doesn’t know anything! He has no idea how this world works!He disrespected the entire Kung Fu Association! I want him punished—beaten so badly he’ll never forget it.I want him to learn what it means to respect us.”




Colin turned his head slightly, eyes still lazy, and spoke without looking.




“Hey, Brian. You scouted him last time.How strong is he?”




Brian barely moved. He answered like a man reporting weather conditions.




“Very weak. Pathetically weak.Honestly, it’d be easier than taking a shit.”




Colin nodded.




“Good. Then it’s your job.Michael’s tied up with something else right now, so he’s out.”




Brian gave a small, professional nod.




“Understood. Just to clarify—what’s the end goal of this mission?”




Colin didn’t even blink.




“Teach him a lesson. Beat him up.And fuck him good.”




Brian raised an eyebrow slightly.




“Alive or dead?”




Colin shrugged and gestured toward Mr. Sang.



Mr. Sang snorted, waving a hand like he couldn’t care less.




“Up to you. I don’t care.As long as he learns the damn lesson.”




At that moment, Michael reached into his civic pouch and placed it on the table. He unzipped it slowly.



Inside—neatly bundled stacks of cash.



He slid the bag across the table to Mr. Sang.




“Mr. Sang,” Michael said with a polite smile,“this is a little gift from the Humble Organization.Buy something nice. Something that helps you heal faster.”




Mr. Sang’s anger melted. His face lit up with smug satisfaction.




“Thank you. That’s… very thoughtful.I’ll make sure you guys get the full operation rights for the new massage street.That kind of place—we’ll make sure it’s all yours.”




Colin smiled faintly.




“Bribery makes the world a better place.”








A Golden Visit



It was a quiet night.



Or at least, it was supposed to be—until Brian roared down the street on his motorcycle.



The engine growled with a high-pitched snarl so loud, it shattered the peace of every neighborhood he passed. Dogs barked. Windows rattled. Somewhere, a tired old man cursed and slammed his window shut.



Brian didn’t care.



He cruised into a narrow alley, the motor still howling—until something odd floated past his face.



A flash of pink.



A soft, silky, triangle-shaped piece of pink underwear glided through the air like a lazy butterfly.



Brian squinted, then switched his headlamp to full beam.



That’s when he saw him.



A bare-chested muscle freak standing right in the middle of the alley, wearing nothing but a pair of pink women’s underwear. Tight. Triangular. Proud.



Brian pulled his bike to a stop in front of the man, blocking his path.



He dropped one foot to the ground, casually dismounted, and flipped the kickstand down—leaving the bike parked squarely in the middle of the street.



He walked up to the man and asked calmly:




“You’re the perverted freak everyone’s been talking about, aren’t you?The Underwear?”




Dave stared at him, taking his time.



Then he noticed it—Brian’s eyes. They were glowing. Not metaphorically. Literally. Two golden beams of light, sharp and steady, piercing through the darkness.



Brian took another step forward, tilting his head.




“Of all the clothing options in the world…why the hell did you choose that?”




Dave replied softly, almost kindly:




“Please leave my underwear alone.”




Then he added:




“So… what are you here for?”




Brian spread his arms a little, almost apologetically.




“Nothing personal, really.Just business. Straight business.I got an assignment from above.”




He paused.




“I’m here to teach you a lesson.Beat you up…and fuck you good.”




Dave’s eyes lit up—not with fear, but delight.



He had dreamed of someone bold enough to challenge him.



A slow, excited smile crept across his face.




“Then bring it on.”








The Flawless Anticipation



Dave didn’t waste a single word.



He charged forward, swinging a heavy punch straight at Brian’s face. His movement was the same as always—amateurish and slow, like a gym bro trying to fight in a dream.



But Brian was already moving.



He calmly traced a series of circular motions with both hands in front of him—smooth, fluid spirals that absorbed the impact and unraveled Dave’s momentum entirely.



It was elegant. Effortless.



He had learned it not long ago—while watching Canelo and Robinson fight at the mall.This was Robinson’s signature move.



Dave halted, took two steps back, and nodded in approval.




“Not bad.”




Then he repeated the same attack—twice more.Same stance. Same slow swing. Same circles from Brian.Same result. Perfectly neutralized.



But inside, Dave was smiling.



He had just thrown three weak, predictable attacks—on purpose. It was bait.He was setting up the fourth one. The real one.The one that would end everything.



He slammed his back foot into the ground.



CRACK!



The concrete beneath him buckled.Cracks shot out from his foot like spiderwebs across the alley floor.



And then he vanished.



In less than 0.1 seconds, he closed the distance—Muscle Dash.



Dave’s body launched forward like a missile of pure meat and fury.



But Brian had already moved.



He ducked down into a crouch—calm, composed—and spun with a sudden burst of motion.



Tornado Sweep.



Dave’s legs were swept clean off the ground.



The momentum from his own dash flipped him upward uncontrollably. He spun in the air, wide open—exposed.



Still lying on the ground, Brian planted his hands down and kicked upward with all his strength.



CRACK!



His foot connected directly with Dave’s abdomen.



WHAM!



Dave rocketed forward, his body slamming hard into the alley wall.Concrete exploded. A massive spiderweb of cracks spread across the surface.



Dave slumped to the ground, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.



He slowly got up, eyes spinning, confused. He wiped the blood with the back of his hand.




“How… how can you move that fast?That’s not… human.”




Brian just smiled.



He gently raised a finger and tapped the corner of his glowing eye.




“Golden Eyes.I see it all—before you even move.Your body gives you away with every little twitch.You were already finished before you began.”




Then Brian’s smile faded.



His face grew serious. Cold.



He stepped forward and said, quietly:




“Time to end this.Right here.Right now.”








Time to End This



Brian dashed forward—each step faster than the last—until he reached a large industrial dumpster.



He leapt up in one fluid motion, landing silently on the metal lid.



Then—he copied it.



Muscle Dash.



Borrowed from Dave. Perfected instantly.



As he launched forward, his foot slammed into the lid of the dumpster.CLANG!The metal caved in beneath the force, forming a deep dent as he blasted off the surface like a rocket.



He shot across the alley and leapt—landing squarely on the third-floor balcony of a nearby apartment building.



From below, Dave looked up.



He squinted at the figure above, unsure of what was coming—but fully prepared to face it.His stance tightened. His breathing slowed. He was ready for the worst.



Brian didn’t wait.



He ran a few more steps along the narrow balcony—then jumped.



His body rose high into the air—ten meters above ground.Far above the alley. Far above Dave.



And then came the form.



One leg curled in tight. The other shot straight.He rotated midair, angling downward at a sharp 45-degree plunge.



Skyfall Kick.



It was Canelo’s most destructive technique—an airborne kill shot. But this time, it wasn’t Canelo using it.



It was Brian.



The friction from his descent lit the air—sparks danced from his heel as it sliced through the atmosphere.It wasn’t just strength. It was calculation.



Brian had done the math:



If he missed and hit the ground directly, his leg would likely snap clean in half.If he overshot the height, the counterforce alone could crush his joints.



This move wasn’t just dangerous—it was suicidal without precision.



Colin had the mind for it, but not the body.Michael had the body, but not the math.Only Brian could do both.



He was, quite possibly, the only person in the world who could safely use this technique.



And now he was using it—on Dave.



Dave braced.



He crossed both arms above his head, shielding himself the best he could.



Then—



BOOM.



A white flash.



Sparks exploded across the alley.The sound echoed like a thunderclap—like a bomb going off.For one second, the world blinked.



Then silence.



When the dust settled, Brian stood calmly on the ground. No grin. No gloating.His expression was dead serious.



He didn’t move.



But Dave—



Dave was on one knee.Both of his forearms had suffered multiple fractures—maybe ten or more across both bones.One leg was twisted at the ankle, badly sprained from the backward force when he’d been thrown.



He was breathing heavily. His face pale.But his eyes—still full of fire.



He gritted his teeth, wincing in pain… then looked up at Brian.



Quietly, calmly, he said:




“Finish it.”








Let’s Call It a Day



Dave let out a long sigh.



He accepted it.



This was how it was meant to go. Win or lose—that was the nature of the martial world.Still, a small regret lingered in his chest.



He had dreamed of becoming the strongest man on Earth.But now… so young, so soon… it seemed like his story might end here.



He lowered his head.



But then—Brian didn’t move closer.He didn’t raise a fist.He didn’t come to finish the job.



Instead, he turned and calmly walked away.



Toward his motorcycle.




“Let’s call it a day,” he said over his shoulder.“My mission’s complete. You—just be good. I have no intention of killing you today.”




He reached his bike, flipped down the kickstand, and swung a leg over the seat.



As he twisted the handlebars and revved the engine, he kept talking.




“There are many strong people in this world.You’re strong too. But just… average-strong.”





“This world is full of monsters.And even among monsters—there are monsters of monsters.”




The engine growled louder.




“The world’s big,” he said.“Bigger than—”




Suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence.



Without another word, he pulled the throttle.



The motorcycle roared to life and shot down the alley, tires screeching against the pavement. He made a sharp turn at the end and disappeared from view.



Gone.



Dave remained kneeling, bloodied and bruised, silent in the middle of the alley.



He stared at the spot where Brian had stood.



Somehow, those final words—cut off and incomplete—had brought him back down to Earth.His pride had been living on the moon.But now… he understood.



He nodded slowly.




“Yeah… this world really is too big.Way bigger than my gym.”




Then he gave a weak, bitter laugh.



He never did figure out why Brian left so suddenly.



He just felt confused.



But far down the alley, beyond the turn…A small drop of blood ran down from the corner of Brian’s mouth.







Just One Lousy Digit



A few blocks away—under a flickering streetlamp—Brian sat slumped against the pole.



His eyes were closed.His breathing was heavy.A few thin trails of blood ran down his chin, still fresh beneath the moonlight.



About two meters in front of him, his motorcycle lay on its side in the middle of the road.Its rear wheel was still spinning in the air.Endlessly turning. Endlessly humming.



The truth was—Brian had underestimated the recoil.



That Skyfall Kick had hit harder than he’d calculated.Much harder.



When he landed, the counterforce had rattled through his entire frame—his head throbbed, and he immediately felt the early signs of a concussion.His organs churned. Something inside had definitely taken damage.



That’s why he had left so quickly.



He didn’t want Dave to see him like this.Didn’t want anyone to see him break.



He only made it a few blocks.On the way to the hospital, he collapsed under the streetlamp.



Now, footsteps approached from ahead.



Two familiar figures wandered down the sidewalk, laughing slightly, swaying a bit from alcohol.



It was Michael and Mildy—out together after a late-night snack and a few drinks.They were just walking by.



Michael spotted the body first.




“Brian?!”




He ran over, crouched down, and grabbed Brian by the shoulders, shaking him slightly.




“Hey! What happened? Are you okay?! Brian—talk to me!”




Brian’s eyes fluttered open. He looked dazed, but he smiled faintly.




“I… miscalculated.Just one lousy digit.”




Michael blinked.



He had no idea what that meant.Math talk. Nerd shit. He didn’t care.




“Screw your decimal points. I’m taking you to the hospital. Now.”




But before he could lift Brian, another voice cut in.



Mildy stepped forward, smug as ever.




“No need. I am a doctor.An unlicensed one.”




Michael’s expression twisted.He turned his head slowly, eyes sharp, lips tight.



Then he snapped—




“Get the fuck out of here.”



Chapter 34: The Underwear vs. Golden Rimmed Glasses
==================================================

Right Outside the Bakery



It was one of those scorching summer afternoons—heatwaves rising off the pavement like the city itself was sweating.



The sliding door of a small bakery slid open with a quiet hiss. Michael stepped out slowly, holding a steaming cup of coffee.



Same outfit as always: White button-up shirt. Slim-fit dress pants. Shined leather shoes. And a black briefcase swinging neatly by his side.



He always looked like a man heading to a job interview. Every single day.



From the opposite end of the block, Dave—the man known as The Underwear—was walking his usual morning route. He spotted Michael instantly.



That face. That walk. That cold, indifferent air of control.



Captain Lam. One of the higher-ups in the Humble Organization.



Dave had been thinking about power a lot lately—ever since his brutal defeat by Brian. His body had healed, but the humiliation still lingered. He needed growth. He needed answers. And more than anything, he needed a real fight.



So he stepped forward—straight into Michael’s path—and raised his voice:




“Captain Lam. May I challenge you to a match? Right here. Right now. I respect you. You’re one of the elite. Please—let’s spar.”




Michael came to a soft halt, his coffee still in hand.



He looked at Dave—not with arrogance, but with quiet practicality.




“No thank you,” he replied calmly. “I only fight when it serves a purpose. Random violence… is meaningless.”




Dave squinted. Then nodded slowly.




“Meaningless? Alright then. Let me give you some meaning.”




Without warning, Dave spun his body sideways and slammed his fist into the glass wall of the bakery.



Shatter.



The entire front display exploded into a thousand shards—glass raining onto the sidewalk like a hurricane of diamonds.



Inside, customers screamed. Panic spread like fire. People tripped over chairs and tables, scrambling to escape the bakery. Chaos erupted.



Dave didn’t stop there.



He reached out, grabbed a random passerby—a good-looking young man in gym clothes—and lifted him clean off the ground by the collar. The man’s legs kicked helplessly in midair, running in place like a cartoon.




“Give me your wallet,” Dave snarled.





“P-please! Don’t hurt me!” the man cried, his face pale. A dark wet stain spread down his pants.




Dave kept staring at the poor guy as he shouted:




“Captain Lam! Look at me! I’m a menace now! A villain! A walking threat to society! So what are you gonna do—hero?”




He paused—just for dramatic effect—then finally turned to check for a reaction.



But Michael was already half a block away, calmly walking down the street like nothing happened.



He didn’t even turn around.



Because in Michael’s eyes… the world wasn’t black or white. Good and evil? Justice and crime? That wasn’t his framework. Truth was—he just didn’t care.



Dave stared in disbelief for half a second—then casually flung the terrified man off to the side of the sidewalk, like he was done with a bag of groceries. Not gentle. Not violent. Just… done.



Then he sprinted forward, closing the gap between him and Michael in seconds.



He jumped in front of him, arms out, blocking the path.




“HEY! What the hell, man? You can’t just walk away like that!”








Strategic Kicks



Michael stopped in his tracks and gave Dave a slow, deliberate once-over—from head to toe.



His gaze paused on the bright pink, triangle-shaped women’s underwear Dave was wearing like it was no big deal.



He raised an eyebrow… and gave a faint, amused smile.




“That’s a bold fashion statement,” he said. “Tell me—don’t you think it makes you look a little like some kind of deranged pervert?”




Dave blinked once and replied softly:




“My underwear doesn’t concern you.”




Suddenly—splash—Michael hurled the rest of his hot coffee right into Dave’s face.



Dave jerked back, arms up instinctively. The steaming liquid splashed across his cheek and scalded his forearm. He barely had time to react—



Wham!



Michael stepped in and launched a clean, snapping kick straight up into Dave’s crotch.



He didn’t hold back.



Michael had already figured it out: this guy wasn’t going to leave him alone. Rejecting politely hadn’t worked. Walking away hadn’t worked. That meant there was only one solution.



End it. Fast.



If a fight had to happen, it would be on Michael’s terms—efficient and merciless. Preferably over before it even started.



Dave’s thighs slammed shut. Both hands dropped down between his legs. His knees buckled as his calves scraped against each other. He stood there, frozen—trembling in place—eyes wide, lips twitching in pain.



The silence dragged out a few seconds longer… until a teenage boy zoomed by on a scooter, speeding right past Dave on the sidewalk.



Dave instinctively twisted sideways to avoid a collision.



Big mistake.



In that split-second—his body turned, balance compromised—Michael struck again.



Pow!



A perfect sidekick, drilled straight into Dave’s midsection. His abs took the full brunt of it.



Dave’s body launched backward—flying more than ten meters through the air—until he slammed against a brick wall with a sickening thud, then crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.







The Weight of Dust



Dave dropped to one knee and coughed hard.



A thick mouthful of blood hit the ground with a wet splatter.



Then… he laughed.



Not a happy laugh. A bitter, twisted, defiant laugh.




“So this is the famous Captain Lam… That so-called elite fighter from the Humble Organization. A man people admire. A man I thought deserved respect.”




He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and sneered.




“But you? You fight like a coward. Cheap tricks. Sneak attacks. Not an ounce of honor. You don’t even fight like a man.”




Michael checked his watch.



He let out a quiet sigh and tilted his head.




“Alright,” he said. “Looks like I’ve got a few minutes to spare. Guess I’ll waste some time with you.”




He slid his watch cuff back into place and looked Dave over.




“I don’t usually waste energy on meaningless conversations. But this time… what the hell.”




He took a step forward—calm, casual—and added:




“You know what your real problem is?”





“Even if you trained for ten lifetimes… you still wouldn’t make it to the top tier.”





“Wanna know why?”




Dave didn’t answer. His breath was heavy. His eyes were locked on Michael. He couldn’t tell if this was mockery—or something deeper.



Michael’s gaze drifted. For a split second, his mind wandered.



He thought of three names.



Colin. Franklin. Mario.



Not just fighters. Not just elites.



Monsters.



Even among monsters—the very top of the food chain.



Each one represented something absolute. Something untouchable.



Wisdom. Strength. Agility.



They weren’t forged by effort. They were born that way.



Michael used to be like Dave. Training day after day. Pushing himself in the gym. Grinding his body to the limit.



He made progress. Tons of it. He traveled miles. Maybe even dozens.



But eventually… he realized something.



Some people are born hundreds of kilometers ahead. And no amount of running would ever catch up.



He looked at Dave again.



And for a second… he saw himself. The younger version. That blind fire. That desperate belief that hard work alone could rewrite fate.



Michael exhaled.



A long, heavy sigh.




“Underwear,” he said slowly. “You’re strong. Very strong… compared to most people.”





“But in this world… there are monsters. And monsters, even among monsters.”





“The bigger your ego gets… the smaller you’ll start to feel. Until one day, you realize…”





“You’re nothing but an ant. Or worse—just a speck of dust.”




And oddly enough, that final line echoed something Brian once tried to say a few days ago—but never got to finish.



Dave’s face twitched.



He didn’t want to hear it.



His fists curled up. His jaw tightened. His teeth ground against each other.



Then he snapped.




“Blah, blah, blah—what the hell are you even talking about?! You sound like a damn philosopher!”





“You’re a martial artist, aren’t you? Don’t you feel at least a little bit ashamed… saying crap like this?”








One Punch, No Tricks



Michael could see it clearly now.



The look on Dave’s face. The tone in his voice. The wild fire in his eyes.



He wasn’t listening. Wouldn’t listen. Not now. Not anytime soon.



There was no point in explaining anything further.



Maybe… maybe someday, after the world beat him down enough, he’d start to understand. But that wasn’t Michael’s problem.




It’s none of my business, he thought. I don’t care.




He gave the slightest shake of his head and turned, ready to leave.



But then—he stopped.



Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.



Dave’s right fist—tightened to the max. Packed with every ounce of force his body could summon. The rage, the pride, the desperation—all loaded into one final punch.



Michael could feel it.



This guy wasn’t ready to back down.



He wanted to prove something.



Michael slowly turned his head back and muttered:




“So be it.”




He raised his voice, loud and clear:




“Alright. Let’s do this. No sneak attacks. No tricks. Just a clean, head-on strike.”





“Fist to fist. Strength against strength.”





“I’m going to show you just how weak you really are.”




Dave lit up.



This was what he wanted all along—one clean shot, one fair test of might.



Finally, he could prove himself. Finally, he could make Michael take him seriously.



Michael lifted his right arm and casually made a fist.



Dave crouched low, channeling all his power. His muscles tensed. His breath slowed. All the air around him seemed to stir.



Dry leaves on the sidewalk started to spin. Dirt, dust, and scraps of trash circled his body—pulled into a swirl of rising pressure.



The rotation tightened as it reached his arm—faster, faster—until it all concentrated at his fist.



That was his punch. All or nothing.



Michael rolled his neck and yawned.




“Hurry up. I haven’t had dinner yet.”




Then—BOOM.



The two men charged forward and threw their fists with everything they had.



Flesh and bone collided mid-air—fist to fist—with a thunderous crack that echoed across the entire block.



The shockwave split the air.



Michael stood still, right arm extended in the follow-through position.



Dave staggered back, three full steps… four… five—



Then he dropped to one knee.



His right wrist had bent backward at a grotesque angle, completely broken.



The hand now hung loose—twisted at a 90-degree bend in the wrong direction. His whole arm trembled.



Dave stared at it. His voice trembled.




“I… I don’t believe it…”




He was one of the alley’s toughest. One of the locals.



And just like that—



He lost.







Sock Attack



That punch didn’t just break Dave’s wrist.



It shattered everything along with it—his dignity, his confidence, and the belief he’d built over ten hard years of training.It all cracked like glass. Sharp. Irreversible. Scattered across the floor.



The usually composed Dave finally broke.



He clawed at his own hair with his left hand, shaking his head violently as tears streamed from the corners of his eyes.




“No… No way… No way I could lose!”




He kept shouting, crying as he spoke.




“I’ve been training every day for ten years! Hitting the gym non-stop! I should’ve been the strongest man alive!”





“The strongest man on earth! There’s no way this is happening—this has to be a dream!”




He was gone. Completely out of it. His mind had collapsed.



Michael just stood there with his arms folded across his chest, expressionless.



The man in front of him wasn’t a threat anymore.He was just… a loser. A broken one.



Then suddenly—Dave lunged forward.



He threw wild punches and wild kicks.



Sloppy. Uncoordinated. Desperate.



It didn’t even look like fighting anymore—more like a drunk flailing in a bar.There was no force, no form, no technique.



Michael could’ve ended it right there.One punch.One clean strike.He could’ve snapped his neck like a twig.



But he didn’t.



Because in Dave, he saw a glimpse—just a glimpse—of his younger self.



So he said quietly:




“I got to put an end to this one.”




Michael kicked off his right shoe.



Then he bent down and peeled off his sock—a damp, slightly yellowed cotton sock, aged with sweat and dirt.



It dangled from his hand like a cursed relic.



Then he crumpled it into a ball.



The legendary finisher: Sock Attack.



Dave was still rushing forward.




“I’m the strongest—!”





“I’m unbeatable—!”





“You’ll never defeat me, I—”




He didn’t even get to finish.



Michael’s right hand moved in a blur, jamming the sock deep into Dave’s mouth.



His left hand clamped down tight—sealing it in.



One second.



Two seconds.



Three seconds.



The sock had ended countless men before.It carried the stink of shame, the weight of humiliation, and the raw power of athlete’s foot.



In three seconds, the rabid dog collapsed.



Dave’s knees hit the ground.



And then—he passed out.



Mouth full. Mind blank.



Silence.



Just the sound of the wind brushing past… and the sock… still there.







The Day Colin Tried



Back in that dimly lit office—the Humble Organization’s headquarters—Michael stepped inside and was met with a strange sight.



Colin… was lifting a ten-pound dumbbell.



Slowly. Struggling. Like it was a car.



Michael blinked.




“Uh… Boss? What are you doing?”




Colin didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared straight ahead and asked:




“If I do strength training every day… do you think I could become a powerful fighter one day?”




Michael almost choked.



He tried not to laugh, but it still came out as a soft chuckle.




“Boss… With your intelligence? You might be the greatest mind in the past three hundred years—and probably the next three hundred too.”





“But if you keep doing this kind of strength training every day… I’m sorry, I don’t think you’d ever beat someone like Canelo. Even in a hundred years.”




Colin paused.



He stood still for a moment, thinking deeply.



Ten seconds passed.



Then, without a word, he casually tossed the dumbbell into the trash can beside him.



Clang.



Then he returned to his seat, leaned back in his chair with arms folded and legs crossed, and said calmly:




“Captain Lam… do you remember the last time I made you eat that sock?”




Michael’s forehead instantly broke into a cold sweat.




“Boss… Please don’t misunderstand. I think Canelo is… an extremely formidable opponent. Really. I wasn’t implying anything else.”




He glanced over at Colin.



Colin’s face was the same as always—blank, bored, unreadable.



Michael forced out a weak, awkward smile. Half-fake. Half-frightened.


Chapter 35: The Underwear's Friendship
==================================================

Two Strangers, One Bench



It was a sweltering summer evening. In the park, the younger folks jogged in packs while the elderly ambled along slowly, walking their dogs. The air smelled faintly of grass, dust, and sweat.



Seated on one of the long benches, perfectly still, was a man who looked oddly formal for the setting. He wore a buttoned-up Zhongshan suit—every button fastened to the very top. His hair was neatly parted down the center, styled with the precision of a North Korean parade. His face was calm, almost blank. And his slightly round belly strained faintly against the fabric of his suit.



This man was none other than Pervert Marvel.



For the past few weeks, Marvel had made it a habit to sit on this very bench around sunset. Most people who came to this part of the park were retirees enjoying the breeze or patients recovering from illness, soaking up a little peace before dark.



But Marvel’s reason for being here… was different.



Every evening, at around the same time, a voluptuous woman would jog past this path—her sport bra tight, her pink triangle-shaped workout shorts even tighter. To Marvel, she was like a living goddess. He didn’t dare speak to her. He didn’t even dare look directly for too long.



He simply… observed. From a distance.



Until one day—everything changed.



Marvel was sitting in his usual spot when he noticed someone else settling down on the other end of the bench. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of pink fabric.



Wait—was that… her?



His heart skipped.



Slowly, cautiously, he turned his head.



It was not her.



It was a man. A massive man. His muscles looked like they had been carved from iron and stapled to his frame.



It was Dave.



Ever since his wrist had been shattered by Michael, Dave had sunk into a spiral of doubt and disillusionment. He no longer cared about fighting. His confidence had been broken clean in half.



Now, he sat there—eyes hollow, mood agitated, and a faint sadness clinging to him like smoke.



He didn’t speak. Just sat there. Quiet. Still.



Marvel remained frozen too. Two motionless figures. Two silent souls. Both staring straight ahead.



Days passed.



Marvel kept coming back. And so did Dave.



Each evening, Dave would notice the same man in the same spot, wearing the same blank expression—one that carried a subtle weight of sorrow.



And Dave began to wonder:



“Could it be… that he’s just like me?”



Same pain. Same loneliness. Same pathetic routine.



And so—one evening—Dave finally leaned slightly forward.



And quietly spoke the first words between them.







One-Sided Healing



“Looks like… you’re a broken man too.”



Dave spoke softly, his tone relaxed, almost casual—as if they’d been friends for years.



“You ever feel like… no matter how hard you train, how much you push, you hit a ceiling? And you can’t break past it? Like… the world’s a lot harder than you thought it’d be. At first, it seemed simple. But now? It’s just disappointment. Frustration. Helplessness.”



He didn’t expect an answer. He wasn’t fishing for comfort. He just needed to let the words out. To stop them from rotting in his chest.



Right at that moment, the familiar rhythm of running footsteps approached.



That same woman—the one in the pink triangle shorts and tight sport bra—came jogging past again. Her limbs were lean and powerful, her movements fluid and light. But it was the bounce—her chest bouncing in perfect, hypnotic rhythm—that locked Marvel’s full attention like a spotlight.



He didn’t move his head. He didn’t roll his eyes. But every ounce of his focus was glued to her chest.



He was utterly, reverently captivated.



And right next to him, Dave kept pouring his heart out.



He glanced sideways, catching a glimpse of Marvel’s face—calm, focused, even solemn.




“He’s really listening…”




Dave was touched. He had never met anyone who seemed to listen with such care and attention. Every now and then, Marvel would even nod slowly or murmur a soft, polite “Mm.” or “I see.”



What Dave didn’t know was that Marvel wasn’t listening at all.



He was just doing habitual response motions. A little nod here, a soft grunt there—enough to not be rude. But his mind was far, far away.



Still, Dave took it to heart.



He started talking more—about his regrets, his insecurities, his failed fights, his broken ego. Every word he’d buried inside came tumbling out like floodwater. And Marvel sat there, eyes forward, nodding occasionally, never interrupting. The perfect listener.



Two more weeks passed.



They still came to that same bench every evening.



And every day, Dave talked.



And Marvel… watched.



Then one evening, without warning, Dave turned to him and said:




“You know… I’ve never had a real friend. I’ve always been alone, always kept people at a distance. But now… I think I finally get it. The importance of friendship.”




“You might be the first real friend I’ve ever had.”



“For some reason, I don’t feel so hopeless anymore. Not so weak. Not so empty.”



“Maybe—just maybe—friendship really can help me break through my limits. Thank you.”



He paused—heart open, eyes soft—waiting in silence.



Marvel, hearing the pause, recognized it as his cue.



As always, he offered a polite response, purely out of habit:




“Oh, yeah. Sure.”




The truth was—he hadn’t heard a single word Dave just said.



Not a line. Not a phrase. Not even the “thank you.”



But Dave didn’t know that.



And just like that… their friendship was born.



That same night, Dave went back to the gym.



It had been nearly a month since he’d last stepped inside.



He grabbed a 180-pound dumbbell, lifted it with both arms, and held it high.



There was something different this time.



A spark.



A fire.



A force in his muscles he’d never felt before.



He didn’t know what it was exactly.



But deep down, he believed…




“Maybe… this is the power of friendship.”








Friendship-Powered Violence



It didn’t take long.



Dave was back.



The bruises were gone. The sadness had faded. And the old fire was burning again.



He returned to the streets like a storm—full of energy, aggression, and a strange new surge of strength.



A strength powered by one ridiculous, beautiful thing: friendship.



His fists felt lighter. His movements sharper. His confidence—reborn. And behind every punch, he felt something new anchoring him: a connection, however imaginary, that gave him momentum.



You could find him anywhere now.



In alleys, parking lots, shopping malls, rooftop gardens, even inside public restrooms.



Wherever he went, someone always ended up in the hospital—bones broken, teeth missing, faces rearranged. Dave wasn’t just back. He was on a rampage.



One afternoon, Local Hero Sean was found unconscious on the sidewalk—face swollen like a balloon, lips purple, eyes shut tight. His body twitched in a pile of trash bags, as if he’d been hit by a dozen iron bats.



Dave stood beside him, calm as ever.



He gave Sean’s shoulder a gentle nudge with his foot.



“You can’t beat me anymore,” he said softly. “Because I’m not fighting alone… I have friendship.”



Then came the church.



It was a sunny afternoon when Dave happened to stroll past a wedding in progress. Guests were gathering near the chapel entrance, music playing softly in the background. Near the doorway stood a large framed wedding photo. The bride was glowing, and the groom stood tall beside her—stoic, muscular, exuding quiet strength.



Dave narrowed his eyes.



“This guy… looks powerful.”



Without hesitation, he stepped through the doors—uninvited and completely serious.



The pianist froze mid-note. The bride blinked in disbelief. The room went still.



Dave marched straight down the aisle until he was face to face with the groom.



The groom clenched his jaw.



“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled. “You’re ruining my wedding. Get the f*** out.”



He grabbed Dave by the shoulders and tried to shove him toward the doors.



But before he could finish the push—



Dave reached up and tore open the groom’s stiff bowtie with one sharp yank, ripping it clean off his neck like he was unwrapping a package.



The groom flinched.



Dave’s right fist suddenly shot forward toward the groom’s face.



But the groom was quick.



He wasn’t just some fancy-suit poser—he knew how to fight. His instincts kicked in, and he raised his arms just in time to block the blow.



The punch landed with a dull, heavy thud.



Both men stepped back.



They locked eyes.



And without another word—the real fight began.



They clashed violently in front of the altar.



Dozens of blows were exchanged. Chairs flipped. Flower arrangements exploded. The bride screamed. The priest hit the ground and army-crawled away behind the pulpit.



The groom was strong. Surprisingly strong. But Dave was different now.



He wasn’t just throwing punches. He was throwing belief.



After dozens of exchanges, Dave took two steps back.



His body dropped low. Knees bent. Shoulders coiled.



His right fist pulled behind him like a loaded spring.



For a second, he closed his eyes.



In his mind, he saw Marvel standing behind him—completely silent in that signature Zhongshan suit.



Marvel’s right hand rested firmly on Dave’s left shoulder, calm and steady.



No words. No instructions. Just presence.



And support.



Dave felt it.



He felt everything.



“Friendship Punch,” he whispered. “Full release.”



He lunged forward and unleashed it.



The groom, already sensing the danger, crossed his arms in front of his chest and braced himself.



It didn’t matter.



Dave’s punch landed—and the groom’s forearms snapped like dry branches, both blasting clean off at the elbows and spinning away through the air.



But the punch didn’t stop.



A powerful shockwave traveled straight through the groom’s torso.



The fist drove forward, and the energy behind it ruptured everything inside him.



His chest exploded.



Blood. Bone. Flesh. Organs. All of it blasted outward like a firework, splattering across the stained glass, the altar, the pews, and the horrified wedding guests.



The bride fell to her knees, shrieking.



Her hands trembled, reaching out toward the bloody remains of her groom, now nothing more than scattered debris across the sacred hall.



She dropped her bouquet and sobbed—loud, ugly cries that echoed through the ruined chapel.



Dave stood over the destruction.



And smiled, satisfied.



“This… is the power I found… after discovering friendship.”



The Blush of Suspicion



It happened slowly.



Marvel began to notice something—something subtle, almost impossible to prove.



Each time the girl in the pink sports bra jogged past their bench, she seemed to glance at him. At first it was just a flicker from the corner of her eye. Then it became a real look. And then—every once in a while—she turned her head fully, staring directly at him.



Marvel couldn’t believe it. Was this real? He started paying close attention. For days, he observed her routine—her stride, her breathing, her expressions.



The pattern held. Every day she glanced. Sometimes her cheeks were slightly pink, as if blushing. It wasn’t just a runner’s flush—it looked more like the shy, fluttering glow of a girl caught in a crush.



And Marvel’s heart raced.




“Could it be…? Does she like me too…?”




He didn’t dare ask. He didn’t even dare believe. But something deep inside started blooming—hope.



One afternoon, Dave had exhausted himself after a full day of street fighting. His fists were sore, and his voice was hoarse from hours of nonstop talking—mostly monologues, as usual—while Marvel just sat there silently, nodding from time to time.



Mid-sentence, Dave leaned in too far and, without meaning to, dozed off—his head slumping onto Marvel’s shoulder.



Marvel flinched slightly but didn’t move. Dave’s drool slowly dribbled down, soaking into the collar of Marvel’s beloved Zhongshan jacket. Still, Marvel remained frozen, eyes fixed straight ahead.



He had more important things to focus on.



Because at that exact moment, the girl jogged by again.



Same outfit. Same rhythm. The familiar bounce of her chest under that unmistakable pink sports bra.



But this time, something changed.



She smiled.



Just a little. Just for a second. A giggle, maybe.



But Marvel saw it. He saw everything. That smile—playful, shy, and strangely sensual—burned itself into his mind like a spark on film.




“What… does that mean?” he wondered. “What is she trying to say with that smile…?”




And just like that, Marvel drifted off into fantasy.



In his imagination, he stood beside her in a beautiful wedding chapel. The priest stood ready. She wore a flowing white gown—pure, elegant—and underneath, still the same pink sports bra.



Marvel, of course, wore his classic Zhongshan suit.



As they kissed and exchanged rings, their happiness overflowed.



But suddenly, disaster struck.



A deranged pervert stormed into the chapel wearing nothing but a pink women’s underwear. His muscles bulged, his aura unhinged. He looked just like Dave—except his face was pixelated like a censored video.



Marvel didn’t hesitate.



He stepped in front of his bride, clenched his fist, and threw a single, explosive punch.



The pervert flew skyward, launching like a rocket into the clouds until he became a tiny star in the distance—then vanished completely.



Marvel turned back to his bride.



She smiled, safe and sound.



And in that dream world—crafted from blushes, bounces, and nonsense—they sexed happily ever after.







Confessions, Misfires, and Misunderstandings



The next day, Dave was sitting beside Marvel again—talking endlessly, as usual. Rambling about life, about fighting, about philosophy, about whatever crossed his mind. His mouth didn’t stop moving for hours.



Marvel didn’t hear a word of it.



He was distracted. Anxious.



The girl in the pink sports bra hadn’t shown up yet.



Every morning like clockwork, she’d jog past their bench—two energetic steps, that signature bounce, the rhythm he knew by heart. But today? She was late. Really late.



Marvel’s brows furrowed.



Dave noticed the expression and mistook it for emotional concern—maybe about yesterday’s troubles, or some deeper internal struggle.



He placed a hand on Marvel’s shoulder and said, “Hey, don’t overthink it. Sometimes life throws weird stuff at you. But hey, I’ve been through it. I understand. Just listen—”



Marvel wasn’t listening.



His eyes were locked on the street.



And then she appeared.



Running toward them. Her ponytail whipping. Her breath short and fast.



But something was different.



Very different.



She wasn’t wearing her usual pink sports bra.



She wasn’t wearing anything on her upper body at all.



Two full breasts bounced freely in public, unapologetically, with every step. A few bystanders gasped. A cyclist rode straight into a mailbox. Marvel, meanwhile, froze in place—eyes wide, mouth hanging open, and something else… very much rising.



She reached them, panting, and stopped directly in front of Marvel.



“I’ve been watching you,” she said, her voice shaky but determined. “I’ve wanted to talk to you for days. I’ve been building up the courage… and today, I finally did it. I stood in my house for over an hour just trying to convince myself to come. And now I’m here.”



Marvel was stunned. Happiness slammed into him like a truck. He couldn’t process it—his brain went fuzzy, his body stiff, and a trail of drool slowly slipped down the side of his mouth.



Dave opened his mouth to speak, still not realizing the girl was topless.



“Hey, I wasn’t finished talking—don’t cut me off—”



But he stopped. Halfway through his sentence. Maybe out of shock. Maybe out of rare courtesy. Maybe, for once, he felt the moment didn’t belong to him.



The girl turned her full attention back to Marvel.



“I’ve been watching you for months,” she said softly. “Every day I see you… pushing yourself… challenging stronger and stronger fighters. You get hurt, you come back. Sometimes your face looks broken. Sometimes you can barely stand. But you never give up.”



Marvel blinked. Something didn’t add up.



Still, he couldn’t help but feel warm inside.



The girl continued.



“Even when I go home late, I see you through the gym window—lifting, sweating, working those machines like a madman. There’s always a pool of sweat beneath you. People don’t understand you. But I do. I’m probably the only one in the world who truly sees you for who you are.”



Marvel looked confused. A little off-balance. But he said nothing.



Next to him, Dave sat silently.



And then—his lip twitched.



His eyes blinked rapidly.



A single tear slid down his cheek.



He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. But for the first time in his entire loud, chaotic life…



He felt something real.



He felt seen.



He felt known.



He felt cared for.



The girl took a deep breath. Paused. Then leaned in slightly, voice trembling but clear:




“I love you… The Underwear.”








Boobs, Tears, and Betrayal



Marvel sat there frozen.



It felt like a bolt of lightning had shot straight from the clouds and cracked open his skull. His breath stopped. His chest tightened. His heart twisted as if someone had crushed it with their bare hands.



He whispered to himself, dazed and trembling:




“What…? What is this…? This has to be a joke…”




Just moments ago, those two full, soft breasts were right in front of his face—so close he could feel the warmth radiating off them, so close he thought they might be his. And now? Gone. Like a dream yanked away the second he reached for it. Like God Himself had played the cruelest joke in the world.



And while Marvel sat stunned in heartbreak…



Dave was bawling.



Absolutely bawling. Not just misty-eyed. He was crying the way kids cry when they think they’ve been left behind at the supermarket. Loud, messy sobs shaking his body. His whole frame trembled with overwhelming emotion.



For the first time in his life, he felt it—he was known. He was loved. He was understood.



The girl gently placed her hands around Dave’s head and pulled him close. She guided his face into her chest, holding him there softly, her bare skin pressing against his tear-streaked cheeks. She stroked his head and whispered gently:




“You big dummy… don’t cry.”




Her voice was warm and teasing—like honey on the edge of a laugh.




“I’ve always wanted to be like you. To walk around with just underwear on. To be proud of it. I used to imagine someone calling me ‘The Underwear,’ or ‘The Underpants,’ or even ‘The Panties.’ Anything. As long as it meant we belonged together—not just in clothes… but in spirit.”




She looked down at him, brushing some hair from his forehead.




“That’s why today, before I left the house, I hesitated. I stood there for over an hour. I couldn’t decide. But then I took off my top. And I swore I’d never put one on again. That’s why I was late.”




Dave looked up at her through blurry eyes.



She was everything he had ever wanted—kind, daring, a little crazy… and soft. So soft. He felt like his whole life had been leading up to this moment.




“Her voice… her skin… her heart… and those soft, gentle nipples…”




He turned, beaming, full of joy.




“Hey, Marvel!” he said, eyes sparkling. “Did you see? I finally found love!”




But when they turned—



What they saw wasn’t Marvel.



It was something else.



Marvel’s entire body was shaking.



His fists were clenched. His breathing was shallow and wild. His eyes were red, and his jaw was locked tight—grinding his teeth like a rabid animal. His muscles flexed like springs pulled to their limit, ready to snap.



His face… it wasn’t human anymore.



And then—they smelled it.



The air reeked of something hot and bitter. Not sweat. Not cologne.



It was adrenaline.



Heavy, raw, primal adrenaline leaking from every pore. The kind that only appears before violence. The kind that animals smell right before a kill.



The girl’s arms stiffened around Dave.



Dave’s smile disappeared.



They both stared.



And they both knew—without saying a word—



Something was about to explode.


Chapter 36: The Underwear's Romance
==================================================

Between Friendship and Romance



The jogging girl clung tightly to Dave’s arm, hiding behind him, clearly terrified. Dave gently peeled her hands off.



“Step back,” he said softly. “Stand a little farther away. I’ll protect you.”



She nodded and dashed off, hiding behind a bench a few meters away.



Dave took a deep breath and stepped forward—face to face with the beast.



Marvel’s voice exploded like a siren.




“HOW DARE YOU!Wearing those pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear to deceive an innocent girl like this—You’re a perverted monster!I won’t forgive you!You didn’t just lie to her—you lied to her heart!To her feelings!You’re shameless! Absolutely shameless!”




Dave’s heart sank a little.He always thought Marvel was his friend.He thought Marvel would be happy for him.But instead… Marvel was lashing out, like a stranger.



Staring at the furious beast in front of him, Dave felt torn. He knew—deep down—this moment was forcing him to choose between two things:



FriendshiporLove.



He stood there, eyes closed, breathing deeply.



Three seconds passed.



He made his decision.



He chose… boobies.







When Dave opened his eyes, Marvel was already charging toward him.



Reacting instantly, Dave met him head-on. Their hands collided midair—palms locking, fingers gripping. A test of pure force had begun.



But something was off.



Dave suddenly realized he was being pushed backward. Hard.



His feet dragged across the muddy ground, carving a long trench behind him. The speed kept increasing—first like riding a bicycle, then like being pulled by a car. Within seconds, he had been shoved nearly twenty meters.



That’s when Dave roared:




“Muscle Dash!”




He slammed his foot into the earth behind him—shattering a patch of garden soil and tiles in a burst of force. The counterpush launched him forward with explosive momentum. He twisted Marvel’s wrist and flipped him clean over his shoulder—a perfect textbook takedown.



It was the move Sean had once used to teach him a lesson. And now, Dave had learned it. And made it his own.







From a distance, the jogging girl jumped in joy, throwing her fists up with a loud, high-pitched “Yay!”



As she landed, her chest bounced so hard it defied physics.



Marvel saw all of it.And something inside him snapped.



His eyes turned bloodshot. His rage ignited. His power spiked.




“You bewitched her, didn’t you?!You used some kind of sorcery!You lowlife! You CHEAT!”




But Dave no longer bothered to respond.To him, Marvel had already become a beast—completely consumed by jealousy.



So he used another Muscle Dash, blasting forward and landing a heavy punch right into Marvel’s ribs.



Marvel staggered back several steps. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. But he wasn’t seriously hurt.



Instead, he dropped to all fours—and lunged like an animal.



He slammed a fist into Dave’s face, sending him skidding four or five meters across the ground.



Dave lay face-down, coughing blood onto the pavement.







From Friend to Foe



Marvel watched in disbelief as Dave collapsed, unable to rise.



The very next second, he bolted—not toward his fallen friend, but straight to the jogging girl. His eyes burned with righteousness. He grabbed her by both shoulders and, with wild urgency, began shouting into her face:




“I’m here now! I came to protect you! That monster used some twisted sorcery to manipulate your heart! But I—I will break that curse! I’ll save you from his spell, no matter what it takes!”




The girl froze, stunned… then recoiled in revulsion.



She slapped his hands away with a shriek:




“You disgusting FREAK! Don’t touch me! There’s no curse—there’s no monster—YOU’RE the only psycho here!”




Marvel’s lips trembled.His pupils shook. His hands hovered mid-air, twitching with nervous energy. And then… something snapped.



His eyes dropped—drawn to her chest as if by gravitational force. He stared at her breasts with the hunger of a starving beast. Saliva leaked from the corners of his mouth. He panted heavily. Then, possessed by pure delusion—



He reached out and groped her breasts violently.



The jogging girl screamed and struck him in the head over and over with both fists.




“GET OFF ME! YOU FREAK! I SWEAR I’LL CALL THE COPS! DAVE’S GONNA KILL YOU!”




And from behind—Dave rose.



He stood tall, his body bruised and bloodied, but his spirit burning.



He looked at Marvel—his former friend—now crouched and slobbering like a rabid animal.



Dave didn’t speak.



He lowered his stance, right foot back, left foot forward. His right fist pulled behind him like a loaded spring. The surrounding air thickened. Leaves swirled. Dust lifted. Even discarded snack wrappers fluttered toward him, caught in the swirling pressure.



His muscles tightened.




“I’ve already lost our friendship,” he whispered, “but I won’t lose my love.”




Then, with every ounce of strength in his body, he launched forward.




“LOVE PUNCH!!”




The earth cracked beneath his feet.



In an instant, Dave vanished—only to reappear before Marvel, fist already in motion. It connected with Marvel’s face like divine retribution. The impact sent Marvel flying ten, maybe twenty meters, shattering the air with a boom.



Marvel’s body crashed through the long bench—their bench—splintering it into a thousand pieces.



The bench they sat on for weeks. The bench they shared snacks on. The bench where their strange, silent bond had first formed.



Now reduced to rubble.



As shards of wood fluttered to the ground like dying leaves, Dave stood over the wreckage. His chest rose and fell slowly.



That bench was more than wood.



It was a symbol.



And now, like their friendship, it lay in ruins—irreparable, unforgettable, and gone forever.







Power of the Unstoppable Beast



Dave’s fist was still outstretched—his arm frozen mid-air from that righteous, love-fueled punch. But before he could even begin to retract it, Marvel was already back on all fours, barreling toward him like a charging animal.



The speed was unnatural.



A blur.



By the time Dave realized what was happening, Marvel had already pounced—leaping through the air and slamming him to the ground with feral force. It wasn’t even a fight. It was a mauling.



In that moment, Dave—a man built like a boulder—felt as helpless as a toddler in the jaws of a lion.




“MACHINE GUN SLAP!!” Marvel howled.




And then it began.



A storm of slaps—five, ten, maybe more per second—rained down on Dave’s face. The sound echoed like rapid-fire gunshots. His cheeks bounced with every impact. He tried to guard, tried to block, but there was no room—no time—no breath.



In under ten seconds, Dave’s face had swollen grotesquely. Puffy and distorted, it looked like someone had stuffed two dinner rolls beneath his skin. His lips were bleeding. His eyes nearly swollen shut. His mouth hung open, stunned and useless.



Just then, from the edge of the chaos, the jogging girl—trembling, bruised—grabbed something off the ground.



A baseball bat.



Clutching it with both hands, she sprinted forward and swung with all her might—smashing it against the back of Marvel’s head.



CRACK.



It wasn’t much, but it was real.



Even beasts feel pain.



Marvel paused, growled low, then—without even turning around—whipped his arm backward in a wide arc.



His hand caught the girl across her torso and flung her like a rag doll across the air.



She flew fifty meters—smashing into a thick tree trunk with a sickening thud. Her limbs went limp as she crumpled to the ground. Something cracked. She didn’t get up. Couldn’t.



Her body twitched once, then lay still in the dirt.



Dave, through swollen eyelids, saw it all.



Marvel had dropped his guard.



Just for a second.



And that second was enough.



Dave’s right leg shot out—one final defiant kick that knocked Marvel off balance. In the same motion, he used his signature Muscle Dash, blasting forward like a cannonball.



With all his weight behind him, he thrust his elbow upward into Marvel’s neck.



THWACK.



Marvel stumbled, coughing violently. He clutched his throat, gagging. The strike had nearly crushed his windpipe. But a few seconds later… he was breathing again.



And he was pissed.



His fingers dug into the dirt.



Then—zoom—he disappeared.



0.5 seconds later, he reappeared right in front of Dave.




“FACE DESTRUCTION PUNCH!!”




Marvel’s fist shot forward like a bullet aimed straight at Dave’s skull.



But Dave—just one split second ahead—threw up his arm to block.



It didn’t matter.



The impact blasted through his guard like a wrecking ball. His body was sent flying backward, crushing through two metal streetlight poles, sparks bursting in every direction. Then, with a sickening final thud, he slammed into the same tree that had stopped the girl earlier.



This time, it was Dave who hung limp—arms dangling, legs twisted—his body stuck between branches like a broken doll.



The beast stood tall in the center of the park.Breathing heavy.Saliva dripping.Eyes wild.



The power of the unstoppable beast… had just been proven.



And no one could deny it now.







The Breaking Point



Dave was still conscious—but only barely. His body hung limply from the thick tree trunk like a discarded rag. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could only watch.



Below him, Marvel stood.



The beast no longer looked human. His arms bulged grotesquely. His veins pulsed. His shirt had torn in half, reduced to fluttering threads still clinging to his shoulders. Each of his footsteps sent tremors through the ground as he approached the fallen jogging girl.



She lay crumpled in the grass, breathing faintly. A smear of blood traced down the side of her lips. One leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and her elbow was scraped raw. But her eyes—her eyes were still awake. Still burning.



Marvel crouched in front of her and slowly reached out, lifting her chin with one hand.



His voice was colder than metal:



“Tell me… do you love me? Or that muscle-clown pervert?”



The girl scoffed weakly, a bitter smirk twitching on her lips.



“You?” she said. “Not in a million years.”



Marvel’s face twitched. His jaw clenched.



But he held it together.



At least, for a moment.



She continued, voice cracked but steady:



“I love Dave. I love The Underwear.”



That was it.



The last string snapped.



Marvel’s body convulsed as if struck by lightning. His breath turned ragged. His muscles swelled further, pushing against his torn clothes. His entire figure pulsed with wild, primal energy—fueled by something far darker than adrenaline.



He clawed at his hair. Screamed. The last flicker of logic in his eyes disappeared. Now there was only madness.



He lunged toward the girl.



She screamed, trying to crawl away—but her limbs wouldn’t cooperate.



Then—the beast pinned her beneath him and forced his way deep inside her.



And he roared,



MACHINE GUN FUCK



Six hours passed in the quiet shade of the park. His thrusts came down like a pile driver—heavy, rhythmic, and unrelenting. The grass flattened beneath them, scattered cries rising into the air. Birds fled. The breeze carried it all away. Still, he didn’t stop. Not once.



Joggers jogged. Couples laughed. Phones scrolled. No one looked.



In this Kung Fu world—murder, brawls, even horror—were just background noise. A man losing himself in front of a tree barely made a dent in the rhythm of the day.



And from above, Dave watched. Eyes wide. Fists trembling.



But still… Unable to move.



Her screams, her cries for help, and her desperate resistance stretched on for one or two hours—growing weaker and weaker until, at last, they faded slowly into silence. Yet even then, the rhythm of his motion still lingered in her ice-cold, stiffened, unresponsive, lifeless body.







Aftermath



Marvel stood alone beneath the tree, his breath heavy, eyes wide and trembling. Before him lay the girl—motionless, pale, blood smeared across her thighs, her gaze frozen in time.



He hadn’t meant for things to go this far.



The storm in his veins had passed, but what remained was worse—an empty, aching silence. He looked down at his hands—once trembling with innocence, now stained with something far darker.



Tears welled in his eyes.



“I… I just wanted to save you. Purify you…” He whispered, as if trying to convince himself of something he didn’t even believe.



But there was no answer. No forgiveness. Only silence.



He took a final look at the scene—then turned and ran. On all fours, like an animal fleeing into the woods. He didn’t care where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t stay.



High above, still half-conscious and broken, Dave hung from the tree. He had seen it all. And now, with his body shattered and hope drained from his heart, he whispered through cracked lips:




“He’s… not my friend anymore… He’s a demon… a foul beast.”




Soon after, flashing lights pierced the park—ambulances, police cruisers, reporters. Medics rushed to lift Dave from the tree and laid a white cloth gently over the girl’s body. Even the officers—hardened by years of street violence—fell silent. The scene was too raw, too brutal for words.



Later that night, the news broke:




“A young woman was found gruesomely dead in the park today, with a man discovered hanging nearby, severely injured. Authorities are investigating the incident as a possible robbery, violent assault, or a sexually motivated crime. No arrests have been made at this time.”




Across the city, fear swept through the streets like a black tide. What had unfolded in the once-peaceful heart of the neighborhood sent shockwaves through every home, every whispered conversation.



But no one was more broken than Dave.



That night, in the hospital bed, he stared blankly at the ceiling. His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched. Not from pain—but from shame.




“I couldn’t stop him… I failed to save her…”




And somewhere out there in the dark, Marvel was still running—carrying a guilt that would never let go.







The Cops of Incompetence



Dave wandered the streets like a hollowed-out shell.His soul felt stolen. His steps were aimless.In just one day, he had lost everything: his closest friend—Marvel—and his first love—the jogging girl.



Her death hit him harder than anything he’d ever faced.Marvel, once a sincere friend, was now something else entirely.A monster.A beast.And in Dave’s heart, he would never be forgiven.







Elsewhere in the city, Chief Grayson was holding a press conference.



Cameras rolled as he struck a series of theatrical poses—fingers in a V under his chin, arms folded tightly, one hand on his hip like he was posing for a movie poster.His voice boomed with a deep, rhythmic cadence—clearly rehearsed, like he’d practiced it in the mirror a hundred times.



It was a performance.A show.A cheap attempt to look good on TV.



Facing the cameras, he declared:




“This was a serious act of violence. As the Chief of Police, I cannot tolerate this kind of crime. I promise to give our citizens a clear and satisfying answer—in the shortest time possible. Justice will be served.”




Then, without missing a beat, he added:




“And a word of advice to everyone out there—especially the ladies—when you go outside, wear a proper shirt. Don’t be topless in public. Let’s all try not to invite unnecessary trouble.”








Cut to the police station.



Inside the meeting room, Grayson sat slouched at a poker table with three senior officers.They were lazily shuffling cards, cigarette smoke curling in the air.Grayson had his legs kicked up, trimming his fingernails while tossing cards like nothing mattered.



Suddenly, the door burst open.



A young rookie officer stormed in, eyes burning with righteous fire.




“Sir! When are we heading out to investigate this brutal rape case?” he asked, full of urgency.




Grayson didn’t even glance up.




“Investigate your ass,” he muttered. “You think I’ve got time? You don’t see how busy I am?”




The rookie froze, stunned.



Grayson waved him off like a fly.




“New guy. Go grab me a bubble tea.”




Immediately, the others joined in—




“Make mine half sugar.”“Extra ice.”“Get me pearls, pudding, and coconut jelly. Thanks, kid.”




And just like that—The case was gone.



Buried.



Forgotten.



No one ever brought it up again.










Chapter 37: The Underwear vs. Zhongshan Suits (Part 1)
==================================================

The Zhongshan Suits Mockery



Dave walked slowly through the streets he used to know so well.



The pavement shimmered with heat—like the whole city was steaming from the ground up. The air was thick and dry. But he didn’t mind.



After all, he was only wearing a single piece of clothing: a pinkish, triangle-shaped pair of women’s underwear.



And somehow… he didn’t feel hot at all.



But inside?



He felt heavy.Crushed.Useless.



He’d always thought of himself as a fighter.But now… maybe he wasn’t.Maybe he never was.Maybe it was time to let it go. To quit. To find a different path—a different career.



Something far, far away from fighting.







As he turned the corner, he passed by a familiar sight—an old martial arts school.



He paused.



For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the building, watching the students come and go. Something tugged at his chest.



Memories.



Back when he was young—still a student—everything was so simple.Just school. Just classes. Just classmates.There weren’t all these messy things—friendship, heartbreak, betrayal…Life back then was straightforward.



Sleep during class.Play poker with classmates.Go home, eat snacks, watch TV, play video games.That was it. That was happiness.




“Kids have it good…” he muttered to himself.




He found himself hoping—just for a second—that maybe he could catch a glimpse of those energetic, cheerful students as they trained or laughed or ran around.



Just to remember what it felt like.Just to borrow some of that youthful light, even for a moment.







Out of curiosity, he leaned his head past the front gate—just to take a peek inside.



And that’s when he saw them.



A group of students walking straight toward him.



At first, he blinked, confused.Then his eyes widened in shock.




“Wait, what the hell is this?!”




All the students were wearing buttoned-up Zhongshan suits—every button fastened, all the way to the top.



Their hair was parted clean down the middle, slick and stiff—like they were extras from a black-and-white documentary.



It was like walking into a photograph from the past.



Dave’s chest tightened.His calm mood was shattered like glass under a truck tire.A huge wave of frustration crashed down on him.




“Of all the uniforms in the world, why… this one?!”




He clenched his fists.




“Why Zhongshan suits?! Why buttoned to the damn throat?! Who still parts their hair like this?!”




His face twisted.His soul screamed.



Because what he saw in front of him wasn’t just a group of students—



It was a parade of Marvels.Dozens of them.Each one a stiff, uptight reminder of the boy who ruined his life.



He couldn’t hold it in anymore.



Dave tilted his head to the sky and screamed:




“WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME AGAIN?!”




The students froze.



They stared at him—this half-naked man in pinkish women’s underwear, yelling at the sky like a lunatic.



For a second, no one moved.Then one of the students whispered:




“Is he on drugs?”“Maybe he’s possessed…”“Is that… a protest?”




But Dave didn’t move.



He just stood there, trembling with rage, staring at them—at their shiny suits and middle-parted haircuts.



The world wasn’t just messing with him.



It was mocking him.







The Zhongshan Suit Clash



One of the students in a stiff, perfectly buttoned Zhongshan suit stepped forward and stopped right in front of Dave.




“Sir,” he said with an overly polite tone, “just one look at you and I can tell—you’re a martial artist.Would you be interested in a quick spar?”




Before Dave could respond, the student suddenly reached to his waist—and drew a katana.



A real one. A full-length Japanese sword that shimmered in the sun.



Dave had just told himself he was done with fighting.That this life wasn’t for him anymore.



But then he looked at the faces of those students—cold, deadpan, emotionless.They looked like clones. A whole army of unbothered Marvels.



His insides twisted.



Without a word, Dave clenched his fist and launched a straight punch.



The student dodged. Fast. Not bad.



He responded by swinging the katana in tight arcs, spinning and circling around Dave with a smooth rhythm.The technique was showy—fluid, almost artistic.



But Dave could see through it instantly.




“Newbies,” he muttered. “They’ve learned the form, not the meaning.”




Dave raised his arm, tapped the dull edge of the incoming blade with his forearm—just a light swat—and knocked it completely off course.



Then—without warning—he stepped forward and slammed his fist straight into the student’s gut.



The student flew backward, body crumpling midair, before hitting the ground and sliding across the pavement for several meters.



Unconscious.



Dave frowned.




“Damn… I shouldn’t have hit him that hard.”




He sighed.




“But every time I see those Zhongshan suits… I just can’t hold back.It’s personal. Don’t blame me.”








From behind him, two more students shouted.




“Hey! It was just a friendly challenge!”“You could’ve killed him! He’s the weakest in our class!”




Both of them pulled out their swords without hesitation.Their movements were fast, confident—just a bit sharper than the last guy.



They coordinated perfectly—one distracting with a punch, the other slashing from the side, then swapping positions like trained dancers.



They were using a technique called the Tornado Blade.



It looked great.Stylish, synchronized, impressive on camera.



But to Dave?



It was still child’s play.



He calmly raised both hands—shaped into precise hand-chops—and struck each incoming katana head-on.



In a flash—both swords snapped clean in half.



The two students froze.Eyes wide.Completely stunned.




“What… what the hell…”




But Dave didn’t wait.



He stepped in fast—one punch straight to the first one’s jaw, then pivoted and threw another into the second student’s cheek.



Both heads snapped sideways.Both bodies went airborne.



They flew across the open courtyard, landed hard, and skidded across the pavement like broken mannequins—unconscious on impact.



Dave stood in the middle of it all.Alone.Fists clenched.Chest rising and falling with quiet fury.



He looked down at the carnage.Then muttered under his breath:




“Damn these ugly Zhongshan suits.”




My Name Is Not Canelo



In the distance—near the place where the first student had crashed into the ground—another figure appeared, calmly walking forward.



He was also wearing a Zhongshan suit.But something about him was… different.



Very different.



His hair wasn’t parted neatly down the middle like the others.He had thick, straight-cut bangs—a full set of blunt fringe draped across his forehead.



And his Zhongshan suit?



Not a single button was fastened.



His chiseled chest and sharp abs were completely exposed. The loose fabric of the uniform fluttered in the wind with every step he took.He looked less like a martial artist and more like a street punk.Confident. Disrespectful. Borderline feral.



He didn’t walk like a student.He walked like a problem.







The first student—still lying face-down in the dirt—barely lifted his head.His voice was weak and trembling.




“S-Senior… C-Canelo… that guy’s strong… be careful…”




The approaching figure stopped.



His expression darkened.



Then, without a word, he took a step forward—and kicked the student right in the mouth.



A wet snap echoed out.The student’s upper lip tore clean off and flew a few feet through the air, landing like a strip of meat on the concrete.



The senior roared:




“I’M NOT CANELO, YOU STUPID SHIT!MY NAME IS DINELO!D-I-N-E-L-L-O!SAY IT RIGHT OR I’LL RIP YOUR WHOLE FACE OFF, MOTHERFUCKER!”




The poor student began slamming his forehead against the ground in terror.




“S-sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry—!”





Thud. Thud. Thud.




Dinello rolled his neck and turned toward Dave.His voice dropped—cold, casual.




“Next time you call me Canelo, I’m kicking your balls into your stomach.”








He glanced back at the injured student.




“Hey. Lend me your katana.”




Before the student could respond, Dinello crouched down and took the sword straight from his hand.




“Huh? I haven’t even sheathed it yet—be careful! That sword’s expensive!”




Dinello didn’t even blink.He kept walking forward.



As he neared Dave, he drew another katana from his own waist.



Now he held two.



One in each hand.The twin blades shimmered under the light, cutting a sharp silhouette.




“Alright, you pink-freaked boxer freak,” Dinello smirked.“Let me show you the pride of our school—the most famous, most powerful blade technique we’ve got.”




He adjusted his grip.His muscles tensed.He radiated cocky confidence.




“And hey—If I wipe the floor with you…Don’t go crying back to your mommy in your panties, alright?”





“HAHAHAHA—HAHAHAHAHAHA—”




But just as he threw his head back to laugh—



Dave was already in front of him.



A blur of muscle and rage.



Muscle Dash.



A single punch.Direct. Untelegraphed. Brutal.



Dave’s fist connected squarely with Dinello’s face.



CRACK.



His body twisted mid-air—spinning wildly before slamming into the ground and skidding across the pavement.



But he never let go of the swords.Both blades were still in his hands, gripped tight even as he slid to a stop.







The three other students, still groaning on the ground, watched with wide eyes.



One whispered:




“Holy shit… even our strongest student… even Canelo just got wrecked…”








Dinello slowly, shakily, pushed himself up from the dirt.



Blood trailed from his mouth.His body trembled with rage.



He wiped his lip and screamed:




“FOR THE LAST TIME—MY NAME IS NOT CANELO!FUCK YOU, IDIOT!!”








I Only Have 15 Minutes



Still lying in the dirt, face swollen and blood leaking from his mouth,Dinello casually pulled out his phone.



He tapped the screen a few times like nothing had happened.




“Alright,” he muttered. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes left.I need to be back before the 4 p.m. Pokémon episode.”




He said it flatly. No shame. No irony.Like it was just part of his job.







One of the beaten students nearby mumbled weakly, barely audible:




“If you just subscribed to Netflix…you wouldn’t have to watch it at exactly 4…you could watch it whenever…”




But no one heard him.The wind took his voice and scattered it like dust.







Dinello slowly stood up, adjusting his grip on his twin swords.Then he called out, loud and clear:




“I’m coming. You better be ready.”




He stepped forward.



Two light, near-silent footfalls.His shoes barely touched the ground—only the tips made contact.His strides were small and rapid, like a gliding shadow.



In under a second, Dinello was already in front of Dave.







He unleashed his attack.



Twin-blade flurry.



The swords blurred in motion—he spun, dipped, twisted, thrust.Every slash had grace, rhythm, chaos.He moved like a dancer, a whirlwind, a showman with knives.



But Dave wasn’t a speed-type fighter.



He could only block about half of the strikes.The other half?They hit.



Thin cuts opened across his chest, his shoulders, his ribs.



But none of them were deep.



Because Dave’s body wasn’t normal.



His muscles were rock-solid.Lined with raw density.Pain-forged and iron-hard.



Most of the slashes barely broke the surface—just light scrapes.Nothing serious.Nothing fatal.



Dave stood unfazed, blood trickling in elegant red lines.Silent.Still.







Dinello stepped back, panting.He stopped attacking.His arms dropped slightly.



He stared at Dave.




“What… the hell is your body made of?” he muttered.“Are you plated in gold? Or wrapped in steel or something?”




Then his eyes narrowed.



A realization flickered.



He thought of someone else.



Joshua—one of his masters.A man whose body was known to be layered in golden alloy.A walking tank. A living fortress.Even after all this time, it still felt unreal—like something out of myth.



Could this guy… be built the same way?



His grip tightened around the blades.



But Dave finally spoke:




“Aside from this pink underwear?” he said casually.“I’m not wearing anything.”“No armor. No gold. Just muscle. Ten years of it.”




Dinello blinked.




“Even with ten years… that’s kind of insane.”




He gave a short, stunned laugh.



Then, without warning—



He struck.



A single, sudden thrust.Direct stab.Zero hesitation.Less than 0.1 seconds.



The blade shot straight toward Dave’s abdomen.



No time to move.No time to block.



But Dave didn’t need either.



He flexed.HARD.



Every ab muscle tightened like compressed steel plates.



And just as the sword tip touched his stomach—



CRACK.



The blade snapped in half.



Broken cleanly.Right down the middle.



Metal shards scattered across the pavement like cheap glass.







Dinello stood frozen.Still gripping the broken hilt in silence.



He slowly looked up and met Dave’s eyes.



Dave looked down at the sword. Then back at Dinello.His face was calm.Unbothered.As if nothing had happened.







Blades Bought with Hard-Earned Money



Dinello quietly walked over to the injured student, still clutching the shattered hilt of the katana he’d borrowed.He crouched down and gently placed it back in the student’s trembling hands.




“Sorry about your sword,” he said. “I broke it.”




The student looked at the hilt for a moment.



Then, suddenly—



He slammed both fists into the ground and began sobbing uncontrollably.




“Mother, I’m so sorry!!That sword… she cleaned toilets for three whole months just to buy it for me!And I let it break!! I’m the worst son in the world!!”




Even Dave paused.




“…Damn,” he muttered. “That actually made me feel a little bad.”








Dinello stood in silence.



He held his last remaining sword tight, widened his stance, and dropped into a deep horse posture.




“SPATIAL SLASH!!” he shouted.




His body vibrated slightly—like he was preparing for a lightning-fast thrust.



Dave immediately raised his arms to guard his chest and neck.



Seconds passed.



Still nothing.



Dinello didn’t move.



He just stood there, eyes narrowed, trembling in the exact same pose.



Dave frowned.




“…The hell is this?”




Dinello cracked a grin.




“Oh.Just kidding.”









“You son of a—” Dave began.




SLASH.



Dinello dashed forward in a blur—One clean strike, straight across Dave’s neck.



He continued moving past him, then dropped dramatically to one knee, striking a perfect finisher pose with his blade extended into the air.



He grinned to himself.




“Oops,” he said coolly.“One clean slice to take your head off…Maybe I went a little too hard?”








Behind him—



Dave remained standing.



Then—




Crack. Pop. Pop.




Dave twisted his neck to the side lazily.




“Man… my neck’s been stiff all day.No idea why.”




He rubbed it, then glanced at Dinello’s blade.



The sword was broken.Again.



Snapped clean in half.







Dave raised an eyebrow.




“Wait… did you just try to cut me with this?”




Dinello turned slowly.



His eyes widened as he looked at the jagged edge.



He had assumed the cut went through.



But the sword had shattered the moment it touched Dave’s neck.



Not a scratch.



Not even a mark.







Dinello stared in disbelief.



Then—with a sudden cry—he threw the broken hilt to the ground.



Dropped to both knees.



Grabbed his head with both hands.



And screamed:




“DAAAAGHH!!”




Tears poured down his cheeks.




“That sword…That was from my dad!!He spent SIX MONTHS dumpster diving just to save up enough money to buy it!”




He collapsed forward, still wailing in despair, kneeling in the dirt like a defeated warrior……or a man who had just lost a family heirloom to a neck made of stone.







What a Jokester



Dinello remained kneeling on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.



Not just crying—screaming, howling, shaking.The kind of crying that sounded like something had been ripped out of his soul.




“UAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”




His voice echoed through the courtyard like a wounded animal in a storm.



Dave stood there, watching in silence.



And for the first time in a long time…



He felt genuinely bad.



He stepped forward carefully, voice soft.




“Hey… I didn’t mean to break your swords, man.If I had money, I’d pay you back—really.It’s just that… well, I haven’t worked in like… ten years.”








Dinello didn’t answer.



He just kept slamming his fists into the ground—again and again.




BAM. BAM. BAM.




The pavement began to fracture beneath him, spreading spiderweb cracks in all directions.



That was the depth of his grief.







Dave crouched beside him.




“Seriously… you don’t need to cry this hard.If you just pick up a part-time job, save for a bit, you’ll be able to buy another sword.I mean it.”




He looked at the broken ground, then back at Dinello.




“Honestly, watching you like this is… kinda making me feel worse.”








Suddenly—Dinello stopped.



The fists.The tears.Everything.



He slowly stood up.



Then turned to face Dave.



His face?



Dry.Not a single tear.Not even puffy eyes.



He smiled.



Then he laughed.



Loudly.




“Just kidding, you silly goose!You really believed all that? That whole sob story?”




He gave Dave a thumbs up and winked.




“My dad’s actually a high-up in the Kungfu Association.We’re doing fine financially.I’ve got swords for days. No worries at all.”








Dave froze.



His whole body stiffened.




Did I just get emotionally trolled for five straight minutes?




He felt his soul about to fall out of his body.He almost dropped to the floor.



He managed to steady himself, breathing through his nose.




“You win,” he muttered.“You’re officially the greatest prankster on Earth.”




He forced a smile—stiff and hollow.A fake laugh followed. Dry. Empty.







But Dinello’s expression suddenly changed again.



His face turned serious.Eyes focused.Posture upright.




“Alright,” he said calmly.“Round two. Let’s go.”








Dave blinked, confused.




“Wait… I broke both of your katanas.Do you have any other weapons?A dagger? A tamang blade or something?You’re not actually going to fight me barehanded, are you?”




Dinello shrugged casually.




“Oh, those swords? I only come here on weekends to practice blade techniques.It’s just a hobby—something fun.”




Then his tone dropped.His eyes sharpened.




“But my real training… is in Qi.”




He raised one hand—fingers spread gently.A subtle pressure pushed outward from his body.




“I was trained in internal energy.My master is Joshua.You’ve heard of him, right?One of the former Four Kings.”








Dave’s face changed instantly.



That name—Joshua—carried weight.



Real weight.Reputation.Fear.Power.



Dave’s fists clenched instinctively.His breath slowed.His eyes sharpened.



All the tension, all the dormant heat in his body—It came back.




This fight just got serious.




The laziness, the hesitation, the guilt—they all evaporated.



His fighting spirit lit up like dry grass in flame.




“Alright,” he muttered.“Let’s see what Joshua’s disciple is really made of.”



Chapter 38: The Underwear vs. Zhongshan Suits (Part 2)
==================================================

The Hidden Art



In the quiet space before the clash, Dinello stood still, eyes low, speaking only to himself.




“Joshua… he’s not just my teacher, not just my master.He’s also my boss.The way he runs things, the way he fights—I’ve learned so much from him.And now, it’s time to show this pervert in pink underwear what our Qi technique is truly capable of.”




He took one step forward and raised his right arm, slowly forming a fist.



To the untrained eye, it looked like Dinello was simply punching the air. The three onlooking students furrowed their brows—none of them saw anything.



But Dave did.



He felt it.



A surge of energy rushed past him, invisible but sharp, as if the very air had split open. Dave instinctively crossed his arms in front of his chest just in time. The wave struck him like a silent hammer, sending him skidding backward five or six meters. Twin lines of torn-up dirt traced his path in the grass.



One of the students blinked in disbelief.




“What the fuck?” he whispered.“Where the hell did he learn something like that?Master Mario never taught us anything like this…”




Dinello didn’t respond. He was already preparing the next move.



He extended his right palm toward Dave—open and steady. A deep hum pulsed through the air as energy gathered in his hand. Within seconds, a powerful suction force surged forward like a vortex, pulling at Dave’s entire body.



Dave felt the shift immediately. Something was yanking him forward.



He gritted his teeth, dropped his center of gravity, and locked into a deep horse stance. His heels dug into the ground, sliding only half a meter before stopping. He managed to hold on—barely.



But Dinello wasn’t done.



Veins popped along his neck. His face flushed red. With a guttural roar, he poured everything into the technique.



The force tripled.



Dave’s resistance shattered. His entire body was ripped off the ground—sucked straight through the air like a missile—toward Dinello’s palm.



At that exact moment, Dinello’s open hand curled into a tight fist.



And he struck.



The impact was deafening. But it wasn’t just raw muscle—Dave could feel it. The strike carried more. There was energy inside the blow. A pulse. Like compressed steam bursting from within.



The fist slammed into him mid-air. Dave’s arms caught it, but the force still sent him flying backward—launched like a ragdoll—before crashing onto the grass more than ten meters away.



For a moment, everything was still.



Dave stared up at the sky, breathing slow and shallow.




“Damn…” he thought,“Qi… is truly a terrifying art.”




Meanwhile, Dinello stood firm, fists lowered.




“If that had really been Joshua’s technique,” he muttered to himself,“Dave would’ve been pulled in instantly. No struggle at all.”




He let out a quiet breath.




“I’ve still got a long way to go.”








The Floating Retreat



Just as Dave was struggling to rise from the ground, a goofy voice echoed behind him:




“How long are you planning to snack on dirt down there? Get up—we’re not done yet.”




It was Dinello.



Somehow, he had appeared silently behind Dave, not a single sound from his steps. This speed—it came straight from Mario’s classes. The fundamentals of ninja movement.



Dave hadn’t even found his balance when Dinello’s right fist came crashing in.



They clashed—fist against arm—again and again. The force behind each blow was massive, but Dave’s body was strong enough to endure. They went at it for a dozen rounds or more.



Then Dave noticed something strange:Dinello had never thrown a kick. Nor had he used his left hand once. Every attack came from his right fist.



Was he holding back?



But before Dave could feel offended by the idea, Dinello’s punch landed—straight into his abdomen.



This punch wasn’t just muscle and speed. It carried an explosive surge of Qi, like a shockwave of steam that bypassed Dave’s iron muscles and hammered straight into his organs.



He was launched into the air, coughing blood the entire way. His body spun through the sky and landed hard over ten meters away.



Still alive—but barely.



Dave struggled to his feet, holding his gut. He couldn’t even stand up straight. The pain was deep and raw.



What now? How could he even keep fighting?



Truth was—he didn’t know if he could win. Maybe… maybe he couldn’t.



But just then, Dinello pulled out his phone, checked the time—and suddenly dropped to his knees, hands gripping his head.




“Oh no… I’m screwed…”




The three other students, still lying on the ground, stared at him, confused.



Then Dinello shouted:




“It’s already 4:02! I missed the Pokémon opening theme!”




He jumped to his feet in a panic. His upper body began gliding backward, eerily still, as if floating. The others stared, shocked at the illusion.



As his figure pulled away, he shouted:




“We’ll finish this another time! I really had fun today!”




But then someone looked down—and realized the truth.



Dinello’s feet were sprinting wildly, digging into the dirt with absurd speed. It was only his upper body that remained unnaturally still, creating the illusion of a floating retreat.



He was… running backward at full speed.







The Myth of Jessica



Dinello tore through the streets like a blur, sprinting at over 60 kilometers per hour—faster than most of the cars beside him. People on the sidewalk gawked in disbelief as he darted between pedestrians, lampposts, and parked bikes without losing momentum.



He didn’t slow down until he reached a deserted trail in a small public park. Suddenly, he hit the brakes—both shoes screeching against the pavement as he skidded several meters forward before stopping dead.



Standing in his path were twenty men. Every single one of them wore a crisp Zhongshan suit with all buttons neatly fastened. Their hair parted perfectly down the middle. They looked like clones from the same martial arts academy.



Dinello blinked.




“Junior classmates? What’s this about? If it’s not urgent, maybe we can talk another time?”




One of them stepped forward, face contorted in rage.




“You bastard! You know exactly what you did!We’re here to beat you up and—fuck you good, Canelo!”




Dinello’s eyes twitched.




“First of all—don’t ever call me Canelo again!It’s Dinello. D, not C. D as in Destiny. Dignity. Destruction.Call me Canelo one more time, and I swear I’ll slice your lips off and mail them to your mom in a shoebox!”




That shut the guy up—but the tension didn’t ease.



Dinello scanned the group, baffled.




“Okay… seriously. What the hell did I do?”




Nobody answered. They all looked at each other, hesitant—until finally, a loud, emotional voice burst out from the crowd:




“Jessica… She wasn’t just a girl.She was like a goddess—pure, distant, untouchable.She never even spoke to us. That’s what made her divine.We used to sit in the library and just… quietly admire her side profile.That calm, literary aura.And when she practiced martial arts—her smooth, elegant form… it gave our lives meaning.It gave us hope.”




Then another one chimed in, just as breathless:




“She was a flower.Delicate. Beautiful. Blooming alone in the middle of a grassy field.She brightened the whole garden just by being there.None of us dared approach her—not even a step.Because even brushing against a single petal… would be sacrilege.”




Dinello furrowed his brow.




“What the hell are you guys talking about…?”




And then he snapped:




“Stop beating around the bush!I’m missing my Pokémon episode!Time is running out! Hurry up, man!”




At last, stepping out from the back of the group, came a boy with a greasy, skeletal frame.His skin was pale and uneven, his arms stick-thin, and his face looked like someone had slapped a pepperoni pizza onto it—angry red pimples scattered across every inch.



He took a deep breath, preparing to speak the unspoken truth…







Consensual Thousand Kisses



“Hurry up, man!”Dinello snapped, clearly annoyed. He jabbed a finger at the greasy, skeletal-looking boy in front of him.“You—yeah, the one with the pizza-face acne! Say what you came to say already. I gotta get home for Pokémon.”



The bony, pimple-covered student stepped forward. His voice cracked out—a weak, nasally rasp like a broken speaker.




“We… we saw you. Last time. In this park… You stole our goddess’s… her first kiss.”




Dinello blinked. Then sighed, deeply.He ran a hand down his face like he was trying to wipe away the stupidity.




“Come on, man. That’s what this is about?”“And by the way, that wasn’t even her first kiss. Our first kiss was in the school bathroom.”




Silence.Then gasps.



A book dropped. One boy dropped to his knees.Several turned pale. A few clutched their chests as if their hearts had just cracked.



The acne boy took another shaky step forward, his voice rising in desperation:




“No… That’s not possible… You monster! You must’ve forced her! Or tricked her! Or threatened her somehow!”“Explain yourself! If you don’t give us the full story right now—we’ll make sure you don’t walk away from here!”




Dinello rolled his eyes.




“Sigh… looks like I’m missing Pokémon today. You guys are killing me.”




He pulled out his phone, swiped around, then turned the screen toward them.




“Here. Watch this. It’s proof. We were both into it. No force. Just… vibes.”




The group leaned forward.



The video began.



First, Dinello’s voice:




“Are you sure about this? I’m not exactly a good guy… I don’t stick around. I don’t want to hurt you.”




Then her voice—soft, breathless, wrapped in emotion:




“Oh, Canelo, my dear…”




Even in the video, she got his name wrong.




“I don’t care. I love you. I want you to have me. All of me. I don’t need forever—I just need this moment.”




The video cut to a more… intimate scene.She was riding him—completely absorbed in the act. Her face flushed with ecstasy, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. Her body trembled with every motion, her moans genuine, unfiltered.



Dinello calmly paused the video. Slipped the phone back in his pocket.




“See? Consensual. A thousand times over.”




The twenty boys stood like statues.Two collapsed to their knees. Another let out a muffled sob.One whispered in agony:




“She never even looked at me… never said a word. Always so quiet… so elegant…”




Another muttered:




“I used to watch her study at the library… just her profile gave me hope. She was like poetry in motion… And now this…”




The acne boy clenched his fists and roared:




“You vile bastard! That was sacred! She was untouchable!Even if you die ten times, a hundred times—it won’t undo this!”“Today, we serve justice! We’ll erase you from society!”




Dinello just stared at them.Still no panic. No regret.



He slowly raised his middle finger.



Then made a goofy, exaggerated face—crossed eyes, tongue out, lips puckered like a clown.




“Alright then,” he said.“Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”




The air turned heavy.The twenty students tensed.



And just like that—The fight was about to begin.







The Goofy Massacre



The pimple-faced boy sneered coldly at Dinello.




“You don’t even have a sword. What, you think bare fists are enough to take on all twenty of us?”




He raised a hand and roared:




“Kill him! Brothers and sisters—!”




Dinello glanced around lazily and muttered,




“Pretty sure none of you are girls.”




Suddenly, the boy in front vanished.



From above, a voice echoed:




“Spatial Slash!”




He reappeared midair, blade aimed at Dinello’s skull.



But Dinello raised his hand and caught the blade effortlessly—Qi flared around his palm, shielding it. With a snap, he broke the blade in half, then launched a casual kick that sent the attacker flying into a tree. The boy’s body draped across a high branch, limbs limp like a forgotten ragdoll.



Three more charged in.




“Tornado Blade!”




They spun around Dinello, slashing from all sides.



Dinello calmly snatched the sword on his left—crack.Spun and caught the one on his right—snap.Reached behind without turning and crushed the final strike—pop.



Then—spin kick.



All three flew like frisbees, landed hard, and skidded across the pavement. Each one groaned, coughing blood.



Then came fifteen more.



They surrounded him in a circle.




“Let’s see how many you can break now!”




Blades raised. They all lunged at once.



Dinello pressed his hands together, forming twin blade-hand strikes. His Qi surged down both arms, glowing faintly.




Slash! Slash! Slash! Slash!




He broke all fifteen blades in under two seconds—each one split cleanly.



Then, left elbow, right palm strike, knee to the stomach, spinning heel—Dinello struck with such force and precision that the attackers were tossed like dolls in every direction. Groaning. Spitting blood. Flattened.



Only one remained: the pimple-faced boy.



The last man standing.



He stepped forward slowly, full of dramatic flair.




“Now it’s just you and me. This ends here. I will win… because I have main character plot armor!”




Dinello stared at him, blank-faced.




“What the hell are you even talking about?”




Then the boy disappeared into the air again—coming at Dinello with a blur of low sweep slashes.



Dinello didn’t even flinch. He simply ran in place with high knees, lifting his legs rhythmically—casually dodging every attack like it was gym class.




“You done yet?” he mumbled.




Then, with a small hop, he grabbed a branch overhead with both hands. His body swung back and forth like a playground swing, easily gliding out of range while the opponent slashed the empty air below.



It was almost insulting.



Dinello yawned mid-swing.



The boy roared in frustration—rushing forward with a final overhead strike from behind.



Dinello dropped down lightly.



Without looking, he flicked his fist backward—



BOOM!



A clean punch to the face.



The boy’s head twisted grotesquely, his entire body flung backwards. In the same motion, Dinello grabbed the opponent’s sword from midair.



The boy slammed into the ground and skidded across the pavement, blood in his wake.



Dinello turned around.



All 20 fighters lay crumpled on the ground. Moaning. Broken. Defeated.




“Guess that’s it,” he muttered, brushing his palms clean. “So annoying… I missed Pokémon for this?”




He gave them the middle finger…And made a goofy face before walking off.







Smell You Geeks Later



As Dinello slowly walked past the fallen pimple-faced boy, the boy weakly grabbed his ankle with one trembling hand. His voice rasped, hoarse and desperate:




“Why… why are you so strong? None of those moves were taught by our master… Where the hell did you learn them?”




Dinello kicked his hand away, raised his foot, and gently pressed it on the boy’s head—grinding lightly.




“That’s none of your business. But if Master Mario ever asks who left you all in this pathetic state—don’t you dare mention my name. If I hear it, I’ll come back and cut off every single one of your heads. Got it?”




The boy’s face turned pale. A warm patch spread across his pants. He had pissed himself in fear.




“I—I understand! I won’t say a word!”




Dinello paused, looked down once more.




“And if he insists… just say it was some muscle freak in pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear.”




He turned around, ready to leave.



But the pimple-faced boy called out, voice cracking:




“Hey—Canelo! That katana… it’s mine! Can you give it back?”




Dinello stopped in place.



He slowly turned his head and snarled:




“My name’s not Canelo. Fuck you. It’s Dinello.”




Then, casually sliding the katana into his waistband, he added with a shrug:




“I’m keeping it.”




And then, without another word, he walked away.




“You losers made me miss today’s Pokémon episode. So yeah… this sword? It’s your punishment.”




The pimple-faced boy collapsed, weeping quietly so Dinello wouldn’t hear.



Through gritted teeth, he whispered:




“That sword… my dad bought it for me… after saving three months working as a janitor at school…”





“I’m a total loser.”



Chapter 39: The Forgotten Legacy
==================================================

The Bubble Tea Heatwave



These past few days, Dave had still been wandering the streets around the Kung Fu school—The Neighborhood—wearing nothing but his pink, triangle-shaped women’s underwear.



Today was brutally hot. The sun scorched down like a punishment, and the ground steamed like a giant oven. Dave walked slowly down the sidewalk, barely reacting as he passed by two dead bodies lying on the street—most likely heatstroke victims. Death was an everyday sight in this world. Whether people were beaten to death, or just dropped dead from heat or chaos—it was all too normal by now.



But even Dave was starting to feel dizzy from the heat.



That’s when he saw it: a pearl milk tea shop—bigger than most, with air conditioning and plenty of seats. Without a second thought, Dave stepped inside. He ordered an extra large protein bubble tea, then found a quiet corner and sat down.



He slowly sipped the drink, chewing the boba one by one, letting the sugary flavor cool his throat. After walking around all day, he knew his body needed protein. His muscles needed it. Otherwise, they’d shrink—and he’d lose his strength.



Still, part of his mind was elsewhere.



Lately, Dave had been thinking about that goofy-looking kid from before. That scrawny teenager in the Zhongshan suit—with all the buttons unfastened, his abs and chest fully exposed. That weird thick fringe covering his eyes. He fought like a maniac and looked like a clown, but still somehow handsome.



Their battle last time had been cut short. The boy had suddenly dashed off, yelling about catching some TV show—Digimon, or something like that. Dave couldn’t even remember.



Now, as he relaxed with his bubble tea, he noticed two girls sitting just a few feet away. One of them—the one facing him—was wearing a Zhongshan suit too. She was beautiful, with a high ponytail and a long katana strapped across her back. Clearly a student from that same Kung Fu school.



Dave was mildly surprised. He didn’t know they had female students there. And ones this pretty.



But it didn’t matter.



Dave wasn’t the type to chase after beauty. His one true love had died—crushed beneath that beast Marvel’s waist. That wound still hadn’t healed. His heart still ached. He had no interest in women anymore.



He just sipped his drink in silence.



That’s when he overheard their conversation.



The girl in the white shirt and black skirt leaned in and said:




“Hey, Jessica. That Zhongshan uniform at your school is so ugly. Ever thought about transferring to ours? We’re more modern—we can wear anything we want. Look at me, I’m learning martial arts in a skirt. And our teacher’s pretty good too. Strong, and kind of hot, actually.”




Jessica shook her head gently.




“No, I’m fine. Our teachers are amazing. You’ve never heard of our school’s founder? Our Master? He used to be one of the legendary Four Kings. His name is Mario. His speed, his blade, his power—nobody in this world can match him.”




Her friend frowned.




“Didn’t he, like… lose his right leg or something? I heard he has to wear a metal brace now. Can he still fight?”




Jessica rested her chin in her hand and thought for a moment.




“Honestly… I’ve never seen him fight. Not since I enrolled. But I’ve heard stories. Back in the day, he was unstoppable. There was this one time—on a moving train—he saved a woman from a man who lost control after a personal tragedy. The whole city talked about it for months.”




Her friend’s eyes widened.




“No way. What happened on the train? Tell me everything.”




Jessica leaned in closer, ready to share.



Dave leaned in too—quietly sipping his tea, pretending not to listen, but hanging on every word.



He wanted to hear this story.



He wanted to know what kind of man Mario really was.







The Shadow on the Track



Five years ago, on a quiet winter night, a passenger train pulled out of a small-town station, its lights stretching away into the darkness.



Back on the platform, a man sat alone in the waiting lounge, quietly smoking. He had just seen his wife off on that very train and stopped to rest before heading home. The cigarette crackled faintly in the silence.



That’s when he noticed someone else stepping off the train—a man in a Zhongshan suit, hair neatly parted down the center, a katana hanging at his waist. He pulled a suitcase behind him as he calmly walked across the platform.



A few minutes later, the smoker’s phone rang. He casually answered and put it on speaker.



A woman’s voice came through—soft, breathless, a little panicked.




“Hey… babe… something’s wrong. There’s a man in our car. He snapped. He thinks this lady is his wife. Said she betrayed him. He’s holding a pair of scissors to her neck. He says he’s going to die with her.”




The smoker’s face changed. He sat up straight and leaned toward the phone.




“Stay calm,” he said quickly. “Don’t make any noise. Just stay seated. Don’t draw attention. Help is coming, okay?”




But before he even finished his sentence—Mario was already gone.



His suitcase lay abandoned on the ground.



He had bolted straight off the platform and onto the tracks.



He activated his ultimate technique: TOTAL CONCENTRATION BREATHINGFirst Form: Shadowline Surge.



His feet struck the ground in a steady rhythm—tick… tick… tick, tick, tick—Then faster.Softer.As if he were gliding just above the rails.Each step built momentum. His legs blurred.His speed exploded—sixty, then a hundred, then two hundred kilometers per hour—until his entire body began to distort in the dim nightlight. He didn’t just run—he surged. Almost teleport-like, he tore through the cold air like a streak of righteous force—a human missile chasing destiny.



In less than ten minutes, he caught up to the moving train.



With perfect control, he jumped—landing on the narrow connector platform between two cars.



Inside the carriage, it was tense.



A deranged man held a woman in a chokehold, his knife trembling just beneath her chin. His eyes were wild—lost in grief and delusion.



A young woman sitting a few rows back had her phone to her ear, speaking quietly into it, voice barely above a whisper.




“There’s a guy in here now,” she said. “Wearing a Zhongshan suit… sword on his hip. He looks like a samurai.”




On the other end, her husband froze.




“Wait… that guy? I just saw him get off the train. There’s no way… how the hell did he catch up?”




She didn’t reply directly.




“I think this is gonna blow up,” she said. “I’m gonna film it and post it on YouTube.”




Before her husband could answer—she ended the call, switched to video mode, and began to record.







The Worst Negotiator



Mario stepped into the train car.



The first thing he saw was a man holding a woman hostage. Clean-cut. Dressed in business attire—a collared shirt, tie, slacks. He looked like any regular office worker. But his eyes were unstable, his hands twitching. He gripped a long pair of scissors in one hand, the sharp tips pressed against the woman’s throat. His other arm held her in a tight choke.



The man didn’t look like a killer. Not yet. His rage was real, but his eyes still held hesitation. This wasn’t someone with a death wish—more like a man spiraling in panic, trying to make the world feel his pain.



Mario, still catching his breath from sprinting down the railway, stood quietly by the car entrance. His chest heaved. He knew he needed at least one minute to recover before he could do anything. Right now, he couldn’t even lift his sword.



His hand rested casually on the hilt anyway.



That was enough to set the man off.




“Is your sword faster? Or are my scissors faster, huh?!”




The blades were barely a millimeter from cutting skin.



Mario looked at him, still wheezing softly.




“My sword is faster,” he said calmly. “You don’t even need to test it. That’s not a maybe—it’s a fact.”




The man’s pupils twitched.



His hand began to shake harder.



His breath became uneven.



Mario kept talking.




“Maybe you should think about improving yourself. Maybe your wife left you because he’s better than you. Maybe he’s better-looking. Richer. Smarter. Or maybe… he just knows how to treat a woman right.”




That line landed like a slap.



The man’s entire body stiffened.



His grip weakened.



His mouth quivered.



And then the woman—still trapped in the hostage grip—cried out, her voice breaking with desperation:




“Stop! Please… please just stop talking… AA-huhh—hhuhhh! You’re not helping… You’re making it worse!”




Her voice cracked into sobs.



Everyone in the car felt it. Silent passengers clenched their teeth. Sweat rolled down their necks. Some began praying—softly, nervously—hoping the man in the Zhongshan suit would just shut up.



But Mario didn’t stop.



After a short pause, he continued, his voice strangely gentle:




“Try to think about something nice. The good times. Every little treasured moment you shared with her. Just don’t picture her moaning under someone else. Don’t imagine her arms wrapped around him, his tongue all over her chest, her hips grinding into his. Don’t see them tangled up—sweaty, breathless, kissing, fucking like there’s no tomorrow…”




That was it.



The man snapped.



His pupils dilated.



The light in his face vanished. Whatever sliver of humanity had remained—was gone. He entered a trance of silent fury. His arm jerked forward, trying to drive the scissors into the woman’s throat—



But nothing happened.



No one saw anything.



The next second, his head wasn’t on his shoulders anymore.



It was spinning in the air like a kicked melon.



A thick white spray of blood shot from his neck, arching high into the air and splashing over everyone in the car.



People screamed.



Some ducked. Some froze. All of them were stained—clothes, faces, bags—completely drenched in warm blood.



Mario didn’t move.



He stood exactly where he had been before—still panting, still empty-handed.



It was as if… nothing had happened at all.







The Blade in a Blink



Back in the present, inside a warm little bubble tea shop, Jessica unlocked her phone and pulled up an old YouTube video.



“This is the clip,” she said casually, turning the screen toward her friend. “From the train incident five years ago. Watch closely. At normal speed, you won’t see anything. But if you slow it down to one-sixty-fourth speed—look right here.”



The two girls leaned in. On the screen, the man’s scissors were just beginning to slice into the woman’s neck. And then—something happened. Something nearly imperceptible.



Frame by frame, they watched Mario move. In a single blur of motion, he drew the blade from his waist, sliced clean through the man’s neck, and returned the sword to its sheath—all in less than a tenth of a second. To the passengers on the train that day, it had looked like he never moved at all.



Jessica’s friend sat back in shock.



“…No way. So that’s what happened?”She looked Jessica up and down.“No wonder you all wear those weird Zhongshan suits. If I had a master like that, I’d probably wear one too.”



Jessica smiled and opened a Wikipedia page. Reading aloud, she said:




“Mario entered the National Swordsmanship Championship when he was just eight years old. In the round of sixteen, he suggested an all-versus-one match. Fifteen opponents attacked him at once—and he defeated all of them, effortlessly.”




Dave, sitting nearby, let out a soft, impressed whistle.“Unreal…”



Jessica continued, “He’s a monster when it comes to speed. He could run over a hundred kilometers an hour by the time he was five. He didn’t even train much. He picked up a sword for the first time three days before that tournament.”



She paused for a second, then added with a thoughtful tone,“There are some people in this world who are just born different. Colin mastered Golden Speech at age seven. Franklin was already unbeatable at the same age. They say when Franklin was born, his inner Qi was already flowing on its own—like an automatic transmission. No training, no effort. Just… natural.”



She sighed gently.“They’re on a level the rest of us can’t even reach.”



Her friend smiled, a little wistfully.“Yeah… but that’s okay. We don’t need to be monsters. As long as we’re strong enough to protect ourselves, that’s good enough.”



Jessica nodded.“True.”



Then, almost as if flipping a switch, she opened the Amazon app on her phone.“Let’s see if they’ve got any cute stuff on sale.”



The two girls leaned over the screen, their conversation drifting into easy laughter and everyday girl talk—leaving legends, warriors, and bloody train carriages behind like a distant dream.







Nice Guys Finish Slashed



A skinny, greasy-looking guy with a face full of acne walked into the pearl milk tea shop. His Zhongshan suit was oversized and wrinkled, clinging awkwardly to his lanky frame. He looked like the budget version of a martial arts student—hair parted neatly in the center like the others, but his presence was the complete opposite of impressive.



He walked up to the counter and asked in a nasal, polite voice,“Um, excuse me… can I get an extra small cup of water?”



The worker blinked. “Sorry, the smallest we have is small. That’ll be one dollar.”



“One dollar?” he blurted out. “For water?”



The employee replied patiently, “Our cups have a cost too, sir.”



Reluctantly, the acne-covered man pulled a crumpled dollar from his pocket and handed it over.“Damn,” he muttered. “Even water’s a luxury now.”



From a table near the window, Dave tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. He watched the man walk away from the counter holding that sad, tiny cup like it was a priceless treasure.




“Zhongshan suit, center-parted hair…” Dave mumbled to himself. “But that’s where the resemblance ends.”




“Too skinny to be Marvel. Way too greasy.”



He scoffed under his breath. “Even I’m broke, but at least I can afford some protein and drink with dignity. This dude’s out here surviving off water like a damn alley mosquito.”



The guy scanned the room and, instead of picking an empty table, headed straight toward Jessica.



“Hey, Jessica,” he asked, overly polite. “Mind if I sit here?”



Before either girl could reply, he pulled out the chair next to Jessica’s friend and sat down.



Jessica’s friend turned to her. “Uh… do you know him?”



Jessica gave a polite but confused glance. “No idea.”



“We’re in the same class,” the guy insisted with a sheepish grin. “It’s me!”



Jessica shook her head gently. “Sorry… I really don’t remember.”



Then, out of nowhere, he dropped it:



“Jessica, I like you. Would you be my girlfriend?”



The shop fell into silence.



Jessica forced a smile. “Thanks, but you’re not really my type.”



There was a pause. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked between the girls, then dropped to the table.



Finally, he muttered, “I’m not asking for much… just one night. I mean, you did it with Canelo, didn’t you? Everyone knows. You’re not as pure as you act, so what’s the big deal?”



Both girls froze. The audacity left them speechless.



Jessica’s friend looked genuinely disturbed. The guy’s face, full of acne and desperation, made the whole scene feel like a fever dream of cringe.



Dave leaned forward now, face darkening.“Bro… you serious right now?”



That’s when a hand reached toward the hilt of a blade strapped across a shoulder.It was Jessica’s hand.







Twisted Like a Beast



Just as Jessica reached for the hilt of her blade, a powerful figure stepped up behind the pimple-faced creep.



It was Dave.



He wasn’t wearing a shirt—just a pair of triangle-shaped pink women’s underwear. His lean, muscular frame looked completely out of place in the calm, air-conditioned bubble tea shop.



The moment he heard the greasy loser mutter, “Just one night…”, Dave froze mid-sip. His expression darkened, and he slowly lowered the cup.



He didn’t just see a scrawny guy in a wrinkled Zhongshan suit anymore.



He saw Marvel.



That same smug tone. That same gross, entitled posture. Even though the pimple-faced man was facing away, Dave swore he could see Marvel’s face emerging on the back of his head—like a demon staring back at him through another man’s body.



Dave said nothing.



He calmly walked forward, set his milk tea aside on the counter, and placed both hands on the guy’s head.



Then twisted.



The man’s neck turned a full 180 degrees with a horrible grinding sound—flesh straining, cartilage creaking. There was no satisfying crack—only raw, misaligned tissue trying to resist and failing.



The guy didn’t die.



He shrieked in pain, his bladder giving out on the spot.




“AAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!! MY NECK!! IT HURTS! IT HURTS SO BAD!!”




Tears streamed down his cheeks, but with his head completely spun around, his hands went to the wrong place—desperately wiping the back of his skull while sobbing uncontrollably.



Jessica and her friend were still frozen.



Dave didn’t wait.



He picked up his protein milk tea, took a slow, dignified sip, and walked out the front door without looking back.



Jessica’s friend blinked. “Who the hell was that? Do you know him?”



Jessica frowned and shook her head.




“Beats me. Never seen that pervert in my life.”




They glanced down at the pathetic creature still trembling on the floor in his Zhongshan suit—pants soaked in urine, face facing the wrong direction, trying to wipe his tears from the back of his head.



Jessica’s friend muttered, “Look at that guy. Pink women’s triangle underwear? He’s probably a walking felony. Total creep—might even be a rapist on the run.”



Jessica nodded calmly. ““Yeah. Completely unhinged.”



Her friend leaned in. “Since you’re, like, the prettiest girl in school, does stuff like this happen all the time?”



Jessica gave a tired smile.




“Yeah, it happens every day. Lonely ones, crazy ones, creepy polite ones… I’ve just gotten used to it.”



Chapter 40: Farewell, The Underwear
==================================================

The Blade and the Business



Dave was strolling slowly down the street, still sipping his oversized protein bubble tea—already halfway gone. The summer heat still clung to the pavement. The city smelled like sweat, smoke, and cheap body spray—but Dave didn’t care. Shirtless as always, he walked in nothing but a pair of triangle-shaped pink women’s underwear.



As he passed a narrow alley, he heard a violent crack—then another.



Fighting.



He stopped.



Peeking in, he spotted two figures locked in combat.



One wore a white shirt, black slacks, leather shoes, and golden-rimmed glasses.




“Michael,” Dave mumbled. “That’s one of the Humble guys.”




Then he looked at the other figure.



Zhongshan suit. Fully buttoned all the way to the top. Center-parted bangs covering the eyes. Slim frame. Rigid posture.




“Shit… that’s Marvel.”




But something was off.



The man’s right leg was fake. A full prosthetic.



Dave squinted.




“Wait… no…”




That wasn’t Marvel.



That was Mario.



The Swordmaster. The former South King. One of the Four Kings from back in the day.



The excitement hit him like electricity. A real legend. Right here in front of him. His grip slackened, and the half-finished bubble tea slipped from his hand, splattering across the pavement.



He didn’t even flinch.



His eyes were locked on the scene unfolding.



On the ground was a corpse. Headless. Blood still gurgling from the neck.



Mario stood a few steps away, pointing at the body with a shaking finger.



He glared at Michael.




“What kind of person could do something this brutal…? You’re a demon.”




Michael didn’t blink.




“That man came into our massage parlor. Slept with one of the girls. Tried to sneak out without paying.”




He motioned to the corpse.




“So I chopped off his head.”





“This is standard practice. It happens every day. Like it or not—that’s how the world works.”




He said it without a trace of emotion. Like he was describing a parking violation.



Mario’s right hand—still gripping the hilt of his blade—trembled.



He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.



He muttered under his breath:




“Unbelievable… inhuman.”




Michael took a slow step forward.




“I respect you, Mario.”





“You were one of the legendary Four Kings. The South King. A name people used to whisper with reverence.”





“You were the Local Hero. Licensed. Paid. Official. You kept this city safe. You enforced real order.”




His tone hardened slightly.




“But that was three years ago. You lost your right leg. You resigned. You’re not a Local Hero anymore.”





“So maybe… don’t get involved. This is business. And this is how we run it.”




Mario slowly raised his sword and pointed it at Michael.



His voice was calm but final.




“Then let’s stop arguing. Let’s fight.”





“If you can defeat me, I won’t say another word. But if you lose… you’ll accept justice.”




Michael smirked faintly.




“So be it.”





“I’ve always wanted to see how much strength the fallen legend still has left.”




The alley fell into silence.



In the background, a cicada screamed—and then stopped.







The Speed and the Weakness



Michael clenched his fists and surged forward, closing the distance in a direct charge.



Mario stood his ground.



He didn’t dodge—he spun.



The blade in his hands roared to life, whipping through the air with a terrifying rhythm. Sometimes it spun wide and loud, like the blades of a helicopter. Other times it twisted like a mad serpent—unpredictable, slashing in patterns no eye could follow. You couldn’t even see the sword itself. Only the streaks of wind and shadow it carved through the air.



Michael stepped into the range—and instantly understood.



He had underestimated the South King.



The speed of Mario’s sword was inhuman. Unbelievable. If he hadn’t focused every ounce of attention, every cell of his body, he would’ve been torn apart in seconds.



Even so, within just three seconds, his arms, thighs, and shoulders were covered in long, deep cuts. Not grazes—real wounds. Sharp, painful gashes that stung and throbbed with each movement.



A normal fighter would’ve already lost their limbs.



But Michael’s body—his muscles—were built like armor. His physique absorbed just enough of the impact to keep him in the fight. Barely.



He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t take much more.



With a powerful stomp, he launched himself backward, retreating several meters to escape Mario’s storm of steel.



Mario let the blade slow.



He stood tall again, breathing steady, eyes locked on his opponent.



A confident smile curled at the corner of his lips.




“Come on. You can’t even keep up with my blade speed.”




Michael wiped the blood from his shoulder and gave a quiet nod.




“Incredible. South King Mario… your reputation is well-earned.”




For a brief moment, he truly admired the display. The speed. The precision. The legacy.



But then—his eyes narrowed.



He scanned Mario from head to toe.



Left side… balanced.



Right side…



There it was.



That prosthetic leg.



His weak spot.



Michael’s lips twitched into a quiet smirk. That was it. That was the opening.



Victory was no longer a distant idea—it was right there, waiting.



Without warning, Michael launched forward in a sudden, explosive sprint.



Mario immediately backpedaled, blade flaring to life again, slashing in wild arcs, trying to keep Michael at bay.



Michael dodged the killing blows, absorbing the shallow ones. His arms, chest, back—slashed again and again. Dozens of shallow wounds bloomed across his muscles. His body burned.



But his eyes never left the target.



In a split second, he dropped low—almost to a squat—and spun.




WHUMP!




His leg swept hard across the ground in a low arc, crashing directly into Mario’s prosthetic side.



The timing was perfect.



Mario’s balance broke instantly.



His body flipped violently into the air—then slammed into the concrete with a brutal thud.



The second Mario hit the ground, he tried to bounce back—rebound, recover, rise to his feet.



But he couldn’t.



Michael was already standing over him.



His fist came flying forward—rock solid, deadly—aimed directly for Mario’s face.



It stopped just short.



The force of the punch alone blasted the air forward, sending Mario’s hair flying back with a snap.



Mario lay there, wide-eyed, staring up.



He didn’t need to feel the punch.



He already knew.




He had lost.








The Rusted Blade



Michael knelt slightly and extended his hand.



It wasn’t a trick. No finishing move. Just a simple gesture of respect.



Mario hesitated for a half-second, then reached out and accepted it. Michael pulled him up.



Mario staggered a little as he stood, needing two or three uneven steps before he could steady himself. His right leg—mechanical, cold—tapped against the ground until balance returned.



Michael smiled.




“As expected… the South King truly is the embodiment of justice and speed. That swordplay was insane. And your sense of righteousness? Off the charts.”




He let go of Mario’s hand and bent down to pick up his briefcase. His tone turned casual, but sincere.




“If you hadn’t lost that leg… I wouldn’t have stood a chance. If you could move freely, you probably would’ve turned me into ground beef in under a minute.”




Mario chuckled—quiet and bitter.




“Too bad. That right leg is gone. And so is everything else… the justice, the Local Hero status… the South King beyond reckoning. All of it.”




He shook his head softly.




“Now I’m just a regular fighter.”




Michael gave a small smirk.




“Then I guess… since I happened to win just now, maybe we can let the whole ‘decapitated freeloader’ thing slide?”




Mario shrugged lightly.




“Sure.”




At that very moment, from the far end of the street, Dave—who had been watching the entire fight unfold—finally made his move.



The entire battle, from start to finish, had lasted less than twenty seconds.



Dave licked his lips.




“Damn. That was fast.”




Sure, his muscles didn’t have Michael’s explosive power. But when it came to density, tightness, raw durability? He was confident—his body was on a whole other level.



If Michael could defeat Mario…Then so could he.



His confidence flared. He stepped forward.



Then sprinted.




“MARIO!” he shouted. “I’m officially calling you out! I challenge you to a duel—RIGHT NOW!”




Mario turned.



The moment his eyes landed on the figure rushing toward him, his pupils dilated.



That underwear.Those muscles.That unmistakable pink triangle…



His face darkened.




“…It’s him.”




He recognized the man immediately.



The freak who had hospitalized his students.



The man in pink women’s underwear.



The man who beat them half to death.



A chill spread through the air.



The tension spiked instantly—sharp and heavy—like the moment before a lightning strike.



Even the sound of the city seemed to fade.







Blade vs. Muscles



“You perverted freak in pink underwear,” Mario said flatly, raising his hand and pointing directly at Dave. “Honestly, you didn’t need to come find me—I was already planning to hunt you down.”



Dave didn’t flinch. He smiled like he’d been waiting for this moment.




“Is this about your three students? Yeah, I roughed them up a little a few days ago. Oh—and I twisted another one’s neck just now. But don’t worry, he’s not dead. Just a little messed up. He’ll be fine.”




Mario’s expression soured.




“Three?”




He took a slow step forward, voice low and sharp.




“You put twenty-three of my students in the hospital. Twenty-three. And they weren’t in and out either—they stayed there. Overnight. IVs. CT scans. One of them pissed blood.”




He stared Dave down with a tired kind of disappointment.




“You walk around like you’re some misunderstood muscle saint, but you don’t even have the guts to admit what you’ve done?”




He shook his head and sighed.




“That’s just pathetic.”




A beat of silence.



Then his tone shifted—lower, colder.




“But whatever. Three or twenty-three… doesn’t matter now.”





“I’ll teach you a lesson. Beat you up. And fuck you good.”




While the air grew heavier between them, Michael strolled through it like he had nothing to do with any of it.



He walked slowly, dragging his briefcase along with one hand. His white dress shirt was still on—but it was torn, stained, and streaked with blood. Small rips marked where blades had grazed him. The front looked like a failed laundry commercial.



He stopped near the headless corpse and sat down on it like it was the most natural bench in the world.



He opened his briefcase and pulled out a few plain first aid bandages—the cheap, beige kind from every corner store. He stuck one casually onto a cut on his collarbone, then another over a spot on his arm.



Then, as if nothing in the world was urgent, he leaned back on the stiff corpse and crossed his arms.




“Alright. You two fight. Let’s see if underwear man’s got anything behind those abs.”




He gave a faint smirk.




“I’m the referee today.”




Neither Dave nor Mario replied.



They didn’t need to.



Their feet adjusted.Their shoulders locked.Their fingers twitched.



The space between them felt electric—air thick enough to hold your breath hostage.



Even the distant sounds of the city held still.




The duel was locked in.





Blade vs. muscles.





Legacy vs. pervert.





One breath away from violence.








Heart of the Underwear



Mario gave Dave a full once-over. From top to bottom. The guy’s muscles were indeed impressive—dense, hard, and steellike. They gave off a raw, animal-like durability—his body looked built to withstand damage, more than to generate force.



But the moment Dave clenched his fists and came charging in, Mario saw everything he needed to.



His face relaxed.



“Ah,” he thought. “He’s an amateur.”



Dave’s form was a mess—full of openings, off-balance posture, and clumsy swings. His speed was laughable.



This guy wasn’t even in the same league as Michael.



Two levels lower, at least.



But Mario wasn’t like other fighters. Despite his blade, despite his brutal history, he had spent years as a licensed enforcer—a real Local Hero back in the day. He didn’t kill unless he had to. He preferred to teach, to discipline, and if possible… to redeem.



And Dave?



Well, Dave still had a chance to learn.



Mario easily could’ve ended the fight. One clean swing and Dave’s head would’ve been off before he even blinked. Less than a second.



But he didn’t.



Instead, he dodged—gracefully, effortlessly—even while moving with his prosthetic leg. His one-legged maneuvering still outpaced Dave’s full-speed charge. Each of Dave’s punches missed by inches, sometimes more.



Mario wasn’t even sweating.



He observed, measured, and waited.



After dodging dozens of wild swings—maybe forty, maybe fifty—he finally said, calm and casual:




“Too slow.”




And then it happened.



In a single fluid motion, Mario drew his sword.



One flash of metal.A few phantom streaks in the air.



Then he sheathed the blade back at his side, stepped forward, and slipped past Dave’s final punch without even touching him.



Now he was five meters behind Dave, standing in silence.



Dave, confused but undeterred, spun around and burst out laughing.




“What’s wrong?” he shouted. “You trying to run away? Is it ‘cause my muscles are too hard for you? You realized your little sword can’t even scratch me, huh?”




Then—he paused.



His expression changed.



He looked down.



Something felt… breezy.



His face froze.His mouth twitched.



His pink triangle underwear—



was gone.



Torn to shreds. Gone without a trace.



Well, almost.



Scattered on the ground were dozens of pink fabric fragments.



And in the middle of it all, one perfectly cut piece remained stuck to the pavement:



A large, heart-shaped patch of pink fabric, laying flat on the concrete.



Mario’s blade had done its work. In that one second—the swing Dave didn’t even see—it had sliced his underwear clean off, carving a giant heart-shaped symbol into the remains like a signature.



Dave’s entire body stiffened.



His face turned beet red.



He stood there, completely naked.



Then, in the smallest, most cracked voice:




“…OMG.”








The Final Stitch



Mario began walking away.



Slowly. Calmly. Each step steady and deliberate.



Behind him, Dave stood frozen in place, fists trembling at his sides. His face twisted—not with pain, but something worse.



Humiliation.



He had been outclassed. Outmaneuvered. Undressed.



And now… abandoned.



His breathing grew uneven. His knuckles whitened. He clenched his jaw and suddenly lurched forward, ready to charge again.



But just as he took his first step, a sharp voice rang out across the alley:




“HEY! Don’t move!”




Michael was still sitting casually on the headless corpse. Blood seeped through the white fabric of his torn-up shirt, but he looked relaxed—like he’d just finished grading some homework.



He raised one arm lazily and pointed at Dave.




“The fight’s over. You got outclassed. Simple as that. If you want your head to stay where it is, I suggest you don’t go after him.”




His tone wasn’t angry. Just… informative.



Dave froze.



His fists slowly unclenched. His arms dropped. But his eyes kept burning holes in the path Mario had taken.



Mario, without ever looking back, reached the end of the alley, turned the corner, and vanished.



A moment passed.



Then Michael stood up from the corpse, dusted off his bloody shirt with a flick, stretched, and yawned.




“I should head out too.”




With one hand, he picked up his briefcase and walked off.



No drama. No flair. Just quiet footsteps disappearing into the afternoon light.



And then… silence.



Dave stood alone.



Still. Bare. Emotionless.



He looked at the ground—at the scattered pink scraps of fabric surrounding him.



Then he saw it.



Right there, in the center of it all: a perfectly cut, heart-shaped patch of pink.



The last surviving piece of his favorite underwear.



Cut clean by a man who didn’t even bother to finish the fight.



THUMP.



Dave collapsed to his knees.



He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.



Just stared.



His body hunched. His head dipped lower.



And then—



drip… drip…



Tears fell.



One by one, they landed on the fabric, soaking into the concrete.



That triangle-shaped piece of women’s underwear… was gone.



Along with it, his pride. His confidence. His dignity.



All reduced to a heart on the pavement.



Dave knelt, motionless, as if mourning a fallen comrade.



Because in his mind, this wasn’t just fabric.



This was his identity.



And it had just been sliced to hell.






Chapter 41: Dinello’s Job in Urban Apparel
==================================================

Just Another Tuesday



A young man walked through the mall.



His Zhongshan suit hung loose, not a single button fastened. His sharp abs and chiseled chest were fully exposed. He had long, straight bangs covering his forehead, and his eyes looked hollow—bored beyond belief.



This was Dinello.



He strolled without purpose until he reached a soda vending machine. Suddenly, he crouched down, clutching his stomach. His face twisted in agony.



“Shit,” he muttered. “I think I’ve got diarrhea…”



He clenched his abdomen tighter. “My intestines… they’re flipping around. My guts feel like they’re tearing apart. The pressure in my butthole… it’s unbearable…”



He stayed crouched, moaning, clearly in pain.



A young couple passed by and noticed his suffering. They hesitated, then walked over and leaned in with concern.



“Sir, are you okay?” the girl asked. “You look like you’re in a lot of pain. Should we call you an ambulance?”



The two of them peered closer, trying to assess his condition. Just as they leaned in—



Dinello sprang up.



He stuck out his tongue, pulled his mouth wide with both hands, and shouted:



“LILILILILILILILI!”



A full-on jump scare.



The couple screamed and stumbled backward, hands clutching their chests.



“Holy fuck! What the hell—this guy’s insane! A pervert! A freak! A lunatic with some twisted fetish!”



They cursed him out with every word they could think of, then quickly ran away.



Dinello stood still, watching them disappear into the crowd. Then he sighed.



“…Too boring.”



He had hoped the weekly prank would bring some excitement, but it just wasn’t enough. Life had grown dull. Day after day—it was the same.



Wake up. Brush teeth. Eat breakfast. Watch TV. Eat lunch. Work. Eat dinner. Go on a date. Have sex.



Repeat.



Every single day, on loop.



As he walked further, he passed a clothing store called Urban Apparel. The place was packed, as always. Customers bustled in and out. Employees stood at the entrance greeting guests, folding shirts, restocking hangers, handling cash, bowing politely, and thanking everyone who walked in or out.



Dinello paused and watched them.



The repetition. The motions. The polite smiles.



He stared for a long time.



“How does anyone live like that?” he wondered. “What’s the point of it all?”



The next morning, at exactly 9 AM, Dinello stood in front of that same store.



Same Zhongshan suit. Same unbuttoned chest. He yawned.



“Why does everyone start work this early?” he muttered.



“Can’t we just stay home? Eat, drink, sleep, repeat?”



He sighed again.



“Guess another busy day begins.”







The Goofy Greeter



Dinello stood at the entrance of the clothing store, smiling brightly at every customer who walked in. But unlike the other employees, his greetings had… a bit more personality.



Sometimes he’d say, “Hey, what’s up, dude?”



Other times: “Hey, loser. How’s it going?”



And occasionally—while grinning like a total maniac—he’d drop a line like:“Don’t steal anything in there, or I’ll break your kneecap.”



Then came a young woman. Beautiful, elegant, dressed in sleek office wear. Dinello noticed that one of the buttons on her blouse wasn’t fastened, exposing the soft white curve of something round beneath—partially hidden by her bra.



Dinello grinned and leaned in with a goofy tone:“Hey sexy, your button’s undone. Now, I get it—you’re trying to tempt me for a discount, right? Not gonna happen…Unless you give me a kiss.”



Before she could respond, a female staff member quietly whispered into the floor manager’s ear. The manager—frowning—waved Dinello over.



“Hey, new guy,” the floor manager said. “You don’t need to stand by the door greeting people. Go over there and fold that pile of clothes.”



He pointed toward a towering, chaotic mountain of unfolded clothes in the corner.



Dinello turned his head and muttered, “F**k me…”



“Go. Right. Now.” The manager scowled.



With a reluctant sigh, Dinello strolled over and began folding—slowly, lazily, but obediently.



An hour passed.



Finally, Dinello stepped away from the pile and left the area unnoticed. But when the floor manager walked by and looked at the pile of clothes—his eyes went wide.



Dinello had somehow folded all the garments into the shape of… a hideous Statue of Liberty.



“Impossible…” the manager whispered.



Who folds clothes into a damn sculpture?



Veins bulged on his forehead. He shouted:



“DINELLO! Get over here! Are you here to work or to waste everyone’s time with your nonsense?!”



Dinello trudged back, head slightly bowed, shaking it in mock regret.“Sorry… I got a little carried away. I promise I’ll do my job properly. Please don’t fire me.”



The manager looked like he really wanted to fire him—but he didn’t have the authority. So instead, he cleared his throat and said:



“Fine. Go help the customers. See if they’re looking for something specific. Help them find the right fit. Go now.”



Dinello spun around like a figure skater, then strutted off with a little dance in his step—gliding into the next section of the store like he was waltzing into a party.







Best Customer Service Ever



Dinello stood casually in the women’s section, one hand resting on a clothing rack, one foot tapping rhythmically. He made the motion of whistling but didn’t produce a sound.



A young woman approached politely.“Excuse me, sir,” she said. “What kind of outfit would look good on someone like me? Could you maybe help pick one or two styles that suit my body and complexion?”



Dinello gave her a once-over—from top to bottom, then bottom to top—and locked eyes on her chest. He stared at it for a solid ten seconds without blinking.



The girl, clearly a little embarrassed, asked softly, “Have you decided yet, sir?”



Snapping out of it, Dinello realized he had been too busy estimating her cup size to remember the question. But since he thought her figure was decent, he smiled and said,“No problem, follow me. I’ll pick out something that really suits you.”



He reached into the rack and pulled out an extremely revealing top—barely more fabric than a bikini. It was a lightweight, cropped tank that exposed the navel, the entire back, and showed off the full side profile of the breasts.



He handed it to her confidently.“With your figure, you should be wearing stuff like this.”



The girl looked at it and hesitated.“Isn’t this a little too sexy? I mean… wearing this to work might be inappropriate. Even walking down the street in this… people would stare.”



Dinello gave a dismissive wave and said,“Come on, no big deal. Half the girls on the street wear this. I dress like this sometimes too. Trust me, it’s totally fine. Want to just change right here? There’s a mirror.”



The girl looked nervous. “Here? But… there are a lot of people around. Can I use the fitting room instead?”



Dinello shrugged, went back to leaning against the rack and tapping his foot. “Whatever. Suit yourself.”



The girl inspected the outfit again, flipping it back and forth, then finally shook her head.“No, I don’t think this is right for me. It’s a little too bold. If I wear this home, my mom might break my legs.”



She returned the item to the rack and walked away. Dinello stood there, shook his head, and muttered,“Kids these days really don’t know how to dress themselves. Geez…”



Moments later, another customer came up. She looked to be in her early thirties—average face but generously endowed. Dinello greeted her casually.“Hey, midlife bunny. Anything I can help you forget today?”



She blinked at the strange line and replied,“I’m looking for a woman’s coat. Probably size large.”



Dinello strolled into the racks and randomly picked out a black Zhongshan jacket—technically men’s wear—and handed it to her.“Here. Try this one on. Should be okay.”



The woman slipped it on and buttoned it up. It actually looked decent—suited her outdated fashion sense. But she frowned.



“It feels tight around the chest. I can’t breathe properly. I thought I picked the right size…”



Dinello glanced up and said,“Yeah, new clothes always feel like that. Just wear it for a few days—you’ll get used to it. Honestly, it looks great on you. Totally matches your retro vibe.”



Just then, the floor manager walked up behind Dinello, face dark like a demon. His voice was low but seething.



“Dinello, someone just destroyed the bathroom. The floor is covered in shit. Go clean it. Now.”



Dinello wasn’t even sure what he had done wrong this time, but he nodded and walked off without protest.



The manager turned back to the woman and apologized with a tight smile.“I’m sorry, our staff made a mistake. That’s a men’s coat, not women’s. Let me take you to the right section and help you find something more appropriate.”







Toilet Nap, Chaos Outside



Dinello stepped into the restroom and immediately noticed how clean it was—sparkling, pristine, even more spotless than his own bathroom at home.



He muttered to himself, “Why would this even need cleaning?”Shrugging, he closed the door behind him, locked it, and took a seat.



“Might as well enjoy the environment.”



What he didn’t realize was that he had mistakenly entered the women’s restroom. The men’s bathroom, in contrast, looked like a war zone. The floor was covered in filth, and even the walls and mirrors had been smeared with it. It was as if someone had exploded—literally. Whoever used it must have released their feces like a high-pressure bomb, blasting it in all directions—floor, ceiling, mirrors, everything. The stall looked like it had survived a biochemical attack.



But Dinello, blissfully unaware, relaxed completely.His rectum sighed with relief.His entire body went limp, and a strange warmth filled his bones. It felt like every burden in life had been flushed away. He wasn’t just pooping—he was transcending.



He floated in place, as if on an enormous cloud of marijuana.The kind of high that couldn’t be bought—only gifted by the universe.



Within minutes, Dinello had drifted into the deepest, most peaceful toilet nap of his life.







Suddenly, loud commotion erupted outside. Shattering sounds. Heavy thuds. Screams.It sounded like a brawl was breaking out.



Dinello’s eyes flew open.He wiped himself in a frenzy, tore off some toilet paper, gave his butt a military-grade polish, flushed, pulled up his pants, and sprinted out.



What he saw first stunned him—and then made him burst out laughing.



A man in a hoodie, cigarette dangling from his lips, was holding the floor manager by the collar.The man was Canelo—a local gangster with a reputation for chaos.



The manager dangled midair like a limp puppet. His legs were kicking wildly, like he was trying to run on invisible ground.



The employees and customers had formed a circle around them, watching in horrified silence.



Dinello stood there, both hands clutching his belly, laughing uncontrollably.The way the manager flailed—it was too ridiculous. He couldn’t breathe from laughing.



The manager shouted down at him, furious:“HEY! You asshole! Stop laughing and DO SOMETHING!”



But Dinello couldn’t stop.



Through his giggles, he raised his phone and took a photo.“Man, your pose right now is comedy gold.”



Canelo growled at the room:“Bring me all the cash from this store! Last month you missed your protection payment!”



The scene was absolute chaos.



And Dinello?Still laughing.



Identity Crisis



Just as the tension peaked, someone in the crowd yelled out:



“Yo—isn’t that the real Canelo?! That gangster from our neighborhood? I can’t believe we’re seeing him rob a place in person!”



Dinello snapped.



His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the voice.



“Who the hell just called me Canelo again?!” he barked, his voice sharp with insult. “My name is Dinello. D-I-N-E-L-L-O. Get it right. Who the fuck said that? Come out here and apologize!”



Canelo, still holding the floor manager midair by the collar in the center of the crowd, glanced over with a bored expression.



“Chill out,” he said. “That guy wasn’t talking about you. He was talking about me. My name’s Canelo.”



Dinello froze.



Wait… Canelo is real?



He had always assumed it was just a nickname people threw at him to mock him. A mispronunciation. A joke.



But now—he was staring at a hoodie-wearing gangster who genuinely introduced himself as Canelo.



Dinello’s eye twitched. Something inside him boiled over.



“Hoodie guy… how dare you.” He pointed a stiff finger straight at him. “You stole my nickname. That name’s been haunting me for years. And now you just… casually be it?”



Canelo squinted.



“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”



Dinello didn’t hesitate.



He swung his hand down like a blade—chopping Canelo’s wrist. Canelo’s grip released instantly.



The floor manager dropped to the floor, spine-first, ass-second.



“AAAHHH—MY PELVIS!!” he howled, rolling across the ground in pure agony.



But Dinello didn’t even look down.



He took a calm step forward.



Now chest-to-chest, face-to-face with Canelo.



He tilted his chin just slightly upward—asserting himself.



Dominating.



The tension was thick enough to slice.



Canelo, without warning, swung a slap toward Dinello’s face.



Dinello’s hand shot up and caught the slap in midair. Effortlessly.



He smiled.



Then snapped his knee straight into Canelo’s crotch.



Canelo jolted, his eyes bulging as both hands shot down to grapple his crotch, thighs pinched together in pure agony.



And Dinello followed up immediately with a brutal front kick to the chest—launching him through the glass store entrance.



CRASSHHHH!!



The door shattered like sugar.



Canelo’s body flew across the street and smashed into a trash bin. He slumped to the pavement beside it—completely motionless.



Gasps rippled through the crowd.



Dinello raised both fists in the air, turning toward the stunned onlookers.



Then with a slow, theatrical pause, he shouted:



“I… am the one and only… true Canelo. And anyone else who says otherwise… gets kicked in the dick.”







Best Employee of the Year



As the shattered glass settled and Canelo lay crumpled outside, the crowd that had gathered in a circle around the store burst into applause.



“Best employee of the year!” someone shouted.



“Yeah! You’re amazing, man!” another added.



The cheer spread quickly. Dozens of customers, workers, even random bystanders joined in the chant, clapping and hollering with genuine excitement. Dinello, standing in the center, raised both hands and waved humbly to the crowd.



“Thank you, thank you all for your support,” he said. “I’ll keep working hard next year!”



The floor manager, who had just recently been dangling in mid-air and then slammed to the ground ass-first, slowly climbed to his feet. One shaky hand on the counter, the other rubbing his bruised hip. Despite the pain, he managed a tired smile.



“Never thought someone like him would actually save the store,” he muttered under his breath.



Just then, the front doors swung open again—this time not from violence, but from someone hurrying inside.



A middle-aged man with thick, curly hair rushed behind the counter, panting slightly.



The store owner.



He had clearly just heard the commotion and come racing back. After scanning the room and seeing no blood, no weapons, and no more flying bodies, he let out a deep breath of relief.



Then he turned to Dinello.



Everyone was still clapping and talking about “the best employee,” but the owner squinted.



“Wait… who the hell are you?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “You look kinda unfamiliar.”



He looked Dinello up and down.



“And where’s your uniform? All my employees wear the standard pink polo. You’re wearing… what is that? A Zhongshan suit? And you’re not even buttoned up!”



Dinello’s smile froze slightly.



A single bead of sweat ran down his temple.



Then he straightened up and replied coolly:



“I’m Dinello. Sales… Associate.”



The owner raised an eyebrow and, without a word, pulled out the employee schedule from the drawer. He flipped through it—once, twice, a third time.



Then shook his head.



“There’s no Dinello working here.”



He stepped forward and grabbed Dinello by the wrist.



“You’re an impostor. I’m calling the cops. You’re not leaving this place today—my hand’s staying on you until the police arrive.”



Dinello’s expression twitched slightly. Another bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.



He took a deep breath.



His cheeks puffed out like balloons, swelling with pressure.



Then, with a sharp exhale—PFFFFFTTT—he unleashed a powerful gust of Qi.



The wind shot out from his mouth and blasted directly upward… hitting the store owner’s thick curly hair.



Which immediately lifted off his head.



A wig.



It spun once in the air and flopped onto the floor.



The entire store went silent.



Dozens of people turned to stare at the owner… now bald… now completely exposed under the fluorescent lights.



His face turned bright red.



He scrambled to the floor in shame, grabbing the wig and slapping it back on—but backwards.



The silence broke into scattered giggles, then full-blown laughter. The crowd no longer looked at him with authority—they looked at him like a walking punchline.



The store owner, humiliated, let go of Dinello’s wrist and crouched down, hiding his face.



By the time he looked up—



Dinello was gone.



He had slipped out silently, disappearing into the wind like a ghost. No one even saw him leave.



Outside, on the way home, Dinello walked slowly under the evening sky.



He looked up, let out a long breath…



And muttered to himself:



“I’m bored again.”


Chapter 42: Kyle, the Believer
==================================================

A Good-Looking Freeloader



It was one of those brutally hot summer days, the kind that turned the sidewalks outside into frying pans. But inside the shopping mall, the air conditioning was maxed out—cool, dry, and almost luxurious.



On one of the wide pedestrian walkways, seated peacefully against a marble column, was a familiar monk-like figure.



Dinello.



He wore his signature Zhongshan suit—not a single button fastened. His bangs drooped over his forehead, and his eyes looked tired but oddly serene. In his hands, he held a stainless steel rice bowl, gently shaking it with a soft rattle. The bowl was empty.



A tall, striking young woman passed by. She wore a fully buttoned Zhongshan suit, and a katana was strapped diagonally across her back. Her long ponytail swayed behind her as she walked.



It was Jessica.



She paused in front of Dinello and knelt slightly to his level, noticing the empty bowl.



“What are you doing here, Canelo?” she asked with a playful smirk.



Dinello’s eyebrow twitched.



“Come on. We’ve been having sex for months, and you’re still calling me the wrong name?”



Jessica grinned.



“I’m just teasing you.”



She gently pinched his cheek, then pulled a folded twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and dropped it into his bowl with a crisp plop.



“There. At least now you’ve earned something. I think I saw a couple coins stuck in your bangs too.”



Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she didn’t stop there. With a flirty glint in her eyes, she leaned in a bit closer and whispered,



“If you’re really that bored, you can always come to my place. You know… for fun.”



Dinello looked up at her, completely unfazed—as calm as a monk in meditation.



“Didn’t we already have a fearless battle in bed for hours last night?” he said flatly. “I’m still recovering. Rain check.”



Jessica pouted, then reached out to brush aside his messy bangs. She planted a soft kiss on his forehead, then turned and walked away.



“Fine. I’ll wait,” she said with a smile.



Dinello watched her figure fade into the crowd. For a moment, he felt genuinely warm inside.



Jessica really was one of his better girlfriends.



Then silence.



Dinello stayed seated for nearly half an hour, gently shaking his bowl, but no one else dropped in a single coin.



Just as he began questioning the entire point of this little stunt, he heard a loud voice approaching.



A short, older-looking man with a scruffy beard and a camera slung across his chest came jogging up. His fashion sense was confused at best, and his face was still dotted with stubborn acne scars.



It was Kyle. Dinello’s former middle school classmate.



Kyle froze when he saw him.



“Jesus Christ! Is that you, Canelo?” he shouted.



It still bothered him. Deep down, it always would. But today, he didn’t even care—not bothered to react to the wrong name.



Two old friends. After all these years, they were face to face again in the middle of a mall.



They just looked at each other for a moment—no rush, no words—like time had pressed pause.







Old Pals Catchup



Time really had flown by.



Years had passed in a blink—and now, two old friends found themselves reunited, crouching together on the edge of a pedestrian walkway inside a shopping mall, chatting like no time had gone by at all.



Dinello leaned against the wall and asked casually,“Hey, didn’t you have a thing for that school beauty a few years back? What happened with that? I remember you were bringing her flowers, stuffed animals, milk tea, even home-cooked lunchboxes. You were really trying. Did it ever work out?”



Kyle shook his head, looking embarrassed.



“Nah. She told me I was too clingy… and even kinda creepy. She warned me to stop pestering her. I didn’t listen. Eventually, she hired some local gangsters to beat me up. That was the last time I ever saw her.”



Dinello let out a light sigh.“Oh. That’s… unfortunate. Well, on to the next one, I guess.”



Kyle chuckled awkwardly.“I heard Joey got married a few years back. Did you go to his wedding?”



Dinello blinked.“Wait—Joey got married? I had no idea. He didn’t even tell me.”



Kyle glanced at him and tilted his head.“What about you? How’ve you been these last few years? Got a girlfriend yet?”



Dinello tilted his head and gave it some real thought.Yeah, there had been plenty of women. But were they really “girlfriends”? Even he didn’t know. Probably more like… open relationships.He shrugged.



“I don’t know… sort of no, I guess?”



Kyle’s eyes lit up. He felt oddly comforted knowing even someone like Dinello couldn’t get a girlfriend either.Maybe he wasn’t the only one who kept getting rejected.



“Damn. I guess we’re both losers when it comes to relationships,” he said with a sheepish grin.



Dinello smiled faintly.



Just then, a teenager walked past them—tall, skinny, bored-looking. Without warning, he spat on the ground.



Or tried to.



The glob of spit veered sideways in the air and landed directly inside Kyle’s open mouth while he was mid-sentence.



Kyle recoiled instantly, gagging and stumbling.The teenager shouted behind him while running off,“I hate lazy beggars like you! Go get a job!”



Dinello’s eyes narrowed. His hand slowly opened, fingers extended outward.



A sharp pulse of Qi shot from his palm.



In a blink, the teenager was sucked backward—dragged off his feet and pulled toward Dinello like a ragdoll.Once he was in range, Dinello smacked him across the face—once, twice—with precise, casual force.



The boy’s mouth split open at the corner. He slumped over, unconscious, as Dinello casually tossed him aside like a bag of rice.



Kyle, still stunned, wiped his lips and turned to Dinello.



“Wait… did I just swallow something?”



Dinello smiled calmly.“Don’t worry. Just a little protein. Nothing harmful.”



He stood up and brushed dust off his pants.



“Too many people here. Wanna go get hotpot or something? I’m kinda hungry. We can talk more over food.”







It Deeply Sucks



Kyle used to love hotpot. Back in the day, nothing made him happier than a bubbling pot of soup and endless plates of sliced meat. But today, as he squatted beside Dinello in the mall’s pedestrian walkway, he gently shook his head.



“Let’s not do hotpot,” he said. “It’s too heaty… and honestly, I’m kind of broke right now. Maybe just grab a McDonald’s or something cheap.”



Dinello blinked in surprise.



“Broke? Weren’t you making bank last year? I remember you said you made over a hundred grand—and even donated almost ninety thousand to your church.”



Kyle sighed, slumping a little.



“Yeah, that was last year. But now there’s this company called Deepsuck. They built an AI that does professional photography and videography. Cheap, fast, fully automated. A lot of my clients switched to using it. I guess… I’m out of a job now.”



Dinello let out a quiet chuckle.



“Oh. That really deeply sucks.”



Kyle cracked a smile at the pun, then stared down at the floor.



“If I had known this would happen, I would’ve done what you did and learned Kung Fu. At least that can’t be replaced by AI. I mean… not yet.”



He lifted one arm and studied it with mock seriousness.



“Then again, with how weak I am, I don’t even know if I’d survive the first week of training.”



He exhaled and shrugged.



“But what’s done is done. Maybe I’ll find something else. Or who knows—maybe I’ll just join you here and be a full-time beggar. Doesn’t seem so bad.”



Dinello laughed, brushing a bit of dust off his sleeve.



But then something sparked in his memory.



“Wait—Deepsuck. I think they’re hosting some kind of product showcase today. I saw a poster earlier. It’s happening right here in the mall. At the food court.”



Kyle blinked. “No kidding?”



“Yeah. Want to go check it out? Maybe there’s still a shot at something new.”



Kyle hesitated, then gave a lopsided grin.



“Sure. I’ve got nothing better to do anyway.”



And with that, the two old friends stood up and walked together—toward the food court, toward the AI showcase, and maybe… toward something resembling hope.



Deepsuck Origin



In the center of the food court stood a temporary stage—hastily assembled, slightly wobbly, and surrounded by colorful banners and half-working LED screens. On top of the stage were several sleek machines and humanoid robots, all posed in showroom-perfect stances. A host stood at the mic, enthusiastically narrating into the echoey mall speakers.



Dinello and Kyle leaned against a second-floor railing, looking down from above like two pigeons people-watching.



“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host was saying, “please welcome… the founder and CEO of Deepsuck!”



A hush fell over the food court.



From the side of the stage, a man was slowly wheeled in by a staff member. He was frail—terrifyingly so. Every inch of his muscle was curled, stiff, or trembling. His body had been eaten away by Parkinson’s. His hands twitched involuntarily, and his head bobbed slightly. Yet his eyes were alive—sharp and steady, staring forward.



He looked like he had weeks left to live.



The wheelchair came to a halt at the center. The man’s finger slowly tapped a single button on the console attached to his chair. A British-accented synthetic voice echoed through the speakers, crisp and cold:



“Hello everyone. I am the founder and CEO of Deepsuck. My name is Karl.”



The audience clapped politely.



“Despite my twisted appearance and my dying body,” the voice continued, “I am not even thirty years old. I still long for love… and sex.”



The crowd froze.



The voice did not.



“But that’s just me. Let’s talk about the company.”



Dinello tilted his head. “British accent?”



Kyle whispered, “Yeah. Probably a British-made text-to-speech model. Kinda classy, kinda creepy.”



Karl’s machine-voice carried on.



“Why the name Deepsuck? Because, to me, life is just like a dick—hard, awkward, and full of surprises. And no matter how hard life gets… we must suck deep. Only by sucking deep—until the very end—can we finally taste success.”



He paused, as if waiting for applause. A few awkward claps trickled in.



“I have developed powerful AI robots. Our next step: merging AI with biology. If successful, I may be able to cure myself… return to youth… reclaim my life.”



His words hung in the air with mechanical sincerity. The speech went on. And on. For nearly thirty minutes, Karl droned about innovation, resilience, funding, and the future of technology. The crowd began losing interest. People wandered off. Even the robots looked bored.



Kyle yawned. Dinello started rubbing his eyes.



Eventually, they tuned out completely and turned to each other.



Dinello stretched his arms lazily.“Man, this is more boring than that one sermon your young pastor gave—what was it, like two hours long?”



Kyle perked up. “Don’t say that. His words were powerful.”



Dinello smirked.“Yeah, especially with those giant pecs pushing through his shirt. What are they now, C cup?”



Kyle didn’t laugh. Instead, he nodded seriously.“Yeah. C-cup size. But they’re solid—pure muscle. Not soft at all.”



Dinello raised an eyebrow. “A temple with some very suspicious windows.”



Kyle turned toward him, calm but firm.“He’s the most devoted man I know. He saved my life once.”



Dinello waved a hand, still half-joking.“Alright, alright. Just saying… the man looks like a mix between a prophet and a pervert.”



Kyle looked away and said softly,“Even if he does… he’s still the reason I got through last year.”



Dinello didn’t reply. For once, he let the silence sit.



Karl’s robotic voice continued to echo in the background like a malfunctioning sermon no one asked for.



“Thank you all for coming. May Deepsuck take you deeper than ever before.”



Nobody clapped.







Faith to Humbleism



Dinello stood by the second-floor railing, lost in thought, trying to recall the name of that pastor Kyle always mentioned. It was on the tip of his tongue—something like “Sea…” Suddenly, it hit him.



“Oh right. His name is Cemen. What a disgusting name.”



He glanced at Kyle and asked with a smirk,“Hey, didn’t that Pastor Cemen of yours always tell you guys to donate, like, 99% of your savings? That’s real, isn’t it?”



Kyle nodded earnestly.“Yeah… but I didn’t make any money this year, so I didn’t donate a single cent. I feel really ashamed about that.”Then, realizing the mistake, he quickly added,“And by the way, his name’s not Cemen—it’s Simon. ‘Si’ as in ‘s-eye.’”



Dinello scoffed.“Hmph. Sure. Well, with all that money people donate, I bet he’s off vacationing in Hawaii or spending it at massage parlors hiring prostitutes. He’s probably in some hotel room right now, banging some girls.”



Kyle’s face tightened with anger.“Shut your mouth. You can’t say things like that. Our God has His own plans for that money. You don’t get to talk nonsense.”



Dinello raised an eyebrow.The tension between them buzzed faintly, like static in the air above the crowd below.



“Alright, alright. Isn’t your faith called Humbleism or something like that?” he said with a dry chuckle.“Then fine—just be careful with your money, that’s all I’m saying. Whatever money trouble you run into, don’t come running to me.”



Kyle nodded, chin firm.“Don’t worry. Our Humbleism, our God, will guide me. Money’s not a problem. As long as we have faith, even if we don’t eat, we’ll survive.”



Dinello turned his head slowly and looked down over the railing, pretending to become deeply interested in the tech expo below.He didn’t say another word.







The Holy Transaction



Far across the Pacific Ocean, on a sun-soaked beach in Hawaii, the waves rolled in slow and steady. Palm trees danced in the breeze like they had nowhere else to be. Just beyond the shoreline, a five-star hotel towered above the sand—glass balconies, ocean views, and enough quiet luxury to silence the world.



Inside one of the top suites—past sheer curtains and polished marble floors—three bodies lay stretched across a massive king-sized bed, tangled in soft white sheets.



Pastor Simon was in the center, naked and perfectly at ease, with both arms stretched wide across the pillows. On either side of him, two women rested against his body, their heads tucked gently into the crooks of his arms. The sunlight cast warm stripes across the bed, tracing the shape of bare shoulders and half-covered legs. The room was silent, still, and rich with the scent of champagne and clean linen.



On the nightstand nearby, two empty wine glasses stood next to a silver ice bucket cradling a half-melted bottle of champagne—evidence of a celebration that never needed a reason.



The girl on his left looked up at him with a sleepy grin.



“Pastor Simon…” she said softly. “How are you this amazing? This view, this suite, the champagne… you must be insanely successful.”



Simon didn’t open his eyes. He just smiled, slow and satisfied.



“It’s all thanks to my flock,” he said. “Those sweet, generous little lambs. They give, I receive. That’s the divine exchange.”



The girl on his right let out a quiet laugh, brushing her leg lightly against his.



““Good thing we’re not believers…” she murmured, and the two of them kissed Simon on both cheeks at the same time.



Simon turned his head slightly, voice dipping low, smooth as silk.



“You’re believers too,” he said. “Just not in the same thing.”



The two girls glanced at each other across his chest, puzzled for a second.



“But we’re not part of your church,” the one on the left said. “We don’t even follow that… Humble-ism thing.”



Simon’s smile stayed put.



“You don’t have to,” he replied. “You believe in something else.”



He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.



“You don’t have to,” he said. “We all are believers to money… even slaves to it. Everywhere we go, we’re in chains.”



The room was quiet for a moment.



Then, the girl on his right reached over to the nightstand and picked up a folded check. She opened it slowly—long, dramatic—and showed it to the other girl.



Both of their eyes lit up.



One of them let out a low whistle. “Oh, Pastor Simon…”



“…we love you,” the other added, kissing him on the cheek again.



Then they both said it together, laughing softly:



“And your money.”



He just stared at the ceiling, smiling to himself.



“A successful man,” he said, voice calm and certain, “is always surrounded by the young… and the hotties.”






Chapter 43: Journey to McDonald's
==================================================

Reverse Gear



After finishing their stroll through the AI exhibition, Kyle stretched and rubbed his stomach.



“I’m kinda hungry. Can’t believe it’s almost noon already. Wanna hit McDonald’s?”



Dinello lit up.“Oh yeah, baby. Let’s go.”



The two turned and started walking in the direction of the food court.



But just a few steps in, they noticed someone approaching them—slowly, eerily.



It was a short, scrawny guy with a face full of pimples. He wore a neatly buttoned Zhongshan suit—every button fastened to the top. His hair was carefully parted down the middle, combed flat with precision.



But the strange part wasn’t just his outfit.



It was the fact that his face was looking directly at them…but so was his back.



He was walking backward, but his head had been twisted 180 degrees—staring at them while his feet stepped away. A sick, unnatural motion. Like something out of a horror film.



Kyle shivered.“That’s… not right. That’s not human.”



But Dinello recognized him instantly.



“Wait a sec… no way. That’s Pimple Face.”



It was. Pimple Face—Dinello’s current classmate. He had looked relatively normal just a few days ago. Now, his face had been spun around like a broken doll.



Dinello stepped forward, amused.



“Hey, loser. What the hell happened to your face? You look all damn.”



Pimple Face’s lips quivered. His whole mouth moved like he was trying not to gag.



“I-I was just studying at a bubble tea shop the other day… minding my own business… when this crazy pervert walked in—wearing triangle-shaped pink women’s underwear. Just that. Nothing else. Out of nowhere, he came over and twisted my head. Just—cranked it. Like this.”



He gestured clumsily with his thumb, pointing behind him.



“I was lucky,” he added, tears starting to form in his eyes. “If I weren’t so flexible, my neck would’ve snapped right then and there.”



Dinello muttered, “Triangle. Pink. Woman’s underwear… oh damn.”



He knew immediately.There was only one person that stupid, that aggressive, and that underqualified in martial arts.



Dave.The idiot with steel-hard muscles and toddler-level combat instincts.



Dinello casually pulled out his phone and snapped a few pics of Pimple Face—framing it just right. A perfect Instagram story.No caption needed.



Then, slipping his phone back into his pocket, he asked with fake concern,“Did you go to a hospital? Try to fix it?”



Pimple Face sniffled.“Yeah. But the doctor said… if they try to twist it back, I could snap my spine. One wrong move and I’m paralyzed. Or dead.”



Dinello didn’t respond. He didn’t care.



He simply turned back to Kyle, nodded, and the two of them walked away—heading toward McDonald’s like nothing had happened.



Pimple Face, still walking backward, slowly faded into the distance behind them.



They passed each other. Just like that.One forward. One reversed.Different directions. Different lives.







Underwear No More



Dinello and Kyle strolled side by side through the mall. As they passed the tech expo booths, Dinello muttered to himself, “Can’t believe Dave’s still out here picking on our classmates.”



But as soon as the words left his mouth, he stopped short.



“Speak of the devil… there’s the devil,” he said.



Walking toward them was a muscle-bound figure—Dave.



But something was off.



Gone was the arrogant fire from before. His eyes were cold now. Empty. Like whatever spark had driven him was long gone.



“Hey! Geek! How’s it going?” Dinello shouted.



Dave glanced up for half a second, then looked away and kept walking like he hadn’t heard anything.



Dinello didn’t let that slide. He walked up and blocked Dave’s path—face to face, chest to chest. Tension hung in the air.



Dinello had to look up slightly—Dave was taller. But Dave just stood there, head lowered like a deflated balloon, no resistance in his body at all.



Dinello’s gaze swept over him. And then he saw it.



The pink women’s underwear—the infamous triangle—was gone.



In fact, Dave was completely naked. His body fully exposed, except for a censor blur kindly placed over his waist and thighs by the narrator.



Dinello narrowed his eyes and said dryly,“Hey, the infamous underwear—what the fuck happened to you? You look like a damn whipped dog. No fight left in you.”



Dave replied in a low, expressionless voice,“What a joke. Calling me underwear? I don’t even have my underwear on.”



Then he walked around Dinello without another word, keeping his head down.



Dinello watched him go. He had more insults ready—but looking at Dave’s hollow posture and dead eyes, he decided it wasn’t worth it.



He just wasn’t feeling it anymore.



Dave hadn’t walked more than fifty steps before a small group of petty gangsters blocked his way.



“Hey! Hand over your cash!” one of them shouted.



Another sneered, “He’s not even wearing clothes. Where the hell would he be hiding money?”



“Wasting my damn time,” muttered the third.



He stepped forward and slapped Dave across the face.



The others joined in, punching and kicking at random. Dave didn’t defend himself. He just stood still, his muscles absorbing the blows with almost no reaction.



Dinello shook his head and turned back to Kyle. Without saying anything, they continued walking toward McDonald’s.



Behind them, one of the gangsters stepped up for one final insult. He flicked Dave’s exposed penis with two fingers. It swung in the air like a sausage on a string, bobbing lazily before coming to a stop.



Then the gangsters walked off, laughing.



And Dave?



He just stood there—naked, humiliated, and completely still.







When Old Foes Cross Paths



Dinello and Kyle strolled casually through the Pasdarian Walkway inside the shopping mall, heading toward McDonald’s.



As they turned the corner, Dinello suddenly slowed down.



Coming from the other direction were three familiar figures: Brian, Michael, and a short, pale guy in a crisp white lab coat. Dinello didn’t recognize the third one, but it was obvious from his posture and placement that he was part of their group—The Unlicensed Dr. Mildy.



Dinello raised one hand and called out with his usual carelessness,“Hey! What’s up, losers?”



Brian and Michael barely glanced at him. They both smirked faintly, then turned their heads and kept walking without saying a word.



Dinello muttered under his breath,“They completely ignored me…”



Annoyed, he suddenly reached into a pocket and—with a whip-fast motion—hurled a phone across the mall walkway. It sliced through the air like a missile, making a loud swoosh like a gliding aircraft.



Brian’s golden eyes shimmered faintly. He shifted back just enough to let it pass.



Michael didn’t even look. He stepped to the side, relying purely on instinct.



The phone was about to crack Mildy’s skull when Michael casually threw a punch forward—striking the flying device with perfect timing.It shattered midair with a snap, exploding into black smoke and ash like a cheap firework.



Mildy stood frozen for a second, and then suddenly screamed:“HOLY FUCK! I almost died! Who the hell throws a phone like that?!”



Kyle turned in confusion.“Wait… Dinello, did you just throw your phone?! That thing’s like, what, a few hundred bucks?! How are you gonna call anyone now? Re-add all your contacts?”



Dinello smiled calmly.“Nah, that wasn’t my phone.”



Kyle blinked.“…Then whose—”



Dinello turned to him with a smirk.“It was yours.”



Kyle reached for his pocket—Empty.



His eyes widened in horror.



His face flushed red. A vein throbbed near his temple—then pop!A fat pimple sitting nearby burst from the pressure, spraying a string of pus and goo through the air.



It was disgusting.



Dinello, completely unfazed, turned back to Brian and shouted:“Yo, Brian! Haven’t seen you geeks in a while. That Captain Lam, right? Still as cool as ever. Breaking shit without saying a word.”



Brian gave a lazy grin.“Yeah. Been a while. Next time he sees you, he might just break your face into a pig’s head.”



Dinello scoffed.“I’d beat your ass right now if I wasn’t going to lunch with my friend right now.”



With that, the two groups turned and walked off in opposite directions.



But whatever grudge they had…It wasn’t settled.It would unfold in future chapters.



They Are Not What They Look



Dinello and Kyle finally arrived at the golden gates of salvation—McDonald’s.



Their stomachs growled in unison as they looked up at the glowing golden arches like two wanderers who had just crossed a desert. Their eyes sparkled with greasy anticipation.



But just as they were about to enter, the doors swung open.



Out walked a guy in a Zhongshan suit, his hair parted sharply down the middle. He had a bit of a pot belly and an oddly oily, sleazy aura about him. That was Marvel.



Dinello didn’t know him personally—but from the hairstyle, the uniform, and that unmistakable aura, he figured the guy had to be a fellow student from their school. Probably from another class.



He also caught a glimpse of two suspicious figures crouching behind the trash bin nearby. At first, he thought, Wait—are those two trying to make out back there? But then he noticed the way they stared nervously at Marvel. After a second glance, Dinello shook his head. No… they’re hiding from someone. They’re clearly trying to avoid that guy.



One was a beautiful young woman in her early twenties. The other was an extremely old-looking man in a faded 1950s-style railroad worker uniform—bony, wrinkled, and ghostly pale. That was Lawson.



Dinello stepped forward and casually blocked Marvel’s path.



“Hey there, same school, right?” Dinello said, squinting. “But from the look on your face, I gotta say—maybe you’re learning martial arts for the wrong reasons. You shouldn’t be out here bullying helpless old men.”



Marvel turned his head slowly. His expression was pure innocence—soft, confused, and completely blank. He looked at Dinello with wide, honest eyes and replied in a soft, puzzled voice:



“Are you… talking to me? I don’t understand anything you just said. I never bully anyone. I’m a good boy.”



Dinello blinked, then gave a shrug and stepped aside.“Whatever. Some people just learn kung fu so they can beat up the weak. That’s just how the world is, I guess.”



Marvel calmly walked away, completely unbothered.



Only after he’d gone did the two figures behind the trash bin finally emerge.



Lawson muttered under his breath,“That beast… If he saw me with a girl again, he’d lose his mind and turn into a damn animal. Ugh. I’m done. I’m not dealing with that today.”



Dinello glanced over and waved at them.“Hey, you two are safe now. The bully’s gone.”



He paused, eyeing the strange couple, then smirked.



“By the way, old geezer… for someone your age, pulling such a young, pretty girlfriend? That’s… impressive. Congrats, I guess?”



Lawson’s face twisted in offense.



“What the hell are you talking about? I’m only eighteen!”



Dinello froze.



“…Say what?”



He turned slowly toward Kyle, then rubbed his chin in deep thought. After a moment, he nodded to himself.



“You know what… maybe that checks out,” he muttered. “My buddy Kyle over here isn’t even thirty yet, but he already looks twice his age. I guess some people are just born looking old…”



He looked into the distance with strange clarity, then nodded again.



“…Make sense.”







Prank Gone Wrong



Dinello and Kyle finally stepped into McDonald’s—but to their dismay, the line stretched all the way to the door.



Their stomachs grumbled in protest. Still, with no other option, they joined the long line and waited.



Barely a minute passed before Kyle muttered, “Ugh… I really need to pee. You stay in line. I’ll go find the bathroom.”



“Go,” Dinello replied casually. “I got you.”



Kyle trotted off toward the restroom.



Several minutes ticked by. Dinello stood alone in line, growing increasingly bored and impatient.



He sighed, glancing at the bathroom.“What’s taking that kid so long? He’s young—his kidneys shouldn’t be that slow…”



Just then, another figure joined the line behind him.



It was Sean—the so-called Local Hero.



He stood tall in his signature look: white button-down shirt half undone, revealing a lean, toned chest. Draped over his shoulders was a flowing red cape. One side of his fringe dipped over a silver earring and partially covered one eye, giving him a mysterious air.



He crossed his arms and waited patiently, silent and composed. The line crept forward inch by inch, now nearly stretching outside the entrance.



Eventually, Kyle returned—clearly flustered.



“All the urinals were broken,” he complained. “Only one was working. I had to wait forever.”



Dinello smirked.



He was so bored, he decided to pull a prank.



As Kyle took his place in line, Dinello acted like he didn’t know him. With a scowl, he pointed and shouted,“Hey! How dare you cut the line?!”



Without giving Kyle a chance to react, Dinello grabbed his friend by the collar.



Kyle stared at him in total confusion.“Huh? Wha—?”



Before he could finish, Dinello yanked him backward—hard.



Way too hard.



He had underestimated his own strength… and completely overestimated Kyle’s physical resilience.



Kyle was flung horizontally across the restaurant—flying a good five or six meters through the air.



He crashed into a wall, bounced off, and landed upside down in a large trash bin. His butt and hips were inside the bin, while his limbs and head hung limp outside like a discarded puppet.



He was out cold.



The whole restaurant fell silent.



Dinello froze, eyes wide. He scratched his head awkwardly and muttered,“…Oops.”



Just then, footsteps approached from behind.



A firm hand landed on Dinello’s shoulder.



It was Sean.



“This is uncalled for,” Sean said, his voice calm but firm. “No matter what he did, you don’t treat an old man like that.”



Dinello blinked.“Old man?”



Sean continued coldly,“Using violence on a senior citizen—shame on you.”



Dinello turned to face him. He instantly picked up on Sean’s hostility.



He didn’t bother explaining.



He slapped Sean’s hand off his shoulder.



The two locked eyes.



Tension snapped into the air like a charged wire. The crowd in the restaurant sensed it too.



A fight was about to break out.







Offscreen KO Again



The moment was still.



Dinello and Sean stared each other down. Neither moved, neither blinked. There was no shouting, no dramatic speech—just silent pressure building between them like a storm ready to break.



Then—Sean made the first move.



He shot forward with sudden speed, striking out with a sharp right fist. Dinello raised both arms and blocked the hit cleanly. The two were locked, testing each other’s strength in the middle of the McDonald’s.



Near the front of the line, a middle-aged woman was holding her daughter—a curious little girl around three years old—in her arms. The girl pointed at the two men, eyes wide with wonder.



“Mama, mama, which uncle do you think will win?”



Her mother chuckled softly.



“I don’t know… they both look pretty badass.”



Suddenly, the girl’s attention shifted. She pointed toward the window.



“Mama! Look! That uncle outside is pooping!”



Everyone turned to look.



Out on the sidewalk, a tall, scruffy man in filthy clothes was squatting next to the curb, pants around his ankles, his bare butt in full view. It was Tom.



He mumbled to himself as he strained:



“You gotta go… when you gotta go…”



Just as something terrible was about to launch from Tom’s rear, the woman quickly turned her daughter’s head away from the window and covered her eyes.



By the time they looked back inside—



The fight was already over.



Dinello’s palm had landed a clean karate chop to the back of Sean’s neck. Sean collapsed instantly, unconscious on the floor.



Without missing a beat, Dinello walked over, picked him up, and gently sat him at a nearby table. He leaned Sean’s limp body forward, resting it against the edge as if he were just tired. For good measure, Dinello even placed a cigarette between his lips.



To anyone walking by, it looked like a regular customer taking a quiet smoke break.



Soon after, an ambulance arrived.



Kyle, still knocked out from earlier, was wheeled away on a stretcher.



In the end—they never got to eat McDonald’s.


Chapter 44: Kyle, the Loner
==================================================

The Hospital Visit



The next day, Dinello arrived at the hospital holding Jessica’s hand.



But he wasn’t quite sure if bringing her along was the right move. The closer they got, the more uneasy he felt. He kept thinking—What if Kyle sees her and feels jealous? What if it makes things awkward between us?



Deep down, he just had a bad feeling about introducing Jessica to Kyle. He couldn’t explain why. It just didn’t sit right.



They stepped into the hospital lobby.



Dinello stopped and turned to her.



“Jessica, I… I really don’t feel great about this. I don’t know how Kyle’s going to react. He’s never even hit a girl before—he’s not that kind of guy. But still…”



Jessica pouted and clung to his arm.



“I’ve been with you for so long, and you’ve never introduced me to any of your friends,” she whined. “If I’m really your girlfriend, shouldn’t I meet them?”



Her voice softened into that familiar, spoiled tone she used whenever she wanted something.



They bickered for a few minutes near the elevator, but then Dinello made up his mind.



“Alright. You wait here. Please. I’ll be back really soon.”



Jessica sighed, rolled her eyes, and gave in.



“Okay, fine…”



She plopped down on one of the lobby benches, picked up a random newspaper, and started flipping through the pages to pass the time.



Meanwhile, Dinello headed upstairs and made his way toward Kyle’s room.



When he entered, he saw Kyle leaning over the small table attached to his hospital bed, scribbling something in a notebook.



Dinello let out a breath of relief.



Kyle looked a lot better than he’d imagined—no broken bones, no internal bleeding, no signs of concussion. If things stayed this way, he’d probably be discharged soon.



Dinello placed a small bouquet of flowers on the side table near the bed.



It was a bundle of white chrysanthemums. He hadn’t really known what kind of flowers were appropriate for visiting a patient, so he just grabbed the first decent-looking bunch he saw.



Without even looking up, Kyle greeted him casually.



“Hey, bro. You came early, huh? That’s real thoughtful of you.”



Dinello’s chest loosened a bit. He smiled. So he’s not mad after all.



“You’re… not angry?” he asked, still unsure.



Kyle shook his head. “Nah. It was just a misunderstanding. I know you like pulling dumb pranks. It’s fine.”



Dinello smiled for real this time.



He really is a good guy, he thought. A friend worth keeping.







The Silent Brainwash



Dinello stood beside Kyle’s hospital bed, watching his old friend lean forward, elbows on the fold-out tray, scribbling away with intense focus.



“Hey, what the fuck are you writing?” Dinello asked, genuinely curious. “You look like you’re doing homework for a test.”



Kyle didn’t even lift his head. He kept writing as he replied, “Oh, it’s nothing. Pastor Simon punished me. He told me to copy out the Humbleism creed five times.”



Dinello raised an eyebrow. “You serious? What did you do? Break into his house or something?”



Kyle replied calmly, “I masturbated and watched porn the other night.”



Dinello froze for half a second. “…Okay. But like… you’re single. Young. That’s totally normal. How did he even find out?”



“I told him,” Kyle said plainly. “I report everything to him. It’s part of my duty as a follower.”



That hit Dinello like a slap. His casual smirk vanished.



“Dude,” he muttered, voice a little tighter now. “That’s not faith. That’s control.”



He stared at Kyle for a moment, then took a breath, trying not to raise his voice.



“You know what?” Dinello continued, more serious now. “Next time, I’m coming with you to your church. I wanna have a word with this Pastor Simon. Hell, maybe I’ll just blow his kneecaps out. I’m not joking.”



Kyle’s pen stopped mid-sentence. He turned his head, finally meeting Dinello’s eyes—his expression no longer calm.



“That’s not funny,” Kyle said, a rare sharpness in his voice. “If you lay a hand on Pastor Simon… you might end up getting hit by a car someday. Just… lying on the road. Dead. That’s how fate works.”



Dinello blinked, caught off guard by the sudden intensity.



It wasn’t just a warning—it was a belief. Like Kyle genuinely thought some divine consequence would punish anyone who disrespected Simon.



Dinello stared at him. His heart dropped a little.



He saw it now—not devotion, not enlightenment… but something else.



It wasn’t Kyle’s usual clueless optimism. It was a foggy calm, the kind that comes from being wrapped too tightly in someone else’s idea of righteousness.



It was deeper than just belief—it was dependence.



Dinello sighed and leaned back.



This wasn’t just about religion anymore. Kyle had gone too far into something that didn’t feel right.



He looked at Kyle’s serious, almost childlike expression—the way he held his pen so earnestly, copying each line like it was a sacred ritual.



“…Maybe what you need isn’t more creed,” Dinello thought, “maybe what you need… is a damn girlfriend.”



He didn’t say it aloud.



But as he watched his friend keep writing—so obedient, so devoted—he made a silent vow.



I’ll pull you out of this, bro. Somehow.







The Unexpected Visitor



The hospital room fell into a long, awkward silence. Kyle sat at the little tray table attached to the hospital bed, quietly finishing the last of his assigned copying. His handwriting was careful, almost elegant—each stroke written with devotion.



When he was done, he placed the notebook aside, took a breath, and looked up at Dinello.



“So… what’s your plan next?” Kyle asked. “Joey’s already married. You’ve got to start catching up.”



Dinello gave a faint smile. In his heart, he thought, Aside from being brainwashed and overly pious, Kyle’s honestly a good guy.



He shrugged. “What about you? Joey’s off the board—what’s your next move?”



Kyle chuckled softly and shook his head.



“I’m just going with the flow now. Girls these days have such high standards… it’s tough. My family’s tried introducing dozens of girls. Friends, church people, everyone’s tried. But no one ever works out. Nobody ever seems to like me.”



He gave a small sigh.



“I guess it’s just the two of us losers left now.”



Dinello paused. He felt a twinge of guilt. This was the moment he knew he couldn’t keep lying. He looked at Kyle—so honest, so sincere—and decided he had to tell the truth, even if it came out awkwardly.



He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text message. Less than two minutes later, someone knocked gently at the hospital door.



“Come in,” Dinello called.



The door creaked open.



In walked a tall, striking young woman, wearing a smart Zhongshan suit with her long hair tied neatly in a ponytail. Her presence lit up the room instantly.



“I want to introduce someone,” Dinello said, standing up. “This is Jessica. My girlfriend.”



Kyle blinked in disbelief. His eyes widened with surprise, and he sat up straighter. After a few seconds of stunned silence, he managed a smile.



“Wow… your girlfriend is really pretty. Congrats, man.”



Dinello scratched the back of his head, a little sheepish.



“Actually… we just got together a couple of days ago,” he said—offering a harmless little lie. He didn’t want Kyle to think he’d been hiding the relationship all along.



Kyle suddenly became animated, his usual calm replaced by cheerful chatter.



“You lucky dog!” he said with a grin. “Seriously, good for you!”



The three of them ended up chatting warmly for the next twenty minutes. The tension faded, replaced by laughter and lighthearted stories.



Eventually, it was time to go. They said their goodbyes with smiles.



And just like that—it felt like a good day.



Should I Save Him?



Dinello held Jessica’s hand as they stepped out of the hospital and onto the bustling city street. A breeze rolled by, brushing past them like a sigh of relief. He felt lighter—like a weight had been lifted from his chest. Finally, the secret was out. No more lies. No more hiding. Just honesty.



Jessica gave his hand a little squeeze, smiling up at him.“See? Your friend isn’t anything like you imagined. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t petty. You made him out to be way worse than he actually is.”



Dinello chuckled under his breath, half embarrassed. “Yeah… guess I did.”



They walked side by side, casually heading back the way they came, blending into the weekend crowd. But then Dinello stopped walking.



Jessica looked at him curiously. “What’s wrong?”



He looked down at the sidewalk for a moment, then back at the hospital behind them.



“I don’t know… I just keep thinking… Kyle’s lost. I mean—he’s gone way too deep into this whole blind devotion thing. He’s brainwashed. It’s not normal. I feel like… I should go back and pull him out.”



He paused, conflicted.



“But then again, maybe it’s not my place. I mean, he seems happy, right? He’s got something to believe in. Something to hold on to. And his health’s not the best. His mental state’s fragile. Maybe I should just let him be…”



Jessica didn’t say anything. She understood this was something Dinello had to wrestle with himself.



The day carried on like normal. They went out on their usual date—Western food, bubble tea, a round or two of Arkane at the arcade. But all throughout the day, Jessica could sense Dinello wasn’t really there. His eyes kept drifting. His mind was somewhere else.



She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.



She knew exactly who he was thinking about.



Later that night, they returned to Jessica’s apartment. A romance movie played softly on the TV, casting dim light across the room. Dinello sat beside her on the couch, still distracted, his eyes unfocused.



Finally, Jessica reached over and pulled his head gently into her lap. She stroked his hair with slow, steady motions.



“Babe… if there’s something on your mind, just say it,” she said softly. “I don’t know if I can help, but I hate seeing you like this. You’re usually such a goofy guy. But today… it’s like your heart’s somewhere else. Don’t bottle it up, okay?”



Dinello looked up at her, took a breath—and then broke into a comically exaggerated goofy face.



“Me? I’m fine! Nothing at all!”



They both burst into laughter. The tension popped like a balloon. He tickled her ribs, and she smacked his shoulder. They play-fought, teased, and tangled like kids—just a couple in love, making the most of a complicated day.







The Endless Battle



In the deep stillness of the night, when the city’s noise had long faded and the world outside seemed to hold its breath, Dinello and Jessica were locked in a rhythm that had lasted for hours. The curtains barely moved in the soft breeze from the slightly open window, and only the faint buzz of the refrigerator reminded them that the world still turned.



They kissed—fierce and in sync, again and again. Their bodies moved together in a choreography of passion and searching. It wasn’t just lust. They were trying to communicate something raw and wordless. Every push and pull, every gasp and grasp, carried the weight of unspoken emotions.



Even though Dinello’s hips never lost their pace, Jessica could sense it—his mind wasn’t fully there. She noticed the way his eyes occasionally lost focus, like they were staring at something far away. But she didn’t stop him. She wrapped her arms around his back tighter, anchoring him to the present.



At one point, as she rode him with growing intensity, her breathing ragged, Jessica reached forward with one hand and gently pinched his nipple, teasing him with a smirk. Then, as she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his ear, she whispered between panting breaths, “You don’t have to carry everything yourself… I mean it.”



Her voice softened, more tender now. “If you’re okay with it… I’ll tell you what I think. I think you should let him be. Everyone has their own path. And if he looks happy… maybe that’s enough.”



Her touch, her warmth, the earnest look in her eyes—these weren’t just words. They were truth, spoken in a way that cut through everything clouding his mind.



And suddenly, something clicked inside him.



Maybe he had been too obsessed with fixing someone who didn’t want to be fixed. Maybe Jessica was right. Maybe it was time to just let go.



His usual goofy grin made a quiet comeback.



He reached up and cupped both of her breasts, playfully tickling the nipples with his thumbs. She gasped in surprise and grinned, but before she could tease him back, he flipped her over and pinned her to the bed. The grin stayed on his face, but now it was mixed with desire—raw and focused.



He was back.



He was Dinello again.



They kissed again—hungrier, deeper. Their bodies tangled, rolled, grinded. They gave everything to each other, again and again, until the night outside finally began to fade into a pale morning glow.



At last, the room fell quiet.



Their sweaty bodies wrapped tightly together, the sheets barely hanging onto the edge of the bed. Jessica’s fingers rested lightly against his chest as they both drifted off.



They slept deeply, without worry, without walls.



It wasn’t just physical release. It was the release of pressure, doubt, and weight they had both been carrying. In each other’s arms, they found a rare kind of peace.



And for the first time in days, they truly rested.







The Big Red Exclamation Mark



The noon sun spilled into the apartment, flooding the bedroom with a harsh, honest brightness. Dinello and Jessica were still in bed. Her head rested peacefully on his chest, rising and falling with his breath.



Dinello slowly opened his eyes, blinking a few times. His first instinct wasn’t to kiss her or stretch—but to grab his phone from the nightstand. Carefully, without waking her, he started typing a message to Kyle.



But Jessica stirred. Her eyes opened halfway, and she smiled sleepily.



“Hmm… you think about Kyle more than you think about me,” she murmured, half-joking, half-curious.



Dinello grinned and slipped a hand under the blanket. His palm found her breast and gave it a slow, deliberate squeeze.



“I think about you more than anyone,” he whispered.



Then, with a teasing smirk, he gently tickled her nipple with two fingers.



Jessica let out a soft gasp, then giggled and swatted at his hand. “Stop that,” she whispered, face warming.



Dinello chuckled and turned back to his phone. He typed:



“You feeling better today? Hope you’re doing okay.”



He hit send.



A moment passed. Then another.



Jessica gently stroked Dinello’s cheek, her voice soft. “So… did he reply?”



Dinello’s face froze. His eyes stayed locked on the screen. He didn’t speak.



Curious, Jessica crawled up onto his chest and peeked over his shoulder. Her eyes landed on the screen just in time to see it:



A big red exclamation mark.“Message failed to send. You’ve been blocked by the recipient.”



Jessica’s smile slowly faded.



Neither of them said a word.







On the other side of the city, in a dim, suffocating room with no light except the thin rays sneaking past the blinds, Kyle sat alone in the dark. No music. No screens. Just stillness.



He sat hunched on the edge of his bed, arms resting limply on his knees. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper, directed to no one but the stale air around him.



“Looks like I’m the last one… the only loser left in the whole damn world.”



He laughed once, dry and bitter.



“I’m all alone again.”



He paused.



“Only Pastor Simon understands. Only he sees me. From now on, I’ll follow him. I’ll give everything to him.”



He stood up slowly, almost robotically, and shuffled across the room. From the nightstand, he picked up a bottle of antidepressants, poured a few into his palm, and swallowed them.



Then he climbed back onto the bed and lay flat on his back—eyes wide open, unmoving—gazing at the ceiling with a vacant expression.



His jealousy festered beneath the surface like rot under skin.


Chapter 45: Attack on the Cult
==================================================

Cemen Must Pay



Dinello wandered out of Jessica’s apartment and onto the main street. His steps were slow, aimless. Eventually, without realizing it, he passed the entrance of a sketchy-looking church. On the worn-down sign above the door, faded letters read:



Humbleism Church.



His body was still sore.Last night, he and Jessica had battled in bed almost until dawn.He yawned a little, not really caring about anything around him.But as he shuffled forward, he overheard two guys talking nearby.



“I donated fifty grand to this church last year,” one said proudly.



“Fifty grand?!” the other gasped. “You only make forty a year!”



“Yeah,” the first guy nodded. “I took out a bank loan. I had to give myself fully to Pastor Simon. He’s like a second father to me.”



The other guy looked stunned.Then asked, “Well… what about you? How much did you donate?”



The second guy lowered his head, a bit ashamed.He held up a hand and made a circle with his fingers. “Zero.”



The first guy stared at him in disgust. “Say what? How could you?”



But the second guy raised his chin, suddenly proud.“I didn’t donate money,” he said. “I gave something else. Something maybe even more important.”



He paused dramatically, then declared:



“I donated my wife to Pastor Simon.”



The first guy’s eyes went wide. Then he placed a respectful hand on his shoulder.



“Oh my God… you’re on another level.”



Dinello, still soaked in the afterglow of love and exhaustion, suddenly froze.That line—“donated my wife to Pastor Simon”—shook something loose inside him.



He pictured Jessica, under Simon’s filthy thighs.His mind went dark.He didn’t let the image continue.



His body moved before he could think.He stormed up to the second guy, grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him into the air with one hand.The guy’s feet kicked helplessly, like he was jogging in midair.



“Hey—what are you doing, man?!” the guy cried out. “Are you crazy?! I don’t even know you!”



Dinello looked up at his face.That same innocent, naive expression…



It reminded him of Kyle.That old friend—The one who’d blocked him just this morning.



Something softened in Dinello.He gently set the guy back down.



But his fists were still clenched.His eyes burned as he stared at the doors of Humbleism Church.



He muttered under his breath, low and furious:



“Cemen. That bastard pastor Cemen… I’ll beat him up and fuck you good. Right here. Right now.”



You didn’t mishear.



He didn’t say Simon.He always called him Cemen.Partly because he mispronounced it.Mostly because he meant it as the deepest disrespect.







The Pastor Gets Lifted



Dinello marched straight into the church like he owned the place.



The doors creaked open, and the air inside was weirdly humid—like a gym mixed with incense. Right at the front of the sanctuary, standing beneath a giant golden symbol of “Humbleism,” was a man.



Short hair. Glowing, almost steamed-looking face.Thick black-rimmed glasses.A tight white dress shirt that couldn’t hide the absurd bulk of his chest.



Rumor had it that Pastor Simon had C-cup pecs.Looking at them now, Dinello wasn’t so sure—Those things looked like Ds, maybe even Es.And the rest of his body? Carved muscle lines everywhere.



There was no doubt.That had to be Simon.



Dinello wasn’t thinking about Kyle anymore.Not directly.



What enraged him now was what he had heard on the street.




A man who made only forty grand had donated fifty to the church.Another had given his wife to Pastor Simon like she was a damn offering.




This wasn’t faith.It was fraud.It was degeneracy in the name of righteousness.



And Dinello had seen enough.



Without a word, he stormed up to the pulpit, grabbed Simon by the collar, and lifted him into the air.



Simon’s legs kicked helplessly, twitching like he was jogging in place.



“Help me! Help me!” Simon shrieked.“Somebody help me! There’s a pervert over here!”



Dinello’s expression darkened.



“Who the hell are you calling pervert?”



Then, without hesitation, he grabbed Simon’s white shirt and ripped it wide open.



Fabric tore like paper.Muscles bounced free.



But that wasn’t the shocking part.



Underneath… was a padded pink bra.



Dinello blinked.



Simon was wearing a large, glossy pink bra—tight around his sweaty chest, the straps digging into his shoulder meat like lingerie on a Thanksgiving turkey.



The sight was…Stupid.Strange.Deeply wrong.



Simon gasped. The moment was too much.Too fast.Too exposing.



A strange noise slipped from his throat.His eyes fluttered.



And then—He moaned.



Dinello stood there, frozen. “…Did you just moan?”



Simon’s glasses slid down his nose.His face was turning red.His voice cracked, rising into a high-pitched shriek:



“Help me! Help—! Help—!”



But it was too late.His vocal cords gave out.The constant screeching had shredded them raw.



Now, even his screams were just air.Silent, wheezy air.



He dangled in Dinello’s grip like a broken puppet with boobs.



Dinello looked him up and down—pink bra and all—and shook his head slowly.



“One grown-ass man. Screaming like a teenage girl. Wearing a damn pink bra.”



“You call yourself a pastor?”







Pink Bra’s Final Sermon



Dinello didn’t hesitate.With the man still suspended in the air, he reached out and yanked off the pink bra in one violent motion.



The padded garment snapped free like a rubber band.Then, with a flick of his wrist, Dinello hurled it into the air.



It spiraled across the sanctuary like a flying piece of shame.



The moment it left his hand, the entire church gasped.Dozens of stunned believers had gathered at the edges of the hall, drawn by the shouting.



The man was still flailing in the air, chest exposed, mouth open, but no sound came out anymore.His throat was wrecked from earlier. His screams had died into silent wheezes.



But he didn’t stop struggling.In fact, he fought even harder.



Dinello’s grip tightened as the man thrashed violently in his hand.Even Dinello—built like a street-brawler ox—felt the weight.




“Damn… this one’s heavier than expected.”




He stared at the sweaty, twitching figure.At the sagging, overinflated pecs.



Then he said aloud:



“You worked so hard to build up your chest… for what?”“What are you? Trying to pretend you’re a woman?”



He narrowed his eyes, took a closer look.



Holy shit.



The “pecs” were sagging.Soft.Round.



And the nipples—dark, swollen, ridiculously oversized.



This wasn’t a chest.It was a pair of breasts.



But not firm, athletic ones.



These looked like aged, drooping milk bags—the kind worn down by gravity, time, and maybe too many prayers.



Dinello’s face twisted in horror and confusion.




“Wait a minute… what the hell is this…”




Before he could finish the thought, a voice cried out behind him:



“What the fuck are you doing here?!”



Dinello turned.



It was Kyle—storming toward him, eyes wide with fury.



“You just beat up Betty! What the hell is wrong with you?!”“She’s one of the most loyal members of our church!”



Dinello’s expression froze.His confusion turned into disbelief.



“Say what?”“You’re telling me… this short-haired, muscle-packed, square-jawed man… is a woman?”“Isn’t this bastard Pastor Cemen?!”



Kyle pointed to the far end of the sanctuary.



There, standing calmly in glowing light, was another figure.



White shirt.Black slacks.Big-framed glasses.Short hair.A calm, radiant presence.



He didn’t flinch.He just glowed.



Kyle said, with almost reverence in his voice:



“That’s our real pastor.”“That’s Simon.”



Dinello slowly turned back toward the figure still hanging in his grip.



He looked at the sagging breasts again.Then the face—sweaty, twitching, smeared in makeup.



No matter how he looked at it…It didn’t feel like a woman.It didn’t feel like a man either.



It felt like something else entirely.Something unnatural.Something wrong.



Dinello’s face darkened.



He drew all his Qi into his fist like stormclouds gathering behind a mountain.



And then—



BOOM.



He punched upward, slamming his knuckles directly into the person’s head.



There was a crack.A shudder.And then—



Pop.



The skull exploded.Like a water balloon full of soup.



Blood sprayed upward like a broken firework.



Chunks hit the ceiling.Flesh rained down over the pews.



The church fell silent.



Dinello stood there, breathing heavily, his fist still clenched.



He muttered coldly:



“If he was a woman… why didn’t he tell me from the start?”



Then, through gritted teeth:



“Fuck him.”







QR Code Redemption



Dinello didn’t walk toward the real Simon.



Instead, he took two slow steps forward, turned to Kyle, and without a word, grabbed him by the collar and lifted him into the air.



Kyle’s legs kicked wildly, flailing like he was jogging in place.



“What are you doing?! Are you crazy, Dinello?!” he shrieked, his voice cracking.



But Dinello’s rage was boiling—not just from the mistaken identity, not just from the fake pastor, not even from the pink bra incident.It was this guy.Kyle.The guy who blocked him just this morning.



“You blocked me?!” Dinello shouted. “You really blocked me?! You son of a bitch!”



Kyle’s eyes went wide. His body tensed. And then—



His pants darkened.



A long, shameful stream flowed straight down the inside of his legs, soaking through the bottom of his pants. It wasn’t subtle. It was a full spray, dripping to the floor in loud splashes.



The puddle formed quickly beneath him, spreading like an inkblot of fear.



Kyle’s voice quivered.“I—I didn’t mean to! It was a slip finger! I didn’t mean it, I swear!”



Dinello squinted.“Slip finger…?”He wasn’t that gullible.Who the hell accidentally deletes someone from their friend list and blocks them?



But just as he was about to yell again, Kyle, still trembling in midair, reached a shaking hand into his pocket and pulled out a brand new smartphone.



“H-h-here! Just scan me again!” he said, voice cracking. “Let’s add each other back! Please, man! Please!”



He tapped frantically, and a bright QR code popped up on the screen.



The churchgoers all around them began to chant.



“Add him back! Add him back! Add him back!”



Their voices grew louder.Their hands raised high.They swayed like a cult choir high on groupthink.



“Just be friends again, man!” someone shouted.“It’s no big deal! Just accept the friend request!”“Forgiveness is power!”



The pressure of the crowd pushed inward.Dozens of eyes stared at Dinello.Dozens of hands pointed to the glowing QR code in Kyle’s trembling hand.



Dinello sighed.Sometimes, crowd energy is stronger than rage.



He slowly lowered Kyle to the ground.



Kyle’s legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees—but still held the phone high above his head, like a sacred offering.



Dinello pulled out his phone.



One beep.One scan.Friend request accepted.



The app flashed:“You are now friends with Kyle.”



Just like that… the tension vanished.



Two childhood friends, now reconnected.One soaked in his own pee.The other still full of unresolved rage.



But friends, nonetheless.



Sometimes, that’s all it takes.



Friendship, after all, is stronger than fists.Long live friendship.Long live the QR code.



The Fury Punch



From the back of the crowd, a voice rang out—booming, righteous, and unnatural.




“I am the absolute righteousness.I am your faith.I am the embodiment of the holy light.I am your destiny.”




Everyone turned.



Some disciples stepped to the side with solemn reverence, parting like curtains to reveal a glowing figure hovering in midair.



There he was—Simon.



Arms gently spread like an open embrace.Body floating two meters off the ground.Every inch of him radiated with golden light.



Dinello blinked.



“What the fuck is that?”



A nearby disciple whispered with trembling awe,




“That… is our divine pastor.”




Dinello stared in disbelief.



A floating man. Glowing skin.A holy presence straight out of a fantasy novel.



He narrowed his eyes.



“No way… is that one of the Golden Techniques?”



He thought about it again.Maybe that’s why even a dumbass like Kyle would donate money.Hell—donate his wife.



But then Dinello looked closer.



Two nearly invisible wires were attached to Simon’s hips.From above, blinding spotlights blasted downward.And the robe—some kind of synthetic material that reflected every photon it touched.



He squinted.



Then slowly, a smirk crawled across his face.



“I see.”



He bent down, channeling all his qi into his right arm.His body tensed.Fist tight.Eyes locked.



Then—boom.He launched forward, sliding across the floor like a missile—his qi pushing his body like rocket fuel.



Simon was still floating, still basking in his self-made glory.Still posing.Still cool.



He had no idea what was coming.



Dinello’s fist slammed into his chest.



Crack.



The impact echoed through the sanctuary like a gunshot.



Simon’s fake holiness shattered in an instant.His whole body flew backward like a ragdoll, smashing through the stained-glass window behind him.



Glass exploded outward in a halo of shattered light.



In the air, Simon spit a mouthful of blood, his limbs twitching mid-flight.Then—gone.



Dinello stood still, eyes fixed on his own fist.He could still feel the aftershock in his knuckles.




That wasn’t just a punch.That was rage. That was justice.That was 150% of his power.




If an ordinary man had taken that hit,They’d be dead.Survival chance: 1% or less.



He exhaled softly, turned his head.



The entire congregation had vanished.



Just moments ago, the disciples were shouting. Chanting.Now they were scattering like ants—desperate to flee the crumbling illusion.



Within seconds, Dinello was the only one left.



He stood alone in the center of the ruined church.



He looked toward the broken window where Simon had vanished.



Then he whispered, calm and final:



“It’s done for the day.”







Son of a Glitch



In a narrow alley behind the church, near a pile of trash,a figure lay crumpled—his clothes torn, his skin bruised.



It was Simon.



Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.He slowly stood, swaying slightly, clutching his ribs.




“If it weren’t for my man boobs,” he muttered,“I would’ve been killed by that punch.”“These things absorbed at least 70% of the impact.”




He spat again and wiped his mouth.




“I didn’t expect that bastard to sucker punch me.Next time… if it’s one-on-one,I’m not so sure I’d lose.”








Meanwhile, across the city…



Dinello had returned to Jessica’s apartment.



He stepped inside to find her in the kitchen,wearing an apron, stir-frying dinner like a picture of calm domestic bliss.



He walked up behind her and gently wrapped his arms around her waist.




“Hey babe,” he whispered.“You know what good news I got today?”




Jessica raised an eyebrow without turning around.




“Hmm… you won the lottery?Or scored a new girlfriend?”




Dinello chuckled.




“Kyle added me back.”




Jessica turned, confused.




“What? That doesn’t make sense…”




He pulled out his phone and showed her.



There it was—Kyle’s name, right there in the contacts list.



Jessica blinked, surprised.




“Whoa… it’s real. I can’t believe it.I don’t know what happened between you two,but seeing you this happy… I’m happy for you too.”




Dinello opened his chat with Kyle.



He began typing:




“Hey Kyle, I’m home now, getting ready to eat.Have you eaten yet, my old friend?”




He pressed send.



The screen froze for a beat.



Then—a massive red exclamation mark popped up.



Below it, in brutal familiarity:




“Message not delivered.You are no longer in the recipient’s friend list.”




Dinello’s face darkened instantly.



His fingers clenched.His jaw locked.



Then, trembling with fury, he shouted:




“Onii shou ragiaaan! Gou lagi rabu kou!!”“Son of bitch!!”




Even Dinello was speaking alien nonsense out of rage.


Chapter 46: Humbleism (Part 1)
==================================================

Kyle the Ghoster



It had been another intense battle in bed.



Dinello and Jessica had gone at it all night—limbs tangled, energy drained. By noon the next day, Dinello was still fast asleep—snoring softly, completely wiped out.



Suddenly—WOOF WOOF!



His phone barked like an evil dog. That was his custom notification sound—a twisted canine howl that shattered the silence and jerked him awake.



Eyes barely open, Dinello yawned a few times, groped around the nightstand until he found his phone. He squinted at the screen…



Then he jumped out of bed like he’d been struck by lightning.




“Holy crap! I don’t believe it!”




The outburst startled Jessica. Her eyes were still closed, but she mumbled half-asleep:




“What happened? Why are you yelling?”




Without answering, she turned over and went right back to sleep.



Dinello stared at his phone.



It was a message from Kyle.



Kyle—the old friend who had blocked him just three days ago without warning. The guy who had cut him off with nothing but a silent red exclamation point.



But now… Kyle messaged first.




Hey bro. Are you free at 1PM today? Want to catch up?




Dinello’s eyes softened. He sat on the bed, lips curling into a nostalgic smile.




“Old friends… stay old friends.A friendship boat doesn’t just capsize that easily.”




He typed back quickly:




I’ll be there. 1PM sharp.




Not even one second passed before Kyle responded:




Awesome. See you soon.




Dinello smiled. He started typing again, slower this time:




Sounds good. See you in a bit… pal.




He hit send.



A huge red exclamation mark popped up.



Message failed to send.



Underneath: “You are no longer in this user’s contact list.”



Dinello froze.



Then he let out a quiet:




“…No fucking way.”




His hand trembled. He stared at the screen. His smile disappeared.



Then—WHAM! He threw his phone to the floor.




“SON OF A BITCH!!”




His voice echoed across the room.



Even Jessica flinched under the covers.



And then, from deep within the shadows of heartbreak—



Silence.







Pastor Cemen Returns



It was around 1:00 PM.



Dinello strolled into the park dressed in his usual Zhongshan suit, not a single button fastened. His firm chest and defined abs were fully on display, soaking in the lazy beams of sun filtering through the trees.



This park had shade—lots of it. Tall trees circled the area, casting patches of cool darkness onto the grass. Even on a scorching summer day like this, the air under the canopy was fresh and calm. A soft breeze passed through, lifting Dinello’s loose top like a flag, fluttering gently.



He looked incredible. Confident. Effortless. A warrior out for a peaceful walk.



Under the largest tree stood someone familiar—A short man. Skin pitted with old acne scars. His face looked worn, far older than his years. He said nothing. Just stood there, staring.



It was Kyle.



Dinello stopped in front of him and barked:




“Why did you delete my contact again?!Tell me why. I demand an explanation!”




Kyle’s voice came out cold and robotic.




“I’m just a tool today. I have no personal comments to offer.”




Dinello raised an eyebrow. “What the hell are you talki—”



Suddenly, from behind the tree, a new presence emerged.



A robust man in a pristine white dress shirt stepped into view. The fabric clung tightly around his chest—not from lean definition, but from two massive, jelly-like man boobs bulging under the buttons. He wore ironed slacks and shiny leather shoes. On his face: a pair of large, square-framed glasses, tinted slightly gray.



He walked slowly, deliberately, like someone entering a stage lit just for him.



He smiled.



Then said, in a voice thick with smugness and theatrical flair:




“We meet again… mortal.”




Dinello narrowed his eyes.




“Cemen.”




There was no mistake.



Pastor Cemen had returned.







The Human Shield



Dinello took a step forward, still staring at Kyle—his voice low, confused.




“What happened to you, man…?”




His brows furrowed. There was no trace of malice in his tone—only concern. Even after everything, Dinello still cared.



Kyle didn’t respond. His eyes looked empty. Hollow.



Pastor Simon let out a chilling chuckle.




“Kyle, today you will serve as the Holy Shield.You will offer yourself… to His Majesty, the embodiment of the sacred order.You shall become the divine armor. The sacred barrier.You shall protect the truth.”




Then, dramatically, he raised one hand toward the sky.




“Kyle—in the name of Humbeism—do your thing.”




In an instant, Kyle’s body straightened—unnaturally rigid.



His arms snapped to his sides.His feet pressed together, toes perfectly aligned.Chin raised slightly.Back taut.He stood like a mannequin—or a human plank of steel.



His face was blank. His soul seemed gone.



Dinello flinched.




“No… what are you doing to him?!”




But it was already too late.



Simon reached over and gripped Kyle by the neck—lifting him off the ground effortlessly. He held him up like a riot shield—Kyle’s stiffened frame angled in front of his own body.



Simon’s smile widened with fanatic pleasure.




“Kyle… you are complete.You are now the Holy Tool.The Human Shield.You shall be struck in glory… for the name of Humbeism.”




Dinello’s fists clenched.



His breath grew heavy. His jaw locked in fury.



He bent down into a wide, grounded stance—horse-like.



His qi began to gather.



Energy surged through his arms, veins pulsing with power. His eyes locked onto Simon with one singular thought:



One blow. One strike. One end.







The Mortal’s Hesitation



With a surge of qi beneath his feet, Dinello launched forward, his body gliding like a missile across the dirt.



His eyes locked onto Pastor Simon.



This was it.



A straight, clean punch fueled by anger, speed, and justice.



But Pastor Simon didn’t even flinch.



He stood there calmly, lips curling into a smug, calculated smile.



Then—with theatrical grace—he raised Kyle in front of him.



The human shield.



Dinello’s eyes widened. But it was too late.



He tried everything—slamming his feet into the earth, jamming his heels deep into the soil to stop himself—but the momentum was too strong.



His fist had already flown.



He did what he could. Twisted his body, pulled his strength back—retracted ninety percent of his power in an instant.



But the punch still landed.



Right on Kyle’s face.



A muffled thud echoed.



Kyle’s head jolted slightly.



His face immediately turned purple and blue, swelling up grotesquely. But his eyes… remained empty. His mouth didn’t move. He didn’t scream. He didn’t wince.



Not a single sound.



Just a body. Just a tool. Just… an object.



Dinello stared, trembling.



What the hell have they done to him?



That moment of hesitation cost him.



Pastor Simon’s fist came crashing in—full force—and slammed into Dinello’s face.



WHAM!



Dinello flew backward, dragging through dirt and gravel like a ragdoll, finally skidding to a halt ten meters away. He spat blood, coughing.



The muscle under that pastor’s shirt wasn’t for show.



That power—explosive and unexpected—came from that ridiculous C-cup chest and those creepy shiny glasses.



Dinello gritted his teeth and stood up.



He wiped the blood from his lips and thought:




“How can I land a clean hit on Pastor Simon without hurting Kyle?”




There was no answer.



At least, not yet.



Back on the other side, Pastor Simon cackled with glee, still holding Kyle high above his head like a trophy.




“Is this all the great Dinello can do? This is your limit?I pity you, mortal.”








Total Concentration Breathing



Dinello stood frozen. Bruised. Cornered. Out of options.



His fists clenched, his heart pounded. He stared at the smug, laughing Pastor Simon holding Kyle like a living shield, dangling him as if mocking the idea of resistance.



But then—A flicker.A spark in Dinello’s mind.



Jessica.



He pictured her—Zhongshan suit fluttering, her ponytail swaying behind her back. Calm. Focused. The glint of her katana resting against her spine.



Then another image surged forward—His master, Mario.Charging at full speed, sprinting alongside a bullet train, his face as sharp as steel, a sword at his waist, eyes filled with purpose.



“That’s it,” Dinello whispered.He saw it now. He felt it.



With new clarity, he pulled something from his pocket.A tiny folding knife. Barely the size of his finger.A cheap can-opener style spring blade.



But to him—it was enough.He didn’t need a perfect weapon. He just needed perfect form.



His breath steadied.He focused.




“Ta… Sun… Fu… Si…”





“Total Breathing. Concentration. Second Form—Lightning Snake.”




He ran.



But not in a straight line.



He zigzagged—erratic and unpredictable—his movements slithering like a serpent, flashing like lightning, each step impossibly fast and curved.Pastor Simon’s eyes darted wildly, struggling to track him.




“What the hell—?!” Pastor Simon hissed.




Then Dinello vanished behind a tree.




“OH SHIT!!” Simon screamed.




It was already too late.



Dinello was behind him.He had completely bypassed the Human Shield.



He raised the tiny spring blade, holding it like a sacred sword, and shouted:




“Third Form – Shadow Strike!!”




A blur. A flash. A clean cut.



Simon panicked. In desperation, he hurled Kyle to the ground with a loud thud.He spun around to counter—hand raised for a block.



But it was useless.The strike was already descending.



For a split second, right before impact, Simon’s eyes widened—



And in them, he saw a single word burning bright:



DEATH.







The Doctrine of Humbeism



Pastor Simon’s pupils widened in terror. His arms dropped, completely abandoning any form of defense. That tiny folding knife was now only five centimeters from his neck.



In that instant, his thoughts raced.




“So this is how it ends… This is the final chapter of my story.”




But just before the blade made contact—



WHAM!



A flying kick came out of nowhere, knocking the knife clean out of Dinello’s hand. In the same fluid motion, a powerful fist slammed into Dinello’s chest, sending him hurtling backward through the air like a broken kite.



He flew thirty meters, then crashed to the ground—rolling and tumbling through the dirt until he came to a gasping stop.



As dust settled, a figure landed with a single knee to the ground—his right fist still extended, the wind still swirling from his descent. It was clear he had just leapt down from somewhere high above.



He wore a crisp white button-up shirt and fitted slacks. In his left hand, he carried a slim document bag. His gold-rimmed glasses glinted in the sun.



It was Michael—from the Humble Organization.



From another tree nearby, a second figure leapt down.



He landed the same way—one knee touching the ground, head lowered. Slowly, he looked up.



A white tank top clung to his athletic frame, and black Nike sweatpants completed the casual yet menacing look. When he lifted his gaze, a glint of golden light shimmered faintly in his eyes.



It was Brian.



Dinello coughed violently, blood pouring from his mouth. But even in pain, he stood back up—wobbly but proud. He smiled bitterly and muttered:




“What kind of wind brought two senior members of the Humble Organization out here today?”




He straightened his back.




“I’m not here on business. I’m here to settle something personal. Please… don’t interfere.”




Michael didn’t blink.



His tone was calm. Even colder than his usual self.




“Humbeism belongs to the Humble Organization.”




He took one step forward.




“And Pastor Simon… belongs to us.”




Then, he said it with finality:




“You messed with the wrong guy.”







Chapter 47: Humbleism (Part 2)
==================================================

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.


Chapter 48: The Humbleism Crusade (Part 1)
==================================================

A New Gospel of Profit



It was a scorching afternoon. Pastor Simon sat alone in a cool ramen shop tucked inside a bustling shopping mall. The air conditioning was strong, the noodles were hot, and his mind was busy.



He wasn’t praying. He was thinking—hard.



How could he help the Humble Organization increase its profits?



As a devoted and ambitious member of the group, he truly cared about its future. His church was running well, with a steady stream of loyal donors, but it had hit a ceiling. There had to be more—new ways to grow, new revenue to tap.



His mind drifted back to a conversation from a few years ago—the day he first stepped down from his role as High Executioner.



He had been sitting across from Colin at headquarters. Colin’s arms were crossed, one leg swinging casually over the other. He stared at Simon with a raised brow and said:




“You sure you wanna give up such a high-level position? It pays pretty damn well.I mean, we’re friends outside work too, so I’m telling you seriously—think it over.”




Simon nodded firmly. “I really don’t like killing people.”



He meant it. Every time he took someone out, he was crushed by guilt afterward. He just wasn’t built for that kind of job. Maybe it was noble work to some—but not to him.



Colin was quiet for a moment. Then he gave a small nod. “Alright. Then come up with a good way to bring in money for the Organization. If you figure something out, let me know.”



And so, Simon found his path.



Being a pastor wasn’t bad at all. He could make money. He could molest young female staff. He had seen enough tabloid scandals to know how often that worked. It seemed like a smart opportunity.So he became what he is today—a successful church leader under the Humble Organization, generating steady income and managing his congregation with firm, fatherly authority.



But in recent years, things had stagnated. Business wasn’t growing.



And lately, things got worse.



Ever since that man-looking woman Betty got her head blown off by Dinero, he had lost one of his biggest, most reliable donors.



Betty used to donate hundreds of thousands a year—without fail. An incredibly dumb believer. A loyal sheep with deep pockets.And now she was gone.



Simon slurped his ramen, face tight with frustration, thinking hard.There had to be another way. Some new source of income.



Just then, he noticed a commotion in the mall.



Two gangster crews were fighting near the food court—punches, yelling, chaos.Turned out it was a turf war. The winning gang forced the others to retreat, and soon after, they began walking around the shops, collecting protection fees from store owners.



Simon’s eyes narrowed.



He tapped the table with his finger and did a quick mental calculation. The mall had over a hundred businesses. If each one paid even a modest fee…



Interesting.



Maybe… just maybe… he could walk into the protection fee business himself.



After all, wasn’t it basically the same as religious donations?



Just a different kind of faith.







The Mall Crusade



The next day, the manager of the shopping mall received a strange letter.



It wasn’t from a tenant.It wasn’t from the city.It was a challenge letter—and it was from Pastor Simon.



In it, Simon formally declared war. He accused the current gangster crew in charge of being “agents of evil,” and stated his intent to take control of the mall in the name of righteousness and faith.



Canelo—the leader of the crew currently running the place—read the letter with a puzzled face.



He wasn’t new to this.In a single year, he’d receive dozens of challenge letters from rival gangs, all trying to take his turf. But this was different.




A letter… from a church?




He frowned.




“What the hell?Are churches broke these days?They trying to snatch protection fees now too?”




Later that same day, in front of a ramen shop inside the mall, four young men stood around smoking. They wore ripped jeans, black hoodies, and each had a cigarette dangling from their lips. They didn’t look particularly dangerous—just scrappy and bored.



Right behind them, a sign on the wall read:NO SMOKING IN THE MALL



Pastor Simon spotted them from across the walkway. He paused.



He recalled something he’d heard:Canelo was always seen wearing a hoodie, with a cigarette in his mouth, and a violent, mean look in his eyes.



Simon narrowed his gaze at the four.




“One of them must be him…”




What surprised him was the size of their crew—just four guys?




“That’s it?Just four people?Pathetic.But no matter.This mall will be ours by sundown.”




He raised his hand into the air, subtly signaling his followers.From the escalator and side corridors, Simon’s disciples began to emerge—dozens of them.



They wore formal white robes, the kind normally worn only during church ceremonies and sacred rituals. But today, those same robes fluttered like battle flags as they moved with purpose.



They weren’t here to worship.



They came to fight.



Simon stepped forward and declared loudly:




“We are the embodiment of justice!Today, we have come to purge this mall of wickedness!We will cleanse this space and claim it as our sacred territory!”




One of the young men dropped his cigarette out of surprise.He looked genuinely spooked. His voice stammered.




“W-We were just… smoking, man…Is that really wicked?”




Simon didn’t even acknowledge him.



He had no interest in explanations.He didn’t come for debate.He came for the turf.



The protection fees were all he cared about. Control of this mall would mean a steady, sacred income stream.



Simon raised both arms, his voice echoing with religious zeal:




“In the name of Humbleism…In the name of faith…We—fight!”




And with that, his robed followers surged forward like holy warriors on a divine mission.







Holy Overkill



The swarm moved like bees.



Simon’s followers rushed in from all directions, overwhelming the four young men in seconds. They didn’t stand a chance. Their casual slouching turned into screams and flailing limbs as they were dragged down like prey.



One follower grabbed a boy by the hair and began slamming his head against the wall—again and again, the impact loud and rhythmic, like a perverse hymn.Another follower pinned a skinny youth against a vending machine and started slapping his face wildly, each slap faster than the last, until the boy’s head jerked like a bobblehead.



One of the young men was dragged, kicking and choking, into a nearby restroom.Inside, three robed followers held him down, forcing his head into a toilet bowl.His face submerged beneath the grimy water. Bubbles frothed to the surface as he kicked violently, his screams reduced to muffled gurgles.



Another boy was thrown to the ground by two more followers. One of them calmly grabbed the boy’s arm, twisted it like a screwdriver, and—



CRACK.



The elbow snapped in a clean spiral. The youth shrieked in agony, his voice echoing through the food court as he writhed on the floor, clutching his ruined arm.



And then—clapping.



A slow, sarcastic round of applause echoed from behind them.




“Wow,” a voice said. “Now that… was a great show.”




Everyone turned.



Standing at the edge of the chaos was a man in a black hoodie, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curled from his mouth as he smirked beneath low-hanging bangs.



Canelo.The real boss.The man they thought was already one of the beaten.



The followers froze in place, momentarily unsure if they had attacked the right people.



Kyle blinked, then turned toward the youth lying on the floor, clutching his snapped arm.



He pointed at him, demanding:




“Who the hell are you guys?”




The injured boy looked up through tears, pale and trembling.




“W-We were just passing by…We ate a bowl of ramen and smoked a little…We didn’t even see the sign!Please… forgive us… we weren’t trying to cause trouble…”




Silence followed.



Canelo exhaled a thin stream of smoke.



Then he lifted his hand.



From beneath benches, inside shops, and behind food stalls, more black-hoodied figures began to appear—his crew.Two dozen at least, emerging like a shadow army. Now the numbers were even.



The two groups stood face to face:Simon’s robed followers vs. Canelo’s street gang.



Tension filled the air.



Kyle stepped forward, chest puffed out, trying to reclaim momentum. He pointed straight at Canelo.




“We are the embodiment of justice!In the name of faith, you evil men will never win!”




Canelo didn’t respond.



He just calmly walked up to Kyle—And slapped him across the face.



Kyle’s entire body lifted from the ground, flying backward as he skidded several meters across the tile floor like a ragdoll.



He landed in a heap.



And then—he began to cry.Loud, wet sobs filled the mall, echoing beneath the flickering fluorescent lights.



Holy Chaos Unleashed



The mall exploded into chaos.



Both sides charged forward, and in seconds, the hallway turned into a full-on street war.



Canelo led the charge, bulldozing through the robed crowd like a wrecking ball. He grabbed the nearest follower by the collar and slammed him straight to the floor, then spun and kicked another so hard he flew across the corridor.



Simon, meanwhile, was swarmed by hoodie-wearing gang members. One youth lunged forward and punched Simon square in the chest—but instead of staggering, Simon’s massive pectoral muscle rippled, then recoiled with a shockwave, sending the attacker flying backward several meters like he’d hit a trampoline made of meat.



Simon didn’t stop there.



He extended both arms and spun on the spot like a divine drill, slamming his fists into two more gangsters, launching them in opposite directions.They crashed through tables and display racks, landing in a tangled heap of broken plastic and bruised limbs.



As the battle reached its peak, Simon suddenly stepped back from the crowd.



His eyes narrowed. He knew the time had come.



He leaned toward a robed follower standing beside him and whispered:




“You will become… a Human Missile.For the glory of Humbleism.In the name of faith.”




The follower immediately snapped to attention, arms stiff at his sides, back ramrod straight. He became still—like a weapon waiting to be launched.



Simon exhaled deeply.



Then, with a grunt of godly effort, he grabbed the rigid follower with both hands and lifted him over his head.His triceps flexed violently, and the fabric of his button-up shirt tore at the sleeves as his muscles swelled with explosive tension.The seams ripped open, baring his arms like a divine executioner unveiling his true form.



With a mighty roar, he hurled the man forward.



The Human Missile soared through the air, legs-first, head trailing behind.He flew like a living spear, slicing through space in a straight line.



When he landed—he landed hard.



His legs slammed into the crowd of black-hoodied youths, knocking over ten or more in a single impact.Bodies flew in all directions—into walls, through glass, smashing into benches and ramen shop counters. Some gangsters crashed straight through storefronts. One or two followers were accidentally hit and knocked out in the crossfire.



The Human Missile finally came to a halt when his legs punched into a tiled wall, collapsing part of it with a thunderous crash.



He lay there, embedded in the rubble.



His legs were broken in several places.



But his mission had succeeded.



The balance shifted.



Canelo’s crew, overwhelmed and outnumbered, began to fall back. The righteous side now had three times their numbers, and the momentum had turned.



Within minutes, the surviving gangsters were pushed into a ramen shop—the last outpost before complete defeat. Canelo and five or six of his men took cover behind overturned tables, wounded and breathing hard.



There was nowhere left to run.



Pastor Simon calmly approached the ramen shop entrance.



His robed followers blocked every possible exit, lining the storefront like pale sentries. The place was surrounded.



Simon raised his hand and pointed directly at Canelo.




“You are surrounded,” he said with a cold smirk.“There’s no way out. Surrender now, and I’ll go easy on you.You might still walk out of here upright.Otherwise…”




His smile widened.




“You’re going out horizontal.”








The Divine Lock



The ramen shop was sealed off.Simon’s followers surrounded the building like saints at a sacrifice.



Inside, the last remnants of Canelo’s gang crouched behind broken tables and shattered chairs. Their backs were to the wall—literally and figuratively.



Canelo stood near the counter, breathing hard. His face was bruised, his hoodie soaked with sweat.He pulled out a cigarette with shaking fingers, flicked his lighter, and took a long drag.



Smoke curled from his lips.




“Over my dead body,” he muttered.




It wasn’t bravado.It was a promise.



Outside the shop, Kyle approached Pastor Simon with burning eyes.




“Divine Master,” he said, bowing slightly, “please instruct us.Shall we burn them to oblivion?In the name of faith, in the name of God…in the name of Humbleism?”




Simon didn’t respond immediately.



He looked troubled.He never liked killing—not even now. But he believed he had a way to break Canelo without drawing a drop of blood.



He placed a firm hand on Kyle’s shoulder.




“We have no choice.But you… must serve Humbleism.Use everything you are to fulfill our purpose.Become the chain.”




Kyle trembled slightly.



Then, like receiving a divine message, he stood tall. His eyes shimmered. His posture stiffened.He became still and focused—like a body being guided by pure doctrine.



Simon pointed forward.




“Kyle. Go and lock it.”




Kyle charged with no hesitation.



Canelo raised a fist and threw a brutal punch—smashing directly into Kyle’s face.



Kyle’s cheek swelled instantly.But he didn’t flinch.He didn’t even blink.



He leapt forward, slammed his entire body against Canelo’s, and wrapped his arms and legs around him like a human straitjacket.




“What the hell?!”




Canelo stumbled back, dragging Kyle’s full weight like an oversized koala fused to his chest.He struggled. He twisted.But Kyle’s grip only grew tighter.His arms locked under Canelo’s, his legs wrapped around his waist, and his head buried under Canelo’s chin like a religious parasite.



They collapsed.



Canelo was forced to his knees, locked and immobilized by a man half-crazy, half-enlightened.




“What the fuck are you doing?!” he yelled.“Are you stupid or something?!”




Time passed. A minute. Two. Maybe more.



Canelo tried every trick—shrugging, rolling, leaning, swinging—but nothing worked.



Kyle wouldn’t let go.He just held on. Silent. Devoted. Wrapping tighter and tighter like a velvet noose of piety.



Canelo was drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged.



He looked down at himself, then at Kyle stuck to him like some holy tumor.



He looked ridiculous.Then again—so did the guy latched onto him.In fact, the whole scene was absurd.Utterly, irredeemably absurd.



Canelo sighed deeply.




“…Okay. I give up.Jesus Christ.I’ve never seen anything this ridiculous in my entire life.”




And with that, the fight was over.



The siege was broken.The righteous side had won—not by power, not by blood…



…but by the Divine Lock.







Ashes of a Believer



After the battle, Canelo and his remaining men walked with their heads down to the center of the shopping mall.



They moved slowly, limping, bruised, exhausted.Together, they helped lift their wounded comrades from the floor—some from shattered glass, others from ramen-stained tile.



When they finally counted, the numbers were grim: over 90% of their crew was injured.



In less than fifteen minutes, they gathered their last strength and quietly withdrew from the mall.



No last words.No threats.Just silence.



Only Pastor Simon and his followers remained.



They moved in orderly lines, tending to the wounded and counting their own.To Simon’s delight, they had lost no one, and had fewer than ten injured. His strategy had worked.



Victory, without bloodshed.



Or so he thought.




“Kyle!” someone shouted. “Pastor Simon, come quickly!”




Simon hurried toward a broken section of the mall wall. Several followers gathered around something collapsed in the corner.



It was him—the Human Missile.



He lay against the cracked wall, coughing violently, fresh blood spilling from his mouth. His face was pale and damp with sweat, his eyes fluttering.



He hadn’t spoken since his flight.



Simon knelt beside him, gently took his hand.




“Are you okay?” he whispered.




The man smiled weakly.




“I think… I’m dying. Beyond saving.But I’m happy, Pastor.I made a sacrifice for Humbleism.I helped us win.I have no regrets.”




Simon nodded solemnly. His hand trembled.




“Kyle,” he said softly, “record this.”




Kyle pulled out his phone and began filming.



Simon gently cradled the man’s hand, putting on a perfect expression of compassion.He wiped the sweat from the man’s brow, whispered soothing words, and even let a few tears roll down his cheek—just enough for the camera to catch.



It was beautiful.Heartbreaking.Perfect.



The dying follower coughed hard, his voice cracking.




“Thank you, Pastor Simon…Please promise me one thing.”




Simon leaned closer.




“I have two children…Please… take care of them for me.”




Simon nodded gravely, giving the man’s hand a reassuring squeeze.



Then the man’s fingers relaxed.His hand fell from Simon’s grasp.His eyes turned blank.The light was gone.



He was dead.



The next day, Kyle uploaded the footage to YouTube with a title that read:




“True Faith: The Final Sacrifice – Humbleism Lives On.”




Within hours, the video gained traction.Thousands of views.Then tens of thousands.



Moved by the pastor’s compassion—and the follower’s unwavering loyalty—new believers began flooding in.



Donations increased.Volunteers arrived.Humbleism’s numbers swelled.



A new wave of faith had begun.



And after days of searching, Pastor Simon found the man’s two children.



They were young—too young to understand what had happened.



Simon knelt beside them, gently placed his hand on their heads, and gave them a warm, fatherly smile.



Then he stood up, took them both by the hands…



And delivered them to a local human trafficking hub.



He sold them for a modest profit.



And walked away humming a hymn.


Chapter 49: The Humbleism Crusade (Part 2)
==================================================

The Crusade Advances



On Google Maps, the red pins started popping up.



One by one. Then by the dozens—each one stamped with the golden emblem of Humbleism.At first, it looked like a few scattered marks in the city’s far east.But then they multiplied. Fast.



Pretty soon, the clusters got so dense it was uncomfortable to look at—like the screen itself had caught some kind of disease.



And in a way, it had.



Under Pastor Simon’s leadership—a guy who blended faith with straight-up business savvy—Humbleism was expanding with military precision.They weren’t just winning hearts. They were taking territory.



Shopping mall after shopping mall went under their control.Especially in the eastern districts.



Because here’s the thing: the east side had always been a mess.Gangs everywhere. No clear leadership. Just fragments.Tiny factions constantly at odds. Loud, aimless, and broken.



So when the Crusaders rolled in—organized, united, and relentless—they didn’t face much resistance.



They were a tank.



And that tank had a media crew.







Their rise wasn’t just boots on the ground—it was algorithm-deep.Their official YouTube channel, Humbleism Crusade, exploded.



Clips of tearful confessions, intense rituals, dramatic healings, and Simon’s “miraculous compassion” started going viral.The views were pouring in. Comments. Shares. Subscriptions.



The algorithm loved them.



So did the desperate.



New followers joined by the hundreds. Then thousands.With every click came more believers, more donations, more firepower.



The movement wasn’t just growing. It was consuming.







Somewhere else in the city, in a dark, smoky room, a man stood hunched over a massive tabletop model of the city.



He cracked open a beer and took a long sip.



He stared at the eastern half of the miniature grid. It was smothered in tiny golden flags.



His own crew’s markers—green—were vanishing. Getting overtaken one square at a time.



Without warning, he hurled the bottle at the wall.



Glass exploded. Foam sprayed across the room.



No one moved.



His lieutenants stood in silence. They knew they couldn’t stop this.



Not with what they had.



Daylight was coming.



And with it, a force too big to fight.







Elsewhere, in a fortified compound, more than a dozen men sat quietly around a round table.



In the middle of the table lay a hand-drawn paper map—creased, frayed, color-coded with urgency and sweat.



Robinson sat among them, calm but cold.



He pointed to the chart.




“This pattern—it’s breaking our balance.”




The gold zones were surging deeper into the east.The green territory had already started pulling back to the south.And his own zone—blue—was getting pushed west and north.




“If this continues,” he said flatly, “we’ll get forced out to the suburbs.Maybe out of the city altogether.”




The men around him nodded. All serious.



But nobody had a plan.







Just like that, a new rising power shattered the uneasy balance the city had lived under for years.



Now?



Every faction was plotting quietly in the dark.







A New Force in Uniform



For years, the city had balanced on the edge.



Four main forces shared its streets like chess pieces frozen mid-game.



Yellow—the zealots. The Humbleism Crusade. Faith-fueled, organized, and surging in numbers.



Blue—Robinson’s disciplined crime syndicate. Sharp. Structured. Cold.



Green—Canelo’s gang. Wild, reactive, and deeply embedded in the streets.



And White—the strange one. A silent, scattered presence. Hooded. Vague. Unaffiliated.



Until now.







The white force had been pushed into full retreat.



On the map, their markers fell back hard, shrinking into a single, decaying neighborhood.



It was like they were getting flushed down a drain.



Eventually, they retreated to the shadows—holed up in a rotting subway station underneath the red-light district.



The Crusaders had them surrounded.







Down in that tunnel, the lights flickered. The ceiling dripped. The walls peeled with mold.



The place smelled like time had given up.



Pastor Simon walked in with his followers.



Their robes dragged behind them. Their ropes swayed. Their chanting filled the space like low thunder.



Across the station stood the white force.



Men in black hoodies. Sunglasses. Still. Silent.



Simon walked straight to their leader.



No words. No warm-up.



He pulled down the man’s hood.



Then tore off the sunglasses.



And there it was.



A police badge.



And a perfectly parted combover.




“…Grayson.”








Simon stepped back, caught off guard.




“The white force… was the police?”




Grayson gave a sheepish smile and raised his hands.




“I didn’t plan this, okay? I lost over a million at the casino.Couldn’t pay it back. Had to improvise. Honestly, the whole department’s a mess.I’m not the only one walking both sides. I just… got there first.”








One by one, Crusaders pulled the hoods off the others.



Uniforms underneath.



Guns. Batons. Radios.



This wasn’t a gang.



It was a rogue police unit.







Outnumbered. Exposed. Surrounded—



Grayson dropped to his knees.



He clasped his hands—not in prayer, but in panic.




“Please… don’t tell anyone.If the precinct finds out, I’m finished. They’ll eat me alive.I’ll do anything. I swear. Anything.”




His voice cracked.



His fingers shook.







Pastor Simon didn’t say a word.



He reached into his robe and pulled out a folded contract.



Already printed.



He handed it over.



Grayson read it once.



Sweat dotted his face.



He signed.



And just like that—it was done.







The Crusaders walked out.



And then, in a move no one saw coming—



Simon gave everything back to Grayson.



All of it.



Not one shop.



Not a single corner.



Not even the entrance to the subway.







The next day, Grayson stood at a podium in front of reporters.



His uniform was freshly pressed. Combover aligned to perfection.



Junior officers stood on either side.Cameras flashing. Microphones stacked.




“As of this morning,” he said, “the group known as the Humbleism Crusade has successfully pushed back criminal elements and brought stability to many business districts.”





“The police department has no plans to interfere.”




A brief pause.




“We consider them… a force for justice.Their presence has helped reduce illegal protection rackets.We stand with them—for the good of the city’s small business owners.”




Applause followed.



Reporters smiled. Cameras zoomed.



No one asked about the subway.



No one saw the contract.



No one saw him kneel.







The Fall of Pineapple Gang



The Humbleism Crusaders kept sweeping through the city like a force of nature.



Wherever they went, gangs didn’t fight—they disappeared.Whole blocks were emptied out just from the rumor that the Crusaders were coming.Especially the smaller crews.The ones without leaders.They didn’t run.They gave up before it even started.







In the middle of a big charity compound—meant for peace and public service—a strange moment unfolded.



A perfect circle of white-robed followers stood motionless.



Their posture was calm. Their energy unshakable.



At the center was one man.



Small, wiry. Hair spiked like a pineapple top.



That was what people called him: Pineapple Head.Leader of the short-lived Pineapple Gang.



Now? He was the only one left.







The robed followers didn’t move.



Didn’t speak.



They just stood there.



It felt more like a funeral than a fight.



Pineapple Head stood frozen.He didn’t know if he was being honored… or about to be erased.



Then he screamed.



And ran.







With a sudden burst of energy, he exploded forward—legs pumping hard across the marble floor.



He charged for the front gate like a football player at the buzzer.



And somehow, he made it through the edge of the human circle.



No one saw it coming.







He reached the front steps of the compound.



Just a few more seconds… and he’d be free.



But then—




“In the name of faith and righteousness!”




Pastor Simon’s voice rang out, loud and theatrical.




“In the name of God—you shall become the holy boot!Lock the wheel of evil!Prevent the escape of chaos!”




And then came Kyle.



Out of nowhere, eyes blazing with fanatical purpose, Kyle launched himself toward Pineapple Head’s leg.



He clamped on like a human wheel lock.







Pineapple kicked.



Once. Twice. Right in Kyle’s skull.



Didn’t matter.



Kyle didn’t flinch.



He wasn’t a person anymore.He was a divine parking boot.Unmoving. Unblinking. Totally committed.







Pineapple Head dragged him—ten meters, maybe more—scraping across the ground.



Still no luck.



He twisted, shouted, thrashed.



Nothing worked.



The rest of the Crusaders caught up.



They closed in like buzzards around a dying animal.



And Pineapple Head?



He gave up.



Hands raised.



No fight left.



He didn’t speak.



He didn’t have to.








The Pineapple Gang was officially declared dead.




It no longer existed.







Later, a rumor started spreading.



No one could prove it, but everyone said the same thing:




“They sold Pineapple Head to a human trafficking network.Shipped him off to Honduras.Now he’s digging ditches.No name. No gang.Just a guy with pineapple hair, shoveling dirt under the sun.”








The Alliance of Unholy Forces



High above the wreckage, on the rooftop of a sleek glass tower, two men sat across from each other at a long table.



Canelo.Robinson.



Behind them—dozens of followers, standing in clean formation like hired militias.



The sky stretched wide and empty above.



But the tension was thick.



This wasn’t a battlefield.



This was something worse: a negotiation.







Both their empires were shrinking.



The yellow wave of Humbleism had already swallowed half the city.



Even the most hardened criminals were starting to tremble at the mention of “the robe people.”



There was nowhere left to run.



Only one move left:



Work together… or disappear.







And to everyone’s surprise, the meeting actually started well.



They talked maps.Strategy.Weak points in Crusader supply routes.



Plans to surround, isolate, and choke off the Crusade’s expansion.



It felt professional. Almost military.



For nearly an hour, they clicked like old friends in a chess club.




“If we strike first,” Canelo said, “we can smother their expansion before they fully consolidate.”





“Agreed,” Robinson replied. “A child is easiest to kill in the womb.”




The rooftop buzzed with cautious hope.



They actually believed this might work.







But then came the part that always ruins a partnership.



Power.



Who gets the final say?



Who calls the shot?



Neither would budge.



Then came the second problem:



Money.



Robinson, with slightly more manpower, proposed a 70/30 split.



Canelo shut it down instantly.




“It’s either 50/50,” he said, “or it’s nothing.”




What started as unity dissolved into ego.



The clock ticked.Tempers flared.Momentum evaporated.







And then it broke.



From Robinson’s side, a young hothead stepped forward.



He pointed at Canelo, fire in his voice:




“Who the hell do you think you are?You’re a nobody. Our boss gave you a golden offer. You should’ve taken it—”




CRACK.



He didn’t finish the sentence.



Canelo lunged across the table.



In one motion, he grabbed the kid by the waist, spun, and flung him.



Off the edge.



No railing.



Fifty stories down.



The scream vanished before it hit the ground.



By the time his body did, it was just a splash of red on concrete.







Down below, pedestrians panicked.Screams filled the street.People ran like ants.



Up on the rooftop?



Silence.



Only the wind spoke.







Robinson stood up slowly.



Then calmly punched the table between them.



It exploded.



Wood chips everywhere.



He paused.Took a breath.




“That kid was out of line,” he said, voice low.“Still… looks like we’re not making a deal today.”




He turned his back.




“If you’re serious,” he added, “you know where to find me.





Two conditions:





I give the orders.





I get 70%.”




With that, he walked off.



His men followed in silence.



Canelo didn’t say a word.



A few minutes later, he left too.



No handshake.



No alliance.



Just a broken table, a dead kid, and a new crack in the city’s sky.







The Stalemate at Latitude 38



The next month was hell.



Robinson’s blue forces clashed with the yellow tide of the Humbleism Crusaders over and over again.



It wasn’t a few skirmishes here and there.



It was all-out, layered chaos.



And it never stopped.







Every single day, hundreds of fighters died.



Shops didn’t just close—they gave up.



Shopping malls shut down completely.



No one dared open their doors anymore.



Because a store might be taken by the blue force in the morning…and by that same night, golden-robed Crusaders would take it right back.



No warning. No rules.



Just violent tug-of-war.







And the civilians?



They suffered the most.



A lot of shopkeepers stayed open too long.



They thought the fighting would pass.



They got caught in the crossfire.



Some died from random blasts.



Some were burned alive when the mortar fire caught the ramen oil.



A few didn’t even have bodies left to bury.







Back in his command center, Pastor Simon sat in front of a massive screen.



He swiped across a digital map—tracking movement, studying patterns.



Something didn’t add up.



The blue-and-green alliance had suddenly become sharper. Faster. More tactical.



They weren’t just street thugs anymore.



They were organized.



And deadly.







What really caught his eye were the ambushes.



The kind where black-pantsed fighters popped up from behind police stations and alleyways.



Pistols. Batons. Coordination.



It felt… official.




“These aren’t ordinary gangsters,” Simon muttered to himself.“They move like trained men…”




And he was right.







Because behind the scenes, Grayson was playing his own game.



He couldn’t publicly join forces with Robinson.



But privately?



He sent dozens of officers—undercover—into Robinson’s army.



They swapped their uniforms for gang gear.



Kept their guns. Kept their tactics. Kept their discipline.



And just like that, Robinson’s forces leveled up.



This wasn’t just a street crew anymore.



This was an unofficial military.



Blue and white had become one.







The battle devolved into a standstill.



Both sides moved a little.



Then got pushed back.



Then moved again.



Then pushed again.



Back and forth.



Every single day.



The front line?



A strip of war-torn city centered on one place:



Latitude 38.







No one made real progress.



But the bodies kept adding up.



First, it was thirty thousand fighters involved.



Then forty.



Then fifty.



Reinforcements kept coming.



And eventually—



Over one hundred thousand people were part of the conflict.







The war had become a mud pit.



No side could climb out.



And now?



People started whispering.



Not about a win.



But about a ceasefire.







Everyone was tired.



The city was crumbling.



And the world was watching.







Latitude 38: Wasteland



The shopping mall at Latitude 38 didn’t have a roof anymore.



Chunks of concrete littered the ground.



Support beams stuck out like broken ribs.



The air reeked—of death, dust, and abandonment.



This place used to be bright.



Full of lights, color, life.



Now?



Just a concrete skeleton with shattered glass teeth.







The streets nearby were worse.



Corpses slumped in gutters.



Some were bloated. Purple. Melting into the pavement.



Others were already picked clean—only bones left.



The dogs roamed freely now.



They didn’t even look afraid.







It was quiet.



But it wasn’t peace.







Chief Johnson walked through it slowly.



His badge was still pinned to his chest.



His uniform was dusty. Torn. But still holding.



He didn’t flinch at the bodies.



Didn’t look away from the blood.



He just… walked.



Like a man carrying something heavy in his chest.







It hadn’t always been this way.



Just a few months ago, the city was still hanging on.



Still functional.



Sure, it was corrupt. Chaotic.



But there was rhythm. Structure. Predictability.



Back then, gangs controlled territory with payments and deals.



There was violence. But it was controlled.



There was fear. But also balance.



Then came Humbleism.







And they weren’t just a gang.



They weren’t just a cult.



They were something else entirely.



A holy militia.



Marching with chants instead of threats.



Wearing robes instead of colors.



And wherever they passed—they left rubble.







Johnson clenched his fists.



Didn’t say anything.



Just kept walking.







Up ahead, a stray dog gnawed on a moldy crust of bread in the middle of the road.



Then—suddenly—



A young boy, maybe nine years old, came sprinting from behind a collapsed bus.



He kicked the dog straight in the head.



Snatched the bread.



Dropped to his knees.



And started eating.







No chewing.



Just swallowing.



Like someone who hadn’t eaten in days.



The kid’s ribs stuck out like twigs under his skin.



His eyes were empty.



No tears. No shame. Just survival.







Chief Johnson stood there.



And he watched.



For a long time.







That was it.



That was the moment.



He didn’t say a word out loud.



But in his mind, it rang like a siren.




“I will bring this city back.I swear I’ll drive those Crusaders out.Whatever it takes.”



Chapter 50: The Humbleism Crusade (Part 3)
==================================================

The Iron Fist



Everyone called him Chief Johnson—but in the streets, and even inside the department, people had a different name for him:



The Iron Fist.



He wasn’t the guy pushing paper or giving speeches. He was the guy who wrecked elite fighters—without even breaking a sweat.



He took down Lindsey from the Frugal Organization—brutal fighter. Flattened her.



Then he beat Michael—yeah, that Michael, the top enforcer from the Humble Organization. Same result. Barely got touched.



Both of them ended up laid out. Couldn’t even stand afterward.



There’s another story—this one’s more of a whisper than a fact.



Some high-ranking criminal tried to run. Johnson caught up to him and hit him—just once. In the chest.



That one punch sent the guy flying. He smashed through not one, not two—but fifteen apartment walls in a row. Total destruction. Furniture gone. Glass everywhere. Concrete shattered.



By the time they found where he finally stopped—wall number sixteen—the only thing left was a single rib sticking out of the drywall.



The rest? Just blood mist and bone powder.



Now picture this:



Upper floor of the police HQ. Strategy meeting. The real kind.



Chief Khan—cool, old-school—folds his arms.



“I’m not getting involved,” he says. “Just a turf war. Not our problem.”



Johnson doesn’t take that well.



He steps forward, eyes blazing:



“That’s why the city’s falling apart. You sit back, pretend this mess isn’t ours to clean up.”



He points at the door.



“Fine. Stay here. I’ll handle it. Give me two weeks—when I come back, I’ll be poppin’ champagne and grilling ribs on the balcony.”



Khan? Unbothered. Doesn’t even blink.



“Good luck,” he says, arms still crossed.



Next morning, Johnson’s out at the training grounds.



Hundreds of officers, standing tall, uniforms sharp. Ready.



He’s barking orders:



“ATTENTION! MOVE OUT!”



And they move—boots pounding, like thunder rolling down the street. Whole formation marches right into the heart of the city.



Their target? The chaos.



Leading them?



None other than The Iron Fist—stone-faced, shades gleaming, fists clenched.



The Fist Hits the Core



While everyone else was fighting like madmen around Latitude 38—explosions, banners torn up, pure chaos—something different happened.



Out of the smoke and rubble, this perfectly synchronized squad of officers rolled in. South side. No warning. No hesitation.



They didn’t sneak in from the side. They cut straight through the middle—surgical.



The Humbleism Crusaders? They didn’t even see it coming.



In minutes, their entire middle section collapsed. Not slowly—from the inside out. Like the center just gave up.



Their base, once this crazy fortress of screaming faith and layered defense, folded like wet cardboard.



Dozens got caught alive. Dragged away screaming, chanting, crying… or just stunned into silence.



On the city’s big tactical map, this team got marked in pink. Weird color, yeah. But everyone knew what it meant.



Johnson. The Iron Fist.



And the move got a name fast:



The Pink Miracle.



This wasn’t your average police raid.



These officers? Disciplined, sharp, ruthless.



They moved like gears in a machine. Shot like snipers. Fought like tanks.



And Johnson?



He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. He just walked forward—punching through every top Crusader commander that came at him.



Necks broken. Skulls shattered. No mercy.



By the time the dust cleared, half of Pastor Simon’s lieutenants were dead—killed in hand-to-hand combat.



And then—get this—Johnson pulled out. Didn’t stick around to claim anything.



He handed the districts off… to gangs.



Yeah. Not clean. Not legal. But smart.



He wasn’t looking to be mayor—he just wanted things back to how they were: Corrupt? Sure. Expensive? Absolutely. But at least it was stable.



“Let the gangs collect protection money,” he figured. “At least the shopkeepers know what they’re paying for.”



And then something even weirder happened.



At every transfer ceremony—when a gang officially took over a block or a street—civilians gathered.



Shopkeepers. Restaurant owners. Regular folks.



And they clapped.



They applauded the gangsters. Smiled as the paperwork changed hands.



Why?



Because for the first time in months, they knew who was in charge.



Twisted, yeah. But it was order.



And Johnson?



He just stood in the back, arms folded, saying nothing.



Because for now—



The Fist had struck the core. And the bleeding city… stopped.



The Captive Camp



After the southern ambush and the collapse of Latitude 38, things got ugly—real fast.



The Humbleism Crusaders weren’t fighters anymore.



They were prisoners.



Dragged through back alleys in chains, they ended up in the worst place imaginable—somewhere people in the underworld only whispered about:



The Captive Camp.



It wasn’t a prison. It wasn’t a holding cell. It was a slaughterhouse—pure rage and revenge, bottled and let loose.



Canelo and Robinson, both still pissed about their losses, used the camp as a punching bag to vent everything they had.



There were no guards. No rules. Just pain.



Some prisoners got beaten to death by bare hands.



Some? They were boiled alive—screaming in giant metal pots while thugs laughed and filmed it on their phones.



Others were drowned—literally flushed in busted toilets, held down until they stopped moving.



By the end of the day, hundreds were dead—killed in ways so twisted you’d think it was fiction.



And worst of all?



It was all recorded.



The clips blew up online—viral in minutes.



They had titles like:



“Holy Trash Gets Flushed” “Toilet Baptism for Crusaders” “Watch Them Burn”



No filters. No censorship. No shame.



People who once thought about joining the golden-robed movement saw the footage—and froze.



What they saw wasn’t a movement. It was a funeral set to laugh tracks.



Recruitment tanked overnight.



No one wanted to join a cause where this was the endgame.



Inside the Humble Organization HQ, three men stood in front of a huge screen:



Michael. Brian. Colin.



The video played—again and again.



A kid screaming in a pot. A follower begging for mercy, then dunked headfirst into a clogged toilet. Someone off-camera lighting a cigarette like it was just another Tuesday.



Michael broke the silence first.



“We should help them,” he said. “They’re not fighters. Just kids.”



Brian nodded.



“This isn’t war anymore. It’s straight-up genocide.”



Then Colin finally spoke—soft, flat, unreadable:



“No need.”



They stared at him.



He didn’t explain. Didn’t blink.



Just quietly picked up his phone… and made a call.



On the other end, Pastor Simon answered.



“Say what?” “That’s impossible!”



Whatever Colin said… it shocked him. Bad.



But no one else knew why.



Back in the room, no one spoke.



The videos kept playing.



The screams kept looping.



And underneath it all, something was starting to move—quietly, secretly.



No announcement. No speech.



Just one phone call.



And now?



Something dark was in motion.



Chief Johnson Is Fallen



Around 4 p.m. the next day, everything stopped.



Every news channel interrupted their broadcast.



BREAKING NEWS.



But honestly? You didn’t need a TV.



The whole city already knew.



People yelled it into phones. Podcasters shouted it over livestreams. Strangers whispered it at bus stops.



Chief Johnson is dead.



Two guys on a street corner just stood there, frozen.



“No way,” one said. “He took out Michael and Lindsey. Both of them. One punch. Now he’s just… gone?”



That wasn’t just his question.



It was everyone’s.



“Who could’ve done it?” “Who could kill him?”



He was The Iron Fist. The guy who turned bodies to dust. People thought he could survive anything.



“Only Chief Khan could’ve taken him down,” someone muttered.



But that wasn’t the story.



Then another voice came on a podcast:



“It wasn’t Khan. And it wasn’t some epic duel.”



“It was a mob. A hundred of them—maybe more. Low-level nobodies.”



“Johnson wiped out the first wave. Then another came. Then another.”



“They kept coming. And eventually… they got him.”



“They didn’t fight fair. They swarmed him like ants on a god.”



The city went quiet.



The myth… shattered.



This wasn’t a kung fu movie anymore. It was reality.



Everyone had believed one strong man could hold the line.



But now they knew the truth:



Even legends can fall.



Even Chief Khan understood that.



That’s why he never stepped in.



And after that?



Cops started quitting—fast.



Some ripped off their badges in alleyways. Others just disappeared into the crowd.



No more formations. No more orders.



The Iron Fist was gone.



What was the point now?



By nightfall, the police resistance was done.



Totally collapsed.



The Humbleism Crusaders—who had been retreating—pushed forward again. Block by block, they retook everything.



And by morning?



They were back at the gates of Altitude 38.



Not because they were stronger.



But because the last wall was gone.



Chief Johnson Must Die



Inside the Humble Organization’s office, the mood was… electric.



Michael and Brian were sitting on the couch like two kids who just watched the school bully get wrecked.



TV off. Phones buzzing. News echoing from every corner of the city:



“Chief Johnson is dead.”



Michael slammed his palm against the table.



“Finally! That bastard’s gone!”



His voice wasn’t angry—it was giddy. Like he’d just won the lottery.



“You have any idea how much trouble he’s caused me? Every move I made—he was there. Always blocking it. Now the cops got no backbone. We can run things smooth again.”



Brian leaned back, calm but clearly satisfied.



“This isn’t just a win,” he said. “This is a full board reset. New game. New rules.”



Across the city, in a dark office with the blinds pulled tight, Chief Khan just sat there.



Arms crossed. Chin on his hand. Silent.



No celebration.



Just calculation.



If Johnson could die… the guy who punched people through walls…



“What chance do I have?” he thought.



And now that Johnson was gone, Khan faced the real question:



“How does the police keep power… without its hammer?”



Even the toughest man in the room was rattled.



Back at the Humble office, Colin sat off to the side—legs crossed, one foot bouncing.



Expression? Stone cold.



But that tapping foot?



Yeah, he was pleased.



Michael and Brian walked over, riding high.



“You already know, don’t you?” Michael grinned. “Chief Johnson. Dead.”



Colin didn’t even look up.



“Yes,” he said. “I know.”



They paused.



Brian asked:



“What’d you say to Pastor Simon yesterday?”



Colin finally looked at them and started talking—slow, measured, like a man giving a lecture he already knew by heart.



“Johnson charged straight into the enemy’s core. Good tactic, honestly. Caught them off guard. Shook up their structure.”



“But he went too deep. Surrounded himself. No backup. No out. Just him, in the middle of our grid.”



He paused.



“He’s always been the biggest obstacle to our work. But until now, we had no reason to act. He never crossed the line.”



“This time… he did.”



“So we struck.”



Colin leaned forward slightly, voice still calm:



“He dropped himself right into our range. That gave us time to pull in forces from every direction.”



“I told Pastor Simon exactly what to do.”



‘No matter what it takes… Chief Johnson must die.’



Michael flinched just a little.



Even he felt the weight of that line.



Brian didn’t say a word.



Colin continued:



“Yeah, we lost a thousand low-level guys. Big cost.”



“But Johnson? Guys like him don’t show up every year.”



“This was a once-in-a-generation removal. And we pulled it off.”



Then, for the first time, Colin smiled—barely. Just a flicker.



“One of the Humble Organization’s greatest victories.”



Agreement of Ceasefire



The battle at Altitude 38 dragged on.



No one could move forward. No one would back off.



The front line stayed put—barely shifting, day by day. Maybe a few inches. That’s it.



Every morning, more fighting. Every night, more bodies. And the death count? Always hovering around the same numbers:



Thirty. Sixty. Maybe a hundred.



At some point, the news just stopped covering it.



It wasn’t breaking anymore. It was just background noise.



People stopped caring. They tuned out. Focused on celebrity gossip. Dumb scandals. Dance challenges.



The war had become… weather. Loud. Predictable. Easy to ignore.



Eventually, the fighters looked around and realized—



“Why are we even still doing this?”



So they sent representatives.



From every corner of the fractured city, the five biggest powers—and one extra, strange piece—met around an old negotiation table in what used to be a kindergarten.



Dusty lights. Scratched wood. And no smiles.



Here’s who showed up:




Canelo — representing one of the biggest street gangs.



Robinson — a former rival of Canelo’s, now reluctantly sitting beside him.



Mr. Seng — from the Kung Fu Association. Silent. Symbolic. Just there.



Michael — confident, stylish, golden-rimmed glasses gleaming. Representing the Humble Organization.



Chief Grayson — pale, awkward, sweating. Supposedly speaking for the police.



And then… the old man.




No one knew his name. No one asked. He looked like he could die right there in his seat. But somehow, he was part of the table.



And nobody questioned it.



They didn’t argue much.



No big debate. Just grunts. Nods. Tired eyes.



After barely an hour, it was done.



“Ceasefire at Altitude 38. Indefinitely.”



No handshakes. No signatures. No photos.



Just six men… nodding once.



Then they got up and left.



The war stopped.



Barricades taken down. Corpses hauled away. Streets swept.



Shops reopened. Traffic came back. Kids kicked soccer balls past stains nobody wanted to talk about.



And for the first time in months?



It felt like peace.



Not because anyone won. Not because anyone changed.



But because everyone was just…



Tired.



So the city breathed again.



Not healed. Not fixed. But… balanced.



Even if nobody could remember exactly how it all fell apart in the first place.


Chapter 51: Bakery of Doom
==================================================

The Undeniable Combover



It was Sunday.



The rain had come and gone, leaving the air cool and soft, like a fresh towel after a sweaty day. The city, usually tense and overheated, finally exhaled.



Pastor Simon sat alone in a small bakery—nothing fancy. Just clean, quiet, and warm. A half-bitten croissant in one hand. A lukewarm coffee in the other.



For once, he had peace.



But his mind wasn’t still.



He kept replaying the report he’d received the day before—the one that said Chief Grayson had quietly slipped hundreds, maybe a thousand, undercover officers into the recent turf wars.



Officially, Grayson was “neutral.”



Unofficially? He fed his own brother Robinson a private army.



That’s how Robinson kept winning.Not strategy.Not luck.



Just dirty help from family.



Simon chewed slower, watching the steam curl out of his cup.



Then the door jingled.







The man who walked in had a hairstyle that felt like a prank.



Long strands swept over a shiny bald dome, combed dramatically from one side to the other. A combover that didn’t hide the truth—it amplified it. A greasy flag waving over a defeated battlefield.



It was Grayson.



No badge. No gun. Just a pale green polo shirt stretched over his stomach. But even without the uniform, no one could miss that head.



That dome. That combover.



No disguise could erase it.







Grayson ordered a coffee.



When the owner asked for payment, Grayson waved a hand.




“Just count this as your protection fee.”




The owner paused. Smiled tight. Then quietly made the cup.



What else could he do?



He placed it on the counter and walked off, shoulders slumping like he’d just paid rent to a rat.



Grayson grabbed his drink and strutted to a table like he owned the place.







From across the room, Pastor Simon stood up—abrupt and loud.



He walked straight over.




“A coffee costs what—three bucks? You can’t even pay that?”“You’re cheap as hell.”




Grayson turned. Stiffened.



He recognized the voice.



The subway. The kneeling. The humiliation.



Panic clicked in.




“Wh-what? Me? Nah—you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m just a regular uncle, man.”




He gave a weak laugh. Tried to lean back like he was joking. Maybe scared.



Didn’t matter.



Simon didn’t blink.




“You are Grayson,” he said flatly.“And if you don’t admit it in five seconds… I’ll punch your head into soup.”








Public Humiliation



Simon stood behind him—silent, but lethal.



His voice cut the air.




“Five. Four. Three. Two—”




That was enough.



Grayson spun around like the words themselves had weight.



His hands pressed together, prayer-style. He bowed repeatedly, combover flapping with each movement.




“Please! Please—I admit it! I’m Chief Grayson! Don’t smash my head!”




His voice cracked on the way out.







Simon didn’t move.




“Why’d you lie?”“We agreed—no interference. No favors.So why’d you sneak your boys into Robinson’s crew?”




Grayson shook his head like a wet dog.




“I didn’t! That report’s wrong! I swear I—”




Simon didn’t let him finish.







He raised his hand and slapped.



Five times.



Left, right, left, right, left.



Crisp. Rhythmic. Brutal.



Grayson’s knees gave out. His arms flopped like noodles. His mouth opened—




PFFFRT—




A wet fart broke free.



And then—



PSSSSHK.



He pissed himself.



Right there by the pastry display.







He was wearing shorts.



The pee dripped straight down in sad, deliberate drops.



Forming a perfect little puddle on the tile—glistening in the bakery’s warm lights like performance art.







Everyone froze.



A man in the corner nearly choked on his raisin bun.



One guy pointed.




“Bro… your downstairs must be real loose for it to just fall out like that.”




Another slapped the table, gasping.




“Funniest shit I’ve seen all week!”




Laughter erupted. Exploded.



Grayson’s face changed colors—red, then purple, then gray.



He had no moves left.



Except one.







He slapped back.



A limp, slow-motion backhand aimed at Simon’s cheek.



It didn’t land so much as it… wafted.



Simon didn’t dodge. Didn’t block.



Not because he couldn’t.



But because he truly didn’t think Grayson would dare.







And the second it made contact—



Simon’s face darkened.



He was done.







Without a word, he grabbed Grayson by both ankles.



Lifted him like a gym towel.



Spun once.Twice.Let go.



Grayson flipped midair like an abandoned suitcase.



CRASH.



He smashed straight through the bakery’s front glass wall.



Shards flew like glitter from hell.



He hit the street hard. Rolled. Bounced.Stopped next to a storm drain.



Unmoving.







Inside, glass settled onto scones.



Simon blinked. Looked around.




“Oops. My bad.”




And just like that—he bolted. No glance back. No farewell.



Just gone.







Bottomless in Public



A few days later, the wall was fixed.



Again.



The bakery owner—Raymond—ate the cost with silence. This time, he wasn’t taking chances.



Right next to the counter, above the tip jar, he taped a fresh, hand-painted sign:




No Fighting Inside the Bakery








The place was crowded that day.



That’s when Jessica walked in.



Full Zhongshan suit, tight to the collar. Ponytail down her back. Katana strapped across her shoulders like it was just part of her outfit.



She moved like she had choreography.



She ordered a fruit tea. Sat down near the window. Training had left her sore and overheating. She needed rest.



She thought the bakery would be quiet.







It was.



Except for Dave.







He sat at the opposite table—still, stiff, staring at nothing. His tea was untouched.



Face wooden. Eyes hollow. Not blinking.



Dave—once known as The Underwear—hadn’t recovered from his last loss.







Two customers whispered from the back:




“Yo, isn’t that the underwear guy?”





“Yeah. That’s him. Dude… I thought he was just a rumor.”




Dave heard them.



Turned his head slowly.



Voice like a ghost:




“What a joke…Mario shredded my underwear.Turned it into scraps.”




He looked down at his lap. Then back up.




“I’m not wearing anything right now.The ‘Underwear’ you knew… no longer exists.”








The room fell dead quiet.



Jessica looked up.



That name—Dave.



She remembered. The guy who twisted her classmate’s neck 180 degrees in a bubble tea shop.



Her eyes dropped to the chair.



And saw exactly what he meant.



No underwear.



No pants.



Just a giant junk.



But let’s be clear—this isn’t that kind of story.



So for everyone’s sake, the narrator will place a thick mosaic over the scene.







Jessica flinched.



Even through the blur, she felt her stomach twist.




“Who shows up to a public place… like this?”




She reached over her shoulder.



Pulled her blade.



Pointed it at his neck.




“You disgusting freak.Put on some damn pants.”








The Pink Boxers



“I don’t have any pants,” Dave said flatly.



His tone didn’t change. Still hollow. Still drifting somewhere between dead and dreaming.



Jessica exhaled slowly through her nose.



Then raised her voice to the room:




“Does anyone have spare pants? Underwear? Anything this guy can wear?”




She pointed to the two guys in the back.




“You two. Help him.”




One of them practically leaned out of his chair.




“Uh… no offense, but that guy’s got… rules.He only wears pink underwear. Like, religiously.”








Dave didn’t blink.



Didn’t react.



Just stared at the wall like it owed him something.







From across the room, someone stood up.



A girl. White blouse. Tight jeans. Zero hesitation.




“I’ve got pink underwear.”




Jessica didn’t miss a beat.




“Perfect. Bring them here.”




The girl calmly unbuttoned her jeans. Stepped out. No fanfare.



She wore pink boxer-style underwear—simple, rectangular, nothing flirty.



And with one practiced tug, she pulled them off.



The gates of heaven creaked open—and the narrator, not taking chances, blurred her bottom immediately.



Then, with a clean toss, she flung the underwear across the bakery.



They landed in Jessica’s hands with a soft, defiant slap.







She stepped forward. Held them out to Dave.




“Here. You’re covered.”




Dave looked down.



Then up.



Then down again.




“These aren’t triangle-cut.I only wear pink triangle-shaped women’s underwear.Sorry. I can’t accept this.”








That was it.



The moment Jessica’s soul cracked.



Not loudly. Not dramatically.



Just… broke.








“You’ve been bottomless in a public bakery,” she said, voice tightening,“and you’re rejecting help because the cut isn’t right?”




She didn’t wait for a reply.



Her blade came out with one motion and sliced toward his neck.



CLANG.



It bounced off.



No cut. No bruise. No reaction.



Jessica stepped back, jaw tightening.




“What the hell are you made of?”








She jumped.



Two meters into the air.



Katana raised high.



Spun midair like divine judgment.




“PUT ON SOME DAMN PANTS!”




WHACK.



The blade came down full force.



It struck Dave’s body—



—and shattered.



SNAP.



The broken half spun like a cursed frisbee and buried itself in the bakery’s front glass wall.



A perfect, cursed bullseye.



Everyone stared.



One voice whispered:




“Safe…”








Then—



CLINK.



The broken blade slipped from the glass.



THUNK.



It stabbed the ground—five centimeters from the girl’s bare foot.



She screamed.



Not a cute scream. A horror-movie shriek.High enough to cause physical pain.



And the glass—



BOOOOM.



Shattered.



Again.







Glass rained like knives.



Crumbs flew.



Chairs flipped.



Someone’s lemon tart got obliterated mid-bite.



Jessica stood in the middle of it all—breathing hard, katana ruined, patience destroyed.



And in the chaos, there it was again:




All because one man refused…





…to wear the pink boxers.








Three New Sacred Rules



Two days later.



Raymond fixed the wall.



Again.



He didn’t talk about the cost. He just taped three new handwritten signs beside the door:



NO FIGHTINGNO NUDITYNO SCREAMING



These weren’t suggestions. They were final prayers.







His regulars noticed.



They’d seen him endure it all—blood, glass, nudity, slaps, swords, screams.



It was enough.



That afternoon, a retired gym teacher stood near the counter and spoke:




“This bakery’s taken enough damage.If anything starts again—we shut it down fast.”




There were nods all around.



The Community Bread Defense Pact was born.



Unwritten. Unofficial. Absolute.







And not a moment too soon.







During the lunch rush, two elderly men sat near the center table, eating soup and toast.



Their conversation was calm… at first.



Then one leaned in:




“Gender isn’t binary anymore.There are at least seventy recognized identities.”




The other man frowned.




“You’re full of shit. Two genders. That’s it.What’s next—gender includes helicopter?”




Not loud. But sharp.



And sharp words in this bakery?



Dangerous.







The volume rose.



One man stood up, grabbed the other by the collar.



Soup sloshed.



Chairs screeched.




“Outside! You wanna fight, you do it outside!”




Someone pushed furniture aside.



The men agreed.




“Fine.We’ll settle it like men.”








They stomped toward the entrance.



But before they reached the door, a young man sprinted ahead.




“NOT HERE!Not in front of the glass!”




Everyone froze.



He was right.



Even fighting near the glass was a risk.



The two men cursed. Kept walking.



By the time they reached the end of the block, the entire bakery was watching through coffee steam and pastry crumbs.







And then—applause.







Not for the argument.



Not for the win.



But because—for once—the glass was still intact.



Raymond stepped out from the kitchen.



Walked to the center of the shop.



And bowed.




“Thank you.For keeping this place safe.For not letting it fall apart again.”




He straightened up, eyes misty.




“I’ll keep giving you the best bread and coffee in the city.This place… is ours.”




And for the first time in a long time—




The three sacred rules remained unbroken.








Fate of the Glass Wall



The two old men were still yelling as they walked.



Still arguing about gender.



One said there were 71 identities.The other insisted on “male, female, and angry.”



They didn’t stop.



Didn’t notice the danger coming.







A car.



Flying down the road—80 kilometers per hour.



Horn screaming. Tires smoking.



People dove out of the way.



Behind it—chasing at full sprint—




Dinello.




His Zhongshan suit flapped behind him like a cape.Hair streaming. Legs pounding the pavement like jackhammers.



He was running 60 km/h. Easy.




“HEY!YOU STOLE MY WALLET!”




The car zigzagged through traffic, trying to lose him.



It didn’t work.







Up ahead, a man squatted in the street, picking up a soda can.



His shirt was stained. Belly hanging out. Pants ragged.



It was Tom.



He didn’t move. Didn’t look.



The driver swerved.



Hard.







The car lost control.



CRASH.



It flew off the street.



Slammed full-speed into—




The bakery’s front glass wall.








Inside, Raymond had just stepped forward with a tray of scones.



He saw headlights.



Dove.



Rolled hard.



Barely survived.



But two customers didn’t.







The car skidded across tile.



Dragged them under.



Flattened them.



Blood fanned out beneath the counters.



By the time the wheels stopped turning—




They were just meat and denim.








The airbags blew.



The driver slumped unconscious.



The room was dead silent—except for the radiator hissing and a single chair tipping over.







Dinello arrived.



Breathing hard.



Didn’t check for survivors.



Didn’t shout.



Just yanked the door open, dragged the man out, and pulled something from his coat.




“That’s mine.”




His wallet.



He turned around and walked away.







Behind him—



Carnage.



And at the center of it—



Raymond knelt.







He didn’t speak.



Didn’t cry.



Didn’t scream.



He just stared at the wreckage.



At the broken wall.



At the blood.



At the car parked where the pastry shelf used to be.







His pupils were black.



His hands trembled.



His lips were pale.



Because he knew:




He couldn’t afford to fix it again.The bakery was finished.And something inside him—finally, and forever—broke.



Chapter 52: Good Man Gone Bad
==================================================

Bakery Cracks Along with Raymond’s Dream



The bakery was dead quiet.



Everyone had already bolted—screaming, tripping over chairs, shoving each other—after the third explosion shook the place apart. Now, the only thing left inside was the wrecked car that had crashed through the entrance… and the driver, unconscious and slumped over the wheel.



And two bodies.



Though, calling them “bodies” wasn’t really accurate anymore.They were just flattened slabs of skin and bone, smashed into the floor like forgotten pancakes. No skulls. No spines. Just… mush.



Outside, sirens were closing in—ambulance, police, fire.



But Raymond?



Raymond didn’t budge.



He stood right outside the destroyed bakery, soaking wet in his pink apron, that crooked little mustache twitching under his nose. His small eyes stared blankly through the bangs clinging to his forehead. Arms limp. Jaw slack. He looked like a ghost who hadn’t realized he was dead yet.



The big glass wall—the one he’d rebuilt twice—was gone again.



Not cracked.



Not shattered.



Just… gone.



His lips moved like he was trying to speak, but no sound came.His fingers twitched like they were still kneading dough.







Two EMTs ran in, loaded the driver onto a stretcher, and rolled him toward the door. One of them barked at Raymond as they passed:




“Move it, buddy! You think this is a damn movie set?!”




Raymond didn’t flinch.



They shoved past him, bouncing his bony shoulder like he was made of cardboard. One muttered under his breath:




“Freakin’ mannequin…”








Then came the cops. They tossed a couple of white sheets over the bodies—not that it helped. The blood soaked right through, clinging to the tile like paper napkins in a rainstorm.



One rookie looked down at the mess and squinted:




“Yo… do we even gotta cover that? It’s not even bodies anymore. That’s just goo.”




His partner shrugged, still chewing gum:




“Protocol or some crap. Just make it look like we’re doing something.”




They started pulling out yellow tape, stringing it up like they were decorating for a sad birthday party.



Then one of them pointed at Raymond.




“Hey. Pink apron. Crime scene. Off the property.”




Raymond didn’t say a word. Just stared.



The cop rolled his eyes.




“Awesome. Another zombie. Alright, toss him.”




Four officers grabbed him without hesitation—no warning, no courtesy—and chucked him a few feet over, like tossing out the recycling.



Raymond hit the pavement hard but didn’t even try to stand.He just rolled onto his knees, still facing the bakery.



His apron picked up dust and grime from the ground—creased, dirty.His eyes were locked on the wreckage.




“It’s all gone,” he whispered.“That’s it. I’ve got nothing left to fix it.”




His head dropped.




“There goes my bakery.Along with my childhood dream.”








The Dramatic Rainfall



The sky had been crystal clear just a minute ago.Bright blue. Not a single cloud.



But like some moody stage play, everything dimmed in seconds.Wind kicked up. The sky turned black—like bruised fruit.



And then it poured.



No drizzle. No warning.



Just full-on, vengeful rain—dumping buckets like the heavens had a grudge. Thunder cracked in random bursts. Lightning stitched the clouds like angry veins.



Within moments, Raymond was drenched head to toe.



Rain streamed off his face, down his mustache, dripping from his elbows.His pink apron sagged under the water’s weight.His knees pressed into the soaked pavement.



He didn’t move.Didn’t flinch.Just knelt there, frozen, staring at what used to be his dream.







A few cops huddled inside the broken bakery, peeking out.



One of them scoffed.




“What’s this guy doing, trying to catch pneumonia?”




Another shrugged.




“Let him. Maybe it’ll slap some sense into him.”




Outside, the water pooled.



The blood from the crushed bodies slowly faded into the drains—washed away like trash nobody wanted to claim.



One cop blinked and muttered:




“Dude… they’re gone.”




Another grinned.




“Nice. Looks like our job’s done—nothing left to investigate.”








Raymond still hadn’t moved.



But something inside him had.



His eyes—once oddly gentle and alive—began to change.First, the color drained, leaving only a dull ash-gray.Then came the black mist, swirling from his pupils like soft smoke, just hovering there, even in the rain.



His body stopped shaking.



No more cold.No more numbness.



Something new had taken over—heat.



His fists tightened slowly, like answering a command that didn’t come from his brain.



The air around him seemed to shift.



Not visibly. Not dramatically. But if you were really watching, you’d feel it—like the pressure in the room had tilted.



Muscles that had once looked thin and fragile started to tighten beneath his wet apron.Not ripped. Not bulky.Just… refined.



The way metal hardens under stress.



He opened his eyes again.



But he wasn’t looking at the bakery anymore.



He was looking past it.To the reflection in the glass of an office tower down the street.







Two cops passed him on their way back to their car, umbrellas up.



Then Raymond spoke.Loud. Clear.Like a preacher in a thunderstorm:




“By the traumatic effect of the rain…I shall give up my sanity.I shall become the god of destruction.”




One cop glanced back.




“Okay, buddy. Go home before you catch a cold.”




The other kept walking.




“Nah. This man’s fully lost it. Straight-up lunatic.”




They got in their cruiser, flipped on the siren for no reason, and peeled off into the storm—probably just to skip a red light.







Fists Against the Glass



People passed by like everything was normal.



Raymond stood in the rain, staring through the window of a cake shop like it was an art gallery.Inside was a cake—simple, clean, elegant.White frosting. Bright fruit. A golden number “6” candle on top.



To most folks walking by, he looked like just another dude admiring a dessert.



A couple passed by, arm in arm.




“Your birthday’s in two weeks,” the girl said, smiling.“Should I get you a cake like that?”





“Looks good,” the guy nodded. “He’s been looking at it for a while.”





“See? Must be a good one.”




They kept walking, totally unfazed.







Then Raymond punched the glass.



THUMP.



Not a smash. Not a shatter.



Just a thick, dull thud.



The glass barely trembled.



The couple paused. The guy turned back.




“Uh… sir? Are you okay? Why did you—”




He didn’t even get to finish before Raymond punched again.



And again.



And again.



Same spot. Same sound. No expression.



The girl leaned in and whispered,




“He’s not right. Let’s go. Just leave him alone.”Then grabbed her boyfriend’s arm and tugged him away.




Just fists rotating like factory arms.



Right. Left. Right. Left.



Rain poured from his sleeves as he kept going.



Finally—a crack.



Tiny. But real.







Inside, the shop owner looked up from the register and groaned.



He marched out, apron on, already pissed.




“HEY! What the hell are you doing?!This a kung fu dojo now? You wanna spar, go home!”




He stormed up to Raymond and, without hesitation—socked him right in the face.



Raymond’s head snapped sideways.Cheek bleeding.



But he didn’t even blink.



He just went right back to punching the glass.



Right fist.Left fist.



Back to work.



The shop owner watched, stunned.



The crack had spread.Now it looked like a spider web frozen mid-crawl.



He cursed again and stormed back inside.







The Vibration Technique



Raymond smiled.



Barely. Just a tiny curl of the lips.But it wasn’t joy. It was… realization.



He whispered to no one:




“That’s it. Vibration.”




He’d found something.Not strength.Not speed.



But a frequency.







He lifted his right fist.



From the outside? Looked totally normal—just a man raising his hand to punch.



But deep inside, down to the atoms, his knuckles were humming.Not shaking.Not trembling.



They were vibrating—quiet and fast—like a tuning fork buried inside bone.



He didn’t even wind up.Didn’t throw the punch.



He just… touched the glass.



And the whole window gave out.



Not like an explosion.Not like a crack.



It crumbled—softly, beautifully—like powdered sugar falling off a cake.Slivers, flakes, glittering chunks, all cascading to the ground in slow motion.







Inside, the bakery owner stared at the sudden collapse of his front wall.



No reaction. Just turned around and walked to the back.



When he came out again, he was holding a rusty metal pipe.



Dude looked ready to fight in a parking lot in 2004.



Before the bakery, this guy used to be something—a street-level thug in a mid-tier gang.He’d mugged rich kids, jacked delivery vans, beat snitches bloody in alleyways.



Then one lucky robbery gave him enough cash to “start fresh.”So he opened a bakery.



Tried to live clean.



And for years, it worked.Until today.



Something inside him snapped.







He stomped outside, gripping the pipe like it was a weapon of honor.




“You freakin’ psycho! You pink-aproned milk-smelling garbage pile!I’m gonna bash your damn skull in!”




He spun fast, clean—like muscle memory—and brought the pipe down, full force, straight at Raymond’s head.







Raymond didn’t move.



Instead, he did what he’d just done to the glass.



He pushed that same subtle hum—vibration—into his body.



He raised his forearm slowly… and blocked.



CLANG.



The pipe rang out like it hit a bell.



It didn’t bend.But the owner’s arms sure did.



The vibration snapped through the metal, into his palms, up his arms—lighting his nerves on fire.



He dropped the pipe immediately.



His fingers went numb. Wrists locked up.He stumbled back, mouth wide.




“What the hell was that?!”




Raymond hadn’t even flinched.



It wasn’t a block.It was a reflection.



The energy didn’t stop—it bounced back.







The owner stared at his hands, now trembling like leaves.



He stepped back once.Then twice.Then threw his palms up.




“Okay—okay! You’re a demon! I’m done! I’m not messing with that!”




He turned and ran back inside like the building was on fire.







Cut to: Thirty seconds later.



He was in the restroom, pants down, sweating like hell.



He didn’t even bother putting the toilet seat down.Didn’t notice the dried pee stains, the crusty floor, the nasty rim.



Didn’t matter.



He sat down and lit a cigarette with trembling hands.



Took a long, slow drag.



Let out a shaky breath.



And all he could think was:




“What the f*** was that vibration…”








Concussion Punch



Raymond kept moving.



Down the street. Still soaked. Still silent.Walking past shop after shop—each one with those tall, clear windows.



And one by one…he broke them.



No big swings. No effort.



Just a touch.



A light punch.



That same hum running through his bones.



CRACK.SHHH.BOOM.



Each glass wall burst like it had been hit by sound itself.



People inside screamed.Glass fell into soup bowls, into hair salons, into the back of someone’s neck while they were getting a scalp massage.







But Raymond?Didn’t stop.



He went block by block.Ten windows.Then twenty.Then forty.



He was a walking storm.



The glass wasn’t even shattering anymore—it was disintegrating.



His punches were beyond human now.They were instinct.



He paused in front of a shattered storefront, watching tiny shards twirl in the air like silver snowflakes.



There was something beautiful in it.Like powdered sugar falling across a fresh cake.



Then, for the first time since everything broke—



Raymond spoke out loud.




“I shall name my new move…Concussion Punch.”




And then—he laughed.



Not a normal laugh.Not even human.



Somewhere between giddy joy, deep revenge, and total insanity.







A teenager rode by on a beat-up bicycle, hoodie up, earbuds in.He slowed down when he caught the phrase “concussion punch.”




“Yo, what? You serious?”“I got Torpedo God Palm, bro.”




He did a fake kung fu pose.Sliced the air with his hand like some anime character.



Raymond slowly turned toward him.



Didn’t step.Didn’t blink.



Just turned his head.



Rain slid down his face.Apron fluttered in the wind.His eyes? Solid black. Fog swirling in the sockets.



The teen locked eyes with him and instantly regretted everything.



He stood up on his pedals and booked it.



Legs pumping. Chain rattling. Tires squealing.




“Errr… ehhh… ughhh… soooooorrryyyyyyyy!!”




His voice faded into the storm behind him.



Raymond didn’t even react.



Just turned back to the next window.



It hadn’t shattered yet.



But it would.







Citywide Curfew



TV screens across the city lit up all at once.



BREAKING NEWS blared across every local channel.



Grainy cell phone footage played:



A thin man in a pink apron walked calmly up to a storefront.



Lifted a fist.



BOOM.



The glass exploded like it got hit by a sonic boom.



The anchor’s voice kicked in:




“Several businesses have been completely destroyed within the last hour. Witnesses claim it was the same individual—using only his bare fists.”




Cut to a drenched field reporter standing outside a destroyed bakery.



Recognizable face—she was the same reporter who once covered the alley protest.




“It’s pure chaos out here. We’re talking dozens of shattered storefronts.This isn’t vandalism. This is martial arts.We may be looking at a rogue fighter with serious internal power.”








And then?



A short man wearing striped pajamas and a cheap plastic mask ran into the shot.He wrapped his arms around the reporter’s waist and started groping her like a pervert at a festival.




“What the—GET OFF ME!”




She turned and decked him clean in the skull.



He yelped and ran off like a cartoon character, wobbling down the street.



The reporter fixed her hair and tried to play it cool.




“As you can see… tensions are high.Some individuals may be experiencing temporary mental disturbances due to the shock of the destruction.Parents, please keep your children safe during this time.”








Meanwhile, somewhere across town—Canelo sat on his couch, watching the report.



Cigarette in one hand.Eyes locked on the screen.



He paused the video at just the right moment.



The pervert in the mask.Striped pajamas.Round haircut.



He squinted.




“…That’s Benson.”




Took a drag.




“Ain’t nobody else that short… or that stupid.”




Smoke drifted out his nose in a slow, respectful stream.







Back on live TV, the reporter got another update through her earpiece.




“We’ve just received official word from the central precinct:Due to the scope of destruction, a citywide curfew is now in place.Civilians are urged to stay inside unless absolutely necessary.A tactical unit has been deployed to handle the threat.We’ll continue coverage as the situation unfolds.”








Cut to: the police station rec room.



Dim light. Rain tapping the windows.



Grayson sat at a card table with three other cops, mid-poker game.



TV on the wall played the same news footage.



He set down his hand, leaned back, rubbed his temples.



Groaned.




“Ugh… in this weather?Who the hell’s bored enough to go around punching windows all night?”




He glanced out the window.



The rain was heavier now.



He didn’t want to get up.Didn’t want to suit up.



But orders were orders.



And this night?



This night was gonna suck.


Chapter 53: Grayson: Law and Disorder
==================================================

Dispatch in the Rain



Grayson let out a long, tired sigh as he slowly stood up from the card table in the back of the precinct.Rain tapped against the windows like ticking clocks, reminding him of everything he didn’t want to deal with.



He adjusted his shirt, smoothed out his wrinkled uniform, and grabbed his police cap off the back of his chair.Then, without a word, he reached over the table, snatched up the game’s score sheet—and tore it clean in half.Straight into the trash.



One of the officers blinked.




“Hey! What the hell, man? You lost. We all saw it!”




Grayson didn’t even look back.




“We’ve got real work to do. Let’s move.”




The others groaned in unison.




“Aww man… Jesus Christ. You always do this…”




Grumbling, the four officers reluctantly got to their feet.They pulled on their jackets, grabbed their gear, and shuffled toward the garage like kids headed to detention.



—



Out back near the squad cars, Grayson struck a pose.One hand on his hip. The other pointing across the rain-drenched parking lot.




“Gentlemen… we ride out now.For justice.For peace.For the safety and order of this great city!”




No one responded.His teammates just walked past him—silent, soaked, unimpressed.



Grayson stood there alone for a beat… then awkwardly jogged to catch up.



—



Minutes later, their patrol car tore through the city with sirens wailing.Rain smeared across the windshield. Streetlights flickered past like ghosts.



A voice crackled through the radio:




“All units, suspect description confirmed.Male, mid-build, very skinny.Unusual facial hair.Very small eyes.Suspect is reportedly wearing… a pink apron.Last seen near 48th and Chester Alley.”




Grayson grabbed the mic.




“Unit 7 responding. We’re close. Moving in now.”




He tossed the radio back into its holder, and the car picked up speed.



—



Didn’t take long.They pulled up to the mouth of a narrow backstreet behind a row of shops and restaurants.



The alley was dim and quiet.Steam rose from nearby vents. Trash bags sagged against the walls.



And there he was.



Standing alone behind a dumpling shop—bald, bony, cigarette dangling from his lips, pink apron wrapped tight around his skinny frame.Tiny eyes. Weird little beard.



He wasn’t hiding. Wasn’t running.He looked like he’d been waiting.



One of the officers whispered:




“…Is that him?”




Grayson squinted.




“Yeah. That’s him.”




They stepped out of the car.Rain still pouring.







The Pink Apron



Fifteen minutes earlier—



Inside the cramped kitchen of a bustling noodle shop, the bald man in the pink apron stood hunched over a cutting board, carving through yet another roasted duck.Not just one. He’d gone through several already. His hand was starting to cramp.



Between cutting ducks, boiling noodles, and juggling a dozen other hot dishes, his whole body felt like it was running on fumes.



He checked the clock.9:00 p.m.



Dinner rush was finally slowing.The counter was stacked with neatly packed takeout containers, waiting for pickup.



He exhaled through his nose, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, and slipped out the back door.Time for a smoke.



—



He leaned against the brick wall in the narrow alley behind the shop.With a practiced flick, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag.




“Man… smoking’s the only time I actually feel human.”




Technically, the place didn’t allow breaks. But they did allow smoke breaks—so he took full advantage.



Fifteen, twenty minutes? No one ever said a word.



He tilted his head toward the sky, letting smoke trail out his nose.



Rent was due in three days.His paycheck barely covered it.




“Maybe I should try buying a lottery ticket.”




He chuckled, dry.




“Win a jackpot, retire early… otherwise I’m gonna be slicing duck until I’m seventy.”




He scrolled aimlessly through his phone.A headline popped up:“Maniac Destroys Dozens of Storefronts With Bare Hands – Citywide Curfew Announced.”



He tapped the video.There, on-screen: a man in a pink apron, punching through shop windows like they were paper.People screaming. Glass flying.



He squinted.




“What the hell… this guy kinda looks like me.”




Another short laugh.




“He’s probably just another line cook who snapped.Pressure’s too high these days. Everyone’s goin’ nuts.”




He pocketed the phone, took another drag.



Then—red and blue lights lit the alley.



Sirens. Doors slamming.Officers pouring in.




“HEY—HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE ‘EM!”




He blinked, confused.




“Huh? What the hell—?”




Too late.




“DOWN! ON YOUR KNEES! NOW!”




His cigarette fell from his lips.He never even got to explain.







Beat Him Down, Fuck Him Good



The five officers pounced like wolves.



He didn’t fight. Couldn’t.He barely had time to raise his hands.




“Wait! I surrender! I don’t know what—”




One officer yanked his arms back and cuffed him hard. Another shoved him face-first to the ground.




“DON’T MOVE!”“STAY DOWN!”“HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE—”




Boots crashed into his ribs.An elbow drove into his spine.




“Stop resisting! Resisting is futile!”




He wasn’t resisting.But it didn’t matter.



A heavy boot slammed straight into his face.His cheek ballooned. Lips split.Blood trickled into his mouth.




“I… I wasn’t resisting… I’m cooperating…”




Didn’t matter.



—



They weren’t mad at him.



They were mad at the rain.Mad at being called in late.Mad that this guy—this apron-wearing nobody—was making them do work.



So they let it out.



Ten minutes of pure venting.



Punches. Kicks. Sloppy knees.They weren’t trained for this—they were just angry and out of shape.



The man stopped screaming.Just curled up. Silent.



Shirt torn. Apron shredded.Face swelling. Bruises blooming.



One officer crouched and rubbed his bald head, laughing.




“Man! Bald already? You’re still young—just like our Chief! Hahaha!”




That’s when Grayson stepped in.



Silent. Cold.



He pulled out his baton—and swung it sideways, cracking the laughing officer across the mouth.



The officer froze.Lips split open. Blood dripping.



From that day forward, they called him Broken Lips.



—



Grayson pointed down at the man, then at the others.




“You think this is funny? You think this is a game? Look at him.”




They looked.



The man on the ground shook.




“I’m… I’m not the guy you’re looking for…I know what it looks like… the video, the apron…But I’m not him… I swear…”




Tears welled. Voice cracked.




“I didn’t do anything…”




The alley went still.Streetlight humming. Rain falling.No one moved.







Cops? More Like Gangsters.



Then—




“You think that little sob story’s gonna fool us?Scumbags like you are always the best liars.”




SLAP.Hard and fast across the face.



And just like that, round two began.



They weren’t chasing justice anymore.They were chasing relief.From boredom. From stress. From whatever was eating them inside.



They beat him again.



—



While they wailed on him, Grayson crouched down, slid a hand into the man’s pocket—and stole his wallet.



He opened it, plucked out every dollar, and tossed the empty leather shell onto the pavement.



The man saw it all.



Swollen face. Bloody lips.But his eyes? Still open.



Grayson noticed.




“What the fuck you lookin’ at?Never seen a cop rob somebody before?”




He stuffed the bills deeper into his coat and walked away like it was nothing.



The man didn’t speak.Couldn’t.



This wasn’t law enforcement.This was worse than any street gang he’d ever seen.



—



Then he vomited.



A wet explosion of blood.Dark red, splashing across the pavement.A full square meter, soaked.



The officers froze.



He twitched. Wheezed.




“…Shit. If we keep going, he might actually die.”




Not fear. Not guilt.



Just dread—of paperwork.



Grayson stepped up like he was giving a speech.




“Alright, brothers—wrap it up. I think the lesson’s been delivered.Let’s call it a day.”




They backed off, panting.Sweat-soaked, fists sore.




“Alright… let’s bring him in.”








Oops, the Wrong Guy



Right then—GLASS shattered somewhere nearby.



They turned.



Through the rain, they saw him.



Not the man they’d just beaten—but the real Raymond.



Thin. Frail. Long, wet curls stuck to his face.Pink apron. Tiny eyes.Right fist still clenched midair.



One cop blinked.




“Hey Chief… looks like Raymond’s not bald after all.”




They looked down at the broken cook.



Then at Grayson.



The silence was thick and ugly.



Grayson stroked his chin like a philosopher.




“We all make mistakes.”




Then snapped louder:




“What matters is—we learn from them!You agree with me, don’t you?”




The others nodded.




“Yes, Chief.”




Grayson turned back to the cook—and kicked him in the head.




“If you weren’t the damn criminal, then why didn’t you say something earlier?!”





“I’ve been trying, man…I’ve been trying…”




Just a whisper.Barely heard.



Grayson spun around like a commander.




“Let’s go, boys. We’re bringing in the real Raymond tonight!”




The officers took off into the rain.



But Grayson wasn’t done.



He kicked the cook again—full-force to the ribs.The poor guy rolled across the pavement—and right into an open storm drain.



He vanished into the dark water.




“Hey! You guys didn’t unlock my cuffs yet!”




His voice echoed up from the drain.







Abusing Authority 101



They found him.The real Raymond.



Ten meters out, they stopped.



Didn’t rush.Didn’t dare.



Something about this guy…The way he stood. The way the rain danced around him.Even from a distance—you could feel it.



Power.



—



Grayson stepped forward.



One hand on his hip. The other outstretched like he was summoning thunder.




“The criminal ahead—surrender immediately,or we’ll be forced to unleash our wrath!”




Right then, a scooter pulled up beside them.



A delivery girl. Helmet on.She parked, kicked the stand down, and popped the helmet off—



Long black hair spilled out.Pretty face. Calm expression.



She looked past the cops toward Raymond.




“Wait a second… isn’t that the bakery guy?Raymond? That’s him, right? He’s always been super sweet.”




She stepped closer.




“I don’t know what happened today, but…if you’re going to arrest him, please be careful.He’s a good man.”




—



Grayson oozed forward with fake warmth.



Hand on her shoulder.



Then—sliding lower.




“You’re absolutely right.We’d never harm a citizen unless it was the absolute last resort.Don’t worry, miss. We’ll handle it properly.”




His hand crept toward her chest—until she caught his wrist and pushed it back up.




“Good. I’m glad to hear that, Chief.You really are a good officer.”




She stepped back politely.Eyes filled with fear and quiet disgust—too powerless to resist authority.



—



Grayson didn’t back up.Instead, just leaned in with a greasy smile.




“You mind waiting here for a sec?If we pull this off… maybe we grab a bite?”




She hesitated.




“Oh… I don’t know about that…”




Didn’t want to say yes.Didn’t dare say no.



So she just stood there, helmet in hand, awkward and still.



Grayson adjusted his belt, then turned back to his team.




“Alright, boys… let’s do it.”




And just like that—The show went on.


Chapter 54: Raymond vs. Cops (Part 1)
==================================================

Broken Lips, I Choose You



The rain had just stopped.The sky still hung low and heavy, the streets wet and steaming like the city had just taken a long, angry shower.But Grayson didn’t care.



He planted one hand on his hip, struck a ridiculous pose, and pointed his other arm toward Raymond like he was summoning lightning.




“Broken Lips, I choose you!”




It sounded like he was picking a Pokémon.



The other officers blinked.



Broken Lips turned around slowly, mouth still swollen from earlier, and gave a look that said: What the hell, again?




“Why is it always me?” he muttered. “I was the first one last time too. Shouldn’t it be someone else’s turn by now?”




But Grayson was already backing up—literally stepping behind the rest of them—until he ended up beside the delivery girl.



He jabbed a finger toward Broken Lips.




“Get over there! You stall any longer and I’ll smash your mouth again with my baton. Don’t test me.”




The girl glanced at Grayson, clearly uncomfortable, but then turned to Broken Lips and raised a clenched fist in support.




“You can do it, Broken Lips!I believe in you! If anyone can bring back the old Raymond… it’s you!”




She was sincere.Too sincere.







Broken Lips blinked. Then gave a long, theatrical sigh.



He reached into his jacket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it like this was some kind of slow-motion movie scene.Took one drag. Exhaled. Nodded to no one.




“Alright then.If all of you are too scared…I guess I’ll be the one to take care of this.”




He stepped forward.And oh, he stepped.



He walked just like a guy on a fashion catwalk—like he was showing off a spring collection instead of heading into a fight.



Not like a soldier. Not like a cop.He walked like he was on a runway—left foot forward, right foot crosses in, then left again—his hips swinging side to side like he’d rehearsed it in a mirror.



The streetlights glinted off the puddles around him. Cigarette smoke trailed behind him like mist from a cheap fog machine.He looked ridiculous.



And yet… kind of heroic.



He got close—way too close.Pointed his finger right at Raymond’s face.There were maybe three inches between fingertip and nose.




“You hear me, you evil bastard?!I’m giving you ten seconds to surrender right now.If you don’t, I swear to God—I’ll beat your face in so hard it’ll make my lips look good!”




Raymond’s head tilted slightly.His eyes were still covered in that swirling black mist.His expression unreadable.



And then, he spoke—calm, quiet, almost disappointed.




“You’re wasting your breath.”





“I don’t hear you.”





“I hear only the sound… of shattering glass.”








Support from a Fangirl



From behind, the delivery girl was bouncing on her toes like a cheerleader.Both fists raised, voice full of excitement:




“Come on! Woohoo! You can do it, Broken Lips! You’re the hero! You look amazing! I love you!”




She sounded like a fangirl at a K-pop concert.Bright, energetic, totally sincere—completely unaware of the disaster that was about to unfold.



Grayson gave her a sideways glance.That kind of youth… that kind of optimism…That was exactly the kind of woman he’d been searching for.



Long, flowing hair. Beautiful face. Sharp, clean features.And those two little bunnies bouncing in front of her chest? Yeah, Grayson noticed.Hard not to.



And just like that, he fell in love again.Or whatever his version of love was.







Fueled by the girl’s encouragement, Broken Lips stood straighter.He took a slow drag from his cigarette, acting cool.




“3… 2… 1.Time’s up. Looks like you’re not gonna surrender.”





“Guess I’ll have to beat it out of you.”




With the cigarette still lit, he reached forward and brought the glowing tip close to Raymond’s face—trying to provoke him. Humiliate him. Look tough.



He never made contact.



Raymond didn’t even turn his head.His arm moved—fast and effortless—swinging out like a steel hook.It caught Broken Lips square in the face.



The officer flew backwards, body spinning sideways in the air.He hit the ground with a hard thud—then kept going.



The pavement was freshly laid. Smooth. Slick with leftover rain.His body slid across the road like a hockey puck, limbs limp.



He didn’t stop until he’d skidded over twenty meters down the street.







The crowd went silent.



Even the delivery girl froze mid-bounce.She stared at the motionless figure on the ground and slowly lowered her fists.




“Oh no…” she said quietly.“Turns out Broken Lips…”




She paused.



The other officers turned toward her, waiting for the sentence to land.



She blinked, then said it.




“…is just too weak.”








Lying on the ground, Broken Lips felt everything.



He wasn’t seriously injured. Just some scrapes. Torn fabric. Bit of road burn.He could’ve stood up.



But he didn’t.



That slap—whatever it was—wasn’t just stronger than him.It felt five times stronger.Ten times.Maybe twenty.



His body trembled. His pants were wet.He’d pissed himself.



Not from pain.From fear.



If he got up now…If he really tried to fight again…He was going to die.



So he did the only thing that made sense.



He closed his eyes—and pretended to be unconscious.







The delivery girl looked at him lying there, lifeless and limp.She turned to Grayson and said,




“Looks like it’s time for the next one.”




Grayson nodded calmly.




“Don’t worry. He’s the weakest one on our team anyway.”




Then he turned, reached out, and patted the next officer on the shoulder.




“I choose you. Go.”




But the camera didn’t show who it was.







Split Pants Evolved



A tall, skinny cop stood stiff as Grayson clapped a hand on his shoulder.He turned his head slightly. “Chief… is it my turn?”



Grayson gave a crooked smile.“Yup. And I’m giving you a nickname. From now on—you’re Split Pants.”



The cop blinked, confused. “Why though, Chief?”



Grayson pointed directly at his crotch.“Look at you. Your pants are blown wide open. Everyone can see your pink underwear, man.”



From a few steps away, the delivery girl gasped and immediately covered her eyes with both hands.But through the cracks between her fingers, she peeked.And when she saw that lump bulging beneath the bright pink fabric, her eyes locked in.She was… curious.



Split Pants stepped forward. Without saying a word, he shrugged off his uniform jacket and tossed it aside.Underneath, he wore a tight black tank top—just snug enough to show his lean, wiry muscle.Then, with a casual flick, he dropped his police baton onto the ground.



Instead, he reached to his belt and pulled out a rusted metal pipe.The thing looked like it had been pulled out of a sewer. Corroded. Worn. Dangerous.




“Whoa…” the delivery girl whispered.“Split Pants just evolved. I can feel it—his power just went up by like… 50%.”




Split Pants gripped the pipe tight. His voice was low, almost like a vow to himself.“I can’t afford to lose this fight. Not today. Because this isn’t just my battle…”



He stared at the ground, eyes half-closed.“…This is for my families.”



Plural.



Because Split Pants had two wives. Each had given him a litter of kids.And between all the mouths to feed, he worked two jobs—cop by day, low-level gangster by night.You could see it in his face.The sunken cheeks. The tired, hollow stare. The quiet desperation.



He closed his eyes for just a moment.In his mind, he could see them—both wives, standing on either side of him, each with an arm on his shoulder.Behind them? A sea of kids. Dozens of little faces staring back at him.



Then—his eyes snapped open.They were glowing with fire.



He gripped the metal pipe harder.His fingers dug in so tight that the old steel actually dented inward, just a little.



He stomped out a wide horse stance. His legs planted, his knees dropped—and with that—



RRRIPPP.



His crotch exploded open.The entire bottom of his pants split in two, perfectly revealing a smooth, bright pink pair of underwear underneath.Right in the center, that same bulge pressed outward like it was proud to be seen.



The delivery girl froze.She stared.Then licked her lips—slowly.



She whispered to herself, cheeks a little flushed:




“…Oh yeah. That’s massive.”








For My Families



Split Pants pointed his rusted metal pipe straight at Raymond like he was summoning lightning.




“You can’t win,” he shouted. “Because you’re not fighting for anything that matters!I’m fighting for something noble. Something real.My families’ love.”




From the sidelines, the delivery girl gasped. She was honestly touched.




“This world needs more men like that,” she whispered to herself.“Men with real responsibility… real masculinity.”




Grayson glanced over at her glowing expression and clenched his jaw. His fists tightened.If we make it out of this alive, he thought, I’m firing Split Pants on the spot.And not quietly. In front of everyone.



Then he snapped aloud:




“That guy?! Responsibility?! He’s got TWO wives! Jesus Christ!”




Split Pants didn’t care. He was in the zone now.



He spun the pipe around his body like Bruce Lee with a staff, letting it swirl from shoulder to waist, underarm to wrist—twisting, flicking, flaring in blurs of rusted silver.The pipe danced for twenty whole seconds like a weapon possessed.



Then—he stopped spinning.He gripped the pipe hard with both hands.



And jumped.



Half a meter into the air. Nothing fancy. Just enough.



And then—




“FOR MY FAMILIES! FOR MY TWO WIVES!!”




He swung down with full force toward Raymond’s head.



The delivery girl clutched her chest, moved by the sheer conviction in his voice.




“Split Pants… I’m rooting for you!” she cried.“And if you don’t mind—I want to be your third wife!”




Grayson nearly threw up.



He watched her eyes sparkle as she cheered on the idiot in torn pants and pink underwear, and something in his soul snapped.



Split Pants… you’re done.I’m firing you for sure.And I’ll do it with a megaphone if I have to.



Also… damn those long legs.



Right as Split Pants was descending, Raymond tilted his head up slightly. Just a little.



And raised his fist.



He didn’t even punch forward.Just swung it into the air—right into the path of the incoming pipe.



CLANGGGGGG!



The sound of metal smashing against raw force rang through the street like a cannon blast.A horrible screech of high-frequency metal vibration followed.Like steel being stretched, shredded, and shaken all at once.



Everyone nearby immediately covered their ears.Even the delivery girl winced.




“Oh my god—my eardrums…”








A Goodbye Without Words



A violent pulse of vibration shot out from Raymond’s fist and slammed into the rusted metal pipe.



The pipe let out a high-pitched metallic scream—sharp, unbearable, like steel under pressure.Everyone nearby instinctively clamped their hands over their ears.



The energy shot through the pipe and into Split Pants’ arms. Then his spine. Then the rest of him.



In that moment, he and the pipe became a blur—a flickering, vibrating mess of motion, like a distorted frame caught between two realities.



And then—BANG.The whole blur smashed into the ground.



The second his body touched down, the blur started to fade. His outline slowly came back into focus.For the past few seconds in midair, the energy had nowhere to go—it just bounced back and forth inside him, frying him from the inside out.



But now that he hit the ground, the vibration traveled outward—into the earth—and finally let him go.



Raymond’s fist remained raised in the air, still clenched—as if the vibration hadn’t left him yet.He didn’t even bother turning his head. Just slightly tilted it.Enough to glimpse the aftermath.He saw the blur crash into the ground.He knew.The fight was over.



Behind Raymond, Split Pants lay motionless.His mouth was leaking blood. So were his nose, his eyes, and even his ears.The kind of bleeding that doesn’t come from cuts—it comes from something breaking inside.



His insides were wrecked.



He slowly pushed himself upright, using the rusted pipe like a walking cane.Not a weapon anymore. Just support.Like an old man with nowhere left to go.



Two nearby officers struggled to their feet. One of them choked out,“No… please stop…”



Then louder:




“The fight is over, Split Pants!You don’t have to keep going! Just stop—it’s over!”




But Split Pants didn’t answer.He didn’t attack.



He just turned around.And walked.



One limp step at a time, down the empty street.Back toward the direction of his home.



His legs dragged. His body trembled.



But his voice, though soft, was steady.




“Wife No.1… Wife No.2…My son… my daughters… my dogs…No matter what… I’ll come home to see you…”




Grayson stormed up, furious.




“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! Where are you going, Split Pants?! You idiot! STOP RIGHT THERE AND COME BACK!”




He was about to say more when two other officers grabbed him gently by the shoulders.They shook their heads.



“…Split Pants is done for,” one of them muttered.“He won’t last long… he could collapse any second…”



Their throats tightened. Words caught halfway.



Even Grayson—cold, cynical, ruthless Grayson—could see it now.



That man wasn’t walking away.



He was fading.



Even Grayson’s eyes started to gloss over with… something.



And behind them all—The delivery girl dropped to her knees, crying uncontrollably.







Gone Without a Word



Everyone was still frozen in grief, watching Split Pants limp into the darkness, muttering about his wives, his kids, his dogs…



Then—Thud.His body dropped.



No words. No warning.Just the sound of his body hitting the ground.



A moment later, there came a sharp, metallic clang.



Then another.



And another.



It was his rusted metal pipe, the one he’d clung to all the way through.It bounced on the concrete once, twice, then spun slowly before landing flat.



The clean, crisp ring of steel echoed across the street, slicing through the silence like a bell toll.Just like that, the fight was over.



Everyone stood there, stunned.



A few officers began to cry.The delivery girl sobbed into her hands.



Even Grayson—usually stone-faced—looked like something had finally cracked inside.He didn’t say a word.But for the first time, he didn’t look like a chief.



He just looked… human.







Far in the distance—maybe twenty, thirty meters away—someone else opened his eyes.



Broken Lips.



He hadn’t passed out. Not really.He’d just been faking it the whole time.



Lying still, eyes shut, waiting. Watching.



Now, with everyone focused on the fallen hero, he seized his chance.



He scanned the area.No one saw him.



He dropped to his elbows and began crawling. Fast.



He slid along the wet pavement like a snake, pulling himself further and further away from the crowd.Ten meters. Twenty. Fifty.



Once he was far enough, he jumped up to his feet and bolted.Full sprint. Full panic.



He didn’t even look back.




“This is a warzone,” he muttered to himself as he ran.“No one’s paying me enough for this shit.”








He ran for blocks.All the way to the city center.



Only then did he finally slow down.He leaned against a lamppost, wiping sweat from his forehead.




“That was scary,” he whispered.




Just thinking about that moment—seeing Split Pants lying motionless in the street—had been enough.That was it.That was the last straw.



He wasn’t gonna be next.



Now surrounded by the flashing neon signs of downtown, Broken Lips took a deep breath.Bright lights, warm sidewalks, people laughing in the distance.



He needed to cool off.He needed to relax.



So he looked around, saw a glowing red sign in the corner of the street.




Massage Parlor.




He smiled faintly to himself.



And walked in.






Chapter 55: Raymond vs. Cops (Part 2)
==================================================

The Broken Duo



The rain had finally stopped.But the silence it left behind… was heavier than ever.



Only two officers remained behind Grayson.They stood awkwardly. No one moved.Then—one of them stepped forward.



Tall. Gaunt. Eyebrows tense.And when he opened his mouth, it sounded like a dying chainsaw chewing on gravel.




“(grkkhh)… wgh-huurghh… we c-ccould pull b-b-bwaaa-ck—ghrnnnnn—ssstrattegi… cckkkhh—replaaawgh—ch—”




A long pause.



Grayson stared.




“What the fuck did you just say?”




No response. Just that determined look on the officer’s face.



Grayson turned to the other cop.




“Did you get that?”




The second cop shook his head hard.




“Not a single word. I think he said ‘lasagna’ at one point.”




The officer with the broken voice turned… and looked at the delivery girl.



She blinked, eyebrows raised.




“What? Don’t look at me. I didn’t understand a thing.”




Grayson sighed.




“Alright, well… whatever the hell that was, it sounded passionate.”“I’m gonna guess… you wanna fight. Right? Avenge the ones we lost?”




He nodded to himself, completely confident in his wild guess.




“I respect that.”




Then he clapped the officer on the shoulder dramatically.




“And for that… I give you a name.”“From now on, you’re Broken Voice. Because honestly, Jesus Christ, man—your throat sounds like it’s been dragged through a meat grinder.”




The tall cop didn’t say a word.



His face slowly lost color.He looked around, confused, almost desperate—like someone trapped in the wrong dream.He tried to protest, but all that came out was another garbled croak.



Too late.The nickname stuck.And worse—he was now being sent in.



Grayson turned to the other cop.




“You’re going too.”




The second officer nodded, took one step forward, then hesitated.



He looked back at Grayson, voice hopeful:




“Chief… they’ve all got nicknames. But I don’t.”




Grayson scanned him quickly. Then noticed it.



The zipper.Wide open. Practically screaming for attention.



Grayson smirked.




“Alright. You’re Broken Zippers.”“The name found you.”




The officer stood tall and proud, like he’d been knighted.




“Thank you, Chief. I actually like it. My zipper’s been broken for two months. Not kidding.”




The delivery girl blinked again, slowly realizing this might not be the elite squad she imagined.



Together, the two stepped forward:



Broken Voice and Broken Zippers.



The most tragic duo the force had ever sent into action.



As they approached the open street where Raymond stood like a ticking time bomb, the delivery girl leaned in.




“Hey Chief… what do you think their chances are?”




Grayson didn’t even pause.




“Ten percent. Probably less. They’re pretty weak.”








Instant Double Knockout



Grayson never really expected those two officers to win.All he wanted was for them to buy him some time—just a few dozen exchanges.Wear Raymond out a little. Then he’d swoop in, land the final hit, and walk away looking like the hero.



He stood there with a smug little grin. Confident.That smirk didn’t go unnoticed—The delivery girl caught it out of the corner of her eye.



Huh… maybe this Chief isn’t all bad.Confident. Kinda sharp too. I mean… four nicknames in one day? And they weren’t random either—each one had its own vibe. Like, weirdly educated nicknames.



But plans don’t always go the way you expect.



The moment the two officers stepped forward—before they could even say a word—Raymond slammed his fist into the ground.



BOOM.



Cracks shot through the pavement like spiderwebs. A shockwave exploded outward.



The two cops were thrown back instantly—flung like rag dolls—then smashed into the ground and started puking. Hard.



It was instant. Total knockout.



Even Grayson and the delivery girl—standing thirty meters away—felt a little tremble under their feet.



The girl’s eyes widened.




“Oh my god… what kind of power is that?”




Grayson didn’t say a word. He looked… mildly embarrassed. But still calm. Still collected.



Sure, the timing didn’t go as planned. But he still believed he had a solid shot.



He walked over to the delivery girl, placed both hands on her shoulders.




“Alright. I’m going in. If I win… will you give me a kiss?”




Her face flushed red. She hesitated… and nodded.



Grayson leaned in, lips ready.



She quickly blocked his face with her hand.




“You said after you win.”




Grayson pulled back with a shrug.




“Fine. Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”




Before he could turn away, the delivery girl tilted her head, eyes curious.




“Wait—Chief. Just curious… if I were part of your team, what nickname would you give me?”




Grayson stopped.



His eyes moved slowly—scanning her from head to toe. Then, they landed… and stayed.Locked on her chest.For ten full seconds.



He nodded, dead serious.




“Bouncy Boobs.”




She blinked, stunned for half a second—Then broke into a laugh.




“Oh my god… that’s actually kinda brilliant.”




She shook her head, still grinning.




“You’re ridiculous. But low-key? You’re like… a poetic pervert.”




Grayson flashed a smug grin.




“Gifted, not ridiculous.”




Only then did he turn to leave.



And just as he started walking toward the battlefield, the girl called out behind him:




“Go easy on Raymond, okay? Don’t kill him.”




Grayson threw her a lazy thumbs-up over his shoulder.







Modern Weapon Unleashed



Grayson stepped forward.



He kept a solid fifteen meters between himself and Raymond—just enough to feel safe.He didn’t rush. Didn’t flinch. Just walked like he already knew he’d win.



The delivery girl watched him from behind.



Her heart skipped.God… he’s so confident. So composed. Maybe I’m actually falling for this man…



Grayson lowered his head slightly and whispered to himself.




“No choice… You forced me into this. I didn’t want to use it. But now… I have to pull out my final weapon.”




In this modern world—who still fights with fists?



He pulled out a sleek 9mm pistol.



Raymond slowly turned to face him, expressionless.Not even a trace of fear.



Right then, the delivery girl shouted out behind them.




“Wait! Sweetheart—if you shoot him like that, he won’t survive! Please, go easy! He used to be so kind… he was just a sweet baker…”




Grayson didn’t respond.



In the next second, he raised the gun and emptied the entire magazine—firing all fourteen rounds in rapid succession.



Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.



Done. No hesitation.



Then, eyes closed, he let out a dramatic sigh.




“What a shame… We could’ve talked this out like civilized human beings. But I guess this was always how it had to end…”




But what Grayson didn’t know—



Raymond was already moving.



His fists blurred—faster than the eye could follow. He threw punch after punch, hitting each bullet mid-air.



Each impact rang out like sharp, metallic thunder.CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.



He caught twelve of them.



The last two? He tilted his head slightly and twisted his torso—dodging them with ridiculous ease.Not even a scratch.



When Grayson opened his eyes…



Raymond was still standing.



Upright. Tall. Unshaken. Alive.



Grayson froze.



He blinked, confused. His heart dropped. And then—



He felt something warm in his pants.



He’d pissed himself.



Thankfully, the rain had just stopped. Everything was still wet.Maybe no one noticed.



He took two steps back. His knees wobbled. His voice trembled.




“…He is a monster.”








Kung Fu 101



The two bullets Raymond didn’t catch kept flying forward—fast, deadly, and almost invisible in the misty air.



One of them zipped straight into the side of a nearby halal food cart parked at the curb. Inside, a guy was flipping grilled chicken with a set of tongs, his head bobbing slightly to the beat of some music in his earbuds.



Suddenly, he paused—eyes narrowing.



He felt it. The wind changed. Just slightly.



In a blur, he dropped the tongs and raised two fingers.



Clink.



He caught the bullet mid-air—clean between his index and middle finger.



Then, with a calm little sigh, he looked down at it and smirked.




“Good thing I didn’t skip Kung Fu 101 back in college,”he said out loud to nobody in particular.“Didn’t even need the advanced course. You’d be amazed what they teach in the intro class.”




He flicked the bullet onto the cart’s metal tray and went back to flipping chicken.



Meanwhile, the second bullet kept flying—this one strayed a little wider, toward a theater entrance down the block.



At that moment, a group of six college students were walking past the movie posters, skipping class together to catch a film. Five of them were up front, chatting about the plot and laughing over the big twist.



The sixth student had fallen behind a few steps, nose buried in his phone, thumbs tapping away.



He never even looked up.



The bullet sliced through the air—clean, precise—and entered straight through his temple.



His body collapsed without a sound.



No thud. No scream. No drama.



The group ahead didn’t notice a thing. They just kept talking, walking, and eventually disappeared around the corner—still thinking their friend was just lagging behind.



Behind them, a still figure lay on the pavement.







Moral of the day?Sometimes… going to class really matters.







First Love, First Heartbreak



Grayson backed away step by step.



He looked at Raymond like he was staring into the face of a demon. His jaw dropped. His eyes widened in panic. Then he spun around and ran straight toward the delivery girl.



She was already on her scooter, revving the engine.




“Come on!” she shouted. “Get on! We’re leaving—now!”




Raymond, meanwhile, hadn’t moved a muscle.He just stood there, totally still—completely uninterested in either of them.



His head turned slowly as he scanned the area.What was he looking for?



Anything reflective.Glass. Windows. Storefronts. Shiny displays.His obsession wasn’t people. Wasn’t violence.It was glass.



In his mind, a voice echoed over and over again:




“Go destroy the glass windows.”Endlessly repeating.Driving him insane.




Grayson reached the scooter—but instead of hopping on behind the girl…He kicked her off. Hard.



She yelped and hit the ground, stunned.Grayson didn’t even glance back.



Survival was the only thing in his head now.



He yanked the scooter from her hands, kicked it into gear, and blasted off down the wet street.His jacket flapped behind him, tires screeched, and within seconds—he was gone.



The delivery girl lay on the ground, shaking, clothes soaked in dirty water and tears.



She didn’t get up.She just stared ahead and cried.



This was her first heartbreak.



The first time she had ever truly fallen for someone.And the first time she realized how much it could hurt.







Longing for a Kiss



Monica was still on the ground, crying—knees scraped, heart broken.



She had never felt this kind of pain before. It wasn’t the fall. It wasn’t the scooter. It was the heartbreak.



This… was her first time falling for someone. And just like that—he kicked her off a damn scooter and left.



It was the first time she realized what heartbreak really meant.



And just when she thought she was all alone—



A hand reached out.




“Hey, are you okay?”




She looked up. An old man—wrinkled face, wearing some kind of old-school railroad worker’s uniform from the 1950s. The guy looked at least 80.



But something about him was glowing. Literally. He looked… radiant.



Her tear-filled eyes sparkled.



He helped her up. They stood there, eyes locked. For one long minute—maybe two—no one said anything. The storm had passed. The sky was quiet again.



Then, she asked quietly, almost whispering,




“Can I be your girlfriend?”




She blinked a few times.




“I know… you look like you’re about 80. And I’m only twenty. So that’s a sixty-year gap. But… I don’t mind.”




The man blinked back at her.




“What are you talking about? I’m only 18.”




She gasped—mouth open.




“What?!”




That made her even happier.




“Oh my god! So you’re not an old man… You’re just a really old-looking young guy?! That’s adorable!”




He shrugged.




“Yeah, I get that a lot.”




That’s when she asked again, heart pounding,




“Do you already have a girlfriend?”




He hesitated.




“Yeah… I do.”




She didn’t flinch. Not even for a second.




“I don’t mind at all.”




She smiled, beaming with genuine innocence.




“By the way… my name’s Monica.”




He nodded slowly.




“Lawson.”




And without a word more, she leaned in.



A kiss.



Not wild. Not rushed.



Just… real.



A moment passed. And then, Monica whispered softly—




“You know what… I’ve been longing for my very first kiss with someone I truly love—every single night.”




And with that line—This strange, twisted, violent, ridiculous day… ended.


Chapter 56: Raymond vs. Pastor Simon
==================================================

The Mall’s Last Line of Defense



Raymond hadn’t slept. Not in two days. Actually—scratch that—it was now the third day. Midday. And he was still going.



Still smashing.



For seventy-two hours, Raymond had been punching his way through the city’s glass walls—nonstop. Like some possessed machine on a mission. By now, he’d shattered hundreds of windows. No one knew what he wanted. He didn’t say a word. Just fists. Just glass.



And now?



He’d arrived at Latitude 38—one of the city’s most well-known shopping districts.



Out front, ten gangsters were guarding the entrance. Not your average punks either—these guys were posted up with real tension in their shoulders. They weren’t just loitering. They were here to defend the place.



This mall was under their watch. Monthly protection fees, daily patrols, all that crap. It was part of their job. Their “duty.”



One of them lit a cigarette and muttered,“Motherfucker’s been going three days straight. Dude don’t even sleep?”



Before the others could answer—BOOM.



Raymond was ten meters away, crouched low, his fist buried in the pavement.



The ground exploded.



A shockwave tore through the air like a cannon blast. All ten gangsters dropped at once—bodies tossed like trash bags in a hurricane. Some were puking. All were groaning. The pavement cracked beneath them.



They were done.Wiped out in a single move. Instant concussions. Zero warning.



And Raymond?



He was still crouched over, knuckles pressed into the broken floor.



Just as he began to rise, a blur dropped from above.



Canelo.The boss.



He had launched himself from the second-floor balcony. Built like a pitbull in tight jeans, Canelo dove down in a flying kick—his signature move—like a damn missile from heaven.His foot was aimed straight for the back of Raymond’s skull.



This was no regular kick.This was the Enhanced Skyfall Kick.The kind that split bricks. The kind that ends fights before they start.



Even the air screamed around him—friction burning like jet engines.



Had it landed… it would’ve ended Raymond. Right then. Right there.



But Raymond, slow and dead-eyed just a second ago, suddenly rolled to the side—smooth, clean, effortless.He barely moved. But it was enough.



Canelo’s foot slammed into the fractured ground—and that was it.SNAP.Bone snapped like cheap plastic. His leg folded the wrong way, and his body crumpled like wet cardboard.



He didn’t even scream.He just hit the ground—and stayed there.



Raymond stood.



No celebration. No gloating.



Just silence.



He dusted off his sleeves, stepped past the broken boss, and walked calmly toward the mall.



Like this was just another stop on the route.



Another glass wall waiting to die.







The Holy Defense



Raymond walked straight through Latitude 38. Barely slowed down. Smashed some windows, kept moving.And now? He was headed for the other side.



This mall—was different.



It wasn’t just any random turf. It was under the control of Pastor Simon.



Now, Simon wasn’t dumb. He had prepped for this.



Every storefront inside the mall?Covered.Glass walls? Draped with blankets, tarps, newspapers—anything to hide the reflections.The logic was simple:If Raymond can’t see the glass… maybe he won’t punch it.



The guy might be insane, but even insanity has triggers. And that trigger—was always the sight of glass.



See, Pastor Simon had already collected plenty of protection money from the shop owners here.So protecting this place?It was his job. His “holy responsibility.”



But just in case things went south…



He had his people ready.



Inside the grand atrium of the mall, two or three dozen white-robed believers were standing in silence.They weren’t here to shop.They were on standby.



On a raised platform in the middle of the hall, two disciples stood guard on each side.And right in the center—Simon sat calmly, legs crossed.



But he wasn’t on a chair.



Nope.



He was sitting on Kyle.



Kyle—his most loyal follower—was crouched down on all fours, back straight, eyes glazed, knees firmly pressed to the floor. His neck was tilted upward just enough to create the perfect ergonomic support.A human chair.



Simon gently swayed one leg over the other. His robe draped smoothly down Kyle’s back.He looked like a cult leader preparing for war—but with a weird luxury twist.



Then came the moment.One of the guards whispered:



“He’s here.”



Through the wooden boards and tarp-covered windows, they could see a shadow.A figure.Approaching slowly.



It was him.Pink apron fluttering.Sunken cheeks.That weird little mustache.Beady little eyes.Middle height. Skinny frame.No doubt—Raymond had arrived.



He stopped at the mall entrance.



From inside, everyone held their breath.



He looked left.Then right.Then scanned across the façade slowly.



Nothing shiny.No reflections.



Just tarp.Paper.Wooden boards.



A full cover-up.



Simon watched intently from his holy throne.This just might work.



Raymond stood there…Silent.Still.



Was he going to walk away?



Then—Without warning—he reeled back and threw a punch straight into the largest tarp-covered panel.



CRASH.



The punch went through the cloth like it wasn’t even there.Glass behind it? Shattered like sugar. Exploded.



The sound was sharp, clear, final.Echoed across the atrium.



Inside, Pastor Simon stood up—Eyes wide.



He whispered under his breath:



“Oh, shit.”







The Holy Warheads



Raymond stepped deeper into the shopping mall.



Two more glass storefronts shattered under his fists—just because. Like it was instinct. He didn’t even look at them. He just walked and punched.



From his throne of flesh, Pastor Simon sprang up, voice sharp:



“Plan B, deployed.”



His followers—what was left of them—snapped into motion. But not all at once.



Simon knew better. He’d seen Raymond’s AOE shockwave punch. He wasn’t about to send his whole flock into the meat grinder at once.



So, one by one, they went.



A slow, painful trickle of faith.



Each follower ran toward Raymond on their own. Brave. Devoted. Or just brainwashed beyond reason.



Didn’t matter.



None of them lasted longer than five seconds.



Some were launched backward—twitching midair. Others dropped where they stood, like sacks of meat, bleeding from every orifice. Two turned and sprinted away before they even got close.



In under two minutes, the atrium was a graveyard. Bodies everywhere.



But Simon had more.



His real believers.



To his left and right stood two silent men. White-robed. Blank-eyed. Still.



Human Missiles.



He had trained them weeks ago. Reprogrammed. Hardened. Loyal to death.



And now—Simon moved.



He stepped forward, flexed his over-the-side man boob—that thick, pendulous slab of spiritual muscle sagging from under his robe—and, with one violent chest convulsion, hurled the two men into the air. One from the left. One from the right.



It was as if he had breast-fired them into battle—divine warheads launched from the altar of faith.



Five seconds later, both were airborne.



Vertical. Rigid. Dart-like.Flying straight toward Raymond.



The first one reached him.



Boom.Raymond punched.



The body exploded midair—flesh, bone, blood—splattered across the entire atrium. Chunks hit beams. Windows. Escalators.



Then the second one arrived.



Raymond couldn’t see. The blood mist still hung heavy.



CRACK.



The second missile hit dead-on.Chest-first into Raymond’s ribs.



The entire building shook.



But the blood in the air was too thick.No one could see what happened next.



Simon narrowed his eyes.But he couldn’t tell.



Not yet.







The Holy Nuke



About ten seconds passed.



The red mist slowly unraveled—like vapor in the breeze. And when it finally cleared… Raymond was still standing.



There was a thick, black tire mark scorched into the ground in front of him—two meters long, like someone tried to drive through his body.



He hadn’t moved more than a step.



Just a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.



At his feet: the Human Missile.Legs snapped. Body twitching. Completely wrecked.



From the stage, Simon clenched his jaw. A single tear slipped down his cheek.



“…Looks like we have to use Plan C.”



He sounded cornered. Not proud.



“I really didn’t want it to come to this…”



From beneath his white robe, he pulled out a small detonator.



He clicked it.



A red light blinked.



And from the broken, spasming body at Raymond’s feet—



A blast of golden light exploded out.



BOOOOM.







The whole mall lit up like heaven had detonated.



The floor quaked.Kyle—the human chair—was launched like a frisbee.Simon himself crashed to the ground, sliding across cracked tile.



Smoke surged in waves.



From a distance, it looked like a mushroom cloud had bloomed right out of Latitude 38.



Still kneeling, Simon wiped his tear.



“My faithful disciple… your sacrifice was necessary. For the greater victory… we’ll remember you…



…whatever your name was.”



(He never asked.)







A full minute passed.



Half the mall was gone. Demolished. Sky now visible from inside. Glass gone. Walls cracked. The rest barely holding.



And in the middle of it all…Raymond.



Still standing.



Burned. Bleeding. Shirt gone.Pink apron: vaporized.



Ribs showing. Flesh torn.But upright.



Not fine.But not finished.



Simon stared, frozen.



Raymond slowly raised his head.



“Oh… that’s…Unbelievable.Inconceivable.Impossible.”







Over-the-Size Man Boobs



The explosion wiped out everything.



Every disciple. Charcoal. Ash. Vaporized.



Every shopper. Every shopkeeper. Gone. Not a trace.



Raymond sensed it. The hatred. The power.It wasn’t over.



He bolted for the stage.



Simon panicked—grabbed rubble—started throwing.



Chunks flew like bullets. Some burst into dust midair from the speed.Raymond dodged. Punched rocks into powder. Still advanced.



Simon ran out of stones.



Raymond: five meters away.



Simon, desperate, yanked a detonator from his belt. Threw it like a boomerang.



Raymond spun. Dodged.



Then—he punched.



It was majestic.



Had it landed, Simon would’ve been vapor.



But at the last second—



Simon blocked.



Not with his arms.



Not with his abs.



With his over-the-size man boobs.



The punch hit full-on.



THWUMP.



Simon was launched like a missile—through a wall, then another. His body cartwheeled before crashing into trash bags outside.



But he was alive.



The boobs had saved him.



Soft enough. Elastic enough.They absorbed 70 to 80 percent of the impact.



Any other body part? Death.



Now lying in the garbage, Simon looked up at the blue sky.Smiled weakly.



And whispered—



“And live for another day.”







Fifty Floors Above



Raymond had finally stopped moving.



After days of chaos, he just stood.



Breathing. Tired. Quiet.



He looked around—broken glass, rubble, ash.



Then saw it.



Kyle.



Still lying face-down. Crumpled.



Raymond walked over. Picked him up by the collar. Set him back in place.



Kyle dropped back into position. Knees down. Back arched.The human chair.



Raymond sat.



For a moment—peace.







Fifty floors above, behind reinforced glass, three men stood.



Michael. Brian. Colin.



Colin watched, arms folded. Eyes glowing faint gold.



Brian leaned forward.



“Boss… want me to go down there and humble him a little?”



Colin didn’t blink.



“No need. You’d lose.”



“…Oh.”



Colin nodded.



“He’s strong. Disciplined. I want him.”



Then looked left.



“Michael. Might need you for this one.”



Michael adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses.



“Is he… that strong?”



Colin: “You two are evenly matched.”



Brian squinted. Golden Eyes confirmed.



Then Colin smirked.



“Looks like a hyena’s been awakened.”



Michael raised a brow.



“Most people say tiger or dragon.”



Colin shrugged.



“He’s strong. Just… not that strong.”



Brian chuckled.



“Still dangerous though. Especially if you corner it.”



And together, they watched as the dust settled…and the monster below sat…waiting.


Chapter 57: Long Tailing
==================================================

Digging Through a Trash Bin



Raymond didn’t rest for long.



Barely a minute had passed before he pushed himself off that human stool and started walking again—his body tired, but his will still burning.



Meanwhile, from fifty floors above, Michael stepped into the elevator. Calm. Composed. Slowly descending. He figured now might be his best shot—while Raymond’s stamina was still low.



By the time Raymond crossed into an empty plaza, Michael had already caught up.



They were maybe twenty meters apart now.



Raymond wasn’t paying attention. He just kept walking, shoulders heavy, eyes glazed.



Michael, on the other hand, scanned the area. Wide open space. No cover. No glass walls. Nothing overhead.



Not a great place to fight, he thought. If Raymond punched the ground, there’d be nowhere to dodge the shockwave.



Then Michael noticed something near a dumpster.



A man was digging through it—searching for bottles, cans, maybe scraps to recycle. He looked rough. Sunburned. Thin. Wore a pair of baggy gym shorts and a tattered undershirt.



It was Tom.



Michael casually walked over and crouched beside him—pretending to dig through trash, too. He didn’t want to blow his cover just yet. Raymond was still ahead, and Michael didn’t want to alert him.



Tom slowly turned and stared at Michael.



White dress shirt. Black slacks. Polished leather shoes. Gold-rimmed glasses. A briefcase in one hand.



A total outsider.



Tom didn’t say a word. He just gave Michael the most innocent, pitiful look imaginable. Like a puppy that just watched someone step on its food bowl.



Michael felt awkward. The guilt hit him fast—maybe because that stare was just… too human.



He reached into his pocket, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and silently stuffed it into Tom’s shorts.



Tom didn’t flinch. No reaction. Just pocketed the cash and turned back to digging like nothing happened.



Didn’t even glance at Michael again.



And that—somehow—was worse.



Michael exhaled. At least the guilt faded a little.



Suddenly, the sound of Raymond’s footsteps echoed down the plaza.



Michael’s whole body tensed.



He turned and slipped toward a nearby wall—moving slow, careful, quiet.







Baddest Badass Rookie



Raymond continued down the alley. The place reeked—urine, rotting garbage, something unidentifiable. It was cramped, messy, and grimy. And every glass window he passed? Smashed to pieces with a single punch.



Michael followed from a distance, cautious. He studied the area—narrow, tight, surrounded by walls. A terrible spot for a fight. If Raymond used that ground-shattering punch here, it could easily take out everyone nearby.



Then he saw them: four young gangsters, kicking the crap out of a scrawny boy in pajamas with a dumb-looking bowl haircut. The kid was curled up, trying to protect his head. Michael had no idea who he was—but it was Benson.



Michael knew he couldn’t get any closer without getting spotted. So he did something unexpected.



He casually walked up to the group of gangsters.



One of them gave him a weird look.“Yo, who the hell are you?”



“I just joined,” Michael replied flatly. “New recruit.”



Then—without skipping a beat—he crouched down, grabbed a dried-up, crusty piece of old dog crap off the ground, and stuffed it straight into Benson’s mouth.



Benson gagged and screamed.“Please! I’m begging you! This tastes awful!”



The gangsters froze.Then one of them muttered, “Holy shit…”



Another said, “Damn, this guy’s savage…”



“No hesitation, no remorse. That’s some next-level heartlessness.”



“He’s got the look too. Cold. Ruthless. I bet he’ll be a boss one day.”



Michael didn’t respond. He just wiped his hand clean—right on Benson’s pajama sleeve—and stood up silently.



At that moment, he spotted Raymond’s figure turning a corner and vanishing out of sight.



Without missing a beat, Michael slipped away—silent as ever—resuming his pursuit.



Behind him, the gangsters were still standing there, in awe of the cold-blooded newcomer.



They had no idea they’d just crossed paths with a top-tier professional.And Benson?Well… he was just a pit stop along the way.







Unexpected Third Wheel



They stepped out of the alley and onto a wide street.



Strangely quiet. No cars. No noise. Just… silence.



About fifteen meters behind Raymond, walking in the same direction, was a strange-looking couple.



The man? Looked like he was pushing eighty—dressed in a faded 1950s railroad worker uniform. Skin wrinkled, posture stiff, hair a mess. That was Lawson.



Holding his hand was a young woman with long, flowing hair and soft features. It was Monica—the delivery girl from a few days ago. Still glowing. Still innocent. Still way too young for him.



Michael noticed them immediately. The couple was on his left, just a few steps away.



Then it happened.



A girl walked past Raymond—heels clicking, eyeliner sharp, makeup compact in one hand.



She didn’t even look up.



But Raymond did.



Right as she passed him, his head snapped backward.



Michael flinched.



Oh shit.Did he see me?



Without thinking, Michael lunged sideways—and grabbed Lawson’s hand.



Now Lawson was holding Monica’s hand with his left… and Michael’s with his right.



Just like that, they were suddenly walking as a trio—shoulder to shoulder—like some weird family out for a stroll.



Lawson turned to shout—



But something about Michael’s face made him freeze.



Those calm, sharp eyes behind the golden-rimmed glasses.



Brian.



It wasn’t Brian… but it felt like Brian. The Golden Eyes.



Lawson didn’t know Michael, but the trauma flashed in full force. He stiffened. Panicked.



Michael leaned in slightly—his voice low and dead serious:




“Don’t say a word. Don’t move. No sudden shit.Or I’ll blow your head off, you old geezer.”




Lawson nodded fast. Swallowed hard. Then muttered—




“By the way… just so you know… I’m only eighteen.”




Michael didn’t even glance at him.




“Whatever.”




Monica looked over, confused—but caught a glimpse of Michael’s cold, calculated expression.



Something about it hit her.



It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hate.



Just that tingling feeling again.



A tiny blush crept up her cheeks.



Then—



CRACK.



Raymond, still ahead of them, casually threw a backhanded punch—shattering the girl’s pocket mirror as she touched up her lips. Glass exploded in her hands.



She spun around, furious.




“What’s your problem, dude?!”




Raymond didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. Just kept walking.



She didn’t follow.



Michael exhaled, quietly—




“Oh shit… safe.”




Raymond kept walking—right into the mouth of the subway station.



Michael instantly let go of Lawson’s hand like he’d just touched a live wire, then darted off—hopping the rail and diving into the stairwell behind Raymond.



Lawson and Monica stood frozen in place.



Hands still warm.



And heads spinning from the weirdest 10 seconds of their lives.







Awkward Small Talk



The subway station opened into a wide underground space. A huge concrete pit surrounded by columns and crisscrossing metal beams above. The setup would’ve been perfect for avoiding ground attacks—if not for the steel pillars connecting floor to ceiling. With Raymond’s shockwave punches, this whole place could shake itself apart. Not ideal.



As Raymond continued forward, a soft violin melody drifted through the air. It was… unexpectedly beautiful. A little sad. Kind of haunting.



Michael scanned the space—saw dancers, mimes, even a guy painting upside-down.



But then, right near the middle of the space—stood someone familiar.



Sean.The self-declared Local Hero. White dress shirt halfway buttoned, red cape fluttering dramatically behind him. His chest proudly puffed out as he played a violin with full emotion.



Michael squinted.



There was no wind down here.



Then he saw it. A portable fan, buzzing just behind Sean.



Figures.



Sean had the violin tucked beneath his chin, fingers moving gracefully along the strings. His head tilted slightly—deep in the moment. It looked like something out of a movie.



Michael took the chance to blend in. He casually walked over, like they were old friends bumping into each other.




“Yo. Isn’t this our Local Hero? What’s a guy like you doing playing violin underground? Don’t heroes get paid?”




Sean didn’t stop playing but chuckled.




“I never got licensed, man. Technically I’m just a hero… for fun. This is more of a hobby.”




Michael widened his eyes.




“No way. What happened? Wait—don’t tell me… it’s because of those three years you did in jail? That show up in your background check or something?”




Sean immediately stopped playing. His expression soured.




“Hey, hey, hey. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you better shut it. You wanna get sued for slander?”




Michael just smiled and rubbed the back of his neck, playing it cool.




“My bad, man. Chill out. Just messing with you.”




Sean narrowed his eyes… but then laughed a little. Something about Michael felt easy to talk to—surprisingly chill for someone with a reputation for being cold and calculated.



He started to say,




“You know… maybe we could actually be friends—”




But before he finished the sentence, Michael’s expression shifted.



He spotted Raymond, already walking up the subway stairs, heading back to the surface.



Michael immediately turned, expression cold again, and walked away—without a word.



Sean blinked, stunned by the switch-up.



Michael didn’t look back.In his mind: “I’m not really into this kind of awkward small talk.”



And just like that, he disappeared into the shadows—still trailing Raymond, silent as ever.







Robinson vs Raymond



They arrived at a park. Peaceful. Old folks strolled along the paths. A few young women jogged past in sports bras, earbuds in, lost in their own worlds.



Raymond and Michael kept walking.



Then, up ahead, they saw someone in the middle of an open clearing.



Red tank top. Black athletic pants. White sneakers. Slim build.



It was Robinson.



He stood alone, slowly waving his arms around in tight, elegant circles—like a slow-motion dance. He was practicing Tai Chi. His movements were steady, focused. Peaceful even.



Michael hid behind a nearby tree, one hand resting against the trunk. Half of his body concealed, eyes locked forward.



Suddenly, Robinson froze mid-movement.



He had spotted Raymond.



His expression turned dark.



Raymond—the man who had wrecked his shopping mall. The man who crippled his underlings. The man he had sworn to make pay.



Robinson stepped forward, voice steady but firm.




“Stop right there. You killed and maimed a lot of my guys the other day. Lucky for you, I was out of town.But today… I’m here. And your luck just ran out.”




Raymond didn’t even look at him. Just kept walking.



Robinson gritted his teeth, spun twice on the spot, and launched himself into the air with a fierce spinning kick.



Raymond calmly raised one arm. Blocked it with his forearm. The blow deflected harmlessly.



Robinson crashed to the ground.



Raymond stepped forward and unleashed a barrage of concussion punches—a brutal combo, each punch like a miniature explosion.



But Robinson wasn’t shaken. His arms moved in smooth, controlled circles, dissipating each punch’s force with effortless Tai Chi deflection.



In his mind, Robinson was already analyzing the rhythm:




“This guy’s strong. Real strong. But his punches aren’t fast enough. I can follow his movement. I can handle this.”




Ten. Fifteen. Twenty strikes—all dissolved into the air like smoke.



Raymond paused, then lowered both arms. Calmly drove one massive fist into the ground.



BOOM.



A wave of concussive force burst outward like a ripple on water.



Robinson saw it coming.



He leapt into the air, flipping backward. As long as he wasn’t touching the ground, the energy couldn’t reach him.



It was working.



The ground trembled. Even Michael, standing fifty meters away, felt it. The tree beside him quivered.




“Goddamn,” Michael muttered. “Even from here, I can feel that.”




Robinson landed—light on his feet.



Then—



BOOM.Raymond slammed his other fist into the ground.



Another shockwave.



Robinson had just touched down.



The concussive force surged through his legs, into his spine, rattling every cell in his body.



He froze.



Blood trickled from his ears, nose, mouth, and even the corners of his eyes. His knees buckled slightly, but he stayed upright—barely.



Raymond didn’t even glance at him. He knew it was over. He walked past, heading toward the park’s exit.



Michael followed.



As he passed Robinson, he spoke without stopping:




“You don’t have to act tough. There’s no one around. No gang. No audience.Just fall, man. I know you can’t hold on anymore.”




Michael kept walking.



Behind him, Robinson’s eyes rolled back.



And then—Thud.



His body collapsed. Face-first. A faint cloud of dust puffed up beneath him.







The Perfect Arena



After a few minutes of walking through the city, they finally arrived at their next stop—a massive shopping mall.



Raymond walked in first, bare-chested now—his pink apron long gone, torn to pieces during the explosion. His skin was still bruised, ribs faintly exposed, but his posture was steady. He stepped through the front entrance like he owned the place.



Michael followed shortly after, passing through the rotating doors, his eyes sharp and scanning. He was keeping his distance. Still watching. Still tracking.



Right as he stepped inside, a familiar voice called out:



“Yo bro! Isn’t that Captain Lam? What brings you here?”



Michael turned and spotted a skinny figure in an oversized white lab coat—Mildy.



His wild hair was flattened slightly by humidity, and his hands were stained with something you didn’t want to ask about. He pointed casually toward a blood-soaked puddle on the tiled floor, where a man lay sprawled and clearly very dead.



“Just wrapped up a bit of emergency surgery,” Mildy said, wiping his hands on his already-bloody coat. “A worker dude fell off an ad rack. Snapped his femur clean in half. I tried to help, y’know— I kinda accidentally… sliced his artery.”



He smiled faintly, like he’d overcooked a steak.



Michael blinked. “…Same old Mildy.”



But then his eyes drifted upward—to the steel frames holding up dozens of massive ad boards.



Now this… this was the perfect arena.



Strong overhead beams. Elevated supports. Plenty of places to leap and climb.If Raymond fired off one of those AOE shockwave punches, there’d be plenty of spots to dodge—if you were fast enough.



Just then, a series of loud cracks echoed through the mall—glass shattering.



Raymond had already started.



Michael turned sharply. “Mildy. Get out of here. Now.”



Mildy blinked, still processing.



“I said leave! Run. Don’t come back. GO.”



Finally snapping out of it, Mildy spun around like a startled rat and darted toward the exit—coat flapping behind him, eyes wide with panic.



Michael turned back toward the sound of destruction.



It was happening.



This was it. The stage was set.



And he and Raymond?



They were evenly matched.






Chapter 58: Evenly Matched (Part 1)
==================================================

Walk-By Sucker Kick



“Hey, Raymond!”



Michael’s voice rang out loud and clear as he walked through the ruins of the shopping district, calling out like he was greeting an old friend.



But Raymond didn’t even flinch.



He had just finished smashing through the glass wall of a retail store. Bare-chested, bruised, and bleeding from his ribs, he kept his back turned as he moved toward the next storefront. Another wall of reinforced glass in front of him. Another target.



Michael kept pace, calm and collected, his hands in his pockets like they were just out on a casual stroll.



“Hey,” he said again, louder this time, walking beside him now. “Raymond. Our boss—the Humble Organization—wants to recruit you.”



Still no response.



“Position’s called Higher-Up Executioner. Kinda fancy, huh? Comes with perks. You interested?”



Raymond didn’t even glance his way.



Instead, he clenched his fist… and without a word, drove it straight through the glass wall in front of him.



Shards exploded across the floor like a burst of frozen rain. The sound echoed through the mall.



Michael sighed, almost like he’d expected it.



“…Yeah. That’s what I figured,” he said, nodding to himself. “I respect your choice, Raymond.”



And then, just like that, Michael began to walk past him—slowly, casually, like this was all just part of his afternoon.



But right as he stepped in front of Raymond…



WHAM.



Out of nowhere, Michael launched a full-powered straight kick to Raymond’s gut. No wind-up. No warning.



Raymond’s body lifted off the ground and flew horizontally like a ragdoll, slamming into a concrete wall ten meters away. The impact cracked the surface and sent vibrations through the building. Bits of the wall began to crumble. Raymond’s body bounced off the wall and hit the ground hard—dust and blood spraying across the marble tiles.



The damaged wall groaned… and slowly began to collapse.



Michael stood still, watching.



If it weren’t for Colin’s orders—strict orders—to bring Raymond back alive, that kick might’ve been something else entirely. A hand chop to the neck. A heart-piercing punch. A death blow, clean and precise.



But dead bodies don’t sign contracts.



And Michael’s mission wasn’t to kill—it was to recruit.



So he held back. That kick? That was only half his power. Still enough to break a wall. Still enough to make a statement.



Across the mall, Raymond began to stir.



He pushed himself off the ground slowly. Blood trickled from his mouth… and then burst out in a heavy splash, splattering the floor in front of him. Deep red dots soaked the white tiles beneath his feet.



He stood. Wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.



His eyes… still clouded with that strange, stormy fog. That darkness.



He had finally felt it—Michael’s hostility. Michael’s strength.



Now the real confrontation could begin.







Thrill of the Equal Fight



Raymond suddenly dashed forward.



No warning. No hesitation.



He surged right up to Michael, throwing his entire weight and power into a punch aimed straight at his chest. His right arm pulled back, vibrating slightly—energy coiling up inside it.



The Concussion Punch.



Michael’s eyes widened for a split second—then he twisted his body just in time.



He dodged.



He had to dodge.



That wasn’t a punch you could afford to take. One clean hit from that would send shockwaves through his body—maybe even crack his bones from the inside.



But there was a tradeoff.



That kind of punch took time to build up. Raymond couldn’t just throw them endlessly. Each blow required a charge. A buildup of energy.



That was his weakness.



The cooldown between attacks.



Michael had noticed it. That pause. That delay. The moment between one concussion punch and the next.



It’s why Robinson—of all people—had managed to fend him off before.



And now, Michael was doing the same—just faster, more fluidly.



Raymond threw punch after punch—ten, maybe fifteen—but Michael slipped through all of them like water, his body tilting, weaving, stepping. His footwork was clean. His head barely moved more than it needed to.



Then came the switch.



Michael struck.



A sudden jab—Raymond blocked it.A sweeping kick—Raymond caught it with his shin.Another quick combo—parried, deflected, absorbed.



He wasn’t fast when attacking—but when defending?



Raymond was a wall.



A sharp, reactive wall. Every blow from Michael was intercepted with arms or legs, his body flowing just enough to neutralize the damage.



The fight pressed on.



In a blink, they had exchanged fifty, maybe sixty blows.



Neither could land a decisive hit.



Their chests were rising and falling now. Not heavy, not gasping—but breathing with effort. The kind of breath that says: Okay. This is real now.



And for a brief moment—just a second—they both felt it.



That thing. That rhythm.



That rare sensation only fighters at the highest level understand.



The thrill of the equal fight.



Michael smiled—genuinely. A smirk of satisfaction.



And Raymond… though his face showed nothing, Michael could feel it.There was something in the way Raymond moved now—less brute, more rhythm. He was into it.



But Michael knew this couldn’t go on forever.



We’re too evenly matched, he thought. We could go on like this for days. Days and nights. No winner, just sweat and shattered tiles.



And then—Raymond made the first move to break the deadlock.



He suddenly charged up both legs, grounding his feet deep into the floor… and focused his energy into one tightly wound punch.



This wasn’t aimed at Michael.



This one went straight into the ground.



BOOM.



A deep tremor roared out like an underground explosion.



Michael’s eyes widened.“Shit,” he thought. That’s a big one.



He recognized the move. Raymond’s ground-shatter punch. A large-area attack that spreads destructive vibrations through every surface. No blocking. No absorbing. The only way to survive… was to not be touching the ground at all.



But Michael had already planned for this.



A half-beat later, his feet left the floor in a sharp vertical leap.



With perfect timing, he reached up and grabbed a metal support bar—part of a loose ceiling advertisement frame that had been swaying since their last clash.



He hung there effortlessly, suspended just above the chaos.



Beneath him, the mall floor split open in jagged cracks, rumbling like a quake. The force blasted outward in every direction—ripping up tiles, shattering glass, throwing furniture across the plaza.







Everyone’s Watching



Michael hung from the swinging advertisement board like a street acrobat, his body gently swaying above the chaos.



Below him, the floor was splitting apart—like a domino chain reaction, cracks tearing through the marble tile in every direction. Bits of stone and debris flew upward like shrapnel, crashing into walls, storefronts, signs.



A few unlucky bystanders—caught too close—got swept into the blast radius, tossed like rag dolls. Some lay sprawled across the fractured floor, unmoving. Blood. Dust. Screams.



Across the shopping mall, dozens of customers and store owners had already bolted for the exits. The smarter ones were long gone.



But not everyone left.



At least a dozen people had taken cover—tucked behind pillars, furniture, or half-destroyed kiosks. Some crouched low, watching wide-eyed. Some shouted. Some couldn’t help but cheer.



It had become a kind of street arena.



A live show.



A few people were even shouting names, betting under their breath, arguing over who would win.



And then there was that one guy—A loudmouth teenage fanboy screaming louder than anyone, mouth wide open like a possessed mascot. His energy was unmatched.



Next to him, a woman kept pulling at his arm, frantic.



“Your mom’s up there!” she hissed. “She’s not moving! She got hit by the shockwave!”



The boy didn’t even blink. Eyes still locked on the fight.



“She’s probably dead already! Let’s go!”



Nothing. He was completely locked in.



Further back, a middle-aged man sipped slowly from a hot cup of coffee, seated calmly on a bench like he’d come for a weekend exhibition match. He commented softly as he watched:



“Mmm. Good balance on that kick. The rhythm’s clean… yeah, that one’s trained.”



Like it was a sports broadcast. Like blood wasn’t pooling down the hall.



But none of that mattered now.



Up above, Michael had finished gathering momentum.



He swung hard—once, twice, three times—then let go and launched himself through the air like a human missile.



He spun mid-flight and extended his leg into a sharp, flying kick—aimed directly at Raymond.



Raymond, who had just started charging up another concussion punch, felt the air shift.



Michael’s attack was fast, but Raymond’s instinct was faster.



Mid-charge, he twisted his body and redirected the punch, just barely missing Michael.



And Michael? Midair, he adjusted.



In one smooth motion, he pulled back from the failed kick and spun halfway again—landing a curved kick on Raymond’s opposite side.



Raymond raised his arm just in time and blocked it cleanly. The force still made him skid back.



The two landed on their feet, both of them sliding slightly across the fractured floor. Dust hung in the air around them like a curtain.



They said nothing.



But their bodies dropped back into stance.



Round Two was about to begin.







Uninvited Big Shot



The second round had already begun.



Once again, Raymond and Michael were locked in a brutal exchange of fists, kicks, blocks, and dodges. Blow after blow. Movement after movement. Precise. Sharp. Relentless.



Minutes passed.



Dozens of new rounds.Still no breakthrough.



Neither of them could gain the upper hand.



Meanwhile—up on the second floor, by the railing—Brian watched silently, arms crossed, posture casual, but his mind razor sharp.



He had followed them here. And now he was watching closely.



Analyzing.



“They really are perfectly matched,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Perfectly equal in strength. I’ve been calculating for a few minutes to figure this out…”



He exhaled softly.



“…And our boss Colin? He figured it out in under thirty seconds. Just standing there. On the rooftop.”



Brian shook his head with a strange mix of admiration and resignation.



That’s when he heard footsteps behind him.



He turned—and froze for half a second.



Someone familiar was approaching.Someone he hadn’t seen in months.



It was summer now.



And this man?



He only came out in winter.



People used to joke he hibernated through the warm seasons, disappearing like some underground myth. No one had seen him since the last frost.



So what the hell was he doing here?



Brian squinted. He’d never seen the man up close before.



But he recognized him immediately.



Jason.



A legend.



Despite being only in his thirties, Jason held the status of an elder—a figure so rarely seen that some thought he was part myth, part emergency measure. In the underworld, his presence usually meant one thing:



Crisis.



He looked… strange.



His hair was wild, spiky and unkempt—almost like a Super Saiyan, but black. His shirt was half-buttoned, just like Sean’s. White cotton, flapping slightly in the breeze. His chest was broad, hairy, and unapologetically manly. He wore a pair of simple denim jeans—and in his hand…



…he held a black steel staff. Thick, long, and brutal-looking. Not for show. Not for elegance. Pure, heavy force.



As he walked forward, Jason lightly stomped the tip of the staff against the tile floor.



Crack.



A spiderweb of fractures spread outward—a full meter in every direction.



Brian didn’t say a word.



But in his head?



What the fuck is he doing here?



This was the first time he’d ever seen Jason in person.



And something felt… off.



Brian’s instincts kicked in. He activated his Golden Eyes, letting his vision sharpen and focus on Jason’s body.



He zoomed in.



Strange…



The man’s skin was too smooth.Almost too perfect.



The pores were abnormally small.No sweat. No oil. No normal body texture.



Brian zoomed in further.



Jason’s face looked calm—serious, even.



And then…



His tongue slowly slipped out of his mouth.



Not to talk.Not to lick.Just… to cool off.



Like a dog.



He panted gently, mouth open, tongue out, letting heat dissipate.



Brian stared.



It was stupid.And somehow terrifying.



Part of him wanted to laugh.Part of him wanted to leave.



He didn’t know if Jason was friend or enemy. He wasn’t going to assume anything.So he did what he always did in uncertain moments:



He stayed alert.



And then, quietly, Brian turned his head and looked back down at the main hall below.



Michael and Raymond were still fighting.Another twenty… maybe thirty exchanges had passed.



Still dead even.



Still no winner.







The Defensive Calculation



They had been fighting for more than twenty minutes now.



Hundreds of exchanges.



Michael and Raymond were still locked in what had now become an exhausting, endless loop—punches, kicks, blocks, dodges, and more dodges.



Neither could break through.



Both were breathing harder now.



Michael, especially, could feel the creeping fatigue building in his arms, his shoulders, his core.This isn’t going anywhere, he thought. If we keep going like this, it’ll never end.



So he stopped attacking.



He switched to full defense—parrying, ducking, side-stepping, doing everything he could to avoid Raymond’s concussion punches without giving up too much ground.



He needed time.



Time to think.Time to remember.



He dug deep into his memory—thinking back to earlier that day, just a few hours ago, when Colin and Brian had sat with him at the top of that fifty-story building.



There had been something Colin said—something subtle.He just had to find it again.



While he dodged blow after blow, his mind worked, searching through the fragments of that rooftop conversation like pieces of a puzzle.







Meanwhile, back on the second floor—



Near the glass railing, a young man had been watching the scene quietly.



But now, he suddenly burst out laughing.



He pointed at Jason.



“Hey! You middle-aged uncle or whatever—what’s with the tongue, huh? You look like a freakin’ dog out here!”



He started cracking up.Loud. Annoying. Stupid.



Jason didn’t move at first.



He just stood there—tongue still out, cooling off, as if the insult never landed.



Brian turned to glance at the boy.



Goofy. That was the word.The kid looked like a total clown.



But Brian didn’t smile.He just stared and thought one thing:



He’s already a goner.



Jason shifted the steel staff from his right hand to his left.



Then, with no warning, he casually swung it sideways in the direction of the boy.



They were at least twenty meters apart.



The staff didn’t touch him.But the air did.



A violent burst of wind tore across the space—howling through the corridor like a rogue storm.



It slammed into the boy’s body, ripping his clothes to absolute pieces.



Shirt—gone.Pants—obliterated.



He stood there for a split second, fully naked, stunned, bruised all over from sheer wind pressure.



And then—



PSSHHH.



He pissed himself.



Fully exposed, terrified beyond reason, he turned and ran—screaming, zigzagging like a broken puppet, his body jolting like he was holding a broken hose, spraying a long, glistening trail of yellow all over the pristine mall tiles.



He vanished around the corner in a panic, never looking back.



Brian blinked.



What…?



Jason let him go?



He let him go.



That didn’t feel right.



Jason was supposed to be ruthless—one of the top dogs in the underworld.He wasn’t known for mercy.



Was he… losing his edge?



Or was he simply playing with people?



Brian didn’t have an answer.



But he wasn’t about to lower his guard.



He turned back toward the central hall, refocusing on the fight below.



Michael was still dodging, backstepping, gliding around every concussive strike from Raymond like a shadow refusing to be caught.



And then Brian noticed something.



Michael’s mouth… was smiling.



Just a little. Just a curl of confidence.



Like he had remembered something.



Like he had finally figured it out.



Brian watched quietly, then muttered under his breath:



“Nice.”







Just a Split Second Opening



Michael kept dodging.



His body moved like a whisper—just fast enough, just low enough, just right. He gave Raymond nothing to hit.



But his mind?His mind was elsewhere.



What did Colin say again?



He forced himself to remember. To rewind.



And then, like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place, the words came back:




“If you want to beat Raymond…you’ll need a split-second opening.A distraction.One moment is all it takes to gain the upper hand.”




Michael’s eyes sharpened.His chest tightened with clarity and awe.



“Boss… You are truly the wisest of all, a magnificent lighthouse shining across the darkness, forever illuminating my journey.” 



He smiled slightly as another punch zipped past his cheek.



Alright then.







He continued his evasive rhythm, letting Raymond chase him down across the floor.



Each time Raymond threw a concussion punch, Michael would shift just enough to avoid it—delaying, retreating, realigning.



But now he started scanning.Looking around.



Where’s the opening? Where’s the distraction? Where’s the one thing I can use?



He glanced up at the second floor.



There was Brian. Still standing there, arms crossed, doing absolutely nothing.



Right next to him… a man with his head tilted out, tongue hanging out like a dog.



Michael blinked.



“…Shit. These two are useless.”



He looked elsewhere.



Down on the ground floor, there was chaos in the crowd.



Some people were hiding behind shattered glass panels. Others ducked behind fallen shelves or busted signage.



One guy—dead center—had his mouth open wide, shouting “LET’S GO! YEAHHH! YOU GOT THIS!” over and over.His throat was already hoarse.His voice cracked like a rusty pipe.He was basically barking now, but he wouldn’t stop.



Michael glanced past him—and froze.



In the far corner of the mall, right by the restroom entrance, someone was crouching.Not hiding.Pooping.



Right there.



Out in the open. Behind a potted plant, pants fully off, squatting with focus—mid-dump.



Michael’s eyes twitched.



The restroom is literally right next to you, man.



A concussion punch whizzed past his head.



He snapped back to focus.







And then—



He saw it.



A man sitting calmly on a bench.Completely still.Holding a cup of coffee.



Steam curled gently from the rim. A soft white cloud dancing upward into the chaos.



It was hot.It was fresh.It was… perfect.



That’s it.That’s my opening.



Michael’s heart skipped.



He began subtly adjusting his footwork—angling himself slightly, leading Raymond step by step, inch by inch, toward the man with the coffee.



Raymond, unaware, kept following.



Michael’s eyes stayed focused.



Five meters.Keep going.



Four meters.Almost there.



Three meters.This is it. Just a split second. That’s all I need.



Michael’s heart was racing.



He didn’t blink.He didn’t breathe.



This was it.



The opening he had waited for.


Chapter 59: Evenly Matched (Part 2)
==================================================

The Long-Awaited Sock Attack



Michael had finally lured Raymond to the exact spot.



Right next to that middle-aged man sitting on a bench, sipping hot coffee like this was just some weekend spectacle.



This is it, Michael thought.



The opening.



His heart was pounding.



For the last few minutes, he hadn’t thrown a single punch. No counterattacks. Just pure evasion—gritting his teeth, staying calm, playing the long game.



Now? The moment was here.



Without hesitation—not even a blink—he struck.



He reached out and snatched the cup of hot coffee from the man’s hand.



“What the hell?!” the man shouted. “What the fuck is that?! Why’d you take my coffee?! I’m only half done—damn it!”



Michael didn’t care.



He leaned forward, instantly, and splashed the entire cup across Raymond’s face.



FSSHHHHH!!



Steam erupted.



Raymond reeled back, completely stunned.



He hadn’t seen it coming. Not even a little.Just a second ago, he was throwing punches with rhythm.Now he was blind, burned, stumbling—both hands clamped over his face, eyes shut tight, trying not to scream.



And that—that—was the real opening.



Michael didn’t wait.



Not even a second.



In one swift motion, he dropped to a crouch, tore off his right shoe, ripped off his sock, and crumpled the damp cloth into a dense, stinking ball.



He gripped it tight.



Stepped forward.



And with a deep inhale, he raised his voice and shouted:



“SOCK ATTACK!!”







The Long-Awaited Concussion Punch



Michael gripped the foul object tightly in his hand.



His right arm stretched forward, body leaning in with everything he had—ready to shove the sock straight into Raymond’s mouth.



This was it.The moment of victory.Just one more inch.



Raymond’s face was wide open, his hands still covering his eyes from the coffee burn.



Michael moved in.



He could already feel it—this was the end.



But then—



Raymond slowly lowered both hands.



And smiled.



Not just a smirk.



A full, twisted, screaming smile—like something that didn’t belong on a human face.



Michael’s breath caught in his chest.



This isn’t good.



He had never seen Raymond make an expression before. Never.For the longest time, Michael thought this man was just a cursed, walking mannequin—driven by instinct, destruction, and nothing else.



But now?



Now he saw it.



Raymond had intelligence.His eyes were still covered in that swirling black fog—but behind it?



There was someone home.



Oh shit, Michael thought.He’s been deceived.



He wasn’t the only one waiting for an opening.



They had traded over a thousand blows.Dodged each other’s moves for what felt like hours.All this time, Michael thought he was the only one calculating.



But Raymond had been waiting too.



Waiting for this.



The moment Michael fully committed.



Now it was too late to pull back.



Michael’s momentum carried him forward.



And Raymond?



He moved fast.



With a sudden, violent motion, Raymond’s right hand slapped the sock clean out of Michael’s hand—sending it spiraling up into the air like a wet, flying rag.



Before Michael could react, Raymond’s left arm swung forward.



Fist clenched.



Energy crackling.



His voice ripped through the air like a cannon blast:



“CONCUSSION PUNCH!!”



And then—



BOOM.



Raymond’s fist drove straight into Michael’s gut at point-blank range.



Zero distance.Zero mercy.







One Second of Slow-Motion Framing



The punch landed.



And for that one second, the entire world dropped into slow motion.



Frame by frame.



Every movement. Every twitch. Every sound.



Michael could see everything—Brian and Jason standing up on the second floor, stunned.



Even Jason’s tongue, still hanging out like a panting dog.



Down on the first floor, the man whose coffee had been stolen was yelling. His mouth moved violently, arms flailing. But Michael couldn’t hear a word. The world was muffled now.



Somewhere near the bathroom, a guy who had just finished squatting was using toilet paper to wipe himself clean. He was pulling up his pants.



And high in the air—the foul sock Michael had lost just a moment ago was still spinning.



And it landed perfectly.



Right into the mouth of the cheering boy.



The kid’s mouth had been wide open, mid-shout—“YEAHHH LET’S—MMMPHH!!”



The sock flew in.



His legs buckled instantly.



He collapsed to his knees and dropped flat to the floor, completely unconscious.Out cold.







Meanwhile, Michael’s body was screaming.



The shockwave from Raymond’s Concussion Punch had blasted through every organ—his stomach, intestines, lungs, liver, heart, kidneys.Every piece of him was vibrating.



His limbs went numb.



His chest felt like it was seizing.



His heart was pounding so fast, he thought he was having a heart attack.His brain felt like it had been tossed into a concrete mixer—spinning, tumbling, losing control.



But even through all of that—he endured.



His instincts had taken over.In just 0.1 seconds, his body had pulled every ounce of energy into his core.



His abdominal muscles hardened—not just like stone, but like steel.



And because of that—



BOOM.



Raymond’s fist bounced back.



The force rebounded, throwing Raymond two full meters backward.He slid across the ground like a skateboard, arms flailing for balance, boots screeching against the tile.







Michael stood still.



His eyes wide.Alive.Sharp.



But something had changed.



Crack—CHSSHHH!!



Both lenses of his golden-rimmed glasses suddenly shattered from the internal shockwave.



Glass shards dropped down his cheeks and collarbone like crystal rain.



He didn’t flinch.



Didn’t blink.



His eyes stared straight ahead, locked on Raymond like a predator who had just found blood in the snow.



This wasn’t over.



Round three was about to begin.







All Out Madness



They didn’t say a word.



No taunts. No warnings.



Just fists.



Michael and Raymond launched themselves forward, crashing into each other with violent precision. Punches, kicks, slams—everything they had was thrown into the fray.



No defense.No distance.Just raw offense on loop.



Within the first minute, they had already exchanged well over a hundred blows.



The sound of flesh colliding with flesh echoed across the ruined mall like war drums.







Up on the second floor, a few stunned spectators still remained.



Someone gasped, “Oh man… this is insane. These two are going all-out crazy. Like madmen.”



Another guy muttered, “I’m actually glad I saw this in person. Even if I die from the shockwaves—it’s worth it.”



Ironically, the friend standing next to him had already died.The guy hadn’t noticed.







Jason stood silently by the railing, tongue now stretching slightly longer than before.Still panting. Still completely expressionless.If anything, he looked… slightly bored.







Brian, not far from him, was the opposite.Golden light flickered nonstop from his eyes—Golden Eye fully activated.He was focused, dialed in, running calculations in real time.



Minute two passed.Another hundred-something exchanges.And then Brian’s face changed.



His mouth opened slightly.



Expression tightened.



A slow, uneasy realization crept in.




“Oh… Captain Lam doesn’t seem to be winning.”




He paused.



Swallowed.




“Oh no. He’s actually losing.”








And then it happened.



Right in the center of the warzone—



Raymond swept low.



A brutal low kick sweep, clean and fast.Michael’s footing shattered.



His entire body lifted into the air.



Arms out. Legs wide.His balance gone.



Then—



BAM!!



He crashed chest-first, limbs wide open, into the hard mall floor—like a body dropped from the sky with no control, no dignity, no mercy.



The tiles beneath him cracked on impact.



His arms and legs slapped down like dead weight.The breath was knocked clean out of his lungs.



For a split second, the entire mall seemed to pause.







Sock Attack: Once More



Michael had crashed hard, but the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked.His body was built different—his starting stats weren’t something normal people could even imagine.



He pressed both palms to the floor, getting ready to rise.



And then—he felt his foot being pulled.



He turned his head, confused.



Raymond was right next to him, crouching low, moving quickly—almost frantically.There was no calm now. He was in a hurry.



He yanked off Michael’s last remaining shoe, then immediately grabbed hold of the final sock—the same sock Michael had once used as a weapon—and peeled it off with urgency, like he knew he had only seconds to act.



Michael’s eyes widened.




“What the fuck are you doing to my sock?!”








Raymond didn’t answer.He just gave Michael a look.



A twisted, wide-eyed grin.Sharp. Cunning.Almost like he was enjoying this.



He rolled the filthy sock tightly in one hand, balling it up with fast, terrifying intent.



Michael saw the truth unfolding.




“You wouldn’t,” he muttered.




Then he moved.



With everything he had, he rolled onto his back, flipping from prone to defensive—trying to face Raymond head-on.



But it was too late.



Raymond was already there.



He lunged forward and jammed the sock directly into Michael’s mouth.







The taste hit instantly.



It was a blend of nightmares:Rotting mildew. Sour sweat. Expired cheese. Melted rubber.The kind of stench that didn’t just attack the senses—it settled inside the soul.



Michael’s eyes bulged.



This is worse than shit, he thought.



The foul textures rolled and twisted across his tongue, coating the inside of his mouth like a fermented disease.



He had seconds. Maybe less.



He reached up, trying to push Raymond away—



But Raymond drove his elbow into Michael’s jawline, pinning it shut.



Michael couldn’t even open his mouth to spit.



Then Raymond’s entire body pressed down over him, full weight pressing into Michael’s face, like a man determined to end this fight by pure humiliation.







Consciousness was fading.



Michael could feel the world closing in, darkness tightening like a noose.



But just before the lights went out—he pushed.



Every muscle in his body screamed.He exploded upward, using his arms, core, legs—everything.And to Raymond’s shock—



Michael lifted him.



Not just partway—his entire body came off the ground, suspended in air for a heartbeat.The pressure on his jaw broke.



Michael’s mouth began to open.



And the sock?



It was almost out.







Right After the Sock



The sock was almost out.



Michael had it right at the edge of his mouth. His tongue had worked it forward, millimeter by millimeter.Hope was real. He could taste freedom—literally.



But then—



Raymond struck again.



With his free hand, he shoved the sock right back in, sealing Michael’s mouth like slamming a prison door.Then his palm came down over it—a full hand over Michael’s lips, locking everything down.



Michael’s eyes opened wide.



He tried to say something—anything—but nothing came out.Just a muffled groan.



His eyes fluttered.



His limbs twitched.



And then…his eyelids dropped.



Slow. Heavy.Like curtains falling on a broken stage.



Michael—gone.



His body went soft. Limbs limp.His once-tense frame melted into the floor.



Raymond let out a long breath.



Then he rolled off him.







The crowd had already erupted.



Screams, laughs, shock, disbelief.




“Captain Lam lost!!”“No way—he lost! For real?!”“That was Captain Lam! Bro—he just ate a sock!!”




People were shouting over each other, some holding back tears of laughter, others just stunned.At least a dozen people had filmed the whole fight.Clips were already on YouTube, already spreading like wildfire.



A legend had fallen.And everyone saw it.







Raymond knelt beside Michael’s body.



Back straight. Chin raised. Eyes closed.



His chest rose and fell, deep and deliberate.His breathing was loud—raw—earned.



It had taken everything.



This wasn’t a cocky victory.It wasn’t even joyful.



But it was real.



He was finally the one still standing.



Or kneeling.



And for that one brief moment, he let himself feel it:a forgotten kind of peace.







But it didn’t last.



Not even a full minute had passed—when Raymond heard it.



THUD.



A loud, heavy impact just meters in front of him.



Someone had jumped down from the second floor.



The figure straightened slowly.A white button-up shirt hung half-open.Black jeans.Hair like a hurricane—wild, chaotic—like a black Super Saiyan in the real world.In his hand:a solid steel staff.



It was Jason.



He stood there without a word.



Then, calmly—almost softly—he said:




“Now it’s my turn.”



Chapter 60: The Unkillable Man
==================================================

Jason’s Speech



The moment Jason landed, Raymond could already feel it.



The hostility.It was sharp. Immediate. Heavy.



Raymond didn’t waste a single word.He charged forward and threw a concussion punch—full force.



But Jason was already sliding back, his feet gliding effortlessly along the marble floor.He moved just far enough—one meter—to let the shockwave miss.



Then his iron staff spun around his back like a helicopter rotor.And in that single rotation—WHACK—He brought it around and swept it low, cracking straight into Raymond’s waist.



Raymond blocked with his arm, but it wasn’t enough.



He was launched.



His body flew back through the air like a broken plank.He smashed directly into a bystander behind him, sending both men crashing to the ground.The onlooker spat out blood instantly, unconscious from the impact.







Jason stood still.His staff lowered. His voice calm.




“There are a few forces maintaining the world’s dynamic balance,” he began.“The police.The military.The criminal underworld.The Kungfu Association.The Humble Organization.The Frugal Organization.And other lesser forces.”




His tone was steady, like a teacher reviewing a curriculum.




“And I…I am one of the top-tier leaders in the criminal world.I command many subordinates, who themselves have subordinates.Robinson and Canelo—two of my most beloved men.Sean… used to be.But Sean… disappointed me.”




His eyes shifted slightly.




“And then came you.You’ve turned our reputation to dust.You’ve flipped our hierarchy upside down.So today, I’m here…To restore our power.”








Up on the second floor, Brian was unimpressed.




“Hot air,” he muttered inwardly.“All that talk, no nutrients. Just say you came here to beat up Raymond. Nothing more. Nothing less.”




But Jason’s long speech wasn’t useless.It gave Brian time to act.



He didn’t hesitate.



One second.He leapt over the second floor walkway’s railing, dropped straight down into the mall, and sprinted toward Michael—still unconscious, still limp in the middle of the battlefield.



Without a word, Brian knelt and scooped Michael up in a full-on princess carry.Then, just as smoothly, he turned and dashed back out of the central zone.







The Spot That Guy Pooped



Brian reached the edge of the arena, near the public restroom.



He gently lowered Michael’s limp body to the floor.



There was a soft, wet squeeze.



Brian paused for half a second.Something didn’t sound right.But he wasn’t the one touching it. So… whatever.He moved on.



What he didn’t realize was—this exact spot was where some guy had panic-pooped earlier.Right in the open.In full view of the chaos.



Now Michael—Captain Lam—was lying directly on it.Back flat. Shirt soaking.A perfect landing.No one deserved it.But here we were.







Brian looked down again.



Michael’s mouth was still stuffed with that same sock.



Even from here, he could smell it.




“No wonder he passed out,” Brian muttered.“That thing could drop our boss in under two seconds.”




He crouched and pulled the sock out with a wet, reluctant sound.



Michael coughed twice.A trail of pale foam dribbled out from his lips and chin.



Brian didn’t blink.



He glanced around and spotted a wad of toilet paper nearby.Good enough.



He grabbed it without thinking and started wiping Michael’s face with it—fast.



Mouth, cheeks, chin. All of it.Wiped clean in broad, frantic strokes.



When he was done, Michael’s face looked… worse.Yellowish.Sticky.A few small white worms were already crawling across his cheek.



Brian finally looked down at the paper in his hand.



It wasn’t fresh.




“…Oh shit.”




It was used.Someone else’s dirty toilet paper.From the same guy. Probably.







Brian leaned in one more time, touched two fingers to Michael’s nose.He was still breathing.Heartbeat steady enough.



Brian stood back up.



He pulled out his phone and texted a code to the Humble Organization emergency team.They’d pick Michael up in a few minutes.



Brian wasn’t leaving.



He wasn’t done watching.



Jason had just arrived.And Brian wanted to see exactly what that man could do.



So he stayed where he was, leaned quietly against the restroom wall,and watched the fight from a distance.Silent. Still.Completely unbothered by the fact that Michael was lying in literal shit.







He Never Leaves the Spot



Raymond raised his fist.He took a breath.Then slammed it into the ground with everything he had.



BOOM.The floor split apart.A violent concussion wave erupted from the point of impact, ripping out in all directions.



But Jason didn’t move.



He stood still, exactly where he had been since the fight began.



Then—casually, effortlessly—he raised his iron staff and brought it straight down onto the floor.



WHAM.



A shockwave of his own spread outward.Smaller than Raymond’s. Less violent.But precise.



It met Raymond’s wave head-on and absorbed most of the force.



Jason’s body shook for a moment—just a brief tremble.His face didn’t flinch.His cheeks wobbled for a few seconds, almost comically.And then… nothing.



No damage. No step back.Just one goofy facial jiggle—and complete neutralization.







Jason tilted his head slightly.




“You like AOE?”“Alright. Here’s mine.”




He shifted his stance.Then he swung his iron staff in a wide horizontal arc, slicing the air with a low hum.The sweep unleashed a violent gust of compressed wind, roaring forward like a blunt shockwave.



Raymond’s eyes widened.



He dropped to the floor and rolled sideways, dodging just in time.



The wind pressure continued past him—and smashed into a group of onlookers standing far behind.



Clothes shredded.Skin turned red and swollen from impact.A man and two women shrieked and bolted, covering their bodies as they fled the mall.



Jason didn’t even look at them.







Raymond sprang to his feet and charged again.



Fists tight. Focused. Yelling something wordless.



He threw another punch—same as always.



Jason?



Same reaction.A clean one-meter glide backward.Then, a vertical swing of the staff.



CRACK.



Raymond was launched backward like a ragdoll, his feet kicking air.



He flew ten meters—maybe more—before hitting the ground with a heavy thud.



He rolled twice, then coughed out blood.His arm twitched once. Then stopped moving.







Up near the restroom wall, Brian watched silently.




“This isn’t looking good for Raymond.”




He squinted.Thought harder.



Something felt off.



Jason…hadn’t moved from his spot since the fight began.No chases. No evasions. No sprints.Just small slides and staff swings.



It was efficient. Too efficient.



Brian muttered to himself.




“No… this isn’t sloppiness.”“This is discipline.”“He’s not doing more… not because he can’t.”“Because he’s not allowed to.”




Something was restraining Jason.







A Real Exchange



Raymond could tell something was off.



Jason had barely moved since the start of the fight.His steps were minimal. His swings, deliberate.Why?



Raymond didn’t bother figuring it out.He wasn’t a thinker. He was a breaker.



So he decided to force the issue.To knock Jason out of that neat little circle he seemed so committed to standing in.



He rushed in—fast. Faster than before.His fists came out in a storm, a blur of punches way quicker than anything he’d thrown earlier.



This time, they weren’t all Concussion Punches.Some were normal. Some were deadly.They were mixed together—perfectly—so that Jason couldn’t tell which was which.



The rhythm was broken. The pattern, erased.



Jason didn’t have time to swing wide like he used to.He stayed in place, trying to defend, but cracks started showing.



And then—it hit.



Raymond slipped in a clean, hard punch—just a regular one—right into Jason’s side.



BAM.



Jason recoiled, just slightly.



That was the moment.



Raymond followed up instantly—a straight-leg kick right to Jason’s chest.



CRACK.



Jason’s body flew backward, thrown several meters through the air before crashing into the ground.He rolled once, twice, and stopped flat on his back.



Raymond didn’t celebrate.He exhaled through his nose, still focused.




“He’s lucky,” he thought.“That punch wasn’t a Concussion Punch. If it was… he’d be done.”




But there was no time to pause.



Raymond charged in again, using the same high-speed pattern—disguised punches, unpredictable angles.



This time, Jason didn’t stay in place.



He backstepped.Then dipped low.Then burst forward.




“I’ll regret this… too much movement heats me up fast,” Jason muttered under his breath.




He moved.Fast.Ridiculously fast.



For the first time, he abandoned his usual tactic.He had been keeping still on purpose—minimizing motion, conserving every step—just to avoid overheating.But now?He had no choice.



Raymond blinked.He’d thought Jason couldn’t move at all.Now he was dashing, reacting, weaving—like a different fighter entirely.



Within seconds, they were fighting across the entire mall.East wall. West wall.The sound of fists and feet and steel bouncing from floor to ceiling.



They exchanged twenty, thirty blows before Raymond even realized they’d crossed the room.



Then—Jason spun his staff around his back, letting the momentum build.It whirled once.Twice.



Then—WHAM.



A wide, brutal sweep straight into Raymond’s stomach.



The impact was devastating.



Raymond’s body shot straight into the air, ten meters high—like a puppet yanked on invisible strings.



And then—he snapped downward.



WHUMP.



His body crashed into the ground like a broken sack of bricks.



He groaned.And then vomited three thick sprays of blood across the floor.







The Turning Point



Brian watched in disbelief.



He could clearly see the damage: over a dozen fractures, muscle tears, joints misaligned.Raymond’s body was collapsing from the inside.And yet—



He was still standing.Still walking.Still fighting like nothing happened.



Brian narrowed his eyes.




“How?”




Then he looked into Raymond’s eyes.That swirling black mist behind them—dense, twitching, almost alive.




“No. It’s not adrenaline.”“It’s not rage.”“He’s cursed.”




Raymond was muttering now.




“Don’t block my way… don’t block me from smashing the next glass wall…”




His voice was low, mechanical, like he was speaking to someone else—someone no one else could hear.



Something inside his head… was commanding him.



That’s how he was still upright.That’s how he could move with a hundred shattered bones.He wasn’t just injured—he was possessed.







He surged forward again.



Faster than before.



Even with a twisted spine, cracked femur, and fractured skull—Raymond charged, fists flying.



The punches came in a blur—still that same chaotic mixture of normal hits and deadly Concussion Punches.



Jason was forced to retreat.He didn’t have time to counter.



Now the entire mall became a battlefield.Over a hundred exchanges in less than a minute.



But something had changed.



Jason’s skin was no longer yellow.



It had turned deep red—almost glowing.His body heat was rising.Steam poured from his shoulders.



Then, it happened.



Jason thrust his iron staff forward—not to strike, but to open a path.



And he opened his mouth.



FWOOSH.



A stream of fire exploded outward.



Raymond’s beard instantly disintegrated.His messy, long, tangled hair was gone—burned away in a flash.



What was left?



A clean, short, tidy hairstyle—sunny-looking, almost charming.For the first time, Raymond looked… well, kinda fine.



He blinked, confused.




“You breathe fire?”




Jason didn’t answer.He just kept attacking.







And now?



Every single swing was landing.



Ten. Fifteen. Twenty blows.



Raymond took every single hit.One full minute of continuous destruction.



By the end, his body looked like a ruined sculpture—twisted, bent, and broken in over a hundred places.



And still—He stood.



He exhaled once.Then launched forward and slammed a diving punch into Jason’s chest.



Jason stumbled back several meters, sliding across the floor.



Raymond muttered again.




“Don’t block me… I have to break the next glass wall…”




His eyes weren’t focused.His voice wasn’t aimed at Jason.He wasn’t even in this world anymore.







Jason slowly got back up.His red skin steamed harder.His tongue lolled out—his body trying to cool down, but failing.



His breathing was shallow.



He could still fight.



He knew it.



All it would take was twenty more swings.Just twenty more.And Raymond would be gone—turned to pulp.



But then—Beep. Beep. Beep.



His wristwatch began to ring.



A warning.



Core temperature exceeded.Risk of organ failure. Strongly advise immediate rest.



Jason stood there.



Silent.



Still burning red.



And knew—He had reached his limit.







The Exit



From outside the shopping mall, a familiar sound grew louder.



A cheerful jingle.The kind that only came from one thing:An ice cream truck.A child’s song playing in warped loops, echoing through the heat of the summer.



And then—Jason was gone.



No one saw him move.No footsteps. No jump.



Just a sudden BOOM—An iron staff punched clean through the wall, blasting open a man-sized hole.



Jason had already slipped through it.Outside.



And in the next second, he was gone again—hopping into the back of the passing ice cream truck.







Inside the truck, the air was frostbitten.



Everything inside—metal walls, shelves, water bottles—was coated with a thin layer of white frost.



Two workers were already waiting for him.



One handed him a bottle of icy water.



The other began fanning him rapidly with a folded paper fan, their hands moving like propellers.



Jason sat down silently, eyes glowing faintly red, skin still steaming from the fight.







One of the workers wiped sweat from his own forehead and muttered,




“Boss, no offense, but your pores are getting way too small.You can’t even sweat properly anymore.And how’d a guy like that push you into overheat? He was clearly a low-tier.”




Jason took a slow sip from the water bottle.Then replied, calm and deadpan:




“He’s not strong.But it’s like he was possessed… like something took over.If he were just a normal guy, he would’ve been dead ten times over.”




He leaned his head back, still breathing shallow.




“He has over a hundred broken bones.Muscles torn beyond repair.His face is unrecognizable.And somehow… he’s still fighting.”“I honestly don’t know if he’s a man, or a demon.”








The other worker spoke up, half-joking, half-serious:




“Sorry again, boss.Really sucks we had to call you out during the peak of summer.If this had been the deep icy winter…do you think you’d have won?”




Jason opened his eyes slowly.




“In the deep icy winter? I would’ve destroyed him.”“But even now… even with all that damage—”




He glanced toward the crack in the wall, where the mall still echoed with chaos and blood.




“I doubt he’ll survive tonight.”“Tomorrow morning, he’ll be dead in his bed.No way a body like that keeps going.”








And with that—



The ice cream truck rolled onward.Driving away from the wrecked shopping mall.Heading toward the deep mountains.



Inside, the cold air kept swirling, heavy with mist.Jason sat in silence, eyes dimming.The fan still moved. The frost still clung.



Outside, a few children chased the truck, shouting, waving money, hoping for a cone.



But the truck never stopped.It had never stopped.It had never sold a single scoop of ice cream.


Chapter 61: Calm Before the Storm
==================================================

Cement Treatment



Jason had left.



After all the chaos, fire, and broken bones, he vanished through a hole in the mall wall without a word—carried away by the mist of an ice cream truck that had never once sold ice cream.



Brian lingered a moment longer, silent, still watching the wreckage around him. The battle was over, but something in the air still buzzed—residual tension, like a storm cloud just barely passing overhead.



Soon after, the Humble Organization’s emergency response team arrived.



Silent. Precise. Professional.



They lifted Michael’s battered body onto a stretcher and slid it into the back of a black ambulance, one marked only with a subtle golden ring logo. Brian climbed in with them.



Then he, too, was gone.



The mall was quiet again.



Except for one figure still standing at the center of the ruined battlefield.



Raymond.



He didn’t move for several minutes.



He simply breathed.



In. Out.



Standing exactly where the ground had cracked, where fire had seared, and where so many bones had been broken—mostly his.



But looking at him now?



He looked… fine.



Too fine.



His posture was strong. His eyes calm. His breathing steady.His body should have been in pieces. But there he stood, as if nothing had happened.As if his hundred shattered bones had never cracked in the first place.



After a few minutes of silence, he slowly turned and walked away.No limp. No stumble. Just calm, deliberate steps toward the far end of the mall.



And just as he disappeared from view—



CRASH.



A faint sound echoed in the distance.



CRASH.Another.CRASH. CRASH.



The sound of glass walls breaking.



Again.And again.



While the echo of destruction continued far away, rescue personnel were tending to the injured and moving the dead.Bodies were being covered. Survivors were stabilized. The mall had turned into a post-apocalyptic triage center.



Among the responders, in a dim corner of the mall, stood a very small man in an oversized white lab coat.



He was short—no more than 5’2″—with a slight forward lean and narrow shoulders.The coat hung past his knees like a child playing doctor with adult clothes.But he moved with quiet certainty.



It was none other than Mildy, the unlicensed doctor.



He wasn’t wearing a badge. He didn’t carry credentials.But no one questioned him.



He looked the part.And he worked fast.



One young man sat nearby, hunched over and trembling.Blood was pouring from his right eye—struck by a flying stone during the battle.He held his face and shook in panic.



“Doctor… do you think it’s serious?” he asked. “Can it be saved? I’m really scared I’ll lose vision forever…”



Mildy gave him a light pat on the shoulder—his tiny hand barely reaching high enough.




“Silly kid,” he said. “You’ve still got your left eye, haven’t you?”“Let’s stop the bleeding first.”




The boy blinked in confusion. But somehow, Mildy’s calm tone gave him a strange sense of comfort.



He sat still.



Mildy reached into his coat… and pulled out a pouch of industrial cement.



Without hesitation, he packed the wounded eye socket with thick gray mix, smoothed it out with his fingers, and waited a moment as it hardened like plaster.



Blood stopped.



The boy was silent.



Then he reached up, slowly, and touched his face.



His fingers met cold, solid stone.



He froze.



Then his mouth fell open in horror. His breath quickened.




“W-what… what is this?”“My face—this can’t be right—what did you do?!”




He started to panic.



Mildy, completely unbothered, stared up at him and said flatly:




“Relax.”“It looks cool.”“That pirate look? It’s trending anyway.”




The boy blinked again.Paused.Then… slowly exhaled.



“…Okay.”



From his pocket, he pulled out a strip of black cloth.Without another word, he tied it around his head, covering the cemented eye.



The panic was gone.Not because things made sense—But because Mildy made it sound… normal.



Before the boy could say anything else, Mildy was already gone.



He had moved on to another patient, already kneeling beside someone with a bruised leg and a cracked rib.



No thanks. No conversation.



Just more work.



Another day of healing…in his own very special way.







Quiet City Night, in Dim Apartments



The city had gone quiet.



But in scattered apartments—dimly lit, half-alive—life continued, small and strangely still.



In one apartment across the city, a young couple was curled up on a couch.



Dinello and Jessica.



They were watching YouTube on the big-screen TV, huddled under a thin blanket. The screen showed the recently uploaded footage of the brutal fight: first Michael vs Raymond, then Jason’s arrival.



Jessica’s eyes were locked to the screen.



The movements were explosive. Every blow had force, every stance had presence.



She whispered, “These three… they’re all kind of incredible. Do you think you could beat them if it ever came to a real fight?”



Dinello didn’t even blink.




“Absolutely. No question. Definitely could beat all of them.”“What kind of question is that?”




His voice was smooth. Confident. Almost offended she’d even ask.



Jessica gave a playful smirk.



But deep down?



Dinello knew he didn’t stand a chance.



Not even one. Not even maybe.



But it didn’t matter.She didn’t need to know that.



Across the city, the camera panned—sailing through rows of high-rises, dipping past traffic lights and nighttime silence.



It reached another apartment.Another couch.Another couple.



This time, it was Lawson and Monica.



The room was darker. Smaller. The lighting low and warm, almost suffocating.



They were sitting together—but not cuddled.



Lawson’s hand had slid inside Monica’s shirt, fingers moving slowly, deliberately, squeezing, roaming.



Monica breathed lightly.



Then murmured, “You’ve been touching for hours now. Don’t you ever get bored?”



Lawson didn’t pause. Didn’t blink.




“No.”“I could touch this for the rest of my life and never get bored.”




Monica’s face flushed slightly red. Her body stayed still. Her expression unreadable.



After a moment, she broke the silence.




“Hey… babe?”“Do you think you could beat those three guys?”




Lawson didn’t hesitate.




“Of course not.”“They’re way too strong.”




He leaned back slightly, voice flat, almost emotionless.




“I’m not a fighter.”“I’m just a professional beggar… who happens to run fast.”




Monica blinked. A little surprised by the honesty.



But something about that made her glance back at the TV—where the fighters moved like living gods—and for a moment, she felt something stir in her heart.



Admiration.



Longing.



A little… crush.



She loved all three. At least for that moment. Every frame of the video made them look heroic, powerful, and magnetic.



But then she looked over at her boyfriend.



Lawson.



Eighty-year-old face.Wrinkled skin.Hollow cheeks.Eyes like burnt-out lightbulbs.



And somehow… she still thought:




“He’s the most handsome of them all.”




Far across town, in an even darker apartment, the third transition landed.



This one was silent.



Lonely.



No girlfriend.No blanket.No couch.



Just Marvel, sitting on the edge of his bed.



He was still dressed in his Zhongshan suit—buttoned all the way up to the neck, stiff and overly formal, clashing awkwardly with his small belly and slouched posture.



His face was blank.



His arms were wrapped tightly around his own head.




“Shit,” he muttered.“I still can’t find a girlfriend…”“Fuck my life!”




And he just sat there,alone,in the dark,as the echoes of other people’s stories played quietly through the city walls.







Silence Amid the Cheers



The bar was full tonight.Voices were loud. Laughter constant.And above the shelves of cheap liquor and fake neon lights, four flat-screen TVs glowed.



All of them were playing the same thing—the fight.



Raymond. Michael. Jason.Back and forth. Shockwave after shockwave.The crowd in the bar reacted like it was the World Cup—cheering, gasping, clapping at every perfect strike and violent slam.



But in the middle of this noise, there was one man sitting completely still.



Dave.



He was completely naked.Not shirtless. Fully nude.



Sitting at the bar, alone, quietly sipping from a glass of dark liquor.



His muscles still bulged across his chest and arms, but they no longer felt powerful.Not to him.



He stared up at the TV, eyes distant.



Then sighed.




“I’m not the fighter I used to be,” he muttered to himself.“I haven’t fought in forever. My muscles are starting to shrink…”“And my pink triangle… my woman’s underwear… it’s gone.”“I’ve lost myself.”




He looked down at the counter, defeated.



Then, the bar door opened.



A man in a red cloak stepped in.



Sean.



He walked quietly toward the tables, eyes locked on the screens.He sat down across from Dave—but said nothing at first.Instead, he ordered a cocktail and kept watching the fight in silence.



When he saw Jason appear on the screen—Sean froze.



A single tear slid from the corner of his right eye.




“Master,” he whispered.“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again…”




His mind began to drift.Memories flooded in.



Following Jason through the underworld.Street fights.Smashing shops.Massage parlors.Refusing to pay after the massage.Getting caught.The three years in prison.



He shook his head.




“No,” he muttered to himself.“I’m a changed man now. I can’t keep thinking about the past…”




And then—he made the mistake of looking across the table.



Right at Dave’s giant cock.



His eyes widened. His mind froze.




“What the hell is that?”“Public obscenity?”“That can’t be legal.”




He stood up and walked over to Dave.




“Put on some pants, dude.”




Dave looked up at him.



His eyes were watery. Helpless. Vulnerable.




“I lost my underwear along with my dignity as a fighter.”




Sean paused.



He looked down at the broken man in front of him.



Then silently turned around, walked to another seat farther away, and sat down—pretending like he hadn’t seen anything.



The fight continued.



Crowds cheered, clapped, shouted, pumped fists in the air.



Every blow on screen made the bar tremble with energy.



But not everyone was screaming.



In the middle of that wild energy—Dave sat naked, ashamed.Sean sat cloaked, reflective.



Both sipping their drinks.Both silent.



Both drowning in memorieswhile the rest of the worldcheered like it had never been broken.







The Hall of Justice



It was noon.But the air was thick.A heavy, almost crushing pressure lingered over the entire city, like a massive current of heat was about to sweep through.



The kind of weather that made you sweat just by existing.The kind of weather that warned:




Something was coming.




In front of the city’s massive police headquarters, two officers stood lazily near the front steps, chatting quietly under the glaring sun.



An old woman—at least ninety, hunched and fragile—was slowly making her way past them.She leaned heavily on her cane, a plastic bag of groceries in her other hand.Her pace was slow. But she was steady.



Until chaos arrived.



From across the street came a strange young man.He wore a black plastic mask. His hair was cut into a perfectly even bowl—like a watermelon. He was in pajamas.



Benson.



He rushed up and—without hesitation—kicked the old woman’s cane out from under her.Then, before she could even react, he snatched a few bills from her pocket.



The old woman cried out, “Help! Police! Help!”



Her voice was raspy and thin, but still loud enough to reach the two nearby officers.



One of them looked over and asked the other,




“Do we need to do something?”




The second officer glanced at the scene, then sighed.




“Eh. Let it go. I haven’t had a raise in years. I’m not getting involved.”




And with that, they both turned away.Pretending nothing happened.



Benson wasn’t done.



He paused in front of the old woman, groping her saggy boobs like he’d just discovered treasure.



What a pathetic loser.He didn’t even spare an elderly woman.The kind of guy who fears the strong but always picks on the weak.



Then he turned and sprinted away—disappearing into a nearby alley like the cockroach he was.



The woman was stunned.The officers didn’t move.



One shook his head.




“Man… today’s kids are getting worse and worse.They don’t even spare the almost-dead.”




The other one nodded.Solemnly. As if this was a normal observation.



Then, the camera panned.Through the officers.Through the giant doors of the police headquarters.Through the marble corridors of bureaucracy and command.Until it reached a tall, dark meeting room filled with high-ranking officers in full uniform.



And at the center of it all sat a man.



Bucket hat.Oversized police coat.Arms calmly crossed in front of his chest.Wearing sunglasses—indoors.Motionless.



Khan.



The myth. The force.The one people whispered about when all other plans failed.



The strongest man on record.The final hand of justice.



Khan sat in complete silence as the footage from the previous day’s battles played on a large monitor.



Raymond.Michael.Jason.



Each clash, each shockwave, each moment of destruction.



The officers around him watched nervously.



Then, after a long pause—




Khan spoke.




Softly.




“Looks like Michael and Jason couldn’t stop him.”




He lifted his chin ever so slightly.




“Looks like I’ll go.”




The room erupted in cheers.



Applause. Whistles. Fists pounding on the table.Officers stood up and shouted, almost as if celebrating a national holiday.



To them, Khan stepping in wasn’t just action.It was the endgame.



His involvement meant closure was near.The chaos would be handled. The fight, finished.



No one questioned it.



No one ever questioned Khan.



Then—



His phone rang.



He answered it calmly.




“Oh.”“Understood.”“No problem.”“I’ll see what I can do.”




Click.



He hung up.



Silence returned to the room.



No one asked who called.No one dared.



But the air had shifted slightly.Just enough for the celebration to feel… paused.



Khan sat still.Expression unreadable.



And outside, the heat pressed down harder.As if the city itself was holding its breath.







Colin’s Quiet Request



Elsewhere in the city—high above the chaos, in a tall glass skyscraper—three figures sat quietly in a dimly lit room.



In the center was Colin.To his right, Brian.To his left, Michael.



But Michael didn’t look like himself.



He wore a plain black t-shirt.His glasses were ordinary—no golden rims, no sharp reflection.He looked strangely… off.Like someone else entirely.



Colin had just finished a phone call.He still held the phone loosely in one hand as he turned to Michael.




“Captain Lam,” he said calmly,“Your new white shirt and golden-rimmed glasses will be delivered in a few hours. Don’t worry.”“For now, just wear that.You look ridiculous anyway… like a different person.”




Michael didn’t respond immediately.



He simply leaned forward, one hand pressed to his forehead, slowly rocking in place.




“Fucking hell,” he muttered,“I can’t believe he destroyed my beloved golden-rimmed glasses.And my shirt—my white shirt—was covered in shit. I don’t even know how it happened.”




Brian, sitting nearby, gave a weak, polite smile.



He couldn’t say anything.He couldn’t tell Michael the truth—that he had accidentally laid him down in a pile of human feces behind the mall restroom.



So instead, Brian cleared his throat and blurted,




“Hey, uh… Colin.That call just now…was it to Khan?”




Colin gently set his phone down on the table.




“Yeah,” he said.“We’ve known each other since we were kids.I told him to go deal with Raymond this afternoon.”




Michael looked up.



Brian stayed quiet.



Colin continued—




“But I also told him not to kill him.I’m still planning to recruit him.”




There was no argument.



No reaction.



Just two nods.



Brian and Michael both understood—Colin wasn’t giving orders.He was asking a favor from someone he respected,and hoping it would be enough.







The Wind Shifts



The afternoon sky darkened.Clouds rolled in overhead—thick, gray, and heavy.The stifling heat was suddenly gone, replaced by a cool, rushing wind that tore through the streets like a warning.Leaves scattered.Garbage bags took flight.It felt like the entire city was about to change.



Then came the doors.



The massive front doors of the police headquarters creaked open—and out stepped more than a dozen men.



Uniformed. Armed. Silent.



At the center of the group was a short man in a bucket hat.Sunglasses on.Long police coat draped across his shoulders like a cape.Hands in his pockets.Face unreadable.



Khan.



Beside him walked Grayson.Others followed without a word.



They weren’t rushing.They didn’t need to.



They were the storm.



Down the street, a dented aluminum Pepsi can rolled in the wind, bouncing and rattling over the cracked asphalt like some kind of junkyard tumbleweed.



And chasing after it—a large, greasy man in tattered clothes, panting heavily, arms swinging—



Tom.



He followed it for twenty, maybe thirty meters, completely entranced.When he finally caught up, he bent down and picked it up like he’d just found buried treasure.His eyes sparkled with dumb joy.



Unfortunately for him, he was standing directly in Khan’s path.



Grayson didn’t hesitate.He stepped forward and kicked Tom to the side—hard.



Tom hit the curb and rolled.Groaning.



Grayson scoffed.




“Dumb mutt. Good dogs don’t block the road.”




And just like that, the group kept moving—as if nothing had happened.



—



They walked straight ahead.Toward the source of the destruction.Toward the shattered glass.Toward the next name on their list.



The wind howled louder now.The leaves didn’t just scatter—they fled.



And Khan never said a word.






Chapter 62: The Pinnacle of the Kung Fu World
==================================================

All Eyes on Khan



Khan’s group stepped out onto the street.



And the air changed.



It wasn’t just a crowd gathering.It wasn’t just a procession.It was a moment—one of those rare, electric moments when the strongest man on Earth decides to move.



No one said a word, but everyone noticed.



The surrounding sidewalks were already lined with people—sitting, crouching, leaning against storefronts.They weren’t random pedestrians.They were here for this.



To see Khan in action.



Some had only heard the rumors.Others had witnessed it before—just once, and never forgot.But today, they all came to witness something few had ever seen twice:The man at the pinnacle of the Kung Fu world… walking toward a fight.



The man himself walked silently at the front, his bucket hat tilted low, his long coat draped across his shoulders, hands in his pockets.Not a single button was fastened.



He didn’t need them.



Behind him followed his officers—uniformed, composed.Among them was Grayson, walking half a step behind like a proud lieutenant.



As they moved forward, some women—older, wide-eyed, practically swooning—shouted out from the crowd.




“We love you, Khan!”




Some even blew kisses.



It was surreal.The most feared man in law enforcement… had a middle-aged fanbase.



But not everyone was cheering.



If you looked carefully, you’d spot them.



The fighters.



Scattered throughout the street.Some seated. Some standing.Some pretending to eat or text.



But their eyes were sharp.



—



High above, perched quietly on the thick branch of a tree, someone leaned against the trunk—sitting relaxed, legs dangling.



Dinello.



Unmoving. Watching.



—



Farther up, on the third floor of a shady massage parlor, two men stood by the window, smoke curling from their cigarettes.



Canelo and Robinson.



They didn’t speak.They didn’t move.Just stared down at the street below like generals surveying a battlefield.



—



Inside a black Mercedes SUV parked discreetly along the side street, three men watched the scene unfold.



In the front: Brian at the wheel.Beside him: Michael, quiet, eyes sharp behind a pair of normal glasses.



In the back seat, lounging with arms crossed and an unreadable smile—Mildy.



The windows were tinted from the outside.No one could see in.But from inside—they saw everything.



—



And finally, the procession reached the center of it all.



A shattered storefront.Twisted metal. Broken glass.The scars of yesterday’s chaos still fresh on the concrete.



Standing at the heart of it was a man.



Bare-chested.Bones visibly lining his torso—white and hard like ivory steel beneath a thin layer of flesh.Muscles sharp, lean, starved.His narrow eyes glinted under a clean, fresh haircut.No beard. No scars.Just a strange… unnatural symmetry.



Raymond.



He didn’t move.He didn’t speak.



He was waiting.







Divine Nature Force: Qi



A single leaf fell.



Soft.Weightless.It drifted down through the cool, swirling breeze—falling gently in front of Khan.



He stopped walking.



Then, with slow precision, he pulled one hand out of his pocket.Palm open.Level.He caught the leaf like it was a message.



And for ten whole seconds, he just stood there, staring at it.



The wind passed.The street fell quiet.Everyone watched—but no one spoke.



Then he spoke.



Quietly. Almost to himself.




“All Qi comes from the natural world.The energy we channel through Kung Fu… is not our own.It belongs to nature.We merely borrow it.”





“Nature is the strongest force in the universe.We only appear tall because we stand on the shoulders of a giant.”




His words dissolved into the air—like fog in sunlight.No one replied.



But high above him, others were listening.



—



Across the rooftops of the city, figures had begun to appear.



On top of a tall building to the west, a man stood motionless in a dark Zhongshan suit.One katana strapped across his back.Another tucked into his belt.The wind pushed gently against his clothes.



That was Mario.



On the rooftop opposite him, a woman and a man stood side by side.



Lindsay — silent, arms folded, eyes narrowed.And beside her stood Joshua.



Once Khan’s junior martial brother.Now, just a silent observer.



He didn’t speak.Didn’t move.Just stared at his former senior from above—expression calm, hands in his pockets, not a weapon in sight.



—



And then…



A loud putt-putt sound broke the silence.



From a side street, a scooter buzzed its way into the main road—weaving through the thick tension like it didn’t exist.



The rider was slouched forward.One hand on the throttle.The other digging in his nose with aggressive, almost meditative focus.



On his delivery shirt were the words: FUCKLINAnd he was gone in a flash.



But Khan saw him.



He even raised his hand—subtle—as if to wave.




“…Frank?”




The man didn’t notice.He twisted the handlebar, sped up, and disappeared around the corner—never once looking back.



Khan let his hand fall.



A ghost of a smile, maybe.Maybe not.



And then he kept walking.



The leaf slipped from his hand.And the wind carried it away.







Demon’s Laughing



Raymond saw Khan.



He had no idea who this man was—but the moment their eyes met, he could feel it.That overwhelming pressure.



Like standing in front of a mountain that was somehow… breathing.



And Raymond started laughing.Loud. Mad. Unhinged.He threw his head back and laughed toward the sky like a lunatic, arms slack, chest heaving.



No fear.Just chaos.



—



Khan raised one hand.



A simple gesture.Palm open, fingers flat—telling the others to stay back.



Grayson took a step forward and asked respectfully,“Sir, do you want me to hold your coat? The shoulder strap keeps sliding—”



Khan cut him off gently.




“Thank you… but that won’t be necessary.”




He didn’t even look at him.Didn’t raise his voice.Didn’t move with urgency.



Then Khan stepped forward.



Just three meters.



That was all.



The police stayed behind him. No one dared move closer.



—



Khan stood still.



His eyes slowly scanned Raymond from head to toe—taking in the twisted muscles, the torn skin, the fractured frame that should not be standing upright.



Dozens of bones broken.Ligaments torn.A body mangled beyond repair.And yet—he stood.



Not just upright.



Strong.Stable.Ready to fight again.



Khan studied the man’s face.His narrow eyes were sunken deep in a cloud of black mist.Dark energy pulsed around him—like smoke clinging to a dying flame.



There was no humanity in those eyes.Just pressure.Just hate.




“This isn’t Raymond,” Khan thought.




The real one—whoever he was—must be asleep somewhere deep inside.Buried.Maybe even dying.



What was standing here now… was something else.



Something driven by rage.Possessed.A walking corpse filled with one thing: destruction.



—



Khan knew he could end this in a second.A single strike.One hit, and this thing would crumple.



But he had made a promise.To Colin.




“Bring him back alive.”




So Khan didn’t strike.Not yet.



He was still thinking—calculating how to break a demon without killing the man trapped underneath.



And that’s when Raymond moved.



Fast.Too fast.



He didn’t throw a punch.



Instead, he reached to the side—into a pile of broken junk beside the shattered storefront—and grabbed a rusty, beat-up office chair by the base.



With one sudden roar, he hurled it straight at Khan’s head.



No warning.No logic.Just raw, violent impulse.



The chair spun wildly in the air like a jagged metal comet—a blur of cracked wheels, twisted arms, and greasy upholstery—headed right for the center of Khan’s face.



And Khan wasn’t even looking.He was still thinking.Still analyzing the damage.Still deciding how to fight a demon without killing the man inside.







Vortex Palm



The moment the broken office chair left Raymond’s hand,the entire police unit tensed up.



They weren’t ready.



Khan wasn’t ready.



He hadn’t even looked up.



The chair was midair—spinning, wobbling, fast.Headed straight for the chief’s skull.



Grayson, clutching the arm of the lead escort, let out a shaky breath.




“We’re done… he’s done… our Chief’s gonna die just like that…”




He started to cry.




“I told you all—pay attention! Stay sharp! What do we do now?! We’re screwed!”




—



But Khan raised his left hand.



Just a light motion.



A casual flick of the wrist.



And the chair disintegrated midair.



It didn’t break—it came apart.Exploded into a dozen crooked pieces, like metal being untied by invisible hands.



The fragments spun outward in all directions—One shard flew off course.



It struck a middle-aged woman in the crowd across the street.Right in the face.



She collapsed instantly.Dead on the spot.



Khan didn’t blink.



—



Then he lifted his right hand.



Calmly.



Straight ahead.Palm open.



A swirling draft of air began to form—spiraling from his palm like a miniature cyclone.



Raymond—ten meters away—was yanked forward.



In one second, his chest slammed into Khan’s open palm—and stuck.



Just the chest.As if the air between them had turned into glue.A trap, targeted and perfect.



His arms flailed.His legs kicked.But he couldn’t pull away.



He was stuck.Pinned in place.Held there by force beyond comprehension.



—



Khan exhaled.



His left hand clenched into a fist—and he drove it straight into Raymond’s right side.



The sound echoed.



CRACK.



One of Raymond’s kidneys ruptured instantly.His whole torso twisted unnaturally from the blow—bones shifting, muscles tearing, blood spitting from his mouth in strings.



But he was still smiling.



Still laughing.



Even while his spine contorted in shock.Even while pain wracked every inch of his broken frame—he laughed.



And then… he raised a fist.



His right hand trembled.Energy surged—raw, untamed.A deep vibration built from the knuckles to the shoulder.



He was forming a Concussion Punch.



Even like this—his body crumbling—Raymond was still trying to fight.



Khan looked at him and muttered quietly,




“Still not enough…He can still fight.”








The End of the Road



Raymond’s right fist was trembling—energy surging through it.



He was just about to launch a Concussion Punch.



But Khan moved faster.



His left fist struck first—swift, precise, and final.



It slammed straight into Raymond’s left side.



The sound was different this time. Not a crack.



A rupture.



Raymond’s liver shattered.Dozens—hundreds—of tiny ruptures exploded at once, like glass under pressure.



His eyes widened, but he didn’t fall. Not yet.



He bared his teeth.He stared straight at Khan.



His trembling fist was still raised—still trying to channel that last, desperate Concussion Punch.



But it stopped.



His hand froze.Then slowly—almost sadly—fell back down.



He couldn’t hold it anymore.



The energy slipped away.The punch never came.



Khan stood silently.His right hand still glued to Raymond’s chest, holding him in place like a vice.



He could see it.




“There’s still some fight left in him,” he thought.“Still not enough. Not yet.”




He knew—his next punch might kill him.Or the one after.



Raymond’s body was collapsing from the inside.One kidney gone. Liver destroyed.



And somehow… he was still standing.



Khan lowered his eyes.




“If I stop now,” he thought,“he’ll keep going. Forever.Even without a kidney.Even without a liver.He’ll still fight.”




He inhaled—quiet and deep.And brought energy into his left arm again.



His fist swelled with power.It buzzed, shimmered, radiated.



He whispered to himself—




“Sorry, Colin…We’ll let fate decide this one.I can’t guarantee he survives.”




Then—



He struck.



His left fist drove into Raymond’s abdomen with full force.



BOOM.



The ground shook.



Raymond’s stomach didn’t just rupture—It vaporized.



Turned into gas.Gone.Evaporated from existence.



Raymond’s head snapped forward—



And he spit a violent stream of blood, like a crimson projectile bursting from his mouth.



His whole body went limp.



But he didn’t fall.



Not yet.



He was still stuck—his chest glued to Khan’s right palm, held there by the force of Qi.



Khan saw the blood coming—



And with almost bullet-speed reflex,he sidestepped to the right, gliding one full meter with a burst of silent Qi.



Not a single drop hit his coat.



Then, without a word,he calmly withdrew his right hand—releasing the Qi.



Only then did Raymond’s body slip free—sliding off and dropping to the ground like a lifeless rag.



Khan looked down at Raymond’s body.



He wasn’t sure if he was dead already… or still alive.



But for now, he wasn’t moving.



Behind him, Grayson stood frozen—completely drenched in blood spray.



Dripping.



He blinked slowly and muttered under his breath:




“Oh, fuck me, Jesus…”




—



Khan turned around, hands already back in his pockets.Not a word.Not a glance.



And as he walked away,his long coat still hung perfectly on his shoulders—



never falling.







Judgement for the Damned



Raymond survived.



Barely.



He had been rushed to the emergency hospital immediately after the fight. His condition was beyond critical—his stomach had been vaporized, his liver shattered, and one kidney completely destroyed.



And the city wouldn’t have saved him.



But the Humble Organization did.



They funded the surgery.They paid the doctors.They handled the logistics.



And, most importantly—they provided the organs.



A new kidney.A new liver.A new stomach.



Everyone knew where they came from.



They didn’t come from generous citizens or hospital waitlists.They came from somewhere else—somewhere darker.



From the alleys.From the missing.From the “donors” who never gave permission.



Some said they were criminals.Others said they were just… convenient.



People whispered that they’d been killed that same day just to get Raymond the “hardware.”



No one could confirm it.



No one really wanted to.



But Raymond lived.



He spent the next ten days unconscious.



No dreams. No memories.



Just darkness.



—



On the tenth night, Raymond’s eyes opened.



He blinked once. Slowly.



Then tried to move.



Clank.



Chains.



His limbs were strapped down—steel cuffs bolted to the reinforced bedframe. His neck, his wrists, his ankles—every joint locked and secured. A full-body containment system.



He wasn’t in a recovery room.



He was in a police containment ward—A solitary black cell, locked down under special security authority.



Dim. Cold.No windows. No clocks. No sounds except his own breathing and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.



Then came the charges.



Destruction of public property.Attempted manslaughter.Obstruction of law enforcement.Illegal possession of enhanced combat abilities.Unpaid debts.Disturbance of civil peace.



And a long list of lesser crimes that blurred into legal padding.



He was sentenced to 18 years in prison.



No trial. No negotiation.



Too dangerous to release.Too dangerous to rehabilitate.



Raymond was designated a permanent containment risk.



They didn’t send him to a normal prison.



They sent him here—a black cell, deep under police control.



No lights.No visitors.No sun.



He was cuffed at all times. Even when sleeping. Even when eating. He was fed through a slot in the wall, sedated if necessary.



And still…



His eyes hadn’t cleared.



That black mist—the strange, swirling fog within his pupils—was still there.



Still crawling in slow circles.Still whispering from somewhere deep inside.



Whatever was possessing him…hadn’t let go.



Not yet.



Maybe never.



—



So they kept him there.Watching.Waiting.



Because they didn’t know if Raymond was Raymond anymore.



And the world couldn’t afford to find out.


Chapter 63: Visitor of the Century
==================================================

Welcome to the Prison



A black Mercedes SUV slowly rolled across a narrow bridge and arrived on a desolate island.There was nothing here—no trees, no homes, no roads.Only a single massive structure: a prison.



This place held the worst of the worst.Criminals too dangerous for the mainland.Security was beyond strict. Visitors were unheard of.



The SUV came to a stop. Three men stepped out.



The first wore a white dress shirt and slacks, gold-rimmed glasses on his face, and a black briefcase in hand. That was Michael.The second was a tall, lean young man in a white tank top and black athletic shoes—Brian.The third was completely covered: a black hoodie pulled low, sunglasses, and a black surgical mask. His entire identity was hidden.



They walked to the prison gate. It was closed tight.Two armed guards stepped forward and said bluntly:




“No visitors allowed here. Turn back.”




Michael calmly stepped toward one of them and opened his briefcase.



Inside—stacks upon stacks of cash. Neatly packed. Quiet and undeniable.



He closed the briefcase again and gently handed it over.



The guard didn’t say a word. He took the case, turned around, and unlocked the gate.



The three men walked in.



—



The interior was enormous—like a concrete labyrinth.Corridors twisted endlessly. Reinforced doors lined the walls.The air smelled of rust and disinfectant.



Michael paused, glanced around, then turned back toward the gate.



He called out to the guard who had taken the briefcase:




“You. Guide us.”




The guard didn’t argue. He nodded and stepped forward, silently taking the lead.



His movements were sharp and obedient, his attitude precise and professional—like a personal escort.



Without another word, they began their descent into the depths of the forgotten prison.



Prison Walk



They walked the corridor in silence.



On both sides were cages—rows of reinforced iron cells, each one holding something dangerous.Men who didn’t look like men. Creatures shaped like humans, but stretched, scarred, twisted in ways that spoke of violence and madness.



And then, from the shadows of one cell, a long, bony arm extended.



It was absurdly long—at least three meters.The hand reached across the walkway and tapped Michael’s shoulder.A light, almost casual tap.



Michael turned slightly.



“Hey,” he said to the prison officer beside him, “What’s up with that guy? How’s his arm that long?”



The officer’s face stiffened.He lowered his voice.



“You’ve never heard of him? That’s the infamous Long-Hand Freak. Real name forgotten. He was a legend decades ago. His arms aren’t just long—they’re deadly. Muscle like steel cable. Fingernails sharp as blades. He once sliced off a dozen heads with a single hand swipe.”



He gulped.



“Took the police months to catch him. Some say they lost more men in that manhunt than in a riot. He’s… not the kind of guy you mess with.”



Before the last word even finished—



The Freak snatched Michael’s right arm.Grip like a vice.



“LET ME OUT!” he roared from inside the cage. “LET ME OUT OR I’LL CUT HIS HEAD OFF RIGHT NOW!”



The whole hallway tensed.



The officer froze.His lips parted but no sound came out.He knew he was useless here. He couldn’t save Michael if he tried.



But Michael?



He didn’t flinch.



With his free left hand, he calmly reached over and grabbed the freak’s arm at the wrist—Then, with one sharp twist—



CRACK.



The arm snapped like dry wood.



Not just broken. Destroyed.The kind of break that would never heal right.



A scream tore down the hallway, echoing off the metal and concrete.



And then—Silence.



Not just from the freak.But from everyone.



All the other prisoners—those twisted monsters behind the bars—they all went quiet.



Not a word. Not a breath.They stepped back into the darkness of their cages.



Michael kept walking.Unbothered.Unshaken.



And the corridor stayed silent behind him.



The Most Fortified Door



They kept walking.



The corridor was long—longer than it needed to be.Echoes of their footsteps bounced off the metal walls, mingling with distant, shaky voices.



From behind some of the cages, they could hear trembling whispers:“Please… please don’t kill me…”



The prisoners had clearly seen what Michael did earlier.And they wanted no part of him.



The group reached the end of the corridor.



There, at the far wall, stood a heavy iron door—thick, reinforced, secured with a massive industrial lock that looked like it belonged on a vault.And beyond that? Another door.



The prison officer gestured toward it.



“This is it,” he said. “That’s Raymond in there. The cursed one. He’s extremely dangerous. That’s why we’ve got double barriers—one here, and one inside.”



Brian crossed his arms.




“Stop wasting time. Enough talking,” he snapped.




The officer hesitated, looking nervous.



“Oh… shit. I forgot… This lock—uh—it’s one of our most secure models. Needs two guard fingerprints to open. I’m the only one who came in with you. I’ll have to run back to the front and get the second guy. Just gimme ten minutes.”



Brian’s brow twitched.



“Why the fuck didn’t you bring him with you in the first place?”



The officer stammered. “Sorry! Sorry—I’ll go now!”



He turned and started to hurry off.



But before he could take two steps—



Michael spoke. Calm. Quiet.



“Step aside.”



The group all turned to him.



Michael exhaled. Rolled his shoulders.And stepped forward.



The officer blinked. “Wait… That’s a solid iron door, man. Two layers. I mean, no offense—I know you’re strong, but unless you’re Khan himself—”



BOOM.



Michael didn’t punch the door.



He punched the wall beside it.



The cement exploded in a cloud of dust and debris, chunks flying outward like shrapnel.In seconds, a man-sized hole appeared—jagged, smoking, and open.



Michael looked at the others and simply said,




“Let’s go.”




They stepped through.No keys.No permission.



Just one punch.And a path.



Curse Lifted



Michael stepped up to the center of the cell.



Right in front of him—bound in thick steel chains, locked in place—was Raymond. His body couldn’t move an inch.



Michael tilted his head.




“Hey, narrow-eyes. Do you remember me?We fought once, not long ago.”




Raymond didn’t even lift his eyes.



His voice was low, quiet—like a whisper bleeding from deep within.




“You’re wasting your breath.I don’t hear a thing you say.I only hear the sound…of shattering glasses.”




His eyes were still filled with the black fog.



Brian let out a sharp breath.




“Look at his eyes. He’s gone.He’s just a madman now.You know what pisses me off?We sacrificed fresh organs from innocent bystanders.Spent millions on the transplant.All of that just to save this lunatic?”




He turned away in disgust.




“Useless.”




Then came the voice from behind them.



A soft voice. Calm. Measured.



From a man in a black hoodie.



He stepped forward.



As he spoke, he removed his face mask.




“Raymond,” he said.“You are not full of hatred.You are a kind person.Loved by the customers at your bakery.Loved by this city’s people.”




As he said those words, something strange happened.



From his mouth—golden, glowing letters drifted gently toward Raymond, floating like fireflies.They entered Raymond’s chest.No one else moved.



The prison officer gasped.



He turned, wide-eyed.




“Wait… is that… could it be…”




But before he finished the sentence, the man pulled down his sunglasses.Lifted his hoodie.



And revealed himself.



Colin.The legendary senior figure of the Humble Organization.The one whose influence ran deeper than most people could imagine.



It was him. In the flesh.



Raymond’s breathing slowed.



Then his eyes—still filled with darkness—began to shake.



Images flooded his mind:



Laughing with customers behind the bakery counter.Joking with kids who came in after school.Baking at sunrise, smiling, flour on his hands.Warmth. Joy. Normalcy.



His face twitched.



Then suddenly—



The fog in his eyes vanished.Completely gone.He looked down at his own hands.As if waking from a long, terrible dream.




“Where am I…?”“Why am I here…?”




Brian, Michael, and Colin exchanged looks.



None of them spoke.



They just smiled—faint, knowing smiles.



Mission complete.



Freedom



The prison officer stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief.He had just witnessed golden letters shoot from Colin’s mouth into Raymond’s body—breaking the curse and clearing the black mist clouding his mind.



He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.



Before he could gather his thoughts, Brian barked at him:




“Hey, you useless cop, what are you standing there for?Hurry up and unlock him!You got paid, is this how you do your job?”




Startled, the guard threw up his hands and shook his head frantically.




“No—no, I can’t! Letting you in was one thing, but releasing him?If I do that, I’ll be in deep trouble!”




Michael stepped forward slowly, voice cold and steady:




“You only have two choices.One, unlock him now and deal with your own mess later.Or two—don’t unlock him, and I’ll take your damn head off with a single chop.”




That was it.



The prison officer froze again—then trembled.




Psssssshh—




A dark stain spread across his pants as a wet trickle hit the floor.The smell was immediate.



He had pissed himself.



And just then, Colin spoke calmly:




“This man, Raymond, is a good citizen.He’s never committed a crime.He’s not supposed to be locked up in a place like this.”




Golden letters, radiant and warm, flowed out from Colin’s lips—like a quiet chant—and gently entered the guard’s body.



The guard blinked.Then nodded.



Something had clicked.




“He… he’s right…This guy’s never done anything wrong…He shouldn’t be in here…”




Without hesitation, he pulled out his keyring and began unlocking the chains.



CLANK—CLANK—CLANK—



Heavy iron fell away piece by piece, echoing through the room like a ceremonial drum.



Raymond slowly stood up.



His arms stretched wide. His face tilted upward.



He took in a long breath.



And then, with a deep, booming voice, he cried out:




“I am free!”




Chosen by Fate



They walked out of the prison gate like they owned the place.



The prison officer led the way—head low, expression dazed—while the other guards just stood there watching, too confused to stop them.



One of them saw Raymond in the group—unshackled, walking freely—and turned to whisper to his colleague.




“Wait… isn’t that the guy that was locked up?”




“Relax,” the other said. “Turns out he never committed a crime.”



The first one just stared blankly, frozen in place.



Something didn’t feel right, but… what could he say?



—



Outside the gate, a black Mercedes SUV sat waiting at the curb.



No driver.



It had been parked there, silent and still, like a predator conserving energy.



The four of them walked up to it.Michael opened the driver-side door, slid in, and hit the ignition.



The engine purred to life.One by one, the doors opened and closed.Raymond in the back. Brian up front. Colin last.



Then the SUV pulled away—slowly at first—then vanished into the city traffic.



Destination: the Humble Organization.



—



Days passed.



Raymond had already adapted to his new role.An enforcer. An operator.Efficient. Reliable. Surprisingly ruthless.



On his first mission alone, he reportedly returned with dozens of heads and a full report—with everything documented, signed, and timestamped.



Like clockwork.



Now, once again, the four of them sat at the round table in their headquarters, having lunch.



Michael was wiping the lenses of his new golden-rimmed glasses.Brian was halfway through a chicken wrap.Colin sat across from them, quietly sipping from a glass of iced water.



Then Michael looked up and asked:




“Boss… you haven’t stepped out of this building in years.You’re always about staying safe, staying in the shadows.So why did you go out for him?”




There was a pause.



Colin didn’t look up.He just gently set a bottle of Pepsi down in front of Raymond.




“Maybe it’s fate,” he said softly.“There are stronger people. More capable ones.But when I saw him… I just knew.”




Raymond smiled awkwardly, then gently pushed the bottle back.




“Thanks, Boss.But I don’t drink soda.I usually just stick to water.You can probably tell—look how skinny I am.”




Brian and Michael exchanged a quick look.



That had never happened before.No one had ever rejected Colin’s gesture—no matter how small.



They watched, tense.



But Colin?



He just nodded.




“Fair.”




And that was it.



The conversation flowed on like nothing had happened.



Within a minute, it was like the moment had been erased from everyone’s mind.No one remembered the tension.No one brought it up again.



Just four men having lunch.



Maybe that’s what fate looks like.




Not chosen by logic. Not earned by strength.Just… meant to be.




Chosen by Fate.


Chapter 64: The Long Run
==================================================

The Birth of Dog Man



Two months ago. Back in Chapter 5.



The alley was still soaked in blood and piss. Dark Benson had just ripped through the boys like a storm, leaving behind only one survivor—the tall kid in the pink shirt.



He didn’t run. Not yet.



He just stood there, shaking.



And then, Dark Benson turned to him. His voice was quiet, like a knife being slowly unsheathed.




“What are you still standing here for? Get lost. Crawl like a dog.”




The boy didn’t argue.



He dropped to all fours without a second thought.



Head low, elbows bent, knees scraping the pavement, he started crawling—awkward at first. Hesitant. Humiliated.



But then something strange happened.



He found a rhythm.



Right hand, left knee. Left hand, right knee. The motion started to flow. It felt… natural. Like he was made for this.



He picked up speed.



His limbs moved faster, smoother—his whole body began to glide across the alley like a four-legged animal. He didn’t care who was watching. He didn’t care that tears were still on his face. His mind was empty, and his body had taken over.



By the time he reached the edge of the block, he wasn’t crawling anymore.



He was running.



Running like a dog.



People on the sidewalk stared as he bolted past them, limbs pounding the ground like a greyhound off leash. A few of them even stepped back in surprise.



One guy muttered under his breath:




“Holy shit… a man runs like a dog.”




And they weren’t wrong.



He leapt over a fire hydrant. Skidded past a bus stop. At one point, he jumped clear across the street—no crosswalk, no hesitation. Just pure momentum.



The wind hit both sides of his face. It felt cool, crisp, alive.



He wasn’t scared anymore.



He wasn’t thinking about the blood, or the piss, or the monster in the alley.



He was high on speed. On instinct. On freedom.



His name was Norman.



And for the first time in his life, he started thinking about that name—Norman. No Man. Maybe his parents knew all along. Maybe he really wasn’t a man.



Maybe he was a dog.



A lone, desperate, ecstatic dog, sprinting out of the city limits with nothing but adrenaline in his chest and dirt on his palms.



The sun hit his face.



The wind kissed his cheeks.



He felt… free.



He let out a long, raw, unfiltered howl.



Not as a joke. Not to be funny.



But because it felt right.



Because it was right.



Because in that moment—he wasn’t a victim, or a freak, or a kid in a pink shirt anymore.



He was Dog Man.



And he was born to run.







The Long Run Never Ends



Noman kept running.



He leapt over the fence of a countryside ranch and dashed right in, running alongside sheep and horses. For a moment, it felt like he was one of them—just another animal, alive in the wind. After a while, he jumped out from the far end of the field and made his way into the mountains.



One mountain.Then another.Then another.



He crossed rivers, hopped over narrow streams, and eventually dove straight into a lake. He swam fast, joyfully, slicing through the water like a playful otter.



Then—A crocodile emerged, swimming straight toward him with jaws wide open.



Noman didn’t panic.He launched upward from the water like a missile—leaping three meters into the air—then landed ten meters ahead with a splash and kept swimming.



When he reached the shore, he scrambled out, soaked head to toe.He shook his entire body, flinging water everywhere—just like a dog.



He rested for less than a minute. Then he ran again.



This time, he charged straight into a dense, eerie forest.He leapt from one branch to the next, agile and unthinking, and soon pushed through the entire rainforest.



Up ahead was a clearing.A desert.



He sprinted into it, wild and fast. His tongue hung out to release the heat.



By nightfall, he had already run through the desert, passed through a small village, and left it behind without stopping. He crossed an ice field. Then a volcano. Then another strange place. Then another. Then another.



He just kept going.



Eventually, he reached a massive grassland, far from human civilization.There was no sign of anyone. Just him. Just earth. Just air.



He didn’t even know anymore—had it been three days? Five?He didn’t care.



He collapsed onto the grass.



Exhausted.



Flat on his side.



His two arms and two legs were stretched out in a single direction, lined up along one side of his body like he’d fallen stiff and straight.His tongue drooped out of his mouth, his eyes half-lidded, panting gently in the breeze.



It was bliss.



He had run so far, so long, so fast…he might’ve crossed into another country.



He didn’t know.



Didn’t need to know.



Because in that moment, under the sky, in the grass, breathing deep and free—







Hunger Strikes



Noman fell asleep not long after collapsing in the grass.



When he opened his eyes again, it was already midday. The sun was shining down. The grass swayed gently in the wind. It was beautiful. Too beautiful.A place straight out of someone’s dream.



He lay there, breathing slowly, eyes half-open.




“This… this is it.”“No job. No noise. No rent. Just sun and grass forever.”




It felt like a perfect life.A wild, dog-like heaven.



But dreams don’t last.



Suddenly, a deep, hollow pain echoed from his stomach.A loud growl. A twisting ache.He froze.




“Wait… I haven’t eaten in days.”




His body started to tremble. His arms felt heavy. His legs were numb.All at once, he realized—he had no energy left.



The running had drained everything.



The hunger was real now. Not poetic. Not symbolic. Just hunger.Sharp. Stupid. Brutal.



Panic set in. His vision blurred.




“Am I gonna die out here?”“Seriously? After all that running? I’m just gonna starve to death like an idiot?”




He looked around, desperate. Grass. Just grass.No food. No shelter. No people.



The sun was still warm. The wind still soft. But it meant nothing now.



There was no peace in beauty when your body was shutting down.



His eyes faded. His limbs stopped responding.His brain gave up.



He passed out.



—



When he came to again, it was night.



He felt something wet brushing his cheek.



His eyes blinked open slowly.



A golden retriever was licking his face.



Soft. Gentle. Steady.



And behind it—more dogs. Big ones. Small ones. A tiny teddy-sized one bouncing near his feet. They were all watching him. Calm. Quiet. Present.



Noman didn’t know where they came from. Or why.He didn’t care.



There was something honest in the way the retriever licked him—something kind.



And then… something strange clicked.



He stuck out his tongue.



And gave the golden retriever a small, slow lick on the neck.



It was instinct. Pure instinct.



Not to be weird. Not to be funny.



But because, deep inside, he knew—He was one of them now.







Alpha’s Favorite Dish



Just as Norman and the golden retriever were gently licking each other—bonding in the strange, quiet language of dogs—another figure approached.



A husky stepped forward, carrying something in its mouth.It dropped the object gently in front of Norman.



It was dark. Hard. Misshapen.Norman looked down at the thing… then up at the husky.He blinked.




“What the hell is this?”




The husky let out a few short barks.And somehow—Norman understood.




“This piece… I’ve saved it for days. Didn’t even eat it myself. It’s special to me.”“I’m the leader of this pack. We brought down a buffalo last week. We ate almost the entire thing.”“This was the last piece. My favorite piece. I kept it hidden. Just for me.”“But today… you need it more than I do.”“Eat. Or you’ll die.”




Norman’s eyes filled with tears.He was moved.



This… this was real pack loyalty.The kind of gesture that transcended language.



He reached out and hugged the husky tightly, overwhelmed with gratitude.



Then he did something instinctual.He rolled onto his back—arms and legs stretched out on one side of his body, belly exposed.And as he did… a tiny stream of urine squirted out of him.



It was involuntary. Humiliating.And completely sincere.



It was submission.He had officially declared himself as the husky’s little brother.



The husky nodded once, proud but calm.



Then he spoke again, firm and direct:




“Eat it. Eat until you’re full.”“Tomorrow, we hunt together.”




Norman wiped his face, still crying, and reached out for the gift.



He picked it up.



Paused.



Sniffed.



His eyes widened.




“…Holy shit.”




It was shit.



Literally.



Bullshit.



The golden retriever leaned in next to him and spoke in a cheery, friendly tone:




“Our Alpha LOVES buffalo shit. It’s his favorite dish.”“He’s sharing it with you.”“Feed yourself now!”




The tone was light—but the energy was intense.All the dogs were watching.Their faces were serious. Respectful.This was clearly an honor.



Norman looked around, panicked.




They’re serious… they want me to eat it. They’re all watching. I can’t refuse…I’m starving. I’ll die if I don’t eat something. But… this?




His stomach growled.His vision blurred again.He was shaking.



So he opened his mouth.Took a bite.



Chewed.



Swallowed.



The texture was horrifying. The smell was worse. The taste… didn’t even have a name.



But he kept going.



One painful bite at a time.



Until it was done.



Then—he lifted his chin.Closed his eyes.And forced a smile.




“Oh yeah, baby…”




It was fake.Completely fake.



But nobody needed to know that.







New Life in a Pack



That night, the dogs didn’t sleep.



They talked.



All twelve of them—big, small, scarred, scruffy—sat in a loose circle under the moonlight, sharing stories like old war buddies.



Norman just listened at first. The golden retriever sat beside him. The husky, a bit apart, calm and quiet like a leader.



One by one, the dogs spoke.



They told him they used to be pets.



Not fighters. Not hunters.



Just pets.Living rooms, chew toys, afternoon naps by the couch. They had homes. Names. Collars with little bells.



But not anymore.



One by one, their owners had taken them out for a “trip.” A hike. A camping day. A car ride with the windows down.



And right when they were happy—panting, tails wagging, running through the grass—their humans drove away.



No goodbye.No explanation.Just the sound of tires peeling off, fading into the distance.



They were left behind.



In the wild.Confused.Abandoned.



And they never saw those cars again.



Norman slammed his hand on the ground.




“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.“They did it on purpose. They couldn’t afford to keep you anymore. So they ditched you.”




The dogs tilted their heads.




“Afford?”“On purpose?”




They didn’t understand.



Norman looked at their confused faces and realized—they didn’t get it.Money meant nothing to them.They still held on to the memory of their owners with… love.



Painful, desperate love.



He exhaled.Softened his tone.




“It’s okay. We can live out here. We can hunt. We can survive.”




The husky raised his chin.



The others followed.



And one by one—they howled.



Together.



Their voices echoed across the open plain, rising into the sky like smoke from a sacred fire.



The sound was raw.Beautiful.Tragic.



Even the moon seemed to pause and listen.



—



By morning, the hunt had begun.



They chased a wild boar through the hills, barking and snapping, darting through the tall grass like a wolfpack in motion.



Usually, it took them nearly an hour to wear one down.



But this time… they had Norman.



He didn’t bark.He didn’t hesitate.



He leapt.



Ten meters—maybe more—straight through the air.And came down on the boar like a meteor.



It hit the dirt with a thud. Screamed. Kicked.



Norman wrapped his arms around its tusks and plunged his mouth into the boar’s throat.He bit down.Hard.



He didn’t let go.



Not for a full minute.



The boar’s legs kicked wildly… then slowed…then straightened… stiff.



Dead.



Norman stood up.



Blood on his face.



He dragged the boar across the dirt and dropped it at the husky’s feet.



The husky nodded once.




“Good boy.”




Then he ate first.



One piece at a time, savoring it slowly.



After the alpha finished, the rest of the pack stepped in—eating their share with quiet discipline.



Norman waited.



When it was finally his turn, all that was left were bones… and the boar’s genitals.



He didn’t complain.



He ate what he could. Chewed slowly. Swallowed quietly.



And smiled.



Because for the first time…he felt like he belonged.



He didn’t need a house.He didn’t need furniture.He didn’t even need real food.



He had a pack.



He had a place.



And for now, that was enough.







I Still Miss Him



It was a quiet night.



The kind of night where the stars feel like they’re holding their breath, and even the wind doesn’t want to speak too loudly.



The dogs were asleep—curled up across the grass like a dozen warm, breathing stones. Norman was out cold too.



Until… his bladder woke him up.



He sat up slowly, scratching his head, still half-asleep.




“Where’s the bathroom…?”




He wandered around the field for a few minutes—checking behind rocks, near trees, even pacing in small circles like something might magically appear.



Then it hit him.




“Oh shit. This isn’t human society.”




There was no bathroom.



So he walked up to a nearby tree, lifted one leg, and let loose—just like a dog.



It was instinct now.



But before he turned back to sleep, he noticed something.



Out in the open field, under the full moon, the golden retriever was sitting alone—head tilted upward, staring at the sky. He wasn’t sleeping.



He wasn’t moving.



Norman slowly walked over.



Stood beside him.



He looked up too.



The moon was perfectly round. Almost fake-looking.




“Hey,” Norman said softly.“You okay? You look… kind of sad.”




The retriever didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on the moon.



Then, quietly:




“I miss my owner.”




His voice was gentle. Almost grateful.




“It’s been three years since I saw him. But I still remember his face. So clearly.”




Norman stayed silent.



The retriever continued.




“He always wore pajamas. His hair was shaped like a watermelon—what do you call it… a bowl cut?”“He was just a little boy. A small one.”




Norman blinked.




“Wait a second…”





“You’re talking about Benson?”“That loser? The one who beat the crap out of me and turned me into this?”




But the retriever didn’t notice Norman’s change in tone. He was lost in the memory.




“Every day when he got home, he’d come find me first. He’d punch me in the ribs, kick me in the belly… that’s how he showed me love.”“He always laughed when I yelped. We had such a bond.”




Norman’s face froze in horror. The retriever’s face softened in nostalgia.




“But one day, he took me on a trip. We went far out. I thought it was just another adventure.”“We were running in the grass… it was a good day.”“And then… he got in the car… and drove away.”





“I think he just forgot to take me back.”




The retriever smiled.




“I still love him.”“I still believe he’ll come back someday.”




Norman didn’t know what to say.



And then the retriever looked at him and added, proudly:




“He gave me a name, you know.”




Norman braced himself.




“He called me… Retarded.”




Silence.



Norman’s jaw tightened.



The retriever smiled, tail wagging gently.




“He always shouted it with so much energy. RETARDED!!”“I miss his voice so much.”




Norman looked away.



The moon looked a little too bright now. The night a little too quiet.



And next to him, the retriever named Retarded just kept smiling—his tongue hanging out.


Chapter 65: Clawing to the Top
==================================================

The Strongest Dog



Three months passed.



Just like that.



Norman hadn’t even realized how long he’d been living with the dog pack. Every day was the same: wake up, stretch, hunt, eat, sleep. But something had changed. Actually, everything had changed.



Ever since he joined, the pack had gotten stronger—fatter, even. No more hunger. No more scraps. These dogs were living large. And it was all thanks to him.



Norman was the reason they were thriving.



He never asked for anything. Never demanded respect. But they gave it to him anyway.



They adored him.



And over time, his body changed. His instincts sharpened. His combat evolved.



He developed a whole style of martial arts—dog-style kung fu. Techniques born from instinct, refined through blood.



They gave them names.



Body Slam – launched from all fours, slamming his full weight into prey.Death Roll – a twisting ground move, perfected in swamps and rivers.Anal Extraction – an up-close, rear-angle takedown used only when necessary.Air Claw Gale – a spinning swipe that created shockwaves with sheer velocity.



They were vicious. Efficient. Pure.



He was no longer just Norman.



He was a weapon.



One day, prey was scarce. The forest felt empty. No deer. No pigs. Not even a rabbit.



That’s when they saw it—a leopard.



Beautiful. Deadly. Fast.



A predator by design.



But in Norman’s eyes, it wasn’t a threat.It was lunch.



The leopard ran. Hard. It hit 120 kilometers per hour.Norman hit 150.



He chased it down, legs pounding like pistons, eyes locked in, mouth open.



And when he reached it, he didn’t roar. Didn’t bark.



He bit.



Straight into the neck.



The leopard writhed. Clawed. Twitched.



But Norman didn’t let go.



Within one minute—it went limp.All four legs stretched straight. Eyes rolled. Gone.



He didn’t even celebrate.



He dragged the carcass back like it was nothing.



The dogs stared in awe.The husky said nothing.But the atmosphere had changed.



Norman’s place in the pack kept rising. But he didn’t care.



He had no interest in being a leader. He never challenged the husky. Never played politics.



He just killed. Fed. Rested.



That was enough.



But admiration turned into obsession.



One night, Norman witnessed a commotion near the fire pit.



A German shepherd was trying to mount a corgi.



The corgi barked loudly, blocking him.



Tails puffed. Teeth showed.



A fight was seconds away from breaking out.



Until the corgi shouted:




“I save myself for Norman.”“Only Norman’s genes are worthy of my body.”




The camp went silent.



Norman froze.



Something cold hit his spine.



He looked at her—serious, loyal, trembling with hormonal intensity.




“Wait… what?”




The corgi stared at him like he was a messiah. Like she was ready. Like this was her moment.



Norman stepped back.



Inside, something cracked.




“I’m not even a dog…”




He realized it fully, maybe for the first time in weeks.He couldn’t mount a corgi.He couldn’t fulfill what she wanted.



He didn’t belong here. Not really.



He had the fangs. The speed. The strength.But not the biology.



And in that silence, with the pack watching and the fire crackling—



Norman, the strongest dog…



just felt cold.







Alpha’s Demise



It started with heavy rain.



Thick, relentless, splashing down like the sky was angry.



The dog pack split into small hunting squads, each group dashing out into the wilderness, spreading through the soaked terrain in search of food.



Hours passed.



One by one, they returned—soaked, muddy, successful. They brought back prey. Fat rabbits. A few deer. Even a wild turkey.



They gathered at their shelter beneath the overhanging rocks. The fire was out. Everything was wet.



Norman counted silently.



Something was off.



Three dogs were still missing.



Retarded, the golden retriever.The German shepherd.And the husky—their leader.



The dogs began murmuring, ears flicking, tails stiff with unease.



Then—



Through the misty rain, two silhouettes emerged. Walking slowly. Heads down. Drenched.



It was Retarded and the German shepherd.



Norman sprinted forward on all fours, his body moving like instinct.




“What happened?” he asked. “Where’s our leader?”




Retarded didn’t answer. He just stood there, rain sliding down his face like tears he didn’t know how to cry.



The German shepherd lifted his head slowly. His voice was low and hollow.




“We were ambushed… by a group of lions.”“He held them off… so we could escape.”“He didn’t make it.”




The rain didn’t stop.



Norman froze.



No breath. No thoughts. Just noise in his ears.




“Thunderclap…” he muttered.“Wait—no. Rainclap. It’s raining.”




He took off.



Four legs pounding the mud, water flying in every direction. He ran faster than he had in weeks. 150 km/h. His top speed.



The wind hurt. The rain hurt. But he didn’t stop.



He found him.



Lying on the ground.



A soaked, broken body. Covered in blood. Torn fur. Mud clinging to every part.



Still breathing. Barely.



Norman knelt down beside him.




“Leader… are you okay?”




The husky opened his eyes—just barely.



His voice was cracked. Weak. But clear.




“We were ambushed…”“I stayed behind… so they could run.”“I might not see tomorrow.”




He coughed. Blood dribbled out of his mouth.




“Norman… from now on… you’re the leader.”“It’s yours now…”




And then—he died.



Just like that.



No long goodbye. No last growl.



He was gone.



It was still raining.



Norman stayed beside him. For minutes. Maybe hours. He didn’t know.



Then he dug.



With both hands. With all four limbs. In the rain. In the mud. Like a dog. Like a man. Like a friend.



He dug a hole deep enough for a body. Then he gently placed the husky inside.



Covered him with soil. Patted it down.



Then he found a plank of wood nearby. He stuck it into the ground at the head of the grave.



There were no words.



They had no pen.



Just a plank. Blank. Empty.



But it stood.



And that was enough.



The others watched in silence. The fire still hadn’t been relit. The rain still poured. But beneath the rocks, under the open sky, something had shifted.



The alpha was gone.



And the pack would never be the same again.







Dog with a Mission



In the world of dogs, grief is short.



The next morning, the pack was already busy—chasing prey, sniffing out trails, running wild. No one mentioned the burial. No one looked back. They had no time for mourning. No time for hate.



But Norman was different.



Because Norman wasn’t a dog.



He was a man.



And in his mind, hatred burned like a furnace.



He didn’t snarl. He didn’t cry. He simply stood up, stretched his limbs, and spoke in a calm, even voice:




“I’ve got something to take care of today. You guys go hunt that way. I’ll be here.”




That was all it took.



The dogs didn’t question him. They never questioned Norman. His words were law—mostly because they didn’t care to argue, and also because they trusted him completely.



So the group split, heading toward the forest.



And Norman turned the opposite way—toward the hills.



Toward the lions.



The rain had stopped, but the ground was still soft, and the clouds above still heavy. Norman didn’t walk like a dog this time.



He walked like a weapon.



Then, out of nowhere—a ripple of motion in the brush.



He stopped.



From the bushes, trees, and grass… they emerged.



Hyenas.



At least thirty or forty of them. Fanned out. Forming a loose circle around him.



They didn’t attack.



They just stared.



Confused. Unsettled.



They had never seen a creature like him before.



Not fully dog. Not fully man. Not fully anything.



He didn’t bark. He didn’t growl. He didn’t even smell right.



They kept their distance, circling slowly, eyes wide, jaws half-open.



Norman didn’t have time for this.



He spoke calmly:




“Get out of my way… or I’ll open the gates of hell.”




But the hyenas didn’t speak English.



They just kept circling—tension rising. Their claws scraped dirt. Their breathing grew heavier.



Norman scanned the group. One stood slightly ahead of the rest. A bigger one. Scar across the muzzle. Likely the leader.



Perfect.



He didn’t waste another second.



He dropped to all fours—and launched.



A blur of muscle and instinct.



Body Slam.



The alpha hyena didn’t even flinch in time. Norman collided with him like a freight train—cracking bone, flattening muscle.



And before the body even hit the ground, Norman wrapped around its neck—



Fifteen full Death Rolls.



Snapping. Tearing. Crushing.



By the time he let go, the alpha’s head was detached, rolling across the muddy field like a dropped coconut, bouncing once, then twice, before landing still.



The rest of the pack froze.



Then—



Panic.



Hyenas scattered in every direction, yelping, howling, claws scraping madly against the dirt as they fled.



Norman didn’t chase.



He didn’t even watch them run.



He turned back toward the hills and kept walking.



A few minutes later, he reached a massive stone outcrop—a hulking slab of ancient gray rock resting between two low hills.



He stopped behind it.



What he saw made him lower his body and narrow his eyes.



Just on the other side—



Five or six lionesses.One huge male lion.And over a dozen cubs.



They were lying in the grass, breathing slow. Calm. Unaware.



A family. A kingdom.



His target.



The rain had stopped.



But the war was just beginning.







Kungfu Lions



Norman didn’t hesitate.



He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t roar. Didn’t wait.



He just leapt.



Straight over the stone, full force, launching his body through the air like a silver missile—and slammed down hard on the lion king.



Body Slam.



It connected. The lion grunted—shocked—but didn’t fall. Instead, he reared back, standing tall on two hind legs.



Paws up. Chest square. Form tight.



Norman froze for half a second.




What the hell… this lion knows martial arts?




Before he could move again—



CRACK.



A paw the size of a dinner plate smashed into his left shoulder.



The force was immediate. Violent. Unforgiving.



Norman flew through the air like a broken javelin—fifty meters before he hit the dirt and rolled hard. Dust exploded around him. His back skidded. His limbs flailed.



He landed flat on his side.



When he looked down…



His left arm was bent the wrong way.



Completely shattered.



He gritted his teeth. Blood in his mouth. Rain on his face.



Then he stood up.



On two legs.



One arm hanging dead. The other clenched into a fist.



The lion king stood across from him—still upright, still poised. Even he looked confused for a second.




What… is this thing?




But he didn’t ask.



He charged.



Fast.



Eighty kilometers per hour.



He kicked up dirt and leaves behind him, then leapt into the air—and returned the favor.



Body Slam.



This one came from above.



His full weight—pure muscle, claws extended.



Norman threw himself aside just in time, narrowly dodging the crushing blow.




Okay… he’s strong. But he’s not fast enough. If I keep dodging, I’ll wear him out.




That was the plan.



Norman backed off, started running wide arcs—baiting, dodging, drawing the lion’s energy out little by little. The lion panted heavier with each failed charge.




If I just keep moving… I’ll win this.




He was starting to believe it.



Right up until—



They arrived.



Six lionesses.



No warning. No sound.



Just muscle and fury and claws.



They came from every side—closing the circle.



Norman’s path was gone. The air changed. The energy shifted.




Oh no… this is no good.




He looked for an opening.



There wasn’t one.



He stepped back, just slightly—and the lion king moved.



From a distance.



He planted his feet, growled low—and released his move:




Air Claw Gale.




A blur of silver slashes—so fast they shimmered like beams of light.



They cut the air like razors.



Norman ducked.



One slash missed his face by a centimeter. Another carved the air beside his ribs. He dodged. He twisted. He spun.




Almost—




SLAM.



He didn’t see them coming.



Two lionesses hit him from opposite sides, crashing into his ribs like wrecking balls.



Then two more.



Then two more.



Six-body combo slam.



He was airborne again—soaring backward like a ragdoll, body limp, eyes wide.



He landed hard. Dust exploded again. His body bounced once, then twice.



Then he didn’t move.



He was still.



Breathing shallow.



Vision doubled.




I… might die here.




His left arm was useless.



His ribs were cracked.



His legs were trembling.




These lions… their kung fu is too strong.Even Dark Benson might not survive this.




His mind spun.



The sky above him flickered gray. Rain began to fall again—light, cold, almost mocking.



He lay there, silent.



And the pride of lions, standing tall in the mist, began to circle closer.







New King of the Jungle



Norman was surrounded.



Seven lions had formed a tight circle around him.There was no gap.No exit.No way out.



The lion king’s paws pressed into the muddy ground.His massive rear legs tensed, claws gripping earth like anchors.He was preparing to sprint—and strike the final blow.



Norman could feel it.



The tension.The kill coming for him like a train.He was bruised. Broken. Outnumbered.



But not done.




I have to think of something.Not just to escape.I have to destroy them.I have to take revenge.




The lion king took off.



A blur of gold muscle and primal rage.



In three full strides, he launched into the air.



Three meters high.



Six hundred pounds of fury, claws spread wide—aimed straight down for one final body slam.



If that hit, Norman wouldn’t just be dead—he’d be pulp.



But it didn’t hit.



Norman dodged.



Barely.



He rolled under the attack and launched himself low—straight into the lion’s underside.



His head landed right beneath the king’s groin.



Without hesitation, he opened his jaw—and bit down.



Hard.



His teeth sank deep into the lion’s genitals.



Then he pulled.



Ripped.



A full, grotesque tear—flesh snapping like wet ropes.



The lion king collapsed instantly.



A gargled roar broke in his throat as his knees buckled, his body shivered, and he fell forward like a fallen statue.



He wasn’t getting up again.



Norman didn’t pause.



He spun behind the falling lion, lowered his body—And lunged for the neck.



His jaws clamped down.



Right on the thick base of the lion king’s throat.



He bit down with every ounce of rage in his body—until his fangs sank past fur, past skin, into hot muscle and pulsing arteries.



Then—he twisted.



And launched into his final technique:




Death Roll.




One spin.Two.Five.Ten.



Thirty-five times his body whirled violently, grinding the lion’s neck into submission—each rotation tighter, darker, more brutal than the last.



Tendons snapped.Vertebrae cracked.The wind howled as they spun through mud and blood.



Until finally—



POP.



The head tore loose.



Just like that.



Clean off.



It bounced once.Then twice.Then rolled three full meters away—



Like a basketball.Or a freshly cracked watermelon.



Blood fountained from the open stump, spraying Norman’s chest and face.The body twitched.Then collapsed—twitchless. Silent.



The lion king was dead.



And his throne had been ripped from his neck.



The six lionesses saw everything.



They didn’t charge.



They didn’t roar.



They froze—staring at what was left of their ruler.



Then, as if sharing a single thought, they turned.



And ran.



Not toward Norman. Not toward revenge.



But backward.



Toward the cubs.



They rushed through the field, ignoring Norman completely, and gathered protectively around their young.



Their fight was over.



Because now—




They had no king.They only had children.








The Rise of Dog Kind



Norman didn’t stop.



Not for a breath. Not for a heartbeat.



The six lionesses were still there—on the ground, scattered, stunned, cradling their cubs, their limbs sprawled like broken branches.



He looked at them.



And thought one thing:




Not a single one of you lives.




Then he moved.



Fast. Brutal. Without hesitation.



In a matter of minutes—he killed all of them.All six lionesses.And every cub.



Not one escaped.



No cries. No speeches.Just the silence of slaughter.



—



From that day on, lions vanished from the grasslands.



Not just this pride—all of them.



News spread.



What happened here didn’t stay quiet.The survivors ran.The others heard.



And every lion within hundreds of kilometers fled.Gone without a trace.



The rule of lions was over.



—



But something else began.



From every direction—dogs came.



They had heard the story.They had smelled the blood.They had felt the shift in the wind.



And they came.



Dozens.Then hundreds.



From broken homes. From abandoned campsites. From human cities and muddy forests and nowhere places in between.



They came to this land—not as strays, not as outcasts—



But as believers.



They joined him.



Norman’s pack, once barely ten confused mutts,had become an army of dogs.



Each one looked up to him.Feared him.Followed him.



Not because he was kind.But because he was undeniable.



—



One day, as the sun cut through the sky like a golden blade, Norman stepped up onto the tallest stone in the entire grassland.



A towering slab of rock shaped by wind and time—Now, it would become his throne.



He stood tall, alone at the top.



Hundreds of dogs sat below in silence.



Norman opened his mouth and shouted:




“From this day forward—this land belongs to Dog Kind!”




His voice echoed.




“This place is no longer the kingdom of lions.This is a new empire.Our empire.”





“Here, all dogs shall live freely—under no leash, under no rule but our own.We hunted for scraps.We served as pets.We were thrown away.”





“But no more.A new command will echo through these plains.Our command.”




The dogs howled in response.



One by one. Then in waves.



The sound rose like thunder.A storm of voices.A new anthem.A declaration to the entire world.




The lions are gone.The dogs have risen.And this land will never be the same.







Chapter 66: Attack on Dogland (Part 1)
==================================================

Engines on Sacred Land



It started with a sound the grasslands had never heard before.



A low mechanical hum. Then metal grinding. Then the sharp cough of diesel.



The wind carried it long before the shapes arrived—massive machines rolling across the earth like armored beetles. Excavators. Pile drivers. Cranes.



And behind them—humans.



Dozens of them. Dressed in bright vests and hard hats. Some dragged tents. Others held blueprints. They walked across the sacred plains, pointing and shouting like they owned the sky.



Near the ridge, a golden retriever named Retarded was running freely when he saw them.



He stopped cold. Ears perked. Tail stiff.



Then he turned.



And sprinted back.



—



Within minutes, Retarded reached headquarters. His fur was matted with sweat and dust. Tongue flailing. Eyes wide.



Norman stood at the center of the camp, flanked by his top dogs. Retarded didn’t waste a second.




“Humans,” he barked. “Machines. Big ones. They’re setting up tents. They’ve brought paper maps.”




Norman’s eyes narrowed.He didn’t speak.He just ran.



—



When Norman arrived, the machines had already dug trenches into the land.



Dirt piles rose like shallow graves. Flags marked invisible borders. Generators buzzed near a half-assembled prefab structure.



And then—he saw it.



Just a few yards ahead, a lone dog was barking at the humans.



One worker shouted.




“Shut that damn mutt up!”




The dog kept barking. Warning. Defending. Doing what he thought was right.



Another worker stepped forward. No hesitation.



He pulled the cord on a chainsaw.



The engine screamed.



One clean slice.



The dog split in half before he hit the dirt.



Blood sprayed across the man’s boots.




“Fucking mutt,” the worker growled.“Good dogs don’t block roads. Cunt.”




—



Norman stopped walking.



His eyes froze on the mutilated body. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.



Behind him, the dogs who’d followed him stood still at first. Then—One of them growled.Then another stepped forward.




“I’m going over there,” one snarled. “I’m gonna rip his fucking head off.”




And just like that—The war drums started beating.



In silence.In blood.In a voice only the grass and the ghosts could hear.







Between Two Worlds



One of the younger dogs—a stocky, scarred pit bull with eyes full of fire—was already crouched low, ready to launch forward.



His name was Jacky.



Small body. Short temper. Pure muscle packed into a canine bullet.



Just as he pushed off—



Norman’s hand slammed down on the back of his neck.




“Jacky,” Norman growled. “Don’t. Let me understand what this is first.”




Jacky snarled softly beneath his breath, but didn’t resist.He stayed.



But the others didn’t.



Three dogs had already charged ahead.



Before Norman could speak again, they were across the field—fangs bared, claws out, fury in motion.



The construction workers screamed.



One man tried to run. Another tripped over a generator. A third didn’t get away fast enough—teeth sank into his calf. Another dog latched onto someone’s shin. They couldn’t shake them off. Couldn’t outrun them.




“Help! They’re biting my fucking leg—!”




One worker, still conscious through the pain, reached into a tool case.Pulled out a rotary drill—an industrial one.



He didn’t even think.



He shoved the spinning bit forward—



—straight into the skull of a dog.



The drill kept spinning for a second after the dog’s body hit the ground.



Then stopped.



—



Norman saw it all.



He had been walking closer—slow, careful—when it happened.



And now, he stopped.



His eyes went blank for a moment.



He inhaled through his nose.



Then roared.




“STOP!!”




His voice split the air like thunder.



Every dog on the field froze.Then turned.Then backed away.



One by one, they returned to Norman—heads low, fur raised, eyes burning.



Blood dripped from a few of their mouths.



The workers, bruised and bleeding, stared at the man standing in the center of the pack.



One pointed at him and shouted:




“What the hell’s wrong with you?!”“Control your damn dogs!”“You need to have them on leashes, man! You let them roam like this? Are you insane?”




Norman stood there.



Silent.



He didn’t know what to say.



His jaw clenched.His mind blurred.His feet refused to move.



Then, after several seconds:




“I’m… I’m sorry,” he said quietly.“I’ll discipline them. I didn’t mean—”





“You didn’t mean?! You know how many permits we filed to be here?”“We’re building a fucking Disney park, man!”“Where the hell have you been? It’s been on the news for months!”




Norman blinked.




“Disney…”




He muttered the word like it had no meaning.



Then he looked down.



At the grass.At the pawprints.At the blood.




“This is… our sacred land.”




His voice was barely a whisper. Not to them.To himself.



He was talking to himself.




Sacred land… and they want to put a theme park on it.




—



Inside him, something cracked.



Two forces began to pull in opposite directions.



He had never thought about it before.



Never really needed to.



But now—he couldn’t avoid it.




Am I their king?Or am I just a man pretending to be one of them?




His feet stayed still.His chest rose slowly.



And far behind him, the dogs stood waiting.



And behind them… came the sound of drills powering up again.







Humanity Forfeited



Norman stood in silence.



His eyes locked onto the man who had killed one of his dogs with a drill.The drill still rested on the ground beside the corpse.The worker’s gloves were stained red.



Norman’s jaw clenched.



A single thought echoed in his mind:




If I want to protect this sacred land… I can’t be human anymore.




For one long minute, he didn’t speak.



Then, slowly, he raised one hand—pointed at the man.



His voice was low. Clear. Final.




“Jacky,” he said. “Go kill him.”




Jacky’s eyes lit up like fireworks.



He didn’t wait for a second command.



He kicked off the dirt and launched forward like a missile wrapped in muscle—a pit bull-shaped bullet hurtling through air and rain.



He hit the man square in the shoulder—flesh met flesh with a wet, meaty slap—and clung to him like glue.



The man screamed, flailing wildly, trying to shake Jacky loose.He managed to rip him off for a second—but Jacky twisted in midair and clamped his jaws onto the man’s neck.



One breath.



One second.



Then—



Death Roll.



Jacky spun once. Just once.



It was enough.



The man’s spine snapped.



His head jerked to the side at an unnatural angle.



By the time Jacky released him, the worker was dead.



Just like that.



—



The rest of the workers saw it happen.



They dropped everything.



Screamed. Ran.



Jumped into their machines—trucks, cranes, rigs—anything with wheels.



Engines roared.



Mud flew.



They didn’t look back.



In the chaos, they left behind a dozen tents, scattered tools, crates of food, and bags of supplies.



The site was silent again within minutes.



Only the wind remained.



And the blood.



Norman stepped forward. His voice rose over the field.




“Hey boys—feed yourselves.”“There’s plenty of food today.”




The dogs came running.



They swarmed the abandoned camp like hyenas, crashing into crates and shredding wrappers.They found meat, sausages, fruits, vegetables, cookies, chocolate.



It was chaos. Glorious, gluttonous chaos.



Some dogs dug through backpacks and chewed through Ziploc bags of nuts.Others tore into raw meat and half-cooked steaks that had been left near a propane burner.



One dog even dragged a box of powdered sugar across the mud, leaving a white trail like snowfall.



In the far corner of the camp, a few dogs crowded around something—chewing, growling, biting.



They weren’t eating rations.



They were eating the corpse.



The man Jacky had killed… or what was left of him.



Half his body was already gone.Blood soaked the dirt.No one stopped them.



Norman didn’t comment.



He stood on a patch of grass near a collapsed tent, watching it all unfold.



Then—a strange quiet.



One dog dropped to the ground with a thud.



Another a few feet away started convulsing.



Then another.



Three dogs had eaten the chocolate.



And now, they were dying.



Limbs twitching.Eyes rolling.Tongues lolling out, frothing at the sides.



They didn’t even know what killed them.



They died smiling.



—



Norman exhaled.



No one said a word.



The camp was now theirs.



But the price of leadership—the price of choosing—had just begun.



He had claimed the sacred land.



And in return—



his humanity was gone.







Total Concentration Sniffing



The next day.



It started with a single collapse.



One dog dropped dead in the grass—no sound, no warning.



A minute later, another fell.



Then a third—not collapsing, but spinning in place, chasing its tail in tight, frantic circles.It twirled and twirled… then hit the ground.



Gone.



The rest didn’t understand.



But Norman’s eyes locked forward.



This wasn’t illness.This wasn’t food.This was execution.



Someone was sniping them.



—



Then it got worse.



Jacky—his most trusted fighter, the pit bull with fire in his veins—ran over to check the last body.



And just as he reached it…



His limbs seized.



He fell.



Four legs twitching violently, mouth locked open in a frozen growl.



He scratched the air like he was drowning.



Norman watched it all.



He didn’t flinch.Didn’t blink.But his fists clenched tighter and tighter.



He wanted to run in.To pull Jacky back.To save him.



But he knew what open ground meant now.



Death.



So he stood still.And watched.



And Jacky—



Jacky thrashed harder. Legs kicking. Ribs rattling. Eyes wide with panic.



And then… he stopped.



Just like that.




“Oh no,” Norman muttered.“Jacky’s gone.”




—



Norman closed his eyes.



His breath slowed.



His nose twitched.



He activated a technique he’d trained for months:




Total Concentration Sniffing.




He dropped to all fours.



Elbows bent. Palms flat. Chest low to the grass.



He sniffed—left and right—then pushed his nose close to the dirt and inhaled deep.



His senses sharpened.Time seemed to freeze.



He filtered through hundreds of smells: grass, sweat, blood, machine oil, dog piss, rain.



Then—



There it was.



A sharp wave of middle-aged man grease.Thick. Rancid. Human. Unmistakable.The kind of smell that clung to jackets and neck folds.The scent of cheap deodorant fighting a losing war.



It was faint—but focused.



And it was coming from the two o’clock direction.Roughly one full kilometer away.Elevated. Maybe 3 meters off the ground.



Norman opened his eyes.



All he saw was a tree.



Far away. Tiny as an ant from this distance.



No man. No gun. No glint of metal.



But he didn’t need to see.



He knew.




Target locked.








The Mission to Erase Dogkind



Norman didn’t hesitate.



He bolted forward on all fours—nothing but grass, dust, and frogs beneath him.In under thirty seconds, he had closed the distance at full speed—150 kilometers per hour.



The hunter in the tree saw the blur.



He squinted.




“What the hell… is that a dog?”“Wait—no. That’s a man.”




Norman was already beneath the tree.



He didn’t stop.



He pounced.



A claw slashed upward.



The hunter barely had time to react. He pulled out his long-range rifle and tried to raise it—



SNAP.



Norman’s claw sliced the gun clean in half. One motion. No resistance.



—



The hunter staggered back on the branch, breathing hard. But then… he laughed.



He adjusted his stance and grinned through his stubble.




“Your speed’s impressive.”“Honestly? If I hadn’t seen Mario chasing a train at 200 km/h a few years ago… you’d be the fastest man I’ve ever seen.”




Norman didn’t react.



He stepped forward, claws ready, eyes dark.




“Why?”“Why are you killing our kind?”“Why are you hunting Dogkind?”




The hunter blinked.A flicker of confusion—then amusement.



He chuckled.



Then burst out laughing.




“Dogkind?”“A grown-ass man calling himself a dog… siding with a bunch of strays to fight humans?”“That’s rich.”(He wiped his nose, shaking his head.)“You’ve gone full delusional.”




Norman didn’t flinch.



But behind him—dozens of dogs had arrived, following their leader’s scent and sprinting through the plains. They surrounded the base of the tree, growling, barking, their eyes full of fury.



The hunter noticed.



He didn’t panic.



He just sniffed… and flicked his nose with a single finger.



A lump of mucus—barely visible—shot from his fingertip.



CRACK.



It zipped through the air like a bullet.



And it struck one of the smallest dogs—the little teddy-sized one—in the forehead.



The dog collapsed.



It rolled on the ground for half a minute. Twitched. Whimpered.



And then it stopped moving.



Dead.



Norman’s eyes widened. He took one step forward.



The hunter finally jumped down from the tree.



He landed light.



Drew a dagger—held in reverse grip.



His tone was calm. Professional.




“I’m what you might call a minor name in the underworld. A high-level killer.”“The name’s John Doe.”“Years ago, I trained under Mario. You could say I was one of his best students.”(He tilted his head slightly.)“Today, I’ve been hired by the construction syndicate behind this site.”“My mission is simple—”“Erase every last dog.”








Shadow Duel



Norman stood firm in the tall grass.



His claws were out. His eyes locked forward.




“I’ll give you one last chance,” he said.“Leave this land and never come back. If you do, I’ll act like nothing happened.”“I’ll spare your life.”




John Doe didn’t answer with words.



He just laughed.



Low at first—then louder.



Then he crouched, dagger tight in hand, and shot forward like a phantom.



Fast. Silent. Focused.



He turned into a shadow.



Norman dropped low to all fours and sprinted to meet him—faster than thunder, sharper than the wind. His claws gleamed. His speed was impossible.



He, too, became a shadow.



The two streaks clashed and passed each other—two beasts, two shapes—crossing in an instant.



They landed behind one another.



Motionless.



Both upright.



For a few seconds, nothing happened.



Then Norman trembled.



His right hand rose slowly to his chest.



Blood.



He touched the wound—deep, diagonal—slashed from his abdomen all the way to his collarbone. His breathing stuttered. His body wobbled.



But he didn’t fall.



He grit his teeth and whispered:




“You’re fast…”




Behind him, John Doe remained still.Smirking.



He nodded slowly.




“Thanks for the compliment.”“But… you’re not bad yourself—”




And then his head tilted sharply to one side.



At a strange, unnatural angle.



Frozen.



Because his throat and spine had been shredded clean through.



Norman’s claw had found its mark mid-pass.



John Doe was already dead.



Still standing, still trying to finish his sentence, still wearing a faint smirk.



But gone.



His body finally slumped.



Face first into the grass.



—



Far away, in a glass-walled office downtown, a furious man slammed his fist against a desk.



He wore a suit with gold cufflinks and a pin shaped like a skyscraper.




“Why the hell did you send someone named John Doe?!” he yelled.“You hear that name and it screams nobody!”“We need someone heavy. Someone who delivers results.”




His assistant knelt on the ground, trembling.




“Y-Yes, sir. We understand. We’ll bring in someone stronger.”“Next time… we’ll end it.”“Once and for all.”



Chapter 67: Attack on Dogland (Part 2)
==================================================

Oh God, It’s a Titan!



The grassland was quiet again—until it wasn’t.



A distant rumble rolled across the horizon. Within minutes, it grew louder… until ten police cars and one massive cargo truck came barreling through the dirt road and screeched to a halt at the edge of the sacred dogland.



Dozens of police officers stepped out, geared up and serious.



In front of them, a wall of dogs stood firm, snarling softly, tails raised in defiance.



Norman walked out from the crowd.



His bare feet crushed the grass beneath him. His shoulders were broad. His hair was matted like a wild animal. But his voice?



Smooth. Confident. Cold.




“What, you think twenty cops can take us down?”“You’re underestimating us. That’s not a good idea.”




He scanned them from left to right… then back again.



Then he frowned.




“No leader?”“This your whole squad? Just a bunch of side characters? Where’s your big man?”“Every real fight’s got a boss on each side. You brought no boss?”




He shook his head in disappointment. Behind him, the dogs grumbled in agreement.



But then—



The cargo truck began to shake.



At first it was subtle. Then violent.



Metal groaned. The back doors rattled.



Inside… something moved.



What everyone thought were piles of stone began to shift. But they weren’t stone. Not even close.



It was a man.



A giant of a man—five meters tall, at least two meters wide. His skin looked like it had been carved from bark and granite. He wore a XXXXL t-shirt and oversized khaki shorts. Everything about him looked… unnatural.



He slowly rose to full height.



The entire truck trembled as he stood.



Then he stepped down—one heavy foot after another, leaving deep prints in the dirt.



He looked down on Norman, and the entire dogpack behind him, like a living skyscraper with eyes.



His voice came out deep and rumbling:




“I’m the one in charge.”“I’m the chief officer.”“Wayne.”




Norman took one slow step back.



He widened his eyes.



Then—dead serious, but a little too loud:




“Oh my God…”“It’s a Titan!”“Damn—it’s a Titan!!”




The dogs behind him stirred nervously. A few whimpered.



Officer Wayne didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared.



A silence settled between them.



And the wind blew across the field like it already knew—



Something massive was about to break loose.







The Titan with BGM



Suddenly, the air shifted.



From somewhere—nowhere—a song began to play.



Haunting. Epic. The kind of orchestral chant that made your chest tighten and your stomach twist. The kind of music that plays when entire civilizations collapse.



Norman blinked.




“Wait… I know this…”“That’s the Attack on Titan soundtrack.”




It wasn’t just similar. It was the song—the one that played when the walls came down and hell followed.



He looked around, stunned.



And then—Officer Wayne took a step forward.



One step—nearly fifteen meters. The earth groaned under his weight.



Then another.



He moved like a walking apocalypse. One massive arm reached down and scraped the earth, dragging dirt, grass, and dogs.



Fifteen—maybe twenty of them—were swept up in the attack. Their bodies flew into the sky, then crashed back down in a sickening rain. Some howled in agony. Others didn’t move at all.



A few were gone before they hit the ground.



Norman barely dodged the blow. His instincts fired, and he lunged sideways like a blur of muscle and fear.



Then—Wayne reached down again. This time, he scooped up the earth.



Trees. Roots. Entire chunks of ground.



He flung them upward, and the sky itself seemed to fill with soil and wood. One tree ripped free from its roots and spun like a thrown spear. Several dogs were crushed before they could run.



The battlefield was a hellscape.



Norman crouched behind a boulder, gasping for breath.



And yet—through all of it—the music kept playing.




“Wait…” Norman muttered. “Where the hell is that coming from?”




He turned his head. And that’s when he saw it.




One of the cops—standing back like he was doing soundcheck—had a Bluetooth speaker strapped to his belt.




And from it… the Attack on Titan theme blasted at full volume.



Full choir. War drums. Cinematic dread.



Norman stared.




“Are you serious?”“They’ve got a soundtrack guy?”“What is this—some kind of theatrical boss fight?!”




He didn’t know whether to scream or laugh.



Then—Wayne picked up one of the injured dogs.



Raised it high.



And swallowed it whole.



Didn’t chew. Didn’t look down. Just… gulped.



Norman’s voice cracked as he screamed:




“OH SHIT—RUN!!”“EVERYONE—RUN!!”




The dogs scattered.



Their escape path bent and curved like lightning—some ran left, some darted right, but most bolted straight into the dense forest behind them.



Norman ran with them.




“Don’t look back!” he shouted.“Get to the trees! In there, he can’t see us clearly!”




As they fled, Norman glanced back one last time. He saw the line of cops, still standing behind the titan, doing nothing.



He narrowed his eyes.




“No need to deal with them,” he muttered.“They’re not warriors. Just props.”








Bloodbath in Forest



Wayne took one heavy step into the forest.



Norman’s eyes flared.




“Damn it!”




He turned to the pack and shouted—voice sharp, desperate:




“Go for the back of his neck! That’s his weak spot!”




Five dogs leapt through the trees in perfect sync—howling, loyal, fearless.



They soared onto Wayne’s back, claws digging, teeth bared.They bit hard. They clawed harder.



But nothing worked.



His skin was like a fusion of stone and bark—impossibly hard, gnarled, and unbreakable.



Wayne didn’t even flinch.




“What the fuck are you guys doing?” he bellowed.“My weak spot’s not even on my damn neck!”




Then—SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.



He smacked his own neck like he was swatting mosquitoes.



The dogs didn’t even get a chance to yelp.They were crushed into raw meat paste—bones cracked, organs splattered, eyes popped from sockets.



Norman watched it all, frozen. Then he screamed.




“Bob!! Amy!! Coco!! Daniel!! Johnny!!”




His voice cracked on each name.He remembered every one.He always did.




“I won’t let your deaths be in vain. I’ll kill him. I swear it!”




But the bloodbath had only just begun.



Wayne swung a fist sideways—obliterating several trees in a single swipe. A few dogs hiding in the branches were slammed down with the broken limbs, crashing hard into the dirt—bones cracked, bodies limp.



Then he grabbed a whole tree—roots and all—and hurled it deep into the forest like a javelin. It smashed through the canopy and crushed two more dogs below.



Next—he scooped up a pile of jagged stones, tossed them into a dense bush—



Yelps. Whimpers. Silence.



Norman stood still, panting, heart twisting.



The bodies were stacking.The ground was soaked.



He felt his heart crack.Not figuratively. Literally.



It felt like glass shattering inside his chest.



So much death.So fast.So senseless.



And then—something shifted.



A spark.



A single, blinding thread of clarity shot through his mind.



His breathing steadied.His eyes sharpened.




“Wait…”




There might be a way.



A plan.



Something crazy, but possible.



A way to kill the titan.To end it once and for all.



Norman clenched his fists.



The blood hadn’t dried.The pain hadn’t faded.



But the idea was forming.



And this time—




He would strike back.








Blood and Vines



Norman leapt from branch to branch—quick, agile, wild.And as he moved, he barked. Loud. Rhythmic. Urgent.



It wasn’t just noise.



It was language.



Dog language.




“Dogs! Slow him down!”“By any means necessary—stall the giant!”




His words echoed through the canopy, and the dogs heard.They understood.And they obeyed.



Norman didn’t stop. He sprinted ahead—200 meters forward into the forest—and immediately got to work.



The trap had to be fast, crude, brutal.



He grabbed massive vines, thick as rope, and began wrapping them between two giant trees, tying them low across the path—a tripping line.



But one vine wasn’t enough.



He used ten. Maybe more.



He stretched them tight. Layered them for strength. Anchored them hard.



If Wayne stepped into it at full speed, his momentum would betray him.




“He’ll trip. Fall hard. A beast that size… even the ground can hurt him.”“And if he’s down—I go in for the eyes.”




Norman finished the last knot, panting, sweating.



Then came the sound.



CRACK. SNAP. HOWL.



Wayne was getting closer.



Back in the trees, the dogs were doing their part.



They dropped from the branches like rain—dozens of them, all sizes, all shapes—landing all over Wayne’s massive stone-like body.



Wayne looked up, mildly annoyed.




“Do all these dogs have a death wish…?”




They clawed. They bit.They screamed.



Wayne didn’t hesitate.



He slapped his own body like he was killing mosquitoes.Each blow left a bloody mark—fur and meat paste smeared across his limbs.



He punched sideways into the trees—sending a shockwave that broke branches, flattened underbrush, and slammed dogs against the trunks like broken toys.




“One dog. Two dogs. Five dogs. Ten.”“Every second—another one dies.”




Wayne didn’t slow down.



He kicked through the forest like a wrecking ball.Each stomp killed. Each swing destroyed.



In less than a minute, over a hundred dogs had fallen.




“It’s like they’re diving straight into a meat grinder.”




And still—he kept walking.



Until—



A scream split the sky.



A savage, wild howl, deep and full of pain:




“AWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”




Norman.



It was the signal.



Every dog stopped.



They didn’t need more words.



They turned and ran. Dozens of them.Back into the depths of the forest. Away from the blood. Away from the giant.



Wayne watched them go, expressionless.



Then he muttered:




“Not so fast.”




He lifted one leg—and kicked a massive round stone, the size of a small car, into a nearby bush.



CRUNCH.



Screams rang out—sharp, panicked—and then silence.



He didn’t care. He just followed.



The pack was ahead.Norman was waiting.And the trap was just ten meters away.







Forestquake



Norman knelt in the shadows, hands clasped tight together.For the first time in his life… he prayed.




“Too many have died…Please… just let this trap work. Amen.”




In the distance, Wayne charged forward.Still hunting. Still unstoppable.



He chased a dog through the treetops—fast, leaping between branches.




CRACK!




One punch—clean, brutal—caught the dog midair.It exploded into a spray of blood and bone, scattering through the forest like shrapnel.



Wayne let out a cocky laugh.




“Too easy.”




Then—his foot caught something.



Vines.



Dozens of thick vines, stretched low between two massive trees.Perfectly placed. Taut. Invisible in the undergrowth.



Wayne’s momentum was too great.



His legs yanked the vines so violently that they snapped instantly, their ends whipping through the air like broken cables.



The force of the impact didn’t stop there—Both trees anchoring the vines cracked under the tension.Their trunks splintered. Their bodies folded.They collapsed in opposite directions like felled towers.



But Wayne—He was already airborne.




“Oh no—!!”




He shouted as his entire body tilted forward, out of control.Chest-first. Weight-forward.



The ground rushed up to meet him.



Norman saw it all.




“OH YEAH, BABY!!”




He roared. The dogs howled beside him—hundreds of voices in one wave of celebration.



But—



It was too soon.



Just before impact, Wayne twisted midair.



With perfect control, he slammed both hands into the ground.Fingers dug in. Muscles flexed.



Then—



A forward flip.



A clean, elegant, impossibly agile somersault for a creature of his size.




BOOM!




Both feet landed like hammers.The earth cracked. The forest shook.Rocks flew. Roots snapped. Trees bent sideways.



Wayne stood tall again.



Not wounded.Not slowed.Balanced. Ready. Dangerous.




“He didn’t fall.”“He flipped through it.”“He’s not just strong… he’s graceful.”




All the hope Norman had poured into the vines… gone.



Crushed under five tons of muscle and precision.



He stood there, stunned.



Frozen in place.



Staring at the monster who refused to go down.




He doesn’t know what to do anymore.








The Fall of Dogland



Norman stood frozen. Ten full seconds passed. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.



Then he made his decision.



He tilted his head to the sky and shouted with all his strength—




“Dogland has fallen! Flee—run in all directions! We abandon this land!”




The words echoed through the forest like thunder.



Then he added—his voice quieter, but no less firm:




“We will regroup in the city… the city called Flushing.”




And with that, Norman took off, sprinting on all fours. The other dogs didn’t hesitate. As if obeying a deeply ingrained instinct, they scattered in every direction. Some to the east. Some to the hills. Some into the forest.



Wayne could only chase in one direction—he couldn’t pursue them all. That moment of divergence saved countless lives. The escape wasn’t clean. It wasn’t heroic. But it worked.



As Wayne gave chase, he spotted a golden blur running nearby—one of the dogs still too close.



With one massive leg, Wayne twisted at the hip and launched a violent kick—



WHOOM



The golden retriever shot into the air like a football launched across a stadium. His body twirled lifelessly, limbs flailing.



Norman glanced back for just a second.



He knew that shape. That golden fur. That dumb little grin.



It was Retarded.



He had died midair. Before he even hit the ground.



Norman clenched his jaw. Tears threatened to fall. But he didn’t stop.



He didn’t look back again.



He just ran.



And all around him, the sounds of paws pounding dirt faded into the wind. One by one, the dogs of Dogland vanished from the sacred forest and left the grasslands behind.



They were gone.



—



Ten days later.



Norman arrived—alone.



He was gaunt. Dust-covered. His fur matted, his limbs sore. But he had made it.



Ahead of him stretched the lights of Flushing—the city he thought he’d never return to.



And now, somehow, it was home again.



The sanctuary of Dogland was lost.






Chapter 68: Barbecue Party (Part 1)
==================================================

Cracker Bonding



It was late evening. The sun was low, the air warm, and the sky over Flushing City carried that kind of lazy pink haze that makes everything feel like a scene from a tired sitcom.



Park benches were mostly empty. The trees didn’t move much. Water trickled from the edge of a nearby fountain like a background track set to “barely trying.”



And that’s where he was.



A red scooter was parked right beside the fountain. It leaned slightly, like it was tired too. Slouched against it was a pudgy man in a white T-shirt with one bold, unapologetic word printed across the chest:



“FUCKLIN”—no spaces.



That was Frank.



He hummed to himself—some lazy, tuneless melody—and idly picked at his nose like he was searching for treasure. No rush. No shame. Just… chillin’.



He didn’t have any orders to deliver. Business had been dead all day. So now he was here, doing what unemployed kings do best: absolutely nothing.



Then something caught his eye.



A big, fluffy Alaskan Malamute trotted by. No leash. No collar. No tag.



Frank squinted.




“Huh… stray?”




He whistled lazily.



The dog looked up.



Frank leaned over, popped open his scooter’s rear box, and pulled out a single packet of crackers. His dinner. He held it out like a peace offering.




“C’mere, big guy. You hungry?”




The dog walked over with zero hesitation. Tongue out, tail swaying like it hadn’t seen a bad day in its life.



Frank peeled open the pack and offered a piece.



The dog took it gently—didn’t bark, didn’t flinch. Just munched happily, eyes bright, tail still wagging like he was made of joy.



Frank chuckled.




“Damn, you’re just… pure good vibes, huh?”




He handed over another cracker. Then another.



The dog chomped away, and Frank started petting its forehead, rubbing behind the ears, repeating the same thing over and over again:




“Good boy. Good boy. Good freakin’ boy.”




Before he knew it, the entire pack of crackers was gone.



All of it.



He blinked.



Looked down at the empty wrapper in his hand. Then slowly… looked at his own stomach.



It rumbled. Loudly.




“Oh… no…”




He pressed his hand against it.




“Shit. That was my dinner.”




He sighed deeply, stomach groaning in protest. Looked around like maybe—just maybe—someone would throw a pizza at him from a passing car.



No luck.



Then—he noticed something.



Down the street, across a narrow road, the neon sign of a Korean barbecue joint flickered to life. Smoke rising from the back kitchen. Meat sizzling in someone’s dreams.




“Damn…” he muttered. “Been way too long since I had grilled anything…”




He pulled out his wallet. Opened it.



Two bucks and a metro card with negative balance.



He exhaled. Long. Loud.



Then turned to the dog.




“Well… guess I’m not eatin’ tonight.”“Barbecue’s for people who can afford taxes.”




He gave the pup a final pat.




“That’s alright. I’ll just eat… my feelings.”




The dog looked up, tongue out, still smiling.



Didn’t understand a word.



Didn’t need to.



He was full.



And happy.



And absolutely clueless about Frank’s starving, pitiful life.



Frank looked at him and laughed under his breath.




“Lucky bastard.”








A Barbecue Party by Coincidence



Frank was still chilling beside his red scooter, patting the head of the Alaskan dog. The cracker bag was empty now. The dog had eaten every last crumb, tail wagging happily with its tongue flopping out. Frank was hungry too—his stomach growled, reminding him that the crackers were supposed to be his dinner.



He sighed. Looked up.



Across the street, a man emerged from the deli.



Red cape fluttering behind him.



Half-buttoned white shirt. Thick chest hair proudly on display.



One hand carried a bundle of groceries. The other gripped a full bag of charcoal.



Sean—the Local Hero—had arrived.



Frank’s eyes narrowed.




Wait a second… charcoal?




An idea slithered into his brain. Dark. Wicked. Practical.




I got no food. But I do have meat…




He looked at the dog. Still smiling. Still clueless.




“Maybe I…”




He reached out—both hands cradling the dog’s head gently.




“Good boy… real good boy…”




Then—snap.



A brutal, smooth twist.



The dog’s spine cracked with a dry pop.



Its body stiffened instantly. Legs stuck straight. Eyes wide open.



Frank stood there, holding the limp body in silence.



Then, casually:




“Hey! Yo, Local Hero guy!”




Sean turned, confused.




“Huh?”




Frank waved the dog in the air.




“You got charcoal. I got meat. Let’s make a night of it!”




Sean blinked. Looked at the dog. Then at Frank. Then back at the dog.




“Damn… I was just gonna grill some buns and fishballs. But now… you’re offering real meat?”




He nodded, impressed.




“I don’t see why not.”




They picked a grassy patch by the sidewalk. Sean poured out the charcoal and crouched down.



Then froze.




“Shit… I forgot one thing.”




Frank raised an eyebrow.




“What?”




Sean rubbed the back of his neck.




“A lighter. I quit smoking last year.”




Frank stared at him.




“You what?”




Sean shrugged.




“Health reasons.”




Frank pointed at him with full scorn.




“What kind of gangster doesn’t smoke? You… you should be ashamed you don’t have a lighter!”




Sean snapped back:




“Hey, hey, hey, HEY! Who the hell are you calling gangster?! I ain’t a gangster! Are you the gangster here?! Fuck you!”




Before Frank could fire back, a third voice cut in.




“Yo, what’s the commotion?”




It was Robinson, walking out of the store with a cigarette dangling from his lip.



He lit it casually and exhaled.




“Need a light?”




Sean and Frank turned in perfect unison:




“YES.”




Robinson strolled over and lit the charcoal like a pro. Sparks danced. Flames roared to life.



The three men got to work.



They skewered the Alaskan’s legs with scavenged sticks. Roasted them slow over the open fire. A thin line of grease hissed into the flames. The smell filled the air—rich, meaty, sinful.



No one said it was dog.



No one had to.



It was just dinner.



Frank sat back, licking his lips. Sean chewed thoughtfully. Robinson leaned on a tree, looking way too relaxed for a man who just helped grill an Alaskan.



They clinked their soda cans.




“To coincidence,” Frank said.





“To dog meat,” Sean added.





“To flavor,” Robinson finished.








Barbecue Interrupted



The wind shifted.



It was subtle—just a change in the air. But with that shift came a scent.



A smell Norman knew too well.



Faint… greasy… charred.




Cooked dog meat.




His steps stopped cold. His eyes narrowed. The breeze carried more than just smoke—it carried a crime. One that struck straight to his bones.



He closed his eyes, dropped to a knee, and inhaled with absolute focus.




Total Concentration Sniffing.




In that instant, his mind pinpointed everything—location, distance, the type of meat, the number of humans involved. Three men. Roughly three kilometers east. Roasting one of his kind over open flame.



His body reacted before his mind could finish processing.



He sprinted—blazing through the narrow paths of Flushing City at nearly 100 kilometers per hour.



At the barbecue site, the three men were still enjoying themselves like it was just another weekend evening.



Sean had removed his cape and draped it across his front like an apron. He sliced thick strips of dog meat using his spring-loaded blade, the knife gleaming in the glow of the fire.



Frank took each cut, skewered them with scavenged sticks, and laid them over the fire—careful not to let the grease drip too fast. He whistled while turning them.



Robinson stood nearby with a lazy grin, phone in hand.




“Yo, man. Dog meat. Real shit. You coming or what?”“Yeah, yeah, corner of Roosevelt and 38th. You can’t miss the smell.”“Aight. We’ll keep a leg warm for you.”




He hung up and grinned.




“Homie’s on his way. We’re gonna need more charcoal.”




The three of them laughed. Frank flipped a leg with theatrical flair.




“This one’s got a little extra fat. You can smell the flavor building up.”




Then—



A gust of wind swept across the firepit.



And standing just a few feet away—silent, sharp-eyed, jaw clenched—was Norman.



No one had seen him arrive.



But he was already there.



His voice was low. Dangerous. Carried by the smoke and the rising heat.




“What the fuck are you doing?”“You’re cooking one of my own kind.”




All three men froze.



They turned slowly.



Frank blinked.



Sean looked confused.



Robinson stepped forward, palms raised.




“Wait, wait, wait—bro, you got this all wrong.”“This ain’t human meat. It’s dog. Just… dog.”




Frank added:




“Yeah! We don’t eat people! What the hell do you think we are?”




Norman’s eyes dropped to the fire. He stared at the sizzling meat, then back at the men. For a brief second, doubt flickered across his face.



Right. He wasn’t actually a dog. He had just been living like one.



But that flicker was brief.




It didn’t matter.




These men had cooked one of his people.




It was unforgivable.




Without another word, Norman lunged forward—







Screams in Agony



Frank and Robinson had no idea what was happening.



To them, Norman was just some wild-eyed lunatic storming out of nowhere, barking like a man possessed.



But Norman had already locked onto his next target—Frank.



He looked vulnerable. Lazy stance, belly out, arms swinging at his sides. His wide-legged posture practically invited an ambush.



Norman didn’t hesitate.



He charged forward at full speed, claws flashing.



Swipe! Swipe!



His razor-sharp claws shredded Frank’s oversized shirt in two precise cuts. The fabric peeled away, exposing his round belly and sweat-streaked chest.



Frank screamed in horror:




“AAHH!! My shirt!! My nipples!!”




He flailed backward, grabbing what was left of his tattered clothes.



But Norman squinted—confused.



No blood. No wounds. Not even a scratch.



Only fabric damage.



Norman muttered under his breath.




That’s… not right.




He backed up, then lunged forward again. This time, using a new tactic.



Body slam.



Norman hurled himself shoulder-first into Frank, knocking him off balance and launching him about six meters backward. Frank rolled across the grass like a bowling pin and slammed into a curb, groaning.




“OH GOD IT HURTS! MY SPINE! MY SPLEEN! STOP!!”




He curled into a fetal position, kicking his legs like a child mid-tantrum.



But again… no visible injuries. No bruising. No blood.



Just theatrical screaming.



Norman’s eyes narrowed.



He dove low again—this time, jaws bared.



He latched his teeth onto Frank’s neck and spun into a full death roll, twisting and thrashing like a predator finishing off prey.



Frank shrieked with everything he had:




“AAAAAAAAHHHH!! MY NECK!! MY SKULL!! I’M GOING BLIND!! MAKE IT STOP!!”




Norman finally let go.



Frank flopped to the side, wheezing, eyes wide in panic.



Still intact. Still alive.



Norman backed away slowly.




What the hell is this guy made of?




Then… Norman went for broke.



He ducked under Frank’s arm, clamped his jaws around his lower abdomen, and bit down hard—right on the center of gravity.



Frank’s scream pierced the sky.




“AAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! YOU MONSTER!! THAT’S MY MANHOOD!! YOU’RE TEARING IT OFF!! I’M BEING UNMADE FROM EXISTENCE!! THIS IS THE PAIN OF TEN THOUSAND DEATHS!!”




He flailed wildly. His voice cracked in ways no human voice should. The agony in his tone sounded like an ancient curse being ripped from his soul.



Norman released the bite, gasping for air.



Then he stood over Frank’s twitching body. Covered in sweat. Breathing hard. He had given it everything—every move he learned in the wilderness, every savage, primal technique.



Frank lay limp for a moment.



Then…



He stood up.



He dusted off his pants. Tugged at the remnants of his shirt. Rolled his neck once and sighed.




“Whew. That hurt. Sorry if I screamed too loud just now. Hope I didn’t scare anyone.”




Norman just stared at him—mouth open.



Frank added:




“But yeah, I’m fine. Feels like nothing happened.”




Norman’s eye twitched.



His claws slowly lowered.




Not even bruised… He’s completely immune…




Not to pain—clearly not—but to actual damage. His body was wrapped in an invisible shield. A dense, flawless bubble of Qi that deflected every attack without fail.



Even worse?



Frank had always known.



He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t shocked.



He just didn’t like being hurt.



From the side, Robinson tilted his head and mumbled:




“Yo… he’s like a big whiny baby who can’t be hurt but screams like hell anyway.”




Norman didn’t respond. He was still processing the absurdity.



Frank yawned, plucked a twig from the ground, and casually scratched his armpit with it.




“So… are we done?”




Norman said nothing.



His muscles were sore. His teeth ached. His vision swam.



And Frank?



Frank was still standing.







The Familiar Hoodie



Robinson stood to the side, watching everything unfold. He scratched his chin and muttered under his breath:




“Yup… still a legend.”




Frank hadn’t thrown a single punch. But his body — wrapped in an invisible coat of Qi — had absorbed Norman’s barrage like it was nothing. All that screaming, all that drama… and not even a bruise.



Robinson nodded to himself.




“Even if he’s retired… even if he’s weird now… that guy’s still a goddamn fortress.”




Frank, meanwhile, wasn’t thinking about combat. He stared down at the grilled skewer still waiting on the stone beside the fire. He sighed.




“Man… still got one dog leg left. And my Coke went flat.”




He glanced sideways at Norman, who was now frozen in place, panting, confused, and probably reconsidering his entire worldview.




“What the hell’s this guy even mad about?”




Frank looked down at his half-eaten meal. Then at Norman. Then back at the meat.




This dude’s got issues…




He stood there, unmoving, arms dangling. The fire crackled behind him. Somewhere nearby, Sean was still knocked out on the ground, his chest barely rising.



Norman, too, was stuck in his thoughts.




What is this man…? He looks soft. Dumb. Barely alert. Like he wandered into a fight by accident.




But everything Norman tried had failed. He scratched his head. The mystery only deepened.



Then—footsteps.



From across the street, a loud voice echoed:




“YO, ROBINSON! What’s up? You called me, right?”




It was Canelo.



Wearing his signature gray hoodie, flapping open over his mesh tank top, Canelo strutted up, licking his lips as he sniffed the air.




“Damn… that smell. That’s dog meat, right? You know that’s my favorite!”




Frank raised an eyebrow. Robinson nodded casually.



Norman turned his head—and froze.



That voice.



That tone.



That hoodie.



His eyes widened. His chest tightened.



He looked again.



It was Canelo.




Master…?




Norman’s legs gave out.



He dropped to his knees. His hands trembled.




“M-Master… it’s really you…”




His voice cracked. Tears streamed down his cheeks.



Canelo blinked, confused for a second.



Then recognition hit him.




“Wait… you’re that mutt with the pink shirt! Damn, where the hell you been? Why your shirt look gray now?”




Norman’s face twisted with emotion. He touched the faded fabric on his chest — the once-pink shirt now worn and bleached by wind and dirt.




“I… I’ve missed you, Master. So much.”




Canelo, unfazed, reached over and picked up one of the skewers.



He took a huge bite and moaned.




“Oh YEAH, baby. That’s the good stuff.”




Then, without skipping a beat, he held out another skewer toward Norman.




“Eat up, brother. Come sit. Let’s talk.”




And just like that, Norman sat back down with the others — right there by the fire, surrounded by the scent of roasted meat and cooling soda.



They all crouched low around the flames.



Frank scratched his belly.



Robinson leaned against a tree.



Canelo tore into another chunk.



Nobody mentioned Sean, who was still lying on the sidewalk like discarded laundry.



They just… talked.



A weird, quiet peace settled over the group.



And for a moment — just a moment — it felt like everything was normal.







Just Another Campfire Night



Norman declined the dog skewer.



He waved it off gently.




“I’m good… I’ll just drink this.”




He cracked open a half-empty can of warm cola he’d found on the ground, then quietly sat beside the fire.



Robinson rummaged through Sean’s grocery bag and pulled out a pack of plain buns.




“You can roast some bread if you’re not into meat.”




He handed a couple to Norman.



Norman nodded. He stuck a bun on a twig and held it over the glowing charcoal.



The fire hissed softly. Someone coughed. The night was calm.



For a strange, suspended moment, all the violence from earlier felt distant—like a bad dream from a different life.



They just sat there.



Roasting food. Sharing drinks. Laughing softly.



Even Sean—still unconscious nearby—had been completely forgotten.



Then Canelo leaned back and started talking.




“You know where the hell you’ve been, Norman?”




Norman blinked.



His roasted bun was starting to turn golden brown. The scent mixed with the faint sweetness of cola.



Canelo continued.




“Your three old buddies? The ones who dropped out of high school with us to join the streets? Yeah… they’re gone. All three of them. Dead. That was three months ago.”




He took a swig from his bottle.




“I thought you were dead too, man. For real. Told everyone you probably got eaten by coyotes or some shit.”




Norman didn’t respond. He stared into the fire.



He hadn’t told them what had happened out in the wild.



He didn’t say he’d lived among dogs.



Didn’t say he’d fought lions.



Didn’t say he’d led an uprising and become the King of Dogland.



Because now—sitting here roasting bread in the city—it all sounded too insane.



Too absurd.



Too far away.



Then Robinson casually shifted the conversation.




“Hey, did y’all see that story on the news?”





“Something about a wild pack of dogs fighting to protect their land. Said they were being led by some crazy guy who thought he was one of them.”




Canelo snorted.




“A grown man barking orders at dogs? Like they actually understood him?”





“Bro was probably on meth.”




Robinson added:




“They said he even gave speeches. Like… full speeches. Wearing rags. Covered in dirt. Acting like he was some kind of four-legged general.”




Canelo burst out laughing with his mouth full.




“What kinda dumbass pretends he’s a dog?”





“Like dude, I get loving animals… but forming a kingdom?!”





“That’s straight-up Looney Tunes.”




All of them laughed.



Meanwhile, Norman sat completely still.



The man they were mocking… was sitting right beside them.



He looked down at his cola. Took another sip.



Smiled weakly.




“Right… that guy sounds nuts.”




Not one of them noticed.



Not one of them realized.



Then Robinson added:




“And get this—Chief Wayne’s the one who crushed that whole Dogland shit.”





“Flattened everything. And now he’s in our city. Promoted to Deputy Chief. Replaced Johnson.”




Frank, still chewing on his greasy skewer meat, muttered:




“Oh, is that so? I don’t care.”




That’s when Norman’s hand trembled.



His roasted bun fell from the twig, landing in the dirt.



He slowly looked up.



Eyes wide.




“Say what?”




His voice was quiet, barely a whisper.


Chapter 69: Barbecue Party (Part 2)
==================================================

The Barbecue Party Continues



The fire popped quietly, casting soft flickers across their faces as they sat around it—eating dog meat, sipping warm Coke, and talking about life like they weren’t all low-level gangsters with bounties on their heads.



Norman kept to himself, quietly grilling a plain bun on a stick over the fire. He didn’t touch the meat, didn’t say much either. Just listened.



Robinson leaned back, wiping grease off his mouth with the back of his hand.




“Hey, Frank,” he said, turning toward him. “Didn’t you used to be somebody? I heard you got into some heavy shit, then swore off fighting for good. That true?”




Frank didn’t answer right away. He was focused—rubbing a booger between two fingers, slowly drying it out with gentle pressure, like he was prepping it for flight.




“Man… that was a lifetime ago,” he muttered. “I don’t even remember how to throw a punch anymore. Let’s not dig that up.”




Robinson squinted at him, chewing slowly.




“So that’s it? You’re just gonna drift around doing delivery runs forever?”




Frank shrugged. Without looking, he flicked the now-dried booger straight into the fire. It sizzled.




“Yeah,” he said. “Honestly? That’s not a bad way to live.”




That got a laugh out of Canelo, who clinked his Coke can against Robinson’s.




“Well, I’m still aiming to be the top dog,” he said. “Strongest boss in the game.”





“Please,” Robinson scoffed. “You’ll be second. I’ll be the top dog.”




They grinned at each other like old rivals who hadn’t tried to kill each other last week.



Around the fire, with smoke in their eyes and meat between their teeth, they weren’t enemies anymore. Just dudes sharing a weird little peace.



Then Canelo turned to Norman.




“Hey, Pink Shirt. You’ve been off the grid for months. You coming back to the crew or what?”




Norman looked up at the moon. It was big tonight. Quiet.




“I think I’m stepping away from all that. For a while. Maybe… indefinitely,” he said.




He didn’t mention what he really meant. Didn’t tell them about the plan forming in his heart—to fight for dog rights in this twisted city. Even in his own mind, it sounded kind of ridiculous.



Canelo raised an eyebrow.




“What the hell does that mean?”




Norman gave a soft smile.




“I’ll tell you some other time.”




No one pushed it. The night was too calm. The fire too warm. They just kept eating, kept talking.



Then Robinson turned his head.




“What about you, Sean? Still playing the unlicensed local hero? Maybe it’s time to come back to the dark side. You were a beast, man.”




But Sean didn’t answer.



No sarcastic laugh. No smug reply. Nothing.



That’s when they remembered—Sean was still unconscious on the ground. Norman had knocked him out not long ago.



Canelo, who showed up late, had no idea. He looked over at Sean’s limp body and shook his head.




“Hey man… eating and crashing like that? Not good for your stomach. You’re gonna get fat.”








Qi on Autopilot



The fire had burned low now. Just glowing red charcoal and occasional pops of heat rising into the night. The conversation had thinned out, replaced by slow chewing and the sound of crickets in the grass. For a while, nobody said anything. Just the quiet hum of full bellies and fading adrenaline.



Then—



Robinson leaned in, still rubbing his stomach after that heavy meal.




“Hey, Frank. Earlier when Norman was going off on you—like, full beast mode—I noticed something. You kept yelling like you were in pain, but… you didn’t take a single hit. What’s up with that?”




Frank scratched his head, a little sheepish.




“Ah, that’s… kinda hard to explain,” he said. “I’ve got this thing. It’s like I was born with qi flowing all around me. Constantly. Automatically. Like an autopilot defense system or something. I don’t even control it—it just wraps around me on its own. So… usually, I don’t really get hurt.”




He paused for a second, then added quietly,




“Only downside is… my nervous system’s still active. So yeah—it still hurts like hell.”




Robinson blinked, processing it.




“Okay… but still. You could’ve at least fought back. Why didn’t you even throw a single punch?”




Norman looked at Frank too now—curious, maybe even a little suspicious.



Frank gave a shrug.




“Honestly? I made a promise. I swore I’d never use martial arts again. So I didn’t fight back.”




But deep down, he wasn’t being fully honest.What he didn’t say—what he couldn’t say—is that he was scared of what would happen if he did fight back.His qi wasn’t just a shield. It was monstrous. Overwhelming. Violent.If he let it loose, even just a little, he could level an entire street.He knew—because it had happened before.Years ago, during a moment of panic, he’d accidentally released too much of it… and killed his own fiancée.That was the day he vowed to stop.To never hurt anyone again.Even if that meant taking a beating in silence.



The others didn’t press. They just nodded and let the topic drift off into the night.



A moment later, Robinson gave his belly a light slap—it was round and tight with food.




“Oh man,” he groaned. “Haven’t had a meal this good in forever. That Alaskan dog meat really hits. We should catch another one next time.”




Norman’s smile twitched. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes darkened a little.



Canelo chimed in, licking sauce off his fingers.




“Oh yeah, man. Alaskan dog meat’s the best.”




Then he casually slapped Norman on the shoulder.




“Right? You know what I’m talking about.”




Norman forced a crooked smile—part out of habit, part out of respect.Canelo had once been his master. That was the only reason he didn’t explode right then and there.



With full bellies and greasy hands, Robinson and Canelo finally stood up.




“Alright, we’re heading back,” Robinson said.




Norman nodded, but quietly added,




“I’ll go the other way.”




Truth was, he had no interest in going home. He had other plans.



He wanted to follow Frank.



He had questions. Big ones.What kind of body did Frank have? What kind of defense was that? Was it really unbreakable?Norman wasn’t convinced. Not yet.



He wanted a second round.And this time, he wouldn’t hold back.



Far ahead, Frank hopped onto his scooter and rolled off into the night, its tiny engine buzzing softly under the streetlights.



Norman took a breath, then broke into a light jog—effortless, steady.



His speed?Exactly the same as the scooter.Not faster. Not slower.Just enough to keep Frank in sight… and stay completely silent.







The Infamous Tormentors



Frank turned his scooter into a narrow alley—a damp, shadowy corridor that reeked of garbage and bad decisions. The hum of the engine echoed off the walls. He was just looking for a shortcut. Or maybe just a quiet way home.



That’s when four figures stepped out from the darkness, blocking his path.



Frank blinked, sighed, and propped one foot down to stop the scooter. His voice was flat, almost bored.




“I don’t have any money. Please don’t hurt me.”




But they weren’t interested in negotiations.



One of the men blurred forward with alarming speed and snatched Frank’s wallet straight out of his pocket. He opened it, shook it, and let the cash fall into his hand—exactly thirteen dollars.



Disgusted, the man hurled the empty wallet at the ground.



The moment it hit, the thing burst apart like a paper flower soaked in gasoline—scattering fabric and threads in every direction.



Even Frank had to blink at that one.







About twenty meters away, Norman lay flat on the ground behind a trash can, curled low like a hunting dog. He was watching everything. Silent. Focused.



He knew who those four were.




The Tormentors.




A global gang. Notorious. Ruthless. Feared everywhere they went.



They didn’t just rob people. They tormented them—mentally, physically, spiritually—until there was nothing left. Their name wasn’t just for show. They were walking nightmares.



Norman didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too loud. He had no idea how this would go.



But he wanted to know just how far Frank’s “qi shield” could go.And more importantly… could he break it?







Back in the alley, Frank still had no clue who he was dealing with.




“That’s all I’ve got,” he said meekly. “Please don’t hurt me…”




He didn’t even finish the sentence.



One of the Tormentors stepped up and stabbed his hand straight into Frank’s stomach. No weapon—just fingers turned into a human drill. His palm twisted and churned like he was trying to bore a tunnel through Frank’s gut.



But… nothing happened.



His fingers couldn’t penetrate past the outer layer. It was like punching a rubber tire filled with iron sand.



Frank screamed.




“MOM—! FUUU—AHH! IT HURTS! HOLY SHIT, IT HURTS SO BAD! WHY THE FUCK DOES IT HURT?!”




The guy yanked his hand back, stunned to see it completely intact—and totally ineffective.



He stared. Eyes wide. Silent.



Then another Tormentor shoved him aside.




“You’re too soft,” the second man said. “Let me show you how it’s done.”




He raised both fists.His knuckles were lined with embedded metal spikes—nails, screws, jagged bolts, like DIY torture gear.



And then—



He unleashed one hundred punches in ten seconds, each blow slamming into Frank’s abdomen like a thunderclap.



BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM—



The sound was deafening.



Windows across an entire block shattered.



Storefronts cracked.



Cars rocked from the pressure.



And with every single hit, Frank howled.




“AAAH! AHH—FUCK! MY STOMACH! AHHHH—WHAT THE—STOP—AAAHHHHHH—”




One hundred screams, each more tortured than the last.



And then silence.



The Tormentor finally lowered his fists, panting.




“He’s done. No one’s internal organs can survive that. He’s probably mush inside.”




But Frank was still standing. Upright. Face red. Hands clutching his belly.



He gently tapped his stomach with one hand.




“Oh my God… that really, really hurt.”




Then he looked up at them, eyes watery.




“Are you done? Can I go home now?”




The four gangsters stared at him.



Then at each other.



Then back at him.



And, in perfect unison, they said:




“What the fuck is going on?”








Hakki Unleashed



One of the four gangsters—the one with the long scar stretching down his cheek—suddenly stepped forward.



With a single, sharp motion, he flung his arm out and knocked the other three Tormentors to the ground like bowling pins. They landed hard, skidding on their butts.




“Useless. All three of you,” he growled. “Let me show you how to really torment someone.”




He stepped toward Frank, who was somehow still standing—hunched slightly, clutching his gut, but on his feet.Frank looked like he was about to say something, but the boss wasn’t in the mood for talking.



The scar-faced man raised his arm slowly. His fist began to swell—growing larger and darker. In a matter of seconds, it ballooned to the size of a basketball, pulsing with veins and coated in something black and metallic.




“This… is my Hakki,” he declared proudly. “Just like One Piece.”




The entire fist turned pitch black, like polished iron. Then his arm began spinning. Once. Twice. Ten times. A hundred times—so fast it blurred, building force like a turbine engine.



And then—he unleashed it.



BOOM!



One punch.



Frank’s body rocketed through the alley like a cannonball.



He smashed through two walls, then a third, then disappeared from view entirely—his trajectory tearing through old concrete and drywall like wet paper. He finally landed with a dull crash somewhere in the middle of a main road.



The boss exhaled and rolled his shoulder.



The other three Tormentors caught up and stared in awe.




“Boss… that was insane.”




He flexed his fist and watched the color slowly fade from black back to skin tone, shrinking back to normal.



Then he blew gently on his knuckles.




“See? Just that easy. Easy peasy.”








From twenty meters away, Norman had crept closer—moving from a trash bin to a nearby utility pole. He was still crawling low, dog-like, his stomach brushing the ground. His eyes locked onto the scene unfolding in the street.



Frank lay completely still in the middle of the road.




That’s it, Norman thought.That boss might actually be the real deal.








The Tormentors began walking away—slow, casual, satisfied.




“Too weak,” the scar-faced boss muttered. “One punch. That’s all it took. Boring.”




But they’d barely made it five meters…



A delivery truck came rolling down the street.



It didn’t slow down.Didn’t swerve.Didn’t even honk.



THUMP-THUMP.



The truck ran directly over Frank’s body—front wheels, then back wheels. Then it kept driving, unaware, disappearing into the distance.



The Tormentors turned back to look—expecting to see a blood smear, maybe chunks of bone or bits of cloth.



Instead, they saw Frank… standing up.



Slowly. Calmly.



He brushed himself off.




“Ugh… That really hurt,” he muttered. “Can I go home now?”




The four of them froze.



Turned.



Stared.



Eyes wide. Mouths twitching.



One of them finally said what they were all thinking:




“Are you fucking kidding me?”




Frank scratched the back of his head like he’d just been scolded for staying out too late.




“Alright, alright… enough is enough. I just wanna go home and sleep. You guys done hitting me?”




The boss’s face twisted with rage.



Behind him, one of the underlings whispered with wide eyes:




“Boss… don’t tell me… you’re gonna use the forbidden technique?”








Explosive Annihilation



The scar-faced boss didn’t say a word.



He reached into his coat pocket… and pulled out a fist-sized stick of TNT—old-school, bright red, with a fuse already wired in.



Before anyone could react, he jammed it into Frank’s mouth—shoved it deep—until the whole thing was sucked straight down into his stomach.




“What the hell?!” Frank gagged. “Did you just stuff dog shit in my mouth?!”




The boss didn’t answer.He simply stepped back. Slowly. Calmly.



A few seconds passed.



Then—



PFFFFFT—BOOM.



A thick column of black smoke blasted out from Frank’s throat.



He dropped to his knees, coughing violently. Chunks of ash, charred dust, and twisted metal fragments shot from his mouth like a possessed chimney. He looked like a human barbecue pit on meltdown mode.



The boss crossed his arms with a smug expression.




“I haven’t used that kind of dirty trick in ten years,” he muttered. “No matter how tough your defense is… the inside’s still soft. I’m guessing his organs are now just a soup of regret.”




He turned away, satisfied.



Frank wiped his mouth.




“Whew… at least it wasn’t dog shit. What the hell was that?”




The boss froze.



He slowly looked back.



Frank was still alive. Still talking. Still casually kneeling in the middle of the street like he’d just finished a long nap.



He survived.Again.



Frank got to his feet and sighed.




“Alright… I think I’m gonna head home now. Let’s talk again some other time, yeah?”




That was it.The last straw.The phrase that shattered the boss’s sanity.







Behind him, the other three Tormentors scrambled toward him.




“Boss! Enough!”“Let’s just go home!”“Don’t do it! Not the final move!”




But the boss didn’t listen.




“I have to.”




The three underlings looked at each other in horror.They knew what came next.



They turned and ran—full sprint—away from Frank. Away from him.



Because when the boss said final move, he didn’t mean metaphorically.







He rushed forward like a beast and grabbed Frank in a full-body hug, arms and legs wrapped around him like a desperate ex-lover.



Then he looked up to the sky and screamed.



A flash of golden light erupted from within his body—pulsing, expanding, vibrating with unnatural heat.




Self-destruction.




In less than a second, the entire city block vanished.



Everything—buildings, cars, signs, windows—obliterated into powder and fire.And above it all, a mushroom cloud bloomed slowly into the night sky.



Silent.Beautiful.Unstoppable.







The Last Torment



At the exact moment of detonation, the leader of the Tormentors was instantly vaporized—gone without a trace. His three underlings, who had just been sprinting away in panic, were also turned to mist in the blink of an eye.



Buildings collapsed. Power poles snapped. Trash cans were reduced to dust.



When the smoke finally cleared, at the heart of the destruction… someone was moving.



Slowly… groaning… coated in a thick layer of gray dust, Frank stood up.



His clothes had been completely shredded. Ash and debris covered his skin like he’d just crawled out of a collapsed mine.




“Man… that hurt like hell,” he muttered, coughing. “Hurt as hell… hurt as fuck.”




Not far from him, where his little red scooter used to be parked…



Nothing remained.



Just a scattered patch of glowing dust.



Frank stared for a few seconds, blank-faced. Then he sighed.




“…Damn. I liked that scooter.”“And shit—I don’t even have money to buy another one.”




He scratched the back of his head, smearing more dust into his already ash-covered hair.







Later that night, on television screens all over the country, the same emergency bulletin played:




Breaking News:A powerful explosion has rocked the center of the city earlier today.Officials are still investigating the cause of what some speculate may have been a small-scale nuclear event.Among the confirmed casualties are four known international criminals—the group infamously known as the Tormentors.While the full damage report is ongoing, authorities believe the threat posed by this group is now officially over.




The world, for once, rejoiced.







Most of the people in the blast zone were instantly killed—reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye.



But somehow… a handful survived.



By luck. By fate. Or by some unexplainable force.



Among them was Norman.



He lay in a hospital bed, body completely bound in tight, white medical wraps—like a man-sized dumpling. Only his mouth was free.



With a faint, dry whisper, he mumbled to himself:




“I don’t need to challenge that guy again…He’s not a man. He’s a god.”








Back at the now-abandoned barbecue pit, in the very ashes of the broken campfire, a shadowy figure was crouched down—tall, heavy, dressed in torn clothing. A homeless man.



He hunched over the blackened remains, gnawing on leftover bones and scraps of half-burnt meat.



That homeless man was Tom.



And without a word, without a care, he sat comfortably on top of Sean’s unconscious body…



Chewing happily.



Enjoying the taste of Alaskan dog meat.


Chapter 70: Dogman vs. Machinery (Part 1)
==================================================

Dogs Lives Matter



A week had passed. Norman was finally discharged from the hospital.



His strength and speed had returned to normal.



He stepped out the front doors alone, the bright sunlight hitting his pale face. He didn’t have a home to go back to. He didn’t know where to go. So, he just walked—without a plan, without a direction.



Wandering the city, he suddenly spotted a familiar silhouette across the street.



A German Shepherd.



The same one he knew from Dog Land. One of the dogs.



His heart jumped.



Norman waved frantically and called out, “Hey! Over here!”



The dog, who had just been calmly trotting beside the curb, froze. It lifted its ears. Its tongue rolled out. Its tail began wagging wildly. The moment it saw Norman, its entire body trembled with joy.




“OH YEAH, BABY!!”




The Shepherd barked and sprinted forward in full excitement.



But it was a green light.



From the side came a car—racing at 100 kilometers per hour.



The vehicle slammed into the Shepherd with brutal force. The impact launched the dog skyward—flying higher than the surrounding buildings—twenty meters into the air.



Then, it came crashing down.




“OH SHIT!!”




The dog smashed into the pavement with a sickening, final thud.



Only the head remained recognizable.



The rest of its body—fur, flesh, bones—had exploded into the ground, merging into the asphalt itself like wet clay slammed by a sledgehammer. A pool of crimson spread around the crater, steaming under the afternoon sun.



Norman’s expression twisted.



From joy, to confusion, to despair.



Then… rage.



Because the car didn’t even stop.



In fact, it sped up.



Zooming off down the street like nothing happened.



And the final blow?



The driver casually rolled down the window, lit a cigarette, then flicked the ash with a lazy hand into the wind—completely unmoved, indifferent to the dog he’d just murdered.



Norman stood there, trembling. Then he shouted:




“DOGS LIVES MATTER!!”




With that, he exploded forward—his body accelerating like a bullet.



50 kilometers per hour.Then 100.Then 150.



He chased down the speeding car, his fury burning hotter than ever.



Not just for the death.



But for the attitude.



For the way that man treated the dog’s life…



as nothing.







Furious Highspeed Chase



The driver glanced in his rearview mirror—just a quick sweep.



And that’s when he saw it.



A man—on all fours—racing down the street like a wild animal.



Faster than a dog. Faster than any human should move.



And worse…



He was catching up.



The driver’s car was already hitting 110 kilometers per hour, but the distance was shrinking. That man was gaining on him.



Inside the car, the young man took a long drag from his cigarette.



Without a word, he flicked the butt into the ashtray, mashed it out with a few impatient jabs, then shoved it down with his thumb until it hissed.



His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. Then, with a heavy stomp, he floored the gas.



The engine roared.



In one second, the car shot up to 180 km/h—surging forward like a rocket.



The gap widened again.



But the road was packed.



Cars ahead. Cars beside.



Every time he had to swerve or dodge traffic, he was forced to decelerate. Just slightly. Just enough.



Meanwhile, Norman, smaller and nimbler, zigzagged between cars effortlessly.



No need to slow down. No hesitation.



Little by little, he closed the gap again.



And then…



He vanished from the mirror.



The young driver’s eyes narrowed.




“Shit. Blind spot.”




He knew Norman was right beside him—he could feel it.



And he was right.



Norman had pulled up side by side, still running full speed—150 km/h—his claws scratching lightly at the pavement with each stride.



The young man rolled down his window and called out, mockingly:




“What’s up, dude? Need something?”




Norman barked back:




“You just killed a dog! How can you hit and run like that?! Fuck you!”




The man gave a lazy shrug.




“It’s just a dog. Don’t be so serious, man.”




That was it.



Norman’s fury exploded.




“That dog… was my brother.”




The driver blinked, confused.




“Wait… what? You and a dog are brothers? I don’t get it, man.”




That’s when Norman lunged—one clawed hand swiping at the open window.



The man rolled it back up just in time.



Norman’s claws scratched across the reinforced glass, leaving only a faint trail of lines. No cracks.



The car began to slow—down to 60 km/h.



Norman stayed right beside it, never missing a step.



The driver’s expression darkened. His grip tightened.




“All right then. God mode.”




He muttered it under his breath.



Both hands shifted into action—spinning the wheel, working the stick shift. His feet alternated rapidly between the gas and brake pedals.







Stunt Legacy



As the car tore through the city at blistering speed, a small gold medal swayed under the rearview mirror.



It glittered faintly under the passing streetlights.A symbol of something distant… something proud.



Then, like a sudden breeze stirring buried memories, the timeline slipped—Back three years.



His name was Jack.



Life hadn’t been easy.His father had passed when he was still a kid, and their middle-class life quickly collapsed into hardship.By the age of sixteen, Jack was already out driving Uber to make ends meet.



But behind the wheel, he found something else.A strange joy. A raw instinct.He had a talent for speed and control that couldn’t be taught.



Drifting. Reverse slaloms. Hairpin turns.It was more than driving—it was a form of Kung Fu.



Three years ago, Jack signed up for a prestigious stunt-driving competition held across the city.



His event?Aerial backflip.Not just one—but ten full spins in the air.



He launched his car off a slanted ramp, wheels screaming, engine roaring like a beast let loose.The vehicle soared into the sky—higher than it had any right to—and began flipping.One. Two. Three… all the way to ten.



And when it landed, the car didn’t stop.It kept spinning horizontally across the pavement—skimming like a stone over water.



Then came the final moment:The car skidded to a halt in the exact center of a large painted design on the ground.



A perfect match.The symbol was the competition’s logo—and Jack’s tire marks had traced every curve of it.



The crowd exploded.And Jack won the gold medal.



That medal—the very one now swinging above his dash—became his first real treasure.With the prize money, he began customizing his own ride.Piece by piece.Screw by screw.



Rumors said the car he built could drive sideways along vertical walls, and even perform stunts no one had ever imagined.



Back in the present, Jack flicked his eyes at the gold medal and smirked.




“All right,” he muttered.“Let me show you what car Kung Fu really looks like.”








Automotive Kung Fu



Suddenly, Jack’s car drifted hard to the left.



It was fast—sharp—almost impossible to react to.



Norman dodged to the same side just in time to avoid being clipped by the car’s body.



But Jack wasn’t done.



His car hit a small slope and launched into the air. While airborne, the vehicle spun horizontally like a returning boomerang—twisting through a wide arc—before swinging back toward Norman’s path.



Norman kept running forward, but if he stayed on course, he’d be crushed by the car’s descending angle.



He had no choice.



He turned hard to the right.



But turning at such high speed was dangerous.



One foot slipped.



Norman tumbled across the pavement—rolling at over seventy kilometers per hour. He spun for hundreds of meters, leaving a trail of blood along the road, bouncing and scraping as he crashed past a row of trash bins.



Finally, he staggered to his feet, bleeding, bruised, and probably with two broken bones.




“Shit… this guy drives like his car knows Kung Fu.”




Norman gritted his teeth and charged again—back toward the car.



This time, he wouldn’t make the same mistake.



He kept his speed under 40 km/h, giving himself room to turn sharply and counter Jack’s movement with agility.



Jack noticed the change and smirked.




“Oh? Low-speed battle now? Bring it on.”








Such a Metal Beast



Norman darted into the car’s blind spot—then suddenly leapt.



He landed squarely on the roof of the moving car.



Without hesitation, he began clawing at the metal, trying to rip it open, hoping to tear his way through the top and plunge straight into the cabin—to kill the driver with a single strike.



But Jack was ready.



He slammed on the brakes—hard.



The vehicle screeched as its tires bit into the asphalt, coming to an abrupt stop.



Norman, who had just dug his claws in, found nothing but smooth steel and glass—there was no grip. The entire car was too sleek, too well-crafted. He lost balance instantly.



The sudden halt launched him forward.



He flew off the car, tumbled across the road, and landed nearly fifteen meters ahead—rolling and bouncing like a ragdoll.



Norman barely had time to sit up.



He looked up—and saw the car already accelerating toward him.



It was going to run him over.



Still dizzy, Norman instinctively rolled to the side. The car whizzed past, missing him by inches.



But Jack wasn’t done.



As the steel beast thundered by, the front tire crushed a small stone lying on the road.



This wasn’t an accident.



Jack had seen the rock ahead of time.



At the exact moment his tire rolled over it, he gave the wheel a calculated twist and adjusted his foot pressure with surgical precision.



That was when it happened—



The stone was launched from between the tire and the ground like a high-speed projectile.It cut through the air with a sharp whistle—



CRACK!



—and smashed straight into Norman’s left arm.



The bone shattered on impact.



Blood exploded into the air.



Norman screamed in pain, gripping his limp arm as he staggered toward the sidewalk.



Jack leaned out the window just a bit and muttered casually,




“Too easy… no challenge at all.”




A few pedestrians nearby turned toward Norman, who was now curled up by a trash can, coughing up blood.



But none of them paid him any real attention.



Their eyes were on the car.



The legendary machine.



That unmistakable custom-built beast.



They whispered among themselves:




“That’s Jack’s car… no doubt about it.”“He once went toe-to-toe with Michael from the Humble Organization, right? I heard Michael was actually losing.”“And now he’s putting on a show right here? Man… we’re lucky to see this in person.”“This is true automotive kung fu.”




They watched, breath held, as the metal beast idled in place—waiting to see what move it would unleash next.







Bloody Windshield



Norman dragged himself up from the pavement again, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. As he stood, he saw three men nearby, watching like spectators at a show. He snapped at them, furious:




“Where the hell have you seen cars that can do kung fu?! You think this is a damn game? Say one more word and I’ll rip your mouths off!”




The men froze in fear, not daring to speak again.



Then—a bark.



Norman looked down. A white-furred golden retriever was standing nearby, gazing at him intently. It wasn’t just barking—it was trying to communicate.



Norman stared into its eyes.He understood.




“Good boy, Hugo,” he whispered. “I’m gonna need your strength.”




Hugo barked again. That bark meant: No problem.



Just then, Jack’s steel war machine came roaring back down the road. Its engine growled. Its tires screeched.



Norman shouted with everything he had:




“HUGO—GO!”




The golden retriever tore free from its leash, sprinting straight into danger. Without hesitation, it hurled itself at the oncoming car—headfirst into the windshield.



SPLAT!Flesh. Bone. Oil. Blood.Hugo’s body exploded into a grotesque smear across the glass. The windshield was instantly painted red, completely blinding Jack’s view.



Norman stood still, a tear sliding down his cheek.




“Hugo… I won’t let your sacrifice be wasted.”




Jack slammed on the brakes, but his car skidded and jerked to a stop in the middle of the road.



That’s when Norman moved.



He sprinted. Faster. Harder. He locked onto the car like a missile.



Then he leapt.



In midair, his body twisted—spinning wildly like a falling star—and then he slammed into the driver’s side door with crushing force.



BOOM.



The metal caved in.Inside, Jack’s body jolted. He coughed up a mouthful of blood as the impact slammed through the door and into his ribs.



Norman landed, panting, crouched on the warped frame.He looked up, eyes wild.



For the first time in this fight—He had the upper hand.


Chapter 71: Dogman vs. Machinery (Part 2)
==================================================

Steering Blind



Jack sat in the driver’s seat, hands slightly trembling. A creeping unease began to bubble inside him — the first time he truly felt fear in this duel.



He glanced at Norman, who was now backing away again, putting distance between them — clearly preparing for another body slam. Jack instinctively knew: he couldn’t stay still. The last hit had felt like being sideswiped by another speeding car. The impact was massive, more than just brute strength — it was calculated.



Panic surged.



Jack slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The car lunged forward.



He couldn’t see anything in front of him.



The windshield was still smeared with Hugo’s remains — a thick mix of fur, blood, and bone. The wipers were useless, screeching across the glass but only smearing the gore deeper into the view. He was driving blind — fully blind — like a man trapped in a steel beast.



And that’s when it happened.



Three bystanders, standing too close, never had a chance.



They were crushed instantly — reduced to meat paste under the tires. The car tore through them without even a pause. Their bodies splattered across the street in chunks of bone, blood, and flesh. What was left behind couldn’t be identified. Not even their own families could recognize them.



Norman kept charging from behind, unshaken.



Jack, still blind, drove full speed into a concrete wall.



BANG!



The impact rocked the car. Jack’s body slammed forward in his seat. He spat blood. Again.



He cursed, then slammed the wipers again — but it was useless.




Too sticky.




He couldn’t see. The gore clung to the windshield like glue. His only option now was desperation.



Jack threw the car into reverse and began spinning wildly. Donuts. Fast, erratic circles in place. He figured if he kept moving inside the same radius, he wouldn’t hit anything new — and Norman wouldn’t get a clean shot at him again.



For a moment, it almost worked.



But just as Jack started to feel safe—



BOOM!



A new body slam crashed into the driver’s side door.



Norman had found his timing again.



The door bent inward like crushed foil. Jack’s head slammed sideways. Blood burst from his lips.



His hands trembled.




“One more hit… maybe two…”“I’ll be dead.”








Hydraulic Wash to the Rescue



Jack twisted around, eyes darting through the rear windshield. He was panicking. Real panic—not just adrenaline, but that real kind that crawls under your skin and makes your spine feel like it’s vibrating.




“Shit… I’m gonna die,”he muttered to himself.




But just then—he saw it.



There. On the edge of the curb. A fire hydrant. Bright red. Like a button in a video game screaming “PRESS ME TO SURVIVE.”



Jack didn’t hesitate.



He floored it.The engine howled.As he flew past the hydrant, he yanked the wheel and twisted the rear of the car just enough.



BANG.



The tail clipped the hydrant. Metal cracked.A pressurized fountain of water shot thirty feet into the air—violent, wild, and glorious.



Jack slammed the brakes.The tires shrieked. The car spun in place like a dancer possessed. A clean 180.And now his windshield—still smeared with Hugo’s sticky remains—was staring straight into the geyser.



The water hit like a holy blast.



Chunks of white fur.Patches of golden skin.Flesh. Guts. Bone.All of it exploded off the windshield and flew down the street like cursed confetti.



For three full seconds, it looked like Hugo’s ghost was getting exorcised.



Jack leaned forward in his seat, gripping the wheel with wet palms.



Then he saw it.Clear vision. No more blur.He raised a fist and shouted with everything in him:




“OH YEAH, BABY!”




And that’s when he spotted Norman—low and fast, sliding toward the side of the car like a missile wrapped in muscle.



Jack didn’t even blink.He slammed the gear in reverse.The car screamed backwards with enough force to rip pavement.And just in time—



BOOM.Norman ran straight into the side-blast of that hydrant.



The water smashed into him like a goddamn cannon.He went flying five, maybe six meters—hit the asphalt and rolled like a ragdoll.



Sprawled.Bleeding.He groaned.



Jack grinned.He adjusted his grip, leaned back in his seat, and whispered—




“That’s better.”








Speed and Fury



Jack slammed the gas pedal.



The steel beast roared—engine howling like it smelled blood. His tires bit into the asphalt, and the car surged forward with animal rage.



Norman was still on the ground, groaning, trying to crawl away. But Jack wasn’t having it. He’d already read Norman’s next move.



Norman sprang to his feet and rolled to the side—just in time to avoid getting run through.



But Jack had planned for that.



He slammed the brakes mid-charge and spun the wheel. The car skidded sideways in a violent, burning drift.



BAM!!



The tail of the car whipped like a hammer and smashed into Norman’s ribs.



There was a wet, horrible crack. Norman was launched like a broken mannequin—sent flying over fifty meters. He crashed into the side of a building, then bounced off and hit the ground like a sack of meat.



But Jack didn’t pause.



He kept going—relentless. Tires screeched. Smoke exploded from the exhaust.



Norman, coughing up blood, barely managed to stumble toward a moving civilian car in the next lane. He pressed against its right side, using the vehicle as a moving shield, running alongside it for cover.



Jack reacted instantly.



He swerved to the left side of that same car—his side—creating a deadly setup: Jack on the left, Norman on the right, and a clueless commuter in between.



Jack leaned forward and peered through both front side windows—driver’s side and front passenger’s.



And there he was.



Norman.



Bloody. Gritting his teeth. Staggering but determined. Still alive. Still a threat.



The driver? Completely unaware. Tapping the wheel, humming along to some radio hit. Oblivious to the monster tailing him on both sides.



Jack’s fingers tightened on the wheel.




“Let’s end this.”




SLAM!!



His car slammed into the commuter’s like a bodycheck from hell. The civilian car jerked sideways, tires screaming, then flipped into a brutal roll.



Norman was blasted off his feet from the shockwave, barely dodging the car as it tumbled past him and crashed into a building.



The vehicle crumpled like foil.



No way the driver made it.



Norman lay beside a crooked lamppost, chest heaving, blood pouring from his mouth.



He should’ve been out.



But slowly—grinding through pain and broken bones—he rose again.



One foot planted.Then the other.



His left arm hung useless, but his right curled into a fist.



He whispered, low and sharp:




“I’m… still… not done.”




And those eyes?



Not just furious—Murderous.







Door Check



Jack’s car rolled forward, steady and menacing. The ruined civilian vehicle lay behind him like roadkill, and the road ahead seemed empty—until Norman got back up.



Bloodied, bruised, barely breathing—he still ran.



He pushed off the lamppost with what little strength he had left and chased after Jack’s vehicle like a man possessed. Step by step, he gained ground. Incredibly, he caught up—reaching the side of the driver’s door, still running alongside it.



Jack caught a glimpse of him through the mirror. He narrowed his eyes.



That limp gait, that trembling hand, that look of sheer madness…




He’s done for, Jack thought. This guy’s got no juice left. Time for a humiliating finish.




Then, without warning—



Jack slammed the brakes.



The car screeched and jolted. At the exact same moment, he flung open the driver-side door.



SLAM!!



Norman, with no time to react, crashed face-first into the open door. His body whipped sideways and tumbled across the pavement like a ragdoll, scraping and bouncing violently.



Jack calmly pulled the door shut and rolled down the window—just an inch. Just enough to speak through it, but not enough for Norman’s deadly claws to reach inside.



He looked down at the mess of blood and flesh sprawled beside the car.




“Hey, man,” Jack said, almost casually. “I don’t even remember why we started fighting.”




He chuckled, leaning slightly.




“But seriously… you don’t have to go this far for a damn dog. You’re barely alive. I could end you right now—one flick of the gas pedal and you’d be pulp. But you know what? Forget it. We’ve got no real beef.”




Then he turned the wheel slightly, stepped on the gas, and rocketed down the road—tires shrieking, engine screaming at full throttle. Within seconds, he was gone, vanishing into the distant haze.



He truly believed there was no hatred between them.



To Jack, that German Shepherd was just a stray—nothing worth dying over.



But what he didn’t know…was that to Norman, that dog was family.







Just a Stray Scooter



Norman lay on the sidewalk. Still. Gasping for air.



He didn’t move—just sprawled there like a dying stray. Not a warrior. Not a man. Just a battered, half-dead animal catching its breath in the gutter of the world.



People passed by.



No one stopped. No one asked.



One kid even paused, leaned in—and spit straight into Norman’s face. A fat glob of phlegm landed right between his eyebrows.



Norman didn’t react.



He was too tired. Too broken. Too far gone.



So he lay there.



One whole day.One whole night.



Then, morning.



He pushed himself up—slowly, limbs shaking, skin twitching with leftover trauma. He stood like a man who’d crawled back from the grave, barely holding it together.



Every car that passed made his jaw clench. He stared at each one with pure resentment. Cold eyes. Quiet fury.



But he didn’t attack them. Couldn’t.



They were all hiding in their steel shells. Like cowards behind iron walls.



Then—something different.



A red scooter.



Rattling down the service lane.



Not a car. Not a beast. Just a worn-out scooter driven by a middle-aged delivery man—half-distracted, smoking a cigarette, one hand on the bars, the other doom-scrolling on his phone.



No helmet.



No metal cage.



Just flesh and bones and wheels.



Norman’s gaze sharpened. His shoulders twitched.




“Finally…”




Then—slash.



One claw. Quick and clean.



The man’s neck snapped sideways with a sickening crack. His head flew off like a kicked watermelon, soaring into the morning fog.



The rest of him slumped on the scooter for half a second… before tumbling off in a limp mess of limbs and spilled takeout.



The scooter keeled over, skidded a few feet, and crashed against the curb.



Its back wheel kept spinning.



Round and round.



Like nothing happened.



Norman stared.



For a long moment, he stood in silence. His breath heavy. His body trembling. Then—regret. A flicker.




“Shit. That’s illegal.”




He glanced around.



No one saw.



He turned and walked off—disappearing into an alley before the guilt could catch up.



Meanwhile, a block away…



Another delivery guy was limping down the street. On foot. Shirt soaked in sweat. Nose full of snot. A paper bag of dumplings swinging from one tired hand.



The name printed on his shirt?



FUCKLIN.Big white letters. Off-brand. Faded.



His real name was Frank.



His scooter had been destroyed in the Tormentor explosion a few days ago. Since then, he’d been doing door-to-door deliveries by foot.



And now—there it was.



A red scooter.



Still warm. Still running.



Still technically ownerless.



Yeah, there was a corpse. Yeah, it was missing a head. But hey—dead men don’t hold titles.



Frank didn’t hesitate.



He walked over, grabbed the headless body by the shirt, and flung it to the side of the road like trash. Then he propped the scooter back up, swung one leg over, and grinned.




“Oh, sweet…”




He twisted the throttle.



And just like that, Frank rode off.



Like it was his all along.







Payback’s a Bitch



Norman walked.



One step at a time.Every bone in his body still aching.The sidewalk shimmered under the dying light of dusk.Streetlamps flickered on.Crows circled overhead.Everything felt… quiet.



He slumped down near a bush by the apartment parking lot. Just sitting there, breathing. For once, the city wasn’t screaming. No chaos. No engines. Just a bit of peace.



Then—A car pulled into the assigned parking spot across the street.



Nothing dramatic. Just a normal pull-in.Door opened.A man stepped out.



The figure walked toward the apartment’s main entrance. About fifty meters out.



Norman glanced over lazily—just curious. Then his body stiffened.




“Wait a second…”




Same stupid face.T-shirt. Shorts.



It was him.Jack.



The same bastard who had killed Hugo.The same coward who fought from behind a steel cage on wheels.



Norman didn’t even think.



He just moved.



His body, half-broken, limped forward with a quiet fury—until he was suddenly right in front of Jack.



Jack froze.



He looked up—and up—and up.Norman was towering over him.Bloodstained. Torn. Breathing like a beast.His eyes wild.



Jack’s jaw dropped.




“Oh shit…”




He turned around.



His car was too far.He’d never make it.



He dropped to his knees like a sack of bricks.




“Please—please don’t kill me!”




He threw up his arms, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.



Norman didn’t speak.



He just raised a claw and slashed.



Blood exploded from Jack’s chest.



The coward collapsed, rolling on the pavement, clutching the wound, screaming:




“Oh my God! I’m dying!!”




His voice cracked. He sobbed. He kicked his legs.But he wasn’t dying.



Norman could’ve ended him.He could’ve taken off his head clean.



But he didn’t.



He just turned away.



Walked down the street with a slow, almost casual gait.



Behind him, Jack writhed on the ground, crying in a puddle of his own blood and spit.



Why spare him?



Maybe because Norman remembered.



That day…Jack had the chance to floor the gas and run him over like roadkill.Turn him into another wet stain on the pavement.



But he didn’t.



Maybe this…was Norman’s way of returning the favor.




“Payback’s a bitch.”




But mercy?That’s optional.


Chapter 72: Reckoning to the Darkness (Part 1)
==================================================

Unlicensed Wisdom in the Lab Coat



Ever since Norman came back to the city, he began to grasp just how massive the world really was.



There were so many powerful fighters out there—more than he ever imagined. And a disturbing number of them were stronger than him.



Wayne, the giant? Sure, formidable. But just one beast in a whole zoo of monsters.



And Frank? He didn’t even fight anymore. He didn’t need to. The man once withstood a nuclear explosion and walked away like he had just finished a barbecue. His defense had become the stuff of legend.



Even Jack—just a lanky guy sitting behind a steering wheel—was dangerous as hell. Norman liked to think of that fight as a close call, where he “barely lost” or even “kind of won.”



But that was a lie.



He lost.



Completely.



Jack showed him mercy. That’s the only reason Norman was still walking.



Still, in Norman’s prettified memory, the story had shifted into something more palatable. He’d rather live in a fake victory than accept a real defeat.







He walked slowly, muttering to himself.




“Why are humans so strong…? Why’d we survive this long… with so many predators around us?”




He wasn’t expecting an answer.



But then—



A man passed by him. Thin. Ghost-pale. Wrapped in a baggy white lab coat that fluttered gently as he moved.



No medical badge. No ID. Just that coat—and a strange, slow presence.



He was chewing mint.



Not gum. Just raw, fresh mint leaves. One corner of his mouth moved in slow, contemplative rhythm.



He stopped beside Norman. Didn’t even look at him.



Then, in a voice that sounded halfway between a monk and a washed-up professor, he spoke:




“People always say human intelligence helped us survive. But that came later.Truth is, we had kung fu first.It was the way we turned weak bodies into dangerous weapons.That’s what let us crawl to the top.”




Then he walked on.



Norman turned to follow—eyes sharp now, hungry for more wisdom.



He jogged around the nearest corner—



And found himself in a narrow, dim alley. Old brick. Flickering overhead lights. It smelled like damp metal and wet dust.



And standing there—



Right in the center—



Was someone he hadn’t seen in months.



Bowl-cut. Pajamas. A stiff plastic mask over his face.



It didn’t matter if Norman couldn’t see his eyes.



He recognized him instantly.



It was Benson.



The same guy who once transformed into Dark Benson and beat him so badly Norman had to crawl away like a wounded mutt.



Back then, Norman swore he’d never forget that humiliation.



And now… here they were.



Face to face.



No weapons. No transformations.



Just… silence.



And Norman stood still.







Karma Wears Pajamas



“Benson. Stop right there.”



Norman’s voice cracked like thunder through the narrow alley.



Benson jumped.



He had already been facing Norman—just standing there, stiff, like a deer caught in headlights. And now, he froze even harder, eyes wide behind that cheap black plastic mask.




“H-How did you know I’m Benson?” he blurted out.




Norman stepped forward, slow and heavy. His jaw clenched.




“Your pajamas and your dumbass bowl cut gave you away, brother.”




Benson’s hands shot up to his head as if trying to hide both. In a panic, he ripped off the mask—revealing a face full of fear and confusion.




“Wait—what are you talking about? I didn’t do anything! Whatever you think I did—it wasn’t me!”




Norman kept walking until the distance between them evaporated. He stood over Benson now—Benson barely reaching his chest in height.



The difference was absurd. The energy shift was brutal.




“You remember what you did to me?” Norman asked, voice low and trembling with rage.“You think I’d forget that level of cruelty? That sick, vile shit?”




Benson’s legs went soft.



He shook his head rapidly, hands trembling in the air.




“No, man—no! I didn’t do anything! I’m just some weak loser, okay? I never hurt anybody—I swear!”




Norman didn’t flinch.



He took a deep breath and then stepped even closer—his shadow swallowing Benson whole.




“You do know. You’re a disgusting human being. You abandoned your own dog. His name… was Retarded. Ring any bells?”




That name hit like a gunshot.



Benson’s face contorted. His lips quivered. His knees buckled as memories he had buried long ago came surging back.



A golden retriever. Dumb. Loyal. Too sweet for this world.



He remembered the leash. The long drive. The middle of nowhere. Slamming the door. Leaving the poor thing behind.



He collapsed to the ground, knees hitting the pavement hard.




“Please! Don’t kill me!” he screamed.“I—I know it was wrong, okay? I realize that now! I’ve changed! I’m not that guy anymore! I swear I’m not!”




Tears streamed down his face.



He begged like a man with nothing left.




“Please… please don’t hurt me…”




The alley quieted.



Just Benson, weeping.



And Norman, towering above him—silent, still, unreadable.







Impossible to Flee



Just then—A faint noise came from the trash can nearby.



Rustle.



Norman snapped his head in that direction. It was just a rat, digging around for scraps.



But that tiny distraction was all it took.



Benson seized the opening.



With a panicked jerk, he pushed off the ground and bolted—scrambling like a terrified child running from a monster in his own nightmare.



He didn’t look back. He didn’t breathe.



He just ran.



But Norman didn’t chase. Not yet.



He simply stood there. Calm. Watching Benson’s back getting smaller and smaller.



Then—



With a slow, deliberate inhale, Norman exhaled sharply and raised one arm.



His claws flicked out. A single sweeping motion.



Swoosh—



From his fingers, a blade of compressed air shot out like a flying crescent.



It cut through the air like a whip—silent, invisible, fast.



And in the next instant—



SLASH!



Benson’s right calf tore open mid-stride.



He screamed, lost balance, and crashed face-first into the pavement—rolling across the ground in a pitiful spiral.



Blood sprayed across the concrete. His leg twitched, but he couldn’t get up.



He turned his head back, trembling, tears in his eyes.




“Sorry! I— I wasn’t trying to run! I was just… I… I was trying to…”




He trailed off. Even he didn’t know how to finish that sentence.



He was lying. And he knew it.



Norman didn’t say anything.



He walked.



Just a few casual steps… and then—



He was suddenly in front of Benson.



Not just that—Norman had his back to him. Hands crossed over his chest.



As if this wasn’t even worth facing directly.




“Running away?” Norman said, flatly. “Impossible.”




He didn’t yell. He didn’t even raise his tone.



But the words hit harder than a punch.



Norman tilted his head slightly, still not turning around.




“You can come out now. I know you’re hiding.”





“Dark Benson.”




Benson’s heart froze.



He didn’t understand. Not even a little.



He had no idea what Norman was talking about.



Because every time he blacked out—every time that thing inside him came out—



He remembered nothing.



No dreams. No feelings. Just silence.



So now, he lay there trembling—wounded, confused, and terrified of things he couldn’t explain.




“Please stop,” he cried. “Don’t mess with me anymore. Just let me go home. I beg you.”




He sounded like a boy, not a fighter.



But Norman wasn’t moved.




“That claw to your leg… That was payback. For the golden retriever.”





“His name was Retarded.”




The name hit like a thunderbolt.



Benson blinked.



For a second, he looked completely lost.



Then something flickered in his expression.




“Oh… right. The golden retriever,” he muttered. “Yeah… I remember now.”“Okay. So you’re here for that. Fair.”




He tried to shift his weight, flinching.




“Thanks for sparing me, I guess…”“But I really don’t know what else I’ve done to you. This whole thing about… black demons or… some ‘Dark Benson’? Man, I swear I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”




Norman didn’t reply.



He turned around slowly.



Then walked up again—each step heavier than the last—and stared down at Benson like he was reading a book he’d already memorized.




“Come on, man,” he said softly. “Drop the pretend.”“Transform already.”




Benson froze.



Sweat ran down the sides of his face.



His breathing slowed.



He didn’t move. Just stared up at Norman—confused, anxious, calculating.




Is this guy even serious？… what the hell am I supposed to do?








Summon the Dark Shadow



Norman stared down at Benson.



He wasn’t moving. Just lying there on the ground like a broken puppet—dazed, expressionless.



Norman narrowed his eyes. He began to count.



Out loud.



His voice cold. Measured. Serious.




“I’m gonna count to zero. And if you don’t change your voice by then… I’m not holding back.”




“Four…”



Benson’s eyes twitched. His mind started spinning.




Gotta think of something. Fast.




“Three…”



“Two…”



“One—”



Before Norman could say zero, Benson slowly stood up.



He reached for his black mask and slid it back over his face. Still trembling.



Then he tried to deepen his voice, making it heavy and menacing—fake confidence in every word.




“Hey. I’m… Dark Benson. What’s up, dude?”




Norman froze.



Every nerve in his body tensed like a tripwire pulled tight. Muscles coiled, eyes sharp.



That voice—



It triggered something deep.



A sharp, reflexive fear.




That’s the voice. That’s the one.




Without hesitation, Norman turned and slashed the air with his claw.




SHHRAAASHH—




A ripping gust tore across the alley.



Benson didn’t even have time to react.



The claw gale hit him square in the chest—tearing his pajama shirt apart, slicing a deep red gash across his chest, and shattering his black mask clean in two. The pieces clattered onto the concrete.



His face took a hit too—another sharp cut, clean across his cheek.



Benson screamed and rolled backward, howling in pain.




“OH SHIT—FUCK! It hurts! It hurts as FUCK!”




He collapsed, squirming on the ground.



The truth was brutal.



He hadn’t transformed.



There was no “Dark Benson.”



He’d been pretending—cosplaying the version Norman feared.



A desperate, stupid bluff.



And now he was paying for it.



Norman stood there for a second, stunned.



Then he squinted.




“Say what?”




He looked genuinely offended.




“Are you mocking me?!”




He stormed forward, furious.




“You’re not Dark Benson. You’re just… Weak Benson!”




He grabbed Benson’s hair with one hand and yanked him up off the ground—lifting him by the scalp, like a rag doll.



Benson’s legs flailed in the air. He screamed, kicking wildly.




“PLEASE! It hurts! My scalp—my hair’s gonna come off!”“OH MY GOD! You’re a MONSTER! What did I ever do to you to deserve this?!”




Norman didn’t flinch.



He stared into Benson’s eyes—cold and focused.



Then, with a long sigh, he whispered:




“If you won’t come out on your own…”“Then I’ll have to… force you out.”




His expression changed.



Sharp. Evil.



A terrifying chill spread through the alley.



Benson’s eyes widened in terror.



And then—




Psshhhh…




Warm liquid ran down his leg.



He had pissed himself.



Completely.



No control. No pride left.



Just raw, primal fear.







Fresh Meat



Norman remembered the last time.



The first time that thing—Dark Benson—ever came out…



It didn’t happen during a clean, honorable fight. It didn’t happen with strategy or form.



No.



It came after a long, brutal, merciless humiliation.



Norman had dragged Benson through psychological dirt until something inside him snapped. Until that monster clawed its way out.



So now, seeing Benson limp and weak at his feet, Norman had an idea.



Not a clean one. Not a noble one.



But maybe… an effective one.



He cleared his throat loudly—




Hggkkk—ptoo!




—and spat directly onto Benson’s face.



[…Session continues as provided, ending with:]




“What the hell do I have to do… to pull that demon out of you?”








Gouged Heart Still Beating



[This section continues as provided, starting with:]




“Probably… humiliation wasn’t the key.”[…and ending with:]





“You still owe me that shadow…”But the real Benson was already gone.Something else was rising.








Gouged Heart Still Beating



Norman stared straight at him.




“Probably… humiliation wasn’t the key.”




Last time, Dark Benson only came out after getting his head cracked open by that stocky kid with a metal pipe.Not when they mocked him.Not when they spit on him.But when they hurt him. For real.



So maybe pain was the switch.



Norman rolled his shoulders once, walked forward slowly—then without a word, drove five fingers deep into Benson’s right chest.



SHHLPK—



Benson jerked.




“Huh—!?”




Eyes bulged. Jaw dropped.



Norman twisted his wrist clockwise inside the flesh like turning a key—



—and yanked the heart out.



SPLRTCH.



A full, beating human heart, still dripping warm blood.Thump.Thump.



Benson didn’t fall.



He was still standing.Barely.Swaying like a busted streetlight in the wind.



He looked down. Saw the hole.Looked at the thing in Norman’s hand.




“Wh—what the fuck…?”




His lips trembled.




“That’s… that’s my heart…”




His voice cracked.




“It’s still beating…”





“I’m gonna die… I’m literally gonna die…”




Norman didn’t blink.




“Transform,” he said coldly.“Or die right now.”




Benson didn’t move. Couldn’t.He just stared at the hole in his chest.



Then—




“Okay! Okay, I’ll do it! Just… just put it back in! Please!”




Norman gave him one more look.



Then shoved it back in.



CHLOMP.



Benson gasped.His chest twitched.His whole body softened.




“Thank you… thank you so much…”




He looked almost peaceful.



Norman nodded once.




“Good.”“Now transform.”




But before anything could happen—Benson’s eyes rolled up.



His knees buckled.His whole body tilted sideways—



WHUMP.



He crashed to the ground like a bag of wet laundry.



Motionless.



Silent.



Dead.



Norman blinked.“No—no no no—”



He dropped down beside him and started shaking him violently.




“HEY!”“WAKE UP!”“You still owe me that fight!”




No response.




“You still owe me for that dog!”“You can’t just die like this!”





“Come on, man! Wake up!”“Earth to Benson! It’s breakfast time!”




Still nothing.



But deep inside—



Something was happening.



The heart inside that broken chest was twitching.Slowly, almost curiously, it started pulling the torn veins back together.Like it was reconnecting.



And Benson’s body…Started changing.



Skin turning pale.Nails growing sharp.Hair bleaching white.Joints cracking and shifting out of human shape.



Norman didn’t notice.



He was still kneeling. Still shouting. Still shaking the body.




“Don’t die on me yet…”“I’m not done with you.”“You still owe me that shadow…”




But the real Benson was already gone.



Something else was rising.


Chapter 73: Reckoning to the Darkness (Part 2)
==================================================

Poop Karma



Norman was still shaking Benson’s body when he heard it.



A voice. Low. Smug. Like the devil himself had just woken up from a nap.




“I’m back, baby.”




Norman froze mid-shake.



Then he saw it—Benson’s body rising. Not in a sudden jolt, but slowly, smoothly… like something inside was unfolding.



The guy was taller now. Pale as a ghost. His hair had turned long and bone-white, swaying gently like silk threads. His nails—no, claws—were at least ten inches long, sharp as knives. Two fangs peeked from behind a crooked little grin.



Norman’s heart dropped.




“No way…”




This wasn’t Benson anymore.



This was Dark Benson.



Before Norman could react, Kimmy—the big black dog who’d been nearby the whole time—lost her mind. She started barking like crazy, every woof echoing off the alley walls like an alarm.



But Dark Benson didn’t even glance at her.



In the blink of an eye—he vanished.



No sound. No blur. Just gone.



Then, out of nowhere, he was crouched right in front of Kimmy.




“Hey. There you are,” he said softly. “You’re such a little cutie.”




His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he was greeting a kitten, not a barking, pissed-off street dog.



Norman staggered back, eyes wide.




“W-What the hell? I didn’t even see you move. You just disappeared and popped up over there. How’s that possible?! What kind of sick trick is this?!”




Dark Benson turned his head, still crouched by the dog, still smiling.




“It’s not movement,” he said. “It’s instant transmission. Anywhere within twenty meters. No windup. No delay. I just… go.”




Norman stared at him.




“That’s not kung fu,” he muttered. “That’s cheating.”




But before he could process what he’d just seen—his gut twisted.



Something felt off.



Really off.



His eyes shot toward Kimmy.




“Kimmy—RUN!”




He threw out his hand like he could somehow snatch her out of danger from across the alley.



Too late.



Dark Benson’s claws moved.



So fast they didn’t look real.



SLASH. SLASH. SLASH. SLASH.



By the time Norman blinked, it was already over.



Kimmy was… gone.



Not entirely.



What was left of her looked like someone had dropped a meat grinder on a stuffed animal.



But one piece remained untouched.



Her butt.



Perfect. Pristine. Sitting there on the pavement like nothing happened.



Dark Benson stood over the mess, brushing his claws off casually on his pants.




“You liked to poop so much,” he said, almost sweetly. “So I let you keep the part that poops.”




Norman dropped to his knees.



His whole body shook. His face broke.



Tears spilled out of his eyes as he let out a guttural, raw scream.




“KIMMY!!”




His head snapped toward Dark Benson, eyes filled with disbelief and betrayal.




“How could you…?”




Dark Benson didn’t answer.



He just smiled.







The Unforgettable Pink Shirt



Norman stood up.



His knees shook. His jaw clenched. Blood still dripped somewhere behind him—but he didn’t care anymore.



He glared at the white-haired monster in front of him and said, through gritted teeth:




“I won’t forgive you. You douchebag demon.”




Dark Benson just chuckled.



He wagged his finger in that signature mocking way—wrist loose, elbow cocked, head tilted just enough to make it condescending.




“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no… That little punishment was just a friendly lesson for your dog. I was simply teaching her when and where to poop. Can’t just go defecating wherever you like, now can you?”




His voice was cold, almost surgical. Like he believed it.



Norman couldn’t hold it anymore.



He lunged.



Dark Benson casually stepped back, swaying side to side like a dancer, confident he could dodge everything. That smug, taunting grin never left his face.



But he misjudged.



Norman wasn’t the same guy from last time.



His speed—unrecognizable.



His claws—faster than the eye.



Dark Benson’s body tore open in a dozen places before he even registered the attack.



SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!



Blood sprayed everywhere—ribbons of red bursting from his chest, shoulders, arms, neck.



He staggered backward in disbelief, panting, blinking.




“You… You’re faster. Way faster.”




He stared at Norman like he was seeing a ghost from a nightmare. That same kid from before…




“Oh… pink shirt,” he muttered. “I remember you. You were the one dressed in a pink shirt. You crawled away like a little dog. And now… you’ve become something else.”




Norman didn’t even blink.



He nodded—slow and proud.




“That’s right. I am the dog man now.”




The two locked eyes.



Dark Benson gently stroked his chin, seemingly amused. His lips curled.




“Interesting…”




And then, just like that—his wounds closed.



Every single one.



The slashes stitched together in seconds, leaving behind flawless skin. Not even a scar.



His grin widened, colder now.




“I remember now. You were the one who spit at me that day. Not that skinny gangster beside you.”





“You lied to me. You betrayed your teammate… just to save your own skin.”




He stepped forward slowly.




“Pathetic.”




Norman didn’t flinch.




“Yeah. That was me. Not my teammate.”





“I’m the one who spit.”




He held his ground.



Behind him, the alley was quiet—except for the breeze brushing through.



He was still wearing that same shirt from back then.



Once pink.



Now sun-bleached, dirt-stained, dulled into a gray that barely held onto its old color.



But it was still there.



Proof that he’d survived.



That he’d come back stronger.



That he hadn’t forgotten.



And in this alley, in this moment…



That shirt still lived.



Not as fashion.



But as memory.



As pride.



As proof that no matter what he’d done in the past—Norman had changed.



He’d become unforgettable.



Just like the shirt.







The Silver Slashstorm



One second, they were just standing there.



The next—Boom.



Both of them lunged forward at the exact same moment. Norman. Dark Benson. Arms out. Claws up. No words.



Just pure motion.



Their claws tore through the air like blades in a blender, slicing and counter-slicing. The alley lit up with flickers of silver—so fast they looked like lightning bolts.



They both went in for their signature: Claw Gale.



Each slash met another slash. Each move cancelled by the other. They were moving at such a blistering pace, their claw strikes were grinding against each other in midair—sparks flying like someone was welding metal at full power.



The ground trembled. Nearby trash bags exploded from the shockwaves. But the damage?



Zero.



Not a scratch on either of them.



They locked eyes, both still panting, both still holding their stance.



Then—



Dark Benson smirked.




“Not bad,” he said.




And vanished.



Just poof—gone.



Norman didn’t flinch. His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared just a bit.



There.



He caught it—the shift in the breeze, the faint change in scent.



Norman didn’t even look.



He just slid his back foot, pivoted, and—



SWIPE!



Dark Benson’s head went flying.



Clean. Decisive. Beautiful.



But right before it hit the ground… a pale hand caught it.



Benson smirked from his own decapitated mouth.




“Good as new.”




He slammed the head right back onto his neck like a magnet snapping into place. No blood. No fuss. Just click—reconnected.



Then—gone again.



He reappeared right in front of Norman.



The clash resumed.



Claws against claws. Swipe after swipe. They were throwing wild gales again, silver sparks flashing every half-second. They weren’t even fighting anymore. They were dueling for dominance. Testing reflexes. Testing limits.



Still even.



Still no one bleeding.




“Dead even,” Dark Benson muttered. “Like two sides of a cursed coin.”




Before he could finish that thought—



CRACK!



Norman’s foot swung through and chopped off his arm.



Just like that.



Gone.



Dark Benson staggered.



His grin? Gone too.




“What the—”




Before he could say more, he caught his own arm, slapped it back onto the socket like plugging in a USB stick, and jumped away—this time appearing on top of a dented trash bin, way down the alley.



Far enough to breathe.



Far enough to think.



He looked at Norman from a distance now, sizing him up. That speed… that power… it wasn’t the same guy from last time. Not even close.



No more crawling dog.



Norman had become something else.



And Dark Benson finally realized—



He might not win this one.







The Undying Smile



Dark Benson’s eyes narrowed.



He had a thought.




“If I give up defense completely… pour everything into attack…”




He grinned slightly.




“Let’s see if this dog man can handle it.”




He stood still for a beat on top of the trash bin—then vanished.



No flash. No sound. Just gone.



A blink later—he appeared right in front of Norman.



No warning.



No words.



Just claws.



All offense. No defense.



The two collided instantly, claws flashing like silver blades under moonlight. Their arms blurred, clashing in a relentless storm.



CLANG. CLASH. SLASH.



But this time, Dark Benson wasn’t playing careful. He was going all in. Pure attack. He let Norman’s claws rip into him—skin tearing, blood flying—just so he could land hits of his own.



Norman didn’t hold back either.



Every step. Every angle. Every strike. Precise and brutal.



But Benson’s wild offense was relentless.



A few swipes landed—gashing deep into Norman’s ribs, across his chest.



Norman flinched. Just a little.



But it was enough.



He stepped forward—low, fast—then SLASH.



Both of Benson’s hands dropped to the ground.



His claws bounced off the pavement like broken blades.



Still, Benson didn’t even blink.



Didn’t flinch.



Just stood there.



Blood pouring freely from his arms.



That same smug grin still sitting on his face.




“Think that’s enough?” he whispered.




Norman narrowed his eyes.



He crouched low again.



Then said it, calm and deadly:




“Claw Gale Meteor Shower.”




And it rained.



Hundreds of silver arcs slashing through the air like falling stars. The alley filled with a shimmering blur of movement, the wind howling as Norman tore through what was left of Benson’s body.



Flesh. Bone. Mist.



Nothing was spared.



By the time it was over, there was almost nothing left—just floating particles in the air like scattered ashes.



Norman stood there.



Chest rising. Breath shaking.




“That has to be it…”




But just as the wind settled, he saw it.



The particles were pulling back together.



Gathering.



Twisting.



And then… the shape reformed.



Limbs. Torso. Head.



Whole again.



Untouched.



Still smiling.




“Good as new.”




Norman stumbled back, blinking hard. His heart pounding now—not from rage—but from disbelief.



Benson took a step forward, slow and steady.



His tone was calm. Even casual.




“You’re faster now. Stronger.”




He tilted his head slightly.




“But you take damage. And that damage stays with you.”




A pause.




“Me? Every wound I take…”“It heals instantly.”




Norman clenched his fists.



That chill again.



Not from the wind.



From the realization.



This thing… might be truly unstoppable.




“This fight?” Benson said, still smiling. “You’ve already lost, pink shirt. You just don’t know it yet.”




And in the silence that followed—



Norman said nothing.



But deep down…



He knew the bastard might be right.







The Myth of Godlike Regeneration



Norman adjusted his stance.



He wasn’t going to win with brute force. Not like this.



So, he shifted tactics—both hands up now, fully on defense. No more slashing. No more charging. Just focus. Block everything.



Dark Benson lunged in again, grinning like a maniac, claws flashing in the dim light.



Their claws collided.



Sparks flew.



But Norman held his ground. Every attack was met, deflected, neutralized.



Benson laughed as their claws tangled in a flurry of slashes.




“Not bad! We could keep going like this forever! Let’s see how long you last!”




But what Benson didn’t realize… Norman still had one more weapon.



His bite.



His jaw wasn’t just strong—it was a monster.



In the middle of a clash, Norman dipped down suddenly and chomped onto Benson’s forearm.



A violent twist—death roll style.



Flesh tore. Tendons popped. And just like that—the entire forearm came off.



Blood splattered.



They broke apart for a beat.



Norman stood there, panting slightly. Then, with a casual flick of his neck, he spit the severed arm onto the ground.




“Here. You can have it back.”




The arm, as if pulled by a magnet, zipped across the dirt and reattached to Benson’s stump.



Click.



It snapped in like Lego. Instantly sealed.




“Good as new,” Benson whispered, flexing his fingers.




Another round kicked off.



This time—same rhythm. Same claw barrage. But Norman saw his moment.



Another bite—this time the other hand.



He twisted again, harder. And this time, something went wrong.



He swallowed it.



It wasn’t intentional, but it happened. The severed palm went straight down Norman’s throat mid-roll.



He froze, standing upright, blinking like, Wait… did I just eat that?



Benson backed away and raised his arm. His face tensed.



No regeneration.



The wrist sealed, the bleeding stopped—but… no hand.



Nothing grew back.



Norman stared. Then slowly smiled.



Benson looked confused, even a little nervous.




“What the hell…”




Inside, he was panicking.




“Oh shit… I’ve got strong healing. I can fuse pieces together, but to create new mass—real flesh, bone, tissue—that needs raw materials. Protein. Fibers. Nutrients. I can’t just pop a hand out of thin air…”




He managed to stop the bleeding, yeah. But the hand?



Gone.



Still digesting somewhere inside Norman.



And Norman saw that hesitation.



That crack in the armor.



He smiled wider.




“Looks like I might not lose after all…”




Then, with teeth still stained red, he muttered:




“I think I’ll eat the other one too.”








Retreat of the Dark Shadow



The fight wasn’t over.



Not yet.



But something had changed.



Benson only had one claw left. Norman? He had two—and one hell of a jaw.



The final exchange hit like a storm.



Norman rushed forward. Fast. Brutal. Surgical.



Within seconds, Benson’s last remaining arm was gone. Then his thigh. Then his shin. Then—



His neck.



One final desperate swipe from Benson barely landed—a deep slash across Norman’s neck. Blood gushed out. A real one.



But Norman didn’t fall.



He kept moving.



As Benson’s limbs scattered through the air—trying to return to him like puzzle pieces—Norman leapt up and bit one of the forearms right out of the air.



Took off like a dog with a chew toy.



He ran several meters away, sat down, and started eating.



A calm, focused chew.



He stripped every inch of meat off that thing, like he was enjoying a steak at a backyard barbecue. Once it was nothing but bone, he chucked it aside like it was nothing.



The clean bone zipped right back toward Benson’s torso—snapped into place.



But now?It was just… a bone. No meat. No muscle. No strength.



It looked ridiculous—like a cartoon skeleton stuck onto an otherwise mangled corpse.



For the first time in this whole battle…



Benson didn’t smile.



He stood there, bloodied, limbs half-attached, breath shallow. He looked at Norman—who was now leaning against a wall, panting, but grinning.



Norman wiped the blood off his chin and muttered:




“Man… I’m so full.”




Benson narrowed his eyes.



He wasn’t going to win this.



Not with one claw.Not with half his strength.Not with Norman still standing.



And in the blink of an eye—



ZIP.



He vanished.



A streak of faint static light remained—then nothing.



Norman blinked. He looked around, ready to chase—But the pain in his neck hit all at once.



The bleeding hadn’t stopped. It was deep.



He dropped to his knees and clutched his shirt against the wound. There was no chasing now.



He sat down.



Exhaled.







Across the street, inside a nearby apartment building…



A flash of static light zipped into the living room.



It was Benson.



He tumbled across the carpet and collapsed face-first onto a stranger’s leather couch.



The place was empty. Probably on vacation. Lucky for him.



He didn’t move for several minutes.



Just laid there—face buried in the cushions—muttering:




“…Goddamn dog…”




Then he slowly began regenerating.



One nerve at a time.One bone. One tendon.



It took half a day just to regrow his two arms.



And when it was finally done…




“Good as new…”




He whispered.



And passed out cold.







Hours later, the normal Benson woke up groggy, face smashed into the couch armrest.



He blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling.



Confused.



Panicked.



He sat up fast and shouted—




“Holy shit! Where the fuck am I?!Did someone kidnap me!?”




Nobody answered.



Just the sound of a leaky faucet and birds chirping outside the open window.



The Dark Shadow had survived.



But for the first time in his cursed, invincible life…



He ran.


Chapter 74: SkyView Mall
==================================================

Country Folks to Urban Mall



They had just moved in last week.



A middle-aged woman pushed a baby stroller with one hand and held her son’s hand with the other. The boy looked about six, maybe seven—bright eyes, worn-out slippers, and a voice full of wonder.




“Mama, SkyView Mall… it must be really pretty, right?”




She smiled.




“Yeah, probably. Let’s walk a little faster—it’s just a block ahead.”




They crossed the street.



Then came the crowd.



People everywhere—packed like grains of rice in a broken bag. Both sides of the road were lined with homeless people, crouching, squatting, or just lying down like trash no one wanted to pick up. Some held signs. Most held nothing.



The boy stared, wide-eyed. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he hacked up some phlegm—loud—and shot it straight into a ceramic bowl sitting in front of one of the beggars.




Pah! Right in the middle.




The beggar flinched.




“Fuck you!”




The kid grinned.




“Fuck you twice!”





“Fuck you three times!” the beggar barked, sitting up.





“Fuck you infinite times!” the boy yelled over his shoulder, already being dragged along.




The three of them reached the entrance—a huge glass revolving door.



All three tried to enter at once.



It didn’t go well.



They squeezed in together. The stroller slammed into one side. The boy’s slipper scraped against the panel and almost flew off. The mom twisted her body, trying to push forward while the door was still rotating.



Behind them, the crowd started shouting.




“What the fuck—move already!”





“You can’t all go at the same time, damn it!”




They struggled, clumsily rotating through a quarter… then another… stuck again.



It took almost a full minute, but they finally emerged from the other side—faces red, breathing heavy.



The boy stood still for a second—then suddenly gasped.



His face exploded with emotion.



Eyes wide. Mouth wide open. Eyebrows raised and lowered like waves. His hands went up, then down, then up again. It was every possible expression a kid could make—all in ten seconds.




“Ohhh yeah baby…”




But the dream lasted exactly two seconds.



The floors were scuffed. The tiles uneven. People had laid out blankets and were selling used socks, broken remotes, knockoff batteries, half-rotten fruit, and what looked like grilled raccoon.



Some stores had people standing or crouching out front, smoking like it was their full-time job.



Suddenly, two guys burst out of a shop. They were both wearing basic nose masks—the cheap kind you’d see on lazy serial killers in news footage.



They sprinted, full speed, shoving people aside as the store owner chased them out.




“Stop right there! How dare you shoplift!”




Nobody stepped in. Nobody cared.



Outside the massive glass windows, the so-called “view” was just a giant junkyard—rusted beams, broken furniture, trash piled into hills.



Then—



He walked by.



A massive, naked man.



Muscles thick like steel. Skin pale, scarred, and sweaty. Nothing covered. Not a single thread.



It was Dave.



And it had been months since anyone saw him even attempt to wear clothing.



He strutted right past the family like he was walking the beach on a private island. Everything swinging. Nothing sacred. People tried not to look. Some failed.



The mom gasped in horror.



Then she snapped:




“Get away from us, you perv! You freak! You son of a bitch!”




Dave stopped.



Turned.



And said in a low, sharp voice:




“Shut your mouth, you rural peasants.”




She froze.



Then instantly grabbed her son’s wrist and started dragging him away—fast.



The boy stumbled, then looked back.




“Mama, wait! My slipper—I lost my slipper!”





“Leave it!” she snapped. “Don’t look back. We’re not going back for that slipper!”








The Pink Connection



Dave strutted down the SkyView mall’s dingy side corridor like it was a fashion runway nobody asked for. People parted as he walked—not out of respect, but to avoid touching his exposed body.



Then someone walked toward him.



Tall. Slim. Calm eyes. And staring—directly—at Dave’s lower half.



Dave slowed down, unsettled for the first time in a long time. Usually, people pretended not to see anything. They glanced away, made a face, muttered under their breath. But this guy? He was locked in like a sniper.




“What are you looking at?” Dave asked. Then added, sharper this time:“Dude, you in the grey shirt.”




The man looked down at his shirt.




“Shit,” he muttered.




It was Norman.



This used to be a pink shirt. People even called him Pink Shirt. That was his thing. But after too many nights out in the wind, rain, fights, and whatever else, the color had faded—washed down to a dull, defeated grey.




Maybe I should buy a new one, he thought.This doesn’t match my name at all.




He looked up at Dave with sudden excitement.




“Oh really. Grey shirt, huh? I’m going to buy a new one. I like pink shirt. What about you? You don’t like any clothing? Naked like this? You should buy something to cover yourself, man.”




Dave lowered his head slightly. For the first time, his walk slowed.



His voice came out quieter now.




“Actually… they used to call me The Underwear.”




Norman blinked.




“…What?”





“Yeah,” Dave said, eyes somewhere far off. “That was my nickname. The Underwear.But one day… someone cut it.With a samurai sword.Shredded it to pieces.”




He paused. Then added, almost like a confession:




“Now I’m nothing.Without my triangle, woman-shaped pink underwear.”




Norman’s eyes lit up.



Suddenly, this naked freak didn’t seem so freaky anymore.They had something in common.



They were both men of pink.




“Why don’t we just go inside the store and buy one?” Norman said, stepping forward with unexpected excitement. “Let’s go, man!”




He hadn’t even planned on buying clothes today. But now?



Now he absolutely had to.A new pink shirt—that was non-negotiable.



He was already halfway turned toward the store entrance when he noticed—



Dave wasn’t moving.



The big man just stood there.



Still. Silent.



And then, quietly, he said:




“Sorry… I can’t.”








On to the Clothing Retail



Norman stepped in front of Dave again.




“Come on, man. What’s the big deal?Buying a shirt can’t be that hard.Why’d you say you can’t? Huh? Why not?”




Dave looked down.



Then said quietly,




“The truth is… I don’t have any money.”




Norman sighed, hands lifting into that classic impatient gesture—half open, half annoyed.




“Come on, man. A pair of underwear’s, what, a few bucks?I don’t believe for a second you don’t have even a single dollar on you.”




Dave didn’t argue.



Instead, he slowly turned around in place, showing off his fully exposed body like it was obvious.




“See? I’m naked.Where the hell would I be hiding money?”




Norman blinked. Then smirked.




“What, you hiding it in your butt hole?”




Without missing a beat, Dave squeezed and let out a heavy, echoing fart.



Then a wet sound.



Too wet.



Something shot out.



It wasn’t gas.



A warm, brown splatter hit a kid in the face several feet behind them. The boy screamed and dropped his juice box.



Dave turned back around calmly.




“You see? I really got nothing.”




Norman raised both hands and shook his head slowly.




“Alright, alright. I get your point.You don’t need to force it out to prove it.”




He took a breath.




“I believe you.”




Dave sighed.




“Whatever. I think being naked’s not so bad.You just go buy your clothes, man. Don’t worry about me.”




Norman looked at him.



The poor bastard.



The way he stood there, defeated and raw—still somehow proud in his nudity—reminded Norman they really did have something in common.



Pink.



They both liked pink.




“Alright,” Norman said. “You know what?Today, I’ll cover you.You pick it, I’ll pay.”




Dave blinked. His eyes lit up like Christmas lights.




“Really? Seriously? You’re sure?”





“Yeah, of course. It’s just a few bucks. Come on.”




Dave was so overwhelmed, he grabbed Norman’s arm and wrapped himself around it, almost like a child clinging to a parent.



They began walking toward the store together.



Norman instantly shook him off.




“Hey, come on man. Don’t be gay.We still need some distance, alright?”




Dave let go.



The two walked side by side through the open entrance of the cheap retail shop.



Norman didn’t hesitate—he scanned the racks and found it.



A pink T-shirt with a big Hello Kitty on the chest.



Something about it just felt right.



He grabbed it and threw it on without even checking the size.



Meanwhile, Dave marched to the underwear section like a man on a mission.



A young female store clerk spotted him approaching. She started her standard greeting routine, clipboard in hand.




“Hello sir, can I help you with—”




She froze.



Looked at Dave.



Looked down at Dave.



Her mouth opened like she was about to yell “Pervert!” right there in public.



But she didn’t.



She was a professional.



She blinked, forced a smile, and said:




“No problem, sir.I’ll help you find a pair that fits just right.”








Generation Z Fashion



Dave pointed to a drawer of underwear and said,




“I like the ones that look like—”




Before he could finish, the female store clerk already handed him a pair of sleek black boxers.




“This is the most popular style for men now,” she said. “Black is masculine. Very modern.”




Dave frowned.



That wasn’t what he had in mind.He’d been about to say he wanted the pink, triangle-shaped panties—the kind women wore. But he got cut off.




“I don’t like these,” he said.




The clerk, undeterred, grabbed a few other boxers in different colors—blue, red, even one with pineapples.Dave shook his head each time.



Just then, Norman casually chimed in from the side,




“He likes pink. Just like me. We’re both fans of the color pink.”




Mildy, the unlicensed doctor, happened to be walking by.Short and skinny in his oversized white coat, he turned with a spark of curiosity in his eyes.




“Oh, good choice,” Mildy said. “Pink’s not my favorite color… but it’s definitely my second favorite.”




He gave a polite wave to the clerk, signaling her to assist someone else. She stepped away without a word.



Mildy walked over to a nearby shelf, rummaged through a bin, and pulled out a pair of pink socks. He studied them, then tossed one away and kept the other.



Without saying much, he leaned in and gently slipped the sock over Dave’s penis.



Tight. Snug. Like a custom fit.




“What the fuck are you doing to my cock?” Dave blurted.




Mildy, completely unfazed, replied,




“There’s no excess fabric. This is what Gen Z is into—sexy and minimal. Like the women’s C-string. Smallest fabric, biggest purpose. It’s got intention. It’s elegant, even. Zoomers love this kind of thing.”




Dave looked down.Norman looked down.



Then they both nodded—slowly, thoughtfully.



Dave hesitated.




“I… I don’t know about that.”








Laced Secret Revealing



Norman’s face twisted.



Without a word, he stormed forward, grabbed the sock, and yanked it off in one quick motion.




“This looks ridiculous! One of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever seen in my life!”




But maybe he pulled too hard.Maybe he gripped too tight.



Because the moment it came off, Dave’s thighs slammed shut.He grabbed his groin and howled in pain:




“Oh my god! It hurts!”




Norman stepped back instantly, hands up.




“Oops, my bad. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”




Dave grit his teeth and stood up slowly, one hand still covering himself.




“It’s okay…”




Just then, Mildy, already halfway out the door, turned back briefly.He glanced at the scene, then sighed like a disappointed uncle.




“Kids these days… They don’t know what fashion is. No sense of pairing, no understanding of balance.”




And with that, he walked out.



But the air was still trembling.



Suddenly—



BOOM.



A thunderous noise exploded from the far side of the store.



A skinny nerd went flying across the tile floor like a ragdoll, knocking over an entire rack of jeans.



Everyone turned.



There, standing in the middle of the aisle like a dropped statue—shirt wide open, buttons flapping—was Dinello.



His fist still raised. His face filled with disgust.



He barked:




“Did you just touch my junk?”





“I swear to god, next time I’ll punch you to death!”




The nerd on the ground curled up, voice trembling:




“I didn’t mean to! I just accidentally—!”




His voice was soft. High. Almost feminine.



The narrator cut in, flat and cold:




His voice sounded like a woman’s.He was one of those sissies.A gay one.




Dinello pointed toward the door with one foot:




“Get the fuck out.”




And then—like a delayed shockwave—the wind from that punch swept through the entire store.



Clothes fluttered.Hangers clashed.Discount signs flapped like birds taking flight.



Even the female store clerk’s skirt blew upward.



For a full second, everyone saw it.



Pink. Laced. Triangular.



Dave’s eyes locked onto it.And everything stopped.



He had found it.



The One.



The exact shade. The exact triangle. The laced pink pattern that completed him.



He gasped—



Then sprinted forward.



Not thinking. Not blinking.



Just running—arms flailing, knees kicking high—like a man chasing the one thing that could fix his entire life.



He stopped right in front of the girl.



Breathless.



Bent over.



Hands on his knees.



His mouth opened, but no words came out.



Just gasping.



The girl didn’t move.Didn’t speak.



She stood straight, composed, still holding the clipboard against her chest. Her expression was calm. Focused.



She was waiting.



Waiting for Dave to say whatever it was he needed to say.



But Dave just stood there—wheezing.



In that one brief pause, the whole store fell silent again.



Even the clothes stopped swaying.



Even Norman stopped judging.



Even Dinello stood still, his shirt blowing slightly in the aftermath.



Everyone was watching.



Dave tried again—He inhaled.Raised a finger.Opened his mouth—




“I… I…”








Return of Underwear



Dave finally caught his breath.



One word at a time, broken up by gasps, he spoke.




“I… I found it…The one I’ve been looking for…That laced… pink… triangle underwear…It’s the exact one… you’re wearing.”




The female clerk’s eyes widened.



She froze for a second.Did she just hear that right?



Her face twitched. She took half a step back, instinctively lifting the clipboard between them.



She almost blurted something.Almost slapped him.



But she held it in.She reminded herself:




“I am a professional.”




She took a slow breath, forced a smile, and replied as calmly as she could:




“I’m… not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”




Dave wasn’t listening.



With no hesitation—he reached forward and flipped up her entire skirt.



Right there.In front of the whole store.



He pointed directly at the pink laced triangle underwear beneath.




“I mean this one—look! This design, this color—exactly what I’ve been searching for!”




He even gave the elastic a little flick with his finger.




“So stretchy too! This is what I need!”




That was it.



The clerk’s face went from composed to crimson in one second flat.



Her hand moved faster than thought.



SMACK!



She slapped Dave so hard he nearly spun around.




“PERV!”




Everyone in the store turned.



Dave stood there, stunned, eyes watery.




“I… I just wanted to buy a pair…”




The girl blinked. Her hand still half-raised.Regret flickered across her face.



She lowered her arm and took another breath.




“I… apologize. That was unprofessional.”




She composed herself, turned around, and walked calmly to the display shelf.



A moment later, she returned holding a folded pair of laced pink triangle underwear.



She held it up, then gave it a little tug—Stretchy. Soft. Stylish.




“This is the one, isn’t it?”




Dave’s eyes sparkled. He took it gently with both hands.His lips trembled.



Then, without looking at anyone, he raised one fist and whispered:




“I… the Underwear… shall return.”



Chapter 75: Petty Crimes (Part 1)
==================================================

Shoplifters



It was a lucky day for both Norman and Dave.



They had found the perfect outfits—and they were already wearing them.



Norman had slipped into a bright pink t-shirt with a cartoon Hello Kitty smiling across the chest.Dave had pulled on a snug, lace-trimmed, triangle-cut pink underwear. It hugged him perfectly. Not too tight, not too loose—just right. He even did a little stretch to make sure it stayed in place.




“Alright,” Dave said. “Thanks, man. Let’s go pay.”




Norman turned, giving him a funny look.




“Pay?”“I don’t pay for clothes.”




Then, without another word, Norman sprinted toward the exit.



He didn’t go through the crowd. He didn’t even use the floor.



He ran up the wall.



Like gravity didn’t matter.



He zipped along the vertical surface like a human spider, moving at what had to be over 100 kilometers per hour.Before anyone could process what was happening, he shot down the wall again—landing near the mall’s ground-level entrance.



Security shouted.




“Hey! Stop right there! Shoplifting!”




But he was already long gone.



Dave blinked.Still standing near the counter.Still proudly wearing nothing but his new pink underwear.



He looked around awkwardly.




“Oh crap…”




Then took off running.



But Dave didn’t have wall-running kung fu.He didn’t have 100kph legs.



What he had was… average cardio.



And the security guards were faster.



Two of them caught up and grabbed him—one by each arm.




“A big guy like you, stealing underwear?”





“You think you can just walk out like that?”




Dave thrashed and shouted:




“Get off me! Please! Get off me!”




Suddenly—BAM!



He flung both arms outward, and the guards flew like paper dolls.



The one on the right slammed into a pillar and dropped to the floor, spitting blood.The one on the left flew over the fourth-floor railing—



CRACK.



All the way down to the first-floor food court.



He didn’t move after that.



But somehow, the mall stayed weirdly calm.



Nearby teens kept eating their noodles.No one screamed.No one ran.



It was like this kind of thing happened all the time.



Dave stood still—staring at his own hands. Breathing heavy.



Something inside him had changed.



There was power.



And not just any power—something stretchy. Something new.




“My strength is back,” he whispered.“But this time… it’s stretchy.”




His fists clenched.







Partners in Crime



They stepped out of Skyview Mall like nothing happened.



Norman led the way, strutting in his brand-new Hello Kitty pink t-shirt, the cartoon cat smiling proudly across his chest.Dave followed behind, walking a little funny—because the only thing he was wearing below the waist was a laced pink triangle-cut women’s underwear.



But he didn’t care.Neither of them did.



Dave didn’t ask Norman why he didn’t pay for the clothes.Didn’t scold him.Didn’t say a word.



Because deep down, something about that little crime felt good.



He finally asked:




“Hey bro… what’s the move now?”




Norman scratched his stomach.




“It’s lunchtime, man. I didn’t even have breakfast. Let’s get some brunch.”




Dave nodded quickly.




“I’m down. Just… don’t tell me you’re doing it again.Dine and dash?”




Norman stopped walking.



He turned to face him, stared for a beat, then narrowed his eyes:




“You think I’m that kind of guy?”




Dave shook his head.




“Nope, sir.”




Then—without missing a beat—Norman burst out:




“Of course I am!”




They both laughed. Loud. No guilt. No filter.



Then, almost like it was planned:




“Let’s go, man!”




And just like that, they took off—two idiots in ridiculous outfits, strutting down the street like they owned the world.



A breeze blew through.Norman’s Hello Kitty tee fluttered in the wind.Dave’s pink lace hugged tight, shining like silk under the sunlight.



Two proud shoplifters.Two walking crimes.One glorious lunch ahead.







Angry Chef



The door of a high-end French restaurant suddenly exploded open.



A musclehead burst through, panting like hell.



And right behind him—on all fours—came a blur. A human-shaped blur. Running like a damn dog.



That blur was Norman.



He didn’t just run. He flowed. Four-limbed, wild, and way too fast for a human. He passed the musclehead like it was nothing, left him in the dust, and kept going.



In his mouth?



A massive, bright-red lobster. Fully cooked. Still dripping.



Behind them, three furious chefs stormed out of the restaurant, white aprons flapping in the wind like capes.



One of them had a soup ladle.



He wasn’t holding it like a cooking tool. He was gripping it like a weapon.



Raised high. Shiny. Still dripping clam chowder.



He looked absolutely unhinged—like a knight charging into battle, armed with kitchenware.



Meanwhile, the musclehead who started this whole mess?



That was Dave.



Still running. Flailing. Stumbling.



Arms swinging like wet ropes. Legs pumping with desperation. His eyes darted around, looking for escape—but there was none.



He slammed into two pedestrians, sending one spinning across the crosswalk and the other tumbling into a flower stand.



The chefs didn’t slow down.



Then, way ahead, Dave saw Norman again.



He didn’t vanish around a corner.



No.



He ran straight up vertically—up the wall of an apartment building. Like it was flat ground.



Dave’s jaw dropped. A weird mix of admiration and jealousy bloomed in his chest.




“How the hell is he that fast… and why does it look so natural!?”




By the time Dave blinked, Norman was already sitting on the rooftop ledge, dangling his legs, casually chewing on the lobster like it was a sandwich.



And Dave?



Still getting chased.



He sucked in air and kept sprinting.



Then—



One of the chefs stopped.



His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared.




“Tch… I didn’t want to do this.”




He dropped the ladle with a clang.



And whispered—




“Angry Chef.”




He tensed—shoulders wound up like springs.



And then—



BOOM.



He launched through the air like a human cannonball. A perfect parabolic arc. Arms tight. Apron flying.



Just like a damn Angry Bird.



Dave caught the shadow above him.



He looked up.



Eyes wide. Mouth open.




“WHO THE FUCK FLINGS THEMSELVES LIKE THAT?!”








Perpetual Flee



Dave was running for his life—arms flailing, legs wobbling, sweat flying.



Then out of the corner of his eye… he saw something.



A chef.



Flying toward him. Full speed. Head first. Like a cannonball with a kitchen vendetta. Like an Angry Bird, if it trained in culinary school.




“Oh shit oh shit oh my god—” Dave’s brain went into overdrive.




He casually sidestepped—just one clean meter to the left.



BOOM!The chef hit the sidewalk with bone-shattering force.



Head-first.



Concrete cracked. Dust exploded. His entire upper body vanished into the ground—only his waist and legs stuck out, perfectly upright like some kind of cursed street decoration.



Behind him, the two other chefs skidded to a stop, horrified.




“Oh my god,” one of them whispered. “He’s dead…”




They rushed over and grabbed his legs.



They pulled.



And pulled.



But when they finally yanked something loose, it was only his legs and waist.



The rest?



Gone.



Fused into the pavement like he’d been born from it. His face still visible in the sidewalk—painted in concrete like a solemn memorial. Calm. Peaceful. Almost artistic.




“Is this his tombstone?”“No… it’s his portrait.”








Later that day—Norman and Dave were still at it.



Different blocks. Different crimes. Same energy.



They sprinted out of a movie theater— a popcorn machine clattering behind them, ticket clerk in pursuit.



They zoomed out of a grocery store— arms full of snacks, cashier chasing with barcode gun in hand.



By nightfall, they were under a quiet lamppost.



Norman leaned against it, scrolling his phone.



Dave stumbled over, gasping, hands on his knees.




“How the heck you run so fast, man?!”




Norman didn’t even glance at him.



He just smirked.



Like this was the most natural day of his life.







Accelerated Muscles



In the blink of an eye, a few weeks had passed.



Dave and Norman were sitting on a bench by the bay, staring out at the water. The wind was soft. Seagulls called in the distance.



Both of them were holding plastic containers of Halal food—chicken over rice. Naturally, it was stolen.



Dave took a huge bite, then leaned back with a satisfied groan.




“Man… I’ve been eating good lately.”




His eyes lit up as he chewed.So much protein. So many rich, juicy meats.He could feel something changing.




“I think my protein quality’s gone up, bro. Like, way up. My muscles are literally screaming right now.”




He wasn’t kidding.



His body felt alive—like every muscle fiber was dancing, howling in joy. Something was evolving inside him.



Then he raised his right arm and flexed.



His bicep bulged up tight like a ripe melon.




“You see this, pink shirt? You see how strong this bicep’s gotten?”




Norman didn’t even look.



His eyes were locked on Dave’s plate instead—specifically the biggest piece of chicken.



With a quick flick of the wrist, Norman jabbed forward with his fork, trying to snatch it.



But just as the fork came close—



Dave vanished.



Gone. Blinked out like a magic trick.



Norman blinked.Then turned—and saw him.



Dave was now ten meters away, sitting calmly on another bench, still holding his food.



Like nothing had happened.




“What the hell…?”




Even Norman looked a little shaken.That speed…That movement…



It wasn’t normal.



For a guy who used to be clumsy and slow, Dave had gotten fast. Really fast.



But then—before Dave could even smirk—



Norman vanished.



Just like that.



And in the next instant, he was standing right in front of Dave.Fork in hand.With the biggest piece of chicken already stabbed on the tip.



Dave froze, confused.



He didn’t even feel it leave his plate.



Norman raised the fork, admiring his prize like a lazy hunter showing off a fresh kill.




“Still got a long way to go, muscle boy.”




Dave slumped.




“Damn it…”




Even now, Norman was in a different league.



All Dave could do… was go back to chewing.



Still dumb. Still hungry.But now—quietly—stronger than before.







Perv Ain’t Real Perv



The next day, they wandered into the red-light district.



Flashing neon signs. Massage flyers blowing across the street like dead leaves. Sketchy parlors everywhere—some small and shady, others weirdly fancy, like they were trying too hard.



Norman stretched his back, cracked his neck, and muttered—




“Man… been running every day. My whole body’s sore.”




He slapped his own shoulder a couple times.




“Feels stiff. Real stiff. Think I need a little reset.”




Dave gave his own bicep a quick squeeze.




“Yeah, I could go for one too.”




They scanned the street. Picked the flashiest parlor they could find.



Gold trim. Velvet curtains. Marble tiles on the front steps. The kind of place that screams “totally legitimate business.”



They walked in like they owned the place.



They kinda did.







The host led them to a double room. They each got the four-hands special. No hesitation.



After all—They never pay for anything.







For Dave, this was his first massage ever.



At the beginning? He loved it.



Warm hands. Calming music. Oil that smelled like lavender and mystery. The tension in his muscles started to melt like butter on rice.



He was finally relaxing.



Then—



One of the girl’s hands slid inside his underwear.



Dave’s body locked up instantly.




“Wait, what—what’s going on?”




The girl leaned closer. Her voice was sweet, almost innocent.




“Do you want… special service?”




Dave jumped up like a fire alarm went off.




“NO!! No no no no!”








Here’s the thing about Dave:



He looks like a perv.That’s just the vibe.



But truth is?



He’s not.



He doesn’t care about girls. Doesn’t even think about that stuff.



What he cares about… is muscle.



Strength. Power. Gains.



That’s his whole thing. That’s his romance.



Meanwhile…



Marvel?



Soft smile. Gentle voice. Puppy-dog eyes.



Yeah, that guy’s a total degenerate.



Funny how the world works.







Back in the massage room—



Dave couldn’t take it anymore.



He exploded off the bed, bolted toward the window, and launched himself straight through the glass.



CRASH.



Second floor. Full-body dive.



He landed on the sidewalk with a heavy thud—rolled once, then popped up like it was a track meet.



Gone.



Inside, Norman lifted his head.



Saw the broken window. Saw the girl looking confused.



Then laid back down, grinning.




“I’ll take his extra time.”








Right across the street—



Sitting on top of a headless corpse like it was a bench, sipping coffee from a vending machine can—



Michael.



Buttoned shirt. Slacks. Shiny shoes.Golden-rimmed glasses.



The Humble Organization’s enforcer.



He watched Dave fly out the window. But all he saw was the back.



Didn’t get a look at the face.



Didn’t matter.



He stood up. Calmly. Like he was going for a walk.




“Just another loser.”




He adjusted his sleeves. Took one last sip of coffee.




“Alright then… I’m gonna chop his head off. Just like anyone else who enjoys… and doesn’t pay.”



Chapter 76: Petty Crimes (Part 2)
==================================================

Fuck and Dash



Dave stood on the sidewalk, brushing dust off his body.



His heart was still racing.



Those two massage girls had been way too intense. Way too touchy. If he hadn’t slipped out in time, who knows what might’ve happened?



They were this close to violating him. Not even emotionally—physically.



He let out a shaky breath, muttered to himself:




“Good thing I got outta there when I did… I’d call that a clean escape.”




But just as the words left his mouth—



A deep, steady voice came from behind him.



Low, sharp. No anger, just… gravity.




“Escape, huh? You escaped the parlor without paying. That much is true. But you won’t escape from me.”




Dave froze.



He turned slowly—real slow.



And there he was.



Michael. Golden-rimmed glasses. Pressed slacks. Leather briefcase in one hand. Calm, composed, terrifying as ever.



Dave’s eyes widened. He took a step back.




“Oh—oh no, no, it’s not what you think,” he stammered, hands waving nervously. “I wasn’t—look, I didn’t even finish the massage, okay? Technically, I left before anything happened.”




He paused. Thought about it for a second.



Then added quietly:




“…Kind of.”




Michael raised an eyebrow.



He took a moment. Then slowly stood up straight, lifting the briefcase as if it weighed nothing.




“Dine and dash?” He shook his head. “Nah. That’s not the phrase. The correct term is—fuck and dash.”




Dave’s face turned pale.



He stiffened. Literally.



A cold sweat ran down his back. His whole body tensed up—especially his—




“No! No no no!” he blurted. “That’s not what happened! Don’t say it like that—it sounds so bad!”




Michael blinked once, slowly.



Then, as if realizing he’d gone a bit too far, he softened ever so slightly.




“You’re right,” he said. “My bad. I shouldn’t have used such crude language. I meant: ‘Enjoyed the special service and dashed.’”




Dave’s jaw dropped. His lips quivered. He couldn’t take this anymore.



Suddenly, he pointed behind Michael and yelled:




“LOOK! There’s some weirdo pooping on the sidewalk!”




Michael didn’t turn.



Didn’t even flinch.



But Dave was already gone—spinning on his heel and sprinting like his life depended on it.



Because for him, it usually did.



Every day was just a new variation of the same routine: Stretch. Dash. Run like hell.



Michael stood still.



Watched Dave running off, arms flailing, knees pumping—but didn’t bother chasing.



He just stood there.



A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.







The Ruthless Humble Enforcer



Michael stood still, watching Dave run.



Something was off.



That speed—wasn’t the same old slow, clumsy Dave he remembered. The guy was actually fast now. Like, really fast.



But what stood out even more?



The ridiculous triangle-shaped pink laced underwear riding up against Dave’s lower back. So bright. So feminine. It clashed violently with his sun-darkened skin.



Michael sighed.




“He looks even more ridiculous than usual…”




He didn’t chase.Didn’t need to.



Instead, he crouched slightly, adjusted his footing, and swung his briefcase behind him—then hurled it forward like a discus.



The thing spun in the air like a whirling blade—and cracked into the back of Dave’s knee.




“AGHH—!”




Dave’s leg buckled instantly.



He faceplanted hard on the pavement.



Michael walked forward calmly, lips curled into a faint smirk.




“Of all people… you tried to trick me? With a line like that?”




He was, of course, referring to Dave’s last-second shout:




“LOOK! There’s some weirdo pooping on the sidewalk!”




Michael rolled his eyes—until, out of pure reflex, he turned to glance behind him.



And there it was.



Tom.



Squatting on the sidewalk.Expression focused.Pushing something… solid… out.



Michael’s jaw dropped.




“What the fuck…”




He shook his head and muttered,




“Jesus… whatever.”




Turning back, he now stood face to face with Dave—who had just pushed himself off the ground, still wincing from the blow.



They were chest to chest, barely an inch apart.Michael had to tilt his head up slightly—Dave was half a head taller.



But Michael didn’t care.



He stared straight into Dave’s eyes.




“Hey, big guy. You remember a few months back? You kept begging me for a fight.”




His voice was calm. Measured. Cold.




“Well, today’s your lucky day.But this time, you don’t need to challenge me—I’m challenging you.”




He took a breath. Then added—




“If you win, I’ll let you go.But if you lose… I’m taking your head.”




Dave’s face went pale. He knew what that meant.Michael wasn’t bluffing. Not even close.



This was Captain Lam—the most ruthless enforcer in the entire Humble Organization.And skipping out on payment from their massage parlor?



That was a death sentence.



Dave clenched his teeth. There was no way out.Nowhere to run. No more excuses.



He exhaled, lowered his stance, and said:




“Alright.”




Then he added—




“I’ll try my best.”








Golden Poop



Michael tilted his head slightly.



Then he gasped—not scared, just full of exaggerated surprise.




“Holy shit… that dude’s poop is golden. It’s glowing. Never thought I’d see something like that in real life.”




His voice was loud enough to echo across the street.



Dave, driven by pure dumb curiosity, instinctively turned his head to look.



Bad move.



WHACK!



Michael’s hand snapped out like a blade—clean chop to the side of the neck.



Dave’s whole body jolted.



His muscles tensed up like a machine locking down. Pain exploded in his neck. But somehow, he didn’t fall.



His absurd, overtrained body absorbed the hit. The muscles around his neck flexed so hard, they formed a deep crack—like a spiderweb the size of a palm—etched right into the skin.




“AH—shit!!” Dave roared. “You bastard! I totally didn’t see that coming!”




His voice cracked from pain and frustration.



He totally forgot who he was dealing with.



Michael. The most annoying kind of fighter—precise, calm, sneaky as hell.



This wasn’t even the first time.Last time? Michael sucker-kicked him right in the crotch.Time before that? A straight kick to the chest—launched him clean into a wall while he was distracted.



And now?Faked a poop glow just to land a neck chop?



Humans forget pain too easily. Dave had definitely forgotten.



Michael just brushed the air with one hand and replied, calm as hell:




“Standard procedure.”




Dave stumbled back, still holding his neck. Furious.




“That guy?! That poop?! There’s nothing golden about that! It’s black! It’s a normal turd! Jesus Christ!!”




Michael didn’t even flinch. Instead, he cracked a grin—like he’d been waiting for this moment.




“You know what’s funny?” he said, chuckling. “I just decided to name that move… The Golden Poop.”




He let out a quick laugh. Like he was proud of it. Like he thought it was the most brilliant thing anyone had ever come up with.



Then—just like that—his smile dropped.



His fist came flying.



Dave didn’t even see it.



BOOM.



Michael’s punch slammed into him like a truck. Dave threw his arms up just in time, crossing them across his chest—but the force still blasted him off his feet.



He slid.



Concrete sparks flew.



He skidded a full ten meters—arms scraping the ground—until his whole body finally thudded to a stop.



Right beside Tom.



And what’s worse—



His bare right foot landed squarely on the poop.



A fat, greasy, still-warm pile of it.



He looked down in horror.



Yellow. Brown. Sticky. The color of death. The texture of regret.



It oozed into his toes and underfoot—slipping into every gap like molten tar.



He closed his eyes for a second. Took a breath.



Then muttered, dead serious:




“Oh God… just my luck.”








Still Amateur Petty Street Fighter



Dave yanked his foot out of the steaming mess—thick, tar-like sludge dripping from his toes.



His face twisted with rage.




“You son of a bitch!”




With a full wind-up, he launched a soccer-style kick straight at Tom’s ass.



The kick connected clean.



Tom shot up into the air like a ragdoll curled into a ball—knees tucked in, arms wrapped around them. He spun wildly, flipping dozens of times before crash-landing headfirst into a giant trash bin across the street.



His legs stuck straight out. Yellow slime still streaked across his thighs.



He didn’t move.



Knocked out cold.



Right then, an old man walked by. Slight hunch in his back, a thin gray goatee curling under his chin. He wore a faded Qing dynasty-style robe, dragging a grocery cart behind him.



He paused when he saw the strange scene—someone’s legs poking out of a trash can like a cartoon.



He raised an eyebrow and chuckled softly.




“Oh… not you again, High-Butt Tom.”




That old man was Mr. Sang.



Before Dave could even react, Michael was already in motion.



He dashed up, lightning fast, and drove a punch right into Dave’s gut.



Boom—Dave was blasted backward, flew across the street, and landed hard on the asphalt. He rolled twice before stopping near the opposite curb.



Dave groaned and spat out blood.



He coughed, wiped his mouth, and growled:




“Fuck… this is getting annoying.”




But this time, he didn’t let down his guard.



No more distractions.



He locked his eyes on Michael—steady, alert. Not letting even a single second slip.



Because now, he remembered who he was up against.



And he knew: one careless moment could be the end.



Michael walked toward him slowly, cold and calm.




“The underwear,” he said, voice low. “It’s been a while, but you’re still the same. Still wide open. Still an amateur.”




He stopped a few feet away and stared him down.




“Real fights? Every second is life or death. You still haven’t learned that. That’s why you’ll never be a warrior. At best… a petty street fighter. An amateur, that is.”








One-Sided Fight



The moment they clashed, it was obvious.



Michael’s punches came fast—so fast Dave could barely react. His speed had improved, sure, but not enough. Not enough to match Michael.



For every ten exchanges, Dave took one hit—clean and solid. A punch to the ribs. A kick to the gut. A backhand across the face. Each strike forced blood out of his mouth like a punctured bag.



Within sixty seconds, they’d already exchanged over a hundred blows.



And Dave? He looked like a half-dead man on his feet.



Staggering back a dozen steps, Dave suddenly slammed one foot into the ground with full force.



Boom.



The concrete cracked beneath him, spiderwebbing out like broken glass. His legs coiled with tension.



Then—boom—he launched forward like a human rocket, arm cocked back for one devastating punch aimed straight at Michael’s face.



This was it—his trump card: Muscle Dash.



A brutal, straight-line, full-body blow powered by raw strength and momentum. A move so fast and heavy it could destroy steel gates.



Watching from nearby, Mr. Sang quietly stroked his goatee.




“Hmm… beneath all the twisted perversion and poor form, this guy’s actually got some serious power,” he murmured. “That momentum… like a freight train.”




Then he chuckled to himself.




“With some proper training, these types… they could actually be quite formidable.”




Back on the street, Michael didn’t even move.



His hands were still in his pockets.



He just glanced at Dave coldly and muttered—




“Amateur.”




Then, in one smooth motion, Michael ducked slightly and swept his leg low.



Crack.



His foot slammed into Dave’s ankle mid-charge.



Dave flew.



No resistance, no chance to correct. He spun through the air like a missile, slammed straight into a concrete wall ten meters away.



His head embedded halfway into it.



Only his ass and legs were left hanging outside.



But it wasn’t over.



Not even one second later, Dave’s arms exploded outward—smashing the wall apart from the inside. He dropped back to the ground, panting, blood dripping from his lips.



Still standing.



Barely.







Friend to the Rescue



Michael raised his right hand—fingers straight, stiff, forming a razor-sharp knifehand.



His body shifted. The air grew heavy.



That wasn’t just a strike.That was a finisher.



Even Mr. Sang, standing off to the side, could feel it. He stroked his goatee, watching closely.




“Tch… what a shame,” he muttered. “This guy could’ve been something. Steel muscles, decent instincts… If someone had trained him properly… he’d be a real contender.”




He slowly turned around, shaking his head in mild regret.




“Captain Lam… so strict, so cold. Sometimes I wish he could ease up a bit.”




Then, almost immediately, his tone flipped—




“But those two girls in the massage parlor… damn. Amy and Coco, right? I’m definitely coming back for them.”








Back in the ring of tension, Dave braced for death.



His arms lifted—slightly shaky, but steady. He poured all his strength into guarding his neck.



He knew.A clean cut to the neck, and it was over.



Michael saw it too.



And just like that—he adjusted.No hesitation.



He dropped his aim, shifting from the neck… to the waist.




“Fine,” he thought. “One clean cut, and I’ll slice this meathead in half.”




But right then—




“HEY!! You haven’t paid yet!”




Several girls from the massage parlor came storming out behind them. Their voices echoed through the street.



A sudden gust of wind kicked up.Michael instinctively shielded his face.



Three quick claw marks appeared on his forearm. Thin, red.



He looked up, eyes narrowing.



Norman stood right there—next to Dave.



Calm. Loose. Almost casual.




“Yo,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d still be breathing after all that. Guess you’re tougher than I thought, buddy.”




Michael’s eyes narrowed further. He wiped the blood on his sleeve and took a deep breath.




“So it’s you…”




He recognized that face.




“You’ve been dodging payment for months. Fuck and dash—over and over. You think I don’t remember?”




Michael’s voice was cold. Cutting.




“I clocked your speed. You move at 150 kilometers an hour. I couldn’t catch you. Not once. And because of that, you got away. Every time.”




He took a step forward.




“But not today.”





“You’re staying.”





“And I’m taking your head.”




For a split second, no one moved.



The air thickened.Tension hit its peak.It felt like even the molecules between them were vibrating.



On one side—Michael, calm and deadly.On the other—Dave and Norman, side by side, hearts pounding, eyes locked on the storm in front of them.



And between them…



The spark of war.


Chapter 77: Petty Crimes (Part 3)
==================================================

Tag Team vs. Captain Lam



Dave glanced sideways, whispering to Norman.




“You think you can take him?”




Norman didn’t even blink.




“Not a chance.”




Dave looked a little disappointed. In his mind, Norman was a beast. But it wasn’t that Norman wasn’t strong. It’s just—Michael was on a whole different level.



Norman cracked his neck, then laid out a quick plan:




“I go low. You go high.”




And before Dave could even nod, Norman had already dropped to all fours and took off like a dog on a mission. His target? Michael’s sacred spot. He was going for the death roll.



Dave followed close behind, muscles tense, eyes locked. He threw himself forward with his full-body signature—Muscle Dash—aiming straight for Michael’s face.



Michael watched them both. Calm. Calculated. A little amused.



He didn’t even flinch at Norman’s approach. He just—well—stiffened up. Down there.




“You again,” he muttered.




He let Norman sink his teeth in, but made sure that whole region was hard like steel. Literally. Then he shifted focus. Dave’s punch was coming in hot.



Michael raised his right hand and met Dave’s punch head-on.



Crack.



Dave’s wrist shattered. Again.



He was launched backward and hit the ground hard, grabbing his right wrist with his left hand, rolling around in pain.



Meanwhile, Norman thought he was about to rip glory from between Michael’s legs. But before he could even start his rotation, Michael reached down and yanked him clean off. Like peeling gum off a shoe.



Then—he dipped him up. Like a sack of laundry.



Norman’s feet left the ground. His jaw dropped.



Michael’s left hand locked down on Norman’s shoulder like a vice. His right hand drew back, forming a fist. Aimed for the kill shot—right to the face.



Norman couldn’t move. Couldn’t duck. Couldn’t even blink.



In that split second, all he saw in front of him… was one giant word.



“DEATH.”



Frozen. Trapped. No way out.







Died For Loyalty



One hour earlier.



Norman and Dave stepped into the massage parlor like they owned the place.



First thing they saw?



A Shiba Inu.



Cute. Too cute.



Norman froze.The dog froze.



Then—recognition.



The Shiba flipped over, paws in the air, and squirted out a tiny stream of pee. Submission.




“Dogman… King of Dogland,”it whispered in its own language.




Norman gave a small nod, crouched down, and patted its head.




“Luke,”he said softly.“If I get in trouble… come.”




The Shiba barked once.But they both knew that meant,




“I will.”




To the casual eye, it just looked like a man petting a dog.But underneath, information was exchanged. An ancient code. A pact renewed.



As Norman stroked his fur, Luke began to talk.



Fast. Clumsy. A little off.




“My master… he good man. Very good. He wear glasses. Gold edge. Shirt white. Pants clean. Shoes shiny. Always carry box. Long time.”




Norman raised an eyebrow.




“You mean… briefcase?”




Luke nodded hard.




“Yes! Yes! Box with snap-snap sound. Maybe has meat. Maybe magic. I dunno.”




He wagged his tail fast, tongue hanging.




“He look soft. But strong. Super strong. Like mountain. Quiet mountain.”




Norman narrowed his eyes.



He already knew who it was.




“Michael.”




Luke’s tail froze mid-wag.




“You… you know? He scary, right? But not to me. He nice. Give me meat. Every time. Always meat.”




His voice softened.




“He love me. I love him too.”




Five years. That’s how long they’d been together.



Five years of loyalty. Trust. Love.Barking at shadows.Eating together.Sleeping under the desk while Michael typed emails.



Luke’s world had one sun. One moon. One Michael.



Back to now.



Present time.



Michael’s fist pulled back—aimed straight at Norman’s frozen face.



It was over.



Until—




“Hurry up, Luke!!”Norman screamed.




And from the distance, from the alley, from fate itself—



Luke came flying.



He jumped.



One clean leap through the air.Right between Michael’s fist and Norman’s head.



The air froze.



And then—




“FOR OUR KING!!”Luke howled.




Michael’s punch didn’t stop.



It drove forward.



Right into Luke’s little Shiba body.



The impact exploded.



Fur, blood, meat, bone.All gone.Just mist now.A cloud of shredded loyalty drifting through the air.



Norman blinked. His face untouched.But his heart—shattered.



Luke was gone.



He died for loyalty.



And that meant everything.







Vengeance on Both Sides



Michael and Norman both froze.



Dead silence. Stiff faces.



Then, at the exact same time, they both shouted:




“No! Luke!”




But it was too late.



There was no body. No blood. No remains.



Just a faint swirl of dust and shredded tissue—mixed into the grime of the street, lost among cigarette butts and trash. The loyal Shiba Inu had been completely obliterated. Nothing was left.



Norman’s body twitched. His breath caught in his throat.



Michael’s hand, which had been gripping Norman’s shoulder, loosened just enough.



Norman broke free and stumbled backward, rejoining Dave. His face looked pale. Empty. Like something inside him had just been torn away.



Dave looked at him, confused.




“What the hell just happened?”




Norman didn’t answer right away. He stared at the fading dust cloud on the ground—where his most loyal companion had just been erased from existence.



A tear slid from the corner of his eye.




“One of my men just gave his life for me,” he whispered. “The only reason I’m still breathing.”




Michael didn’t move. He stood where he was, staring at the same patch of nothing. Something in his face cracked. Not anger. Not confusion. Something more raw.




“Why…?” he muttered. “Why would you do that, Luke?”




He clenched his fists.




“You betrayed five years of loyalty… for him? For some guy you just met?”




Michael looked at Norman.



His face went cold.




“You call yourself a king. But you let your soldier die just to protect your pride.”




He took a breath. His voice dropped.




“You’re not a leader. You’re just a scumbag.”




Then his body tensed.



Right hand curled into a blade. Left hand clenched tight.




“If I don’t kill you right here, right now,” he said through gritted teeth, “you’ll bring more death to the dogs who still believe in you.”




But Norman didn’t flinch.



He closed his eyes. Took a breath.



Then whispered—




“Luke… I’ll make sure your sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”




He clenched his jaw. Tight.



And then, without warning, Norman tilted his head to the sky and unleashed a massive howl. A roar of rage and sorrow that tore through the neighborhood—bouncing off alleyways and storefronts like an animal’s war cry.



It wasn’t just a sound. It was a declaration.



A promise of vengeance.



A king’s oath.







The Pink Rider



Just as Michael was about to launch his next attack, Norman suddenly shouted—




“Dave! On my back! Now!”




He was already down on all fours, ready to sprint.



Dave blinked in confusion.




“Huh?”




Norman didn’t have time to explain.




“Your strength, my speed. It’s our only shot! HOP ON!”




Without thinking further, Dave leapt and landed square on Norman’s back. His thick thighs clamped down like a vise, locking them together like a rider and his beast. For a second, they didn’t look like two people—but a new creature. A fusion. A monster built for war.



Norman exploded forward.



His paws tore through the pavement. His muscles bulged and stretched. His speed shot past 100 km/h in under two seconds.



Michael looked around—




“Where—?”




Too late.



WHAM!!



A punch slammed straight into the back of his skull.



Michael tumbled forward, skidding across the asphalt like a ragdoll. His body rolled several meters before grinding to a stop.



For the first time in weeks… Michael felt real pain.



He slowly stood up. Blood trickled down his lip. His vision swam slightly.



Another punch came.



This time, from the right.



But Michael was no fool. No brute.



Even without turning his head, he felt the wind shift. The muscle pressure. The tremor in the air.



In one smooth, natural motion—he twisted his hips and launched a counter-kick backwards—



BOOM!



His heel smashed into Dave’s side.



The impact sent both Dave and Norman flying—rider and beast—like a cannonball launched from the wrong end.



They hit the ground hard. Rolled. But somehow… still stuck together.



Dave’s thighs never let go.



Even mid-air, even after the crash, his death grip on Norman’s torso stayed locked in.



The pink rider remained mounted.



Michael cracked his neck. Slowly rotated his shoulders. Let out a slow, annoyed breath.



Then stretched like someone about to hit the gym.




“Alright then…”“Looks like I’ll have to take this fight seriously.”








Tag Team of Desperation



Norman and Dave, fused together like a mutant war-beast, launched themselves again.



They looked like a centaur from some busted-up myth book. Man and beast. Flesh and fury.



And Michael? He didn’t dodge. He ran straight toward them.



The three of them collided mid-charge—like trains on a suicide schedule.



Punches. Kicks. Claws. Teeth. A blur of limbs, torsos, and impact sounds that could scare off thunder.



Norman adjusted his footwork—zigzagging, skipping beats like a drunk ballerina. Michael tried to read the rhythm… and failed.



Dave threw a wild haymaker. Michael ducked. Norman lunged with a bite. Michael blocked with a knee.



The fight raged on—brutal and clumsy, elegant and savage.



Ten minutes passed. Maybe twenty. Even the air got tired.



Then they all broke apart—staggering back, gasping.



Michael’s shirt was ripped to shreds. Blood dripped from his lips. His torso was covered in bite marks, scratches, and deep bruises. But his golden-rimmed glasses still sat perfectly on his face—untouched. Unshaken. Almost smug.



Norman’s face was puffed up like a balloon. One eye swollen shut. His breath came in short, rabid bursts. But his limbs still worked. He could still run.



Dave looked worse. His jaw was crooked. His nose was gone. His face—unrecognizable. Blood streamed down his chest, and he kept coughing more out, painting the asphalt.



And yet… he was still riding Norman like a rodeo champion.



All three knew the truth:



This was no stalemate. Michael still held the edge. Barely—but clearly.



If this went on for another few hundred exchanges… the pink rider would fall.



Michael cracked his knuckles and stepped forward.




“You guys are impressive,” he said, voice calm but sharp.“But this isn’t gonna end the way you want.”




Norman growled through swollen lips.




“Something… better show up fast…”




Right then…



A sound.



Footsteps.



Behind Michael.



Heavy. Calm. Familiar.



Norman and Dave turned their heads—eyes wide.



Michael didn’t move.







Finally Showed Up



A hand touched Michael’s shoulder.



Calm. Heavy. Familiar.



A voice followed—




“Looks like even our Captain Lam’s in a pinch. Clothes all torn up and everything.”




Michael didn’t turn. He already knew who it was.



Raymond.



The new member of the Humble Organization.



Michael slowly stepped aside and found a flipped-over plastic bucket nearby. He sat down on it like a tired uncle at a barbecue.




“You wanna take over? I figure five minutes. Tops. They’ll both be dead before I finish my soda.”




Raymond cracked his knuckles.




“Sure. I’d be happy to help… totally destroy them.”




His smile was sharp. Relaxed.



Across the street, Dave and Norman both froze.



Their legs—completely numb.



Even if the two of them together could barely stand against Michael…



Now another monster just like him had arrived?



It was a death sentence.



Dave’s fists slowly dropped.



He had given up.



He looked like a man waiting for fate to pull the plug.



But just then—



Norman smiled.



Not a big smile. Just a small, crooked smirk.



And then…



From every alley. Every crack. Every corner—



Dogs came.



One after another. Small ones. Big ones. Fast ones. Slow ones.



Over two hundred of them.



Pouring into the street from all directions. Surrounding Michael and Raymond.



Fur. Claws. Eyes gleaming under streetlights.



The noise was deafening.



Dave’s eyes widened.




“How?!”




He was still on Norman’s back—had never come down.



Norman kept his posture low, ready to dash.




“You remember… that scream I made earlier?”





“That was a call.”





“A summon.”





“Any dog within a few blocks who heard it—came.”





“My boys. They showed up.”




Dave blinked hard.



Then clenched his fists again.




“Then let’s kill them. Let’s end this. Right now.”




But Norman shook his head.




“No. Even with these two hundred, we can’t win.”





“Not against them.”





“But… we can run.”




Before Dave could argue—



Norman was already gone.



He blasted off like a bullet, with Dave still mounted on his back.



Their speed? Over 100 km/h.



They vanished into the night.



Ten minutes passed.



Michael and Raymond stood there—chafed, heaving, surrounded by bodies.



Dog corpses stacked in piles. Blood smeared across the pavement. Fur caught in the wind.



Not one dog survived.



Their clothes were torn. Scratches covered their arms. Their breathing—rough and steady, like engines cooling down after a storm.



Even monsters need a moment to breathe.



But the job was done.



The street was quiet now.



Their enemies had fled.



And the dogs… had fulfilled their mission.



They saved their king.


Chapter 78: The Yoga Class (Part 1)
==================================================

Post-Fight Stroll



A few weeks had passed since that night—the night Michael nearly killed them both.



Tonight, the gym lights flickered behind Dave as he stepped out. His entire body was dripping with sweat. Five hours of nonstop training. Arms shaking. Legs dead. Skin steaming from effort.



And he wore nothing but a tight, pink, triangle-cut women’s underwear—bold, unapologetic, riding high on his hips.



That was it.



No shoes. No shirt. Just the world’s most questionable choice of bottoms.



He stretched his neck, cracked his back, and exhaled like a man who had just lifted a planet.



Then he looked up—and froze.



There was a dog.



No. Not a dog.



It was Norman.



Crawling slowly down the street… on all fours… wearing a faded pink T-shirt with a giant Hello Kitty face across the chest. Moving like a man who had fully embraced his inner beast.



Dave jogged over and fell into step beside him—shoulder to spine.




“Yo,” he said, casually adjusting the waistband. “I don’t get it, man. I’ve been training like crazy. Five hours a day. Every damn day.”





“And I still suck.”





“Like… I don’t even know when I’ll be strong enough to fight someone like Michael.”




He glanced down at Norman, still crawling.




“Hell, I can’t even beat you right now.”




Norman didn’t slow down.




“You’re focusing too much on brute strength,” he said, low and even. “Yeah, you’re getting faster—thanks to all those dine and dash runs.”





“But flexibility matters too. Try yoga or something.”





“Yoga?”




Dave raised an eyebrow. A drop of sweat ran down his chest and disappeared into his shiny pink waistband.



Just then, they passed a small yoga studio.



A giant red sign blinked through the glass:



“70% OFF – First Month Trial”



Dave stopped walking.



Stared at it.



Then nodded to himself.




“You know what… I don’t see why not. I’m signing up tomorrow.”




Norman didn’t even look at the studio. He kept crawling.



Honestly, he had just said “yoga” to say something. He had no real training plan for Dave. He just knew Dave moved like a piece of dry toast.



Still, seeing Dave light up like that—like he finally found a direction—it made Norman feel warm.



Maybe yoga would help.



And right then, filled with peaceful satisfaction, Norman veered toward a telephone pole, lifted one leg, and pissed on it.



Naturally.



Then they kept walking.



No big music. No fancy outro.



Just two guys.



One in triangle panties. One in a Hello Kitty shirt crawling like a stray.



Winding down the night.







A Very Bold Newcomer



The next day.



Past noon. Lunch already settled in Dave’s stomach.



He didn’t waste any time—walked straight to the yoga studio in nothing but his usual pink triangle women’s underwear.



The doors were open. That was all the invitation he needed.



He stepped inside.



The place was calm. Dim lighting. Scented candles. Velvet drapes. Ambient music playing something vaguely Eastern. It looked just like the kind of place that would teach enlightenment through flexible poses.



A man greeted him at the front desk.



Slim build. Tight tank top. Perfect eyebrows.



His hand floated in midair like a soft orchid, wrist curved delicately. His voice was light and breathy—almost musical.




“Hi there, sweetie. What can I help you with today?”




Dave nodded respectfully.



That must be the instructor, he thought. A male yoga teacher with a gentle voice? That made total sense. Probably mastered all kinds of advanced poses.




“I wanna sign up,” Dave said.




The man blinked.



And smiled. Wide.



He had no idea Dave thought this was a yoga class. But he was definitely happy Dave walked in.



Truth was, the studio didn’t open for yoga until 5 PM.



During the day, it transformed into a private gay club.



The man wasn’t staff. Just a regular member. And Dave? He looked like a walking fantasy—shirtless, sweaty, tight underwear, muscles glistening like a marble statue from a naughty dream.



The man gave Dave’s chest a little tap. Just to feel it.




“Oh honey, we don’t really do signups here. You just… join in. No registration needed.”




He gestured toward the inner room.



Dave paused.




“Wait, I don’t have to pay?”




But the man was already announcing—




“Everyone! We’ve got a new guest!”




Heads turned.



Half a dozen men peeked out from the side room. Some leaned around curtains. Others popped out of side hallways. The moment they saw Dave, every gaze locked on him like heat-seeking missiles.



One guy couldn’t help himself—he walked right up and licked Dave’s bicep. A long, slow lick.



Dave flinched.




“Whoa! Uh… is that part of the training?”




The man smiled, lips still wet.




“Mmm-hmm. It’s tradition.”




Dave looked around.



Everyone was staring at him with sparkles in their eyes.



He cleared his throat, nodded seriously.




“Alright then. I’m new here. What kind of techniques should I be practicing first?”




The greeter nearly choked on his own saliva.



This guy wasn’t just bold—he was fearless.



He leaned in, lips curling into a seductive whisper.




“Well… tonight we could try something nice and easy… maybe start with doggy style?”




Dave’s eyes lit up.




“Why wait till tonight? Let’s just do it now. Right here. Right now!”




The room went silent.



Even the music cut out for a second.



A man in the corner dropped a pair of scissors—clang!—the blade stabbed into the hardwood and stuck there like a warning.



Everyone stared.



This man was too much.



Too raw. Too direct. Too into it.



From the far end of the room, a short, round man waddled forward. His face was wide and flat like a cartoon pig, his expression oozing confidence and sweat.



He glanced at the others, then stepped between them and Dave.




“Fine,” he said. “I’ll show him how it’s done.”




The others looked nervous. But none dared object. The pressure in the room had shifted. This was no longer just an ordinary afternoon at the club.



The pig-faced man walked right up to Dave, lips trembling with anticipation.




“Let’s begin… shall we?”








The Pig-Faced Gentleman



The man with the pig-shaped face gently tapped Dave’s chin.




“Honey, I’ll go on the bottom, and you can take the top.”




He dropped down on all fours, hips raised high—posing like he was about to demonstrate a move.



Dave tilted his head, a little confused.



But he figured, oh, maybe this is one of those advanced yoga poses… So, without thinking too much, he crouched down right beside the guy and mimicked the pose—except his back was straighter, his hips somehow even higher, almost like a model on a runway.



He had no idea how elegant he looked. None at all.



The pig-faced man blinked a few times. He was clearly puzzled.




“Wait… so you don’t wanna be the top? You’re more of a bottom?”




He slowly stood up, still confused, and began to shuffle closer behind Dave.



That’s when Dave suddenly felt something was off.




“Whoa whoa whoa—HEY! What the hell are you doing?!”




The man froze. “I thought you said… doggy style?”



Dave stood up in a flash, brushing himself off.




“I mean the yoga move! I’m here to learn YOGA. What even is this place?! Some weird pyramid scheme? A cult? A scam?! This whole vibe feels way too off.”




Everyone in the room stared. You could hear a feather hit the floor.



The pig-faced guy stammered, “Wait… you don’t know?”



Dave narrowed his eyes. “Know what?”




“This is a men’s club. It’s not a yoga studio until after 5pm…”




Silence.



Dave turned around, walked outside, and looked up at the front sign.



Sure enough, in big bold letters, it said “Yoga Studio.” With “70% OFF!” in neon pink.



Confused, he walked back in.




“Then what’s with the huge yoga sign out front?”




The pig-faced man chuckled nervously and pointed to a much smaller sign leaning against the wall near the sidewalk.



It read:



“Men’s Club — Daytime Only. Yoga Classes Begin After 5pm.”



Dave’s face turned blank. “…Oh.”



A beat of silence passed.



Then—boom!—he punched the pig-faced man right in the face. Not full force, but enough to knock the wind out of him.




“I’m outta here.”




And just like that, Dave turned and walked away.







The Road to Flexibility



Dave was walking down the street, hands in his pockets, when it suddenly hit him—




“Shit. I don’t have any money.”




He smacked his fist into his palm.




“How am I supposed to sign up for that yoga class? I gotta make some quick cash.”




He stood there for a second, thinking. And then, like a slow sunrise across a dumb sky, the idea dawned on him.




“Of course. Robbery.”




Lately, ever since hanging out with Norman, his moral compass had… loosened a bit. He still had a line, though.He wouldn’t rob just anybody—not the weak, not the old, not the helpless. Nah, he had standards.He’d rob the bad guys. The scumbags. The ones who deserved it.



That’s what he told himself, anyway.



Just then, like fate had sent him a free trial version of justice, a short, bowl-cut kid in pajamas came walking up the sidewalk.



It was Benson.



Dave glanced at him.



Too small.Too fragile.Too dumb-looking.



He shook his head.




“Nah. Not my target.”




He kept walking.



But a second later, behind him—A shout.




“YO!”




Dave turned just in time to see a guy in a hoodie—Canelo—snatch Benson by the collar and slam him up against a wall.



Canelo was puffing on a cigarette, one hand lifting Benson clean off the ground.



Benson squealed.




“Please! Please don’t hurt me!”




He fished into his pocket and pulled out everything he had. Five dollars.Canelo stared at it.




“The fuck is this?! Only five bucks?!”




Then came the beating.



Benson’s small body got ragdolled against the wall like an old pillowcase.



Dave stood there watching. His fist clenched.But he wasn’t mad about the violence.



He was staring at the money.




“That guy’s a total dick… and he’s got cash.”




He nodded slowly.




“If I rob him… I’m basically saving Benson.”




He smiled.



The logic made perfect sense.In his mind, he’d already solved world hunger, fixed the economy, and earned himself a gold star in morality.



He stood tall, touched his chin, nodded again, and whispered—




“Oh yeah, baby…”








The Robber Gets Robbed



Canelo had Benson pinned to the pavement, smashing his foot into him like he was putting out a cigarette.




“Please! Please don’t hurt me!”




Benson’s voice cracked as he begged, covering his head with both hands.



Canelo didn’t say a word. Just kept kicking.Hard. Brutal.He didn’t even glance at the five crumpled dollars he’d already snatched.



That’s when it happened—



A light tap on the shoulder.



Canelo spun around, eyes blazing.And froze.



Standing there was a tall, well-built man—shirtless, muscles glistening, wearing only a tight pair of pink, laced triangle women’s underwear.




“Jesus Christ… Underwear?! What the hell are you doing here?! Can’t you see I’m kinda busy?!”




Canelo knew him. Everyone did.Dave. Nickname: Underwear.The guy was infamous for showing up half-naked with no shame whatsoever.



Dave looked a little unsure of himself.It was his first time trying a professional robbery.



He paused.Swallowed.Then finally stammered out—




“Uhh… I-I mean… I’m here to rob you? Or something?”




Canelo stared blankly. Then turned back toward Benson and muttered—




“Get lost. I don’t have time for this.”




Another kick.Benson let out a high-pitched cry and rolled onto his side.



Dave blinked.Took a breath.



Then he stepped forward.



Grabbed Canelo by the collar—Lifted him clean off the ground—And slammed him against the wall so hard, dust shook from the bricks.



Benson took the chance and ran for it—He didn’t even look back.



Now it was just the two of them.



Dave leaned in.




“Give me your wallet.”




Canelo shouted—




“What the hell?! I’ve never been robbed before! I am the robber! This is insane!”




Smash cut:



Canelo flat on the sidewalk, out cold.Dave walking away, flipping through the wallet like he just bought it from a yard sale.







A Long Wait



The time was just past 3 p.m.



Dave had two full hours to kill before the yoga studio opened. The Men’s Club was still wrapping up its activities inside. He didn’t want to linger too close and risk looking suspicious. So he wandered across the street and found a shady little corner to squat in.



Just as he was about to settle, something caught his eye.



A young man was walking nearby—walking backwards.



Not moonwalking. Literally walking backwards. His body faced forward, but his head was twisted a full 180 degrees, staring behind him. And not turning back and forth—just… stuck.



Dave squinted. This guy looked familiar.



Full Zhongshan suit. All buttoned up to the neck. A katana strapped at the hip like he was on his way to duel a demon. And that neck…



It was Pimple Face.



That poor bastard from the bubble tea shop—the one whose neck Dave had twisted around like a bottlecap months ago.



But Dave?



He had completely forgotten.



As far as Dave could tell, this was just some weird backwards-walking sword nerd with freakish posture. He watched with awe.




“Damn… that guy’s flexibility is next level…”




Right then—



BAM!



A truck rammed straight into the guy. Not a dramatic anime fly-through-the-air hit—just a dull, heavy slam. Pimple Face dropped like a sack of bricks.



Dave didn’t even flinch.




“He’s probably fine. With that kinda bendiness? Man’s built different.”




But then came a second truck.



And a third.



One minute later, a fourth.



By the fifth vehicle, there wasn’t much left. Just a dark, oily patch on the road—flat, shiny, and lightly steaming.



Dave blinked.




“Guess he wasn’t that flexible after all.”




He let out a quiet sigh, then turned away. As if nothing happened, he walked over to a spot beside a convenience store and squatted down. His fingers traced slow circles in the dirt.



He started muttering to himself.




“So… if I learn that doggy-style thing, maybe I’ll get more flexible too. Like… Norman can run up walls and stuff. Wonder if I can do that…”




He paused. Shook his head.



No. Don’t overthink it.




“Whatever. Just wait for the class.”




At that moment, an old lady passed right by him—on the same side of the sidewalk. She glanced down at Dave, crouched like a weirdo, drawing circles and mumbling to himself.



She wrinkled her nose and muttered:




“Can’t they just use a toilet properly… like a normal human being?”




Dave looked up casually.




“Hey granny. You ever see someone take a shit while still wearing underwear?”




The old woman squinted—then spotted Dave’s lacy, pink triangle-cut women’s underwear peeking from under his shorts.



She gasped.




“Good lord… full-grown men wearing frilly panties now? Society’s doomed. Boys dressing like girls, girls dressing like boys. What a messed-up generation…”




She kept walking. But even as she moved, her voice carried on—nagging, rambling, ranting.



Then she stopped mid-sentence.



Coming toward her down the sidewalk was a young woman with a ponytail, wearing a bright yellow bikini. Full skin. No shame. No hesitation. Just casually strolling like it was a private beach.



The old lady went silent.



She stared.



Then whispered to herself:




“…You see what I mean?”




The bikini girl didn’t notice. She was focused on the building ahead.



She turned into the yoga studio. It was almost five.



That was Dave’s cue.



He stood up, stretched his back, and patted the dust off his body.



Time to get flexible.


Chapter 79: The Yoga Class (Part 2)
==================================================

That Must Be the Instructor



The church across the street let out a heavy, echoing bong.



5:00 PM, sharp.



Dave took a deep breath—and walked straight into the yoga studio.



Inside, there were about a dozen people. All women.



But these weren’t your average Lululemon moms.



One wore a neon bikini. Another had on a skimpy sports bra. One was dressed in a red silk spaghetti-strap gown, like she had just walked out of a wedding afterparty. Another wore only two green leaves—one slapped over each boob, barely hanging on.



A few more had on strap dresses, high-cut bodysuits, or basically nothing at all.



And yet, somehow, the one that stood out most… was the one dressed like she worked in a sewer.



Baggy long-sleeve button-up. Old slacks. The shirt stained in mysterious streaks. Crumbs stuck to her shoulder. Some faint traces of something that looked suspiciously like dried urine on her pants.



She was older, maybe in her 50s, and she had that classic cranky aunt energy—the type who complains about every price increase since 1982.



Dave scanned the room, nodded to himself, and walked right up to her.




“Hi, teacher. I’d like to sign up for the yoga class.”




The woman blinked at him, grabbed a mop and a dented water bucket from beside her, then replied—




“Move. I’m trying to work, you damn pervert.”




She didn’t wait for a response.



Just stormed out of the room, bucket sloshing behind her.



Dave stood still for a moment. Then gave a solemn nod.




“Oh… I see.”




He turned around—just in time to see someone else enter the studio.



He was short—about a head shorter than Dave.



His hair stood straight up in a stiff, greasy pineapple shape, like he had been electrocuted by vanity. A silver ring clung to one nostril, and a tongue piercing clicked loudly every few seconds as he gnawed at nothing.



He wore a snug white women’s sports bra and matching white panties—tight in all the wrong places, loose in all the others. His pale, soft body looked like it had never been near effort.



And yet, he walked with a weird kind of swagger. Like he thought everyone wanted to be him.



There was no charm. No energy. Just this twisted vibe—dark, petty, greasy. The kind of guy who peeked through blinds and whispered his own name.



Dave looked at him.



Nodded to himself.




That must be the instructor.




It wasn’t.



It was just Pineapple-Hair.



Dave walked over—still towering over him—and bent down slightly.




“Hello, teacher. I’m here to sign up for yoga class. Do you still have any openings?”




Pineapple-Hair stared at him.



Internally, he panicked.



If this massive guy joined the class, he’d ruin everything. He’d steal attention. He’d make him look short, soft, irrelevant.



So Pineapple-Hair smiled nervously and lied through his teeth.




“Ah… sorry. We’re full. Completely full. You’ll have to come back in… maybe two months?”




Dave’s face sank.



He lowered his head, turned around, and slowly walked toward the exit.



Didn’t say a word.



Just the quiet sound of bare feet on yoga mats, fading step by step.



And that’s where we leave him—for now. Standing in a doorway, one dream crushed under the weight of a liar in a sports bra.



But don’t worry.



The real class hasn’t even started yet.







Ridiculously Long Arm



Dave was just about to leave the studio when he felt it—that subtle shift in the air. Behind him, something had changed.



A hand rested gently on Pineapple-Hair’s shoulder.



Then came the sound of someone clearing their throat.




“Ahem.”




Pineapple-Hair turned his head.



Standing several meters behind him—at least three meters, maybe more—was a man neither Dave nor anyone else had noticed walk in.



It was the real yoga instructor.



He looked to be in his early thirties, but his face was almost too smooth. He had that rare kind of youthfulness that made his age hard to guess. His posture was perfect. His presence was quiet. But most noticeably—



His arm was still stretched forward. Fully extended. No bend, no effort. Just calmly floating there, like it belonged that way.



Pineapple-Hair flinched and gave a nervous laugh.




“Haha, teacher! I was just joking earlier, you know? Can’t believe that guy actually took it seriously. People these days are way too gullible…”




The instructor didn’t respond.



He just stared at him. Silent. Motionless.



Then he turned his body slightly.



And, without saying anything, he pulled his arm back… and extended it again—this time all the way across the room, directly to Dave’s shoulder.



They were roughly the same height.



The reach still made no sense.



The teacher spoke, calm and firm.




“Young man. Are you here to play around? Or are you here to learn?”





“With a body like yours, flexibility won’t come easy. It will take time, pain, and control. You’ll have to undo everything you’ve trained into your muscles.”





“So I’ll ask again. Are you serious?”




Dave straightened his spine and looked him in the eye.




“Oh yeah, baby. I’m dead serious.”





“I want to master the strongest flexibility in the world. And then… I’ll combine it with this muscle.”





“When that happens, I’ll be the strongest man alive. That’s my goal.”




There was a pause.



The teacher looked at him, searching.



Then finally, he nodded.




“Good. We welcome students like you.”




He stepped to the side, gesturing toward the rest of the studio.




“Look. Everyone is excited to have you here.”




Dave looked.



The class—twelve women, all in tight, wildly inappropriate outfits—stood in a stiff silence. None of them looked excited.



They looked tense. Visibly uncomfortable.



Some glanced at each other. Some stared at the floor. One of them quietly whispered—




“Please don’t let him in…”




Another leaned toward the teacher.




“He’s obviously a pervert. Just like that other guy.”




The teacher didn’t respond. He either didn’t hear it—or chose not to.



He placed his hand on Dave’s back, gave him a light push forward, and said nothing else.



And just like that…



Dave was in.



He had officially joined the yoga class.







First Day at Yoga



The class had barely started when the instructor clapped his hands.




“All right, everyone—warm-up time. Let’s begin with the full side split.”




Just like that, the entire room dropped into perfect one-legged splits.



Except for two people.



Dave… and Pineapple Hair.



Pineapple Hair didn’t even try. He just flopped onto the ground and splayed his legs into a vague triangle. Technically, he was on the floor. But flexibility? Not even close.



Dave, on the other hand, gave it everything he had.



He grunted. He exhaled. He tried to force his body lower.



But halfway down, something deep inside his pelvis screamed.



His face froze in agony. He paused.



If he pushed even an inch further, he swore his crotch would rip straight down the middle.



Across the room, the girls continued stretching without even glancing his way. Not one of them seemed to care. They were all focused on their own practice. Or maybe they just didn’t want to make eye contact with those two.



As for Pineapple Hair, he had no shame. He wasn’t here to stretch. He was here to watch.



His eyes flicked to the girl wearing only two leaves over her chest—literal tree leaves taped to her skin. She was deep in a backbend, her body forming a graceful arch.



Pineapple Hair crept closer.



Then, while she was fully inverted and couldn’t see, he quietly snatched one of the leaves.



He held it up like a trophy and started snickering to himself in the corner.



The girl noticed.



She flipped back upright, eyes blazing. Pineapple Hair froze. His pervy grin snapped shut.




“Fk you! You son of a b*h!”




SLAP. SLAP.



Two lightning-fast smacks landed across his face before he could react.



He staggered back, dazed—until the girl’s right arm snapped into a knifehand, perfectly straight.



With one clean strike, she chopped clean through Pineapple Hair’s wrist.



His hand dropped to the floor like a dead fish.



Then, just as casually, she picked up the leaf and stuck it back onto her chest with a fresh square of tape.




“Every filthy hand gets chopped. No exception.”




The class kept going like nothing happened.



A minute later, she even tossed his severed hand back to him.



Pineapple Hair caught it out of the air, sat nearby, and casually started reattaching it—still sneaking glances at the girl whenever he thought no one was watching.



Pineapple Hair quietly twisted his hand back on, the tendons making faint wet noises as they clicked into place. Meanwhile, his eyes never left the girls—still lurking like a pervy little creature in lace-trimmed panties and a sweat-stained sports bra.



Meanwhile, Dave was locked in a personal war with his own muscles.



He groaned. He trembled. His crotch still felt like a zipper about to burst.



But the teacher stayed right by his side like a motivational poster come to life.




“Come on, man! You can do it! I believe in you!”




Dave gritted his teeth and pushed harder.



Crack.



His lower back made a sound he had never heard before.



Pain shot through his legs. His body seized up. And then… full cramp.



He collapsed on the mat, wincing and twitching like a freshly stunned animal.




“You can do it, man! Stand up! Don’t worry about the cramp! Don’t worry if your spine feels broken! It’s all part of the journey! Let’s go!!”




The teacher shouted like a cheerleader at a football game.



Dave tried to sit up.



Pain again.



But he didn’t quit.



Because in his head, he wasn’t just learning yoga.



He was forging a new body. A new weapon. Something unstoppable.




“I will master flexibility…”“And when I do…”“I’ll be the strongest man alive.”




By the time class ended, Dave was soaked in sweat, curled in the fetal position, still twitching from the backbend attempt.



Pineapple Hair sat nearby, quietly adjusting his reattached hand like it was no big deal, still ogling girls like a gremlin in lace-trimmed panties and a sweat-stained sports bra.



The girls stayed in their own lanes. Nobody said a word.



It was quiet.



Awkward.



Dave looked around at the scene, blinked a few times, and muttered to himself—




“Oh my god… this studio is f***ing insane.”




And that was just Day One.







Mystical Bloodline: Godlike Regeneration



The first class was finally over.



Dave pulled himself off the mat like a man crawling out of a car crash. One hour—just one hour—and he felt more wrecked than after five hours at the gym.



His underwear clung to him like wet seaweed. His crotch hurt. His spine had popped. His sweat smelled like regret.



He limped toward his towel and started drying himself off when something clicked in his mind.




“Wait a minute…”




He turned around sharply.




“Hey, dude—your hand… is it okay?”




Pineapple Hair sat cross-legged nearby, casually picking at something on his wrist. Without looking up, he lifted his right arm and flashed a peace sign.




“Good as new.”




Dave blinked. “Oh. Cool. Glad to hear that.”



He turned back around. Kept drying his back. Ten seconds passed.



Then he froze.




“…Hold on. What the fuck do you mean ‘good as new’?”




He spun back around, grabbed Pineapple Hair’s hand, inspected the wrist. It was spotless. Clean. No scar, no bruise—like it had never been chopped off at all.



Dave’s jaw dropped.




“What’s going on, man?!”




Pineapple Hair smirked, like he’d been waiting for this moment.




“Oh, this? Runs in my family.”




Dave squinted. “What does?”




“The regeneration thing. Like… we got this weird healing ability, y’know? Nothing too crazy. I’m one of the weaker ones, actually. One of my cousins—uh… forgot his name—his is way stronger. Like, if you cut his arm off and toss it across the street, it’ll come flying back to him. Gravity-style. Mine’s more like… tape-and-wait.”




Dave narrowed his eyes.




“I still don’t believe you.”




Before Pineapple Hair could even respond, Dave’s right arm swung up like a guillotine—his hand stiff, flat, sharp. A clean chop.



Pineapple Hair’s left arm dropped to the floor with a soft thud.




“FUCK YOU, MAN! What did you do?!”




Dave pointed. “Now prove it.”



Still cursing, Pineapple Hair grumbled and picked up his severed hand, stuck it back on the stump, pressed it down like a suction cup, and muttered—




“Give it ten seconds…”




The arm twitched, fused, then flexed. Perfectly reattached.



He held it up with a grimace. “Good. As. New.”



Dave stared. He couldn’t speak. His brain needed to buffer.



Still drying his neck, he muttered—




“I mean… that’s insane.”





“Yeah,” Pineapple Hair said. “But it’s whatever.”




Dave shook his head. “You’re telling me you can just… regrow body parts like nothing?”




“As long as I eat enough protein and stuff. Takes energy.”





“Who even are you?” Dave asked, half-laughing. “And who’s this cousin of yours?”




Pineapple Hair tilted his head. “Uh… I forgot. It’s been years. Something-son. Carlson? Lawson? Jackson? Grayson? Robinson? Johnson? Something like that. They all sound the same, man.”



Dave raised an eyebrow.




“So what’s your name then? Don’t tell me it’s… Parkinson.”




Pineapple Hair’s face dropped.




“Screw you,” he snapped. “Don’t give me nicknames. My name’s Eason.”




Dave flinched. “Eason?”



That surprised him more than anything.



All this time, he thought Pineapple Hair was his real name. That dumb haircut had more personality than the guy’s actual face.



Now there was a real name.



A real identity.



Something strange flickered in the air.



But Dave said nothing. He just looked down at Eason’s perfectly reattached hand.



And for once… he believed.







Downward Dog Style



Several days flew by.



Every single class, Dave showed up and gave it his all—gritting his teeth, pushing through pain, and trying not to scream as his joints made new sounds. Bones cracked. Muscles tore. Sweat poured.



Meanwhile, Eason?



He barely broke a sweat. The guy mostly goofed off. Sat in the back, stretched a little, maybe rolled around the mat like a kid at recess.



By Day Five, the instructor announced a new pose.




“Today we begin… Downward-Facing Dog.”




Dave squinted.



He looked around at the class. Everyone was folding over like limp scarecrows—hands on the floor, hips in the air, backs curved like an upside-down V.



It hit him.



He remembered the Men’s Club. That cursed moment a few days ago. The whispers… the snickering… the phrase burned into his brain.




Doggy style.




His face twitched.




“Wait… that’s real?”




He didn’t say anything out loud. Just kept his head down and tried to follow along. But as he bent forward, a lightning bolt of pain shot through his thighs. It felt like someone was peeling his muscles off with a spoon.



Still, he clenched his jaw and kept going. No way was he giving up.



And in that moment of suffering, he found himself staring straight down between his own trembling knees… and thinking about Eason.



That idiot never trained seriously. Never looked tired. Never got hurt.




“Man, if I had that regeneration thing… I’d be unstoppable.”




He imagined it. Muscle tears? Gone in seconds. Sprains, fractures, dislocations? Nothing. He’d be a master of flexibility in two days, tops.



He sighed, raised his head—and that’s when he saw it.



Eason had snuck up behind a girl in the next row. He crouched low, nose hovering just inches from her butt like he was trying to sniff out a treasure. Then, with the dumbest grin imaginable, he stuck out his tongue and made a ridiculous face—eyes crossed, tongue wagging.



Dave nearly fell out of the pose.




“Oh man… what a loser. Always goofing around…”




Before he could laugh, it happened.



The yoga teacher, who had been standing silently at the front, extended one leg forward—except it didn’t stop. It stretched. Stretched. Stretched—a full five meters—like something out of a cartoon.



BANG!



One clean kick.



Eason flew across the room like a ragdoll, crashing into the mats at the far end. He groaned like a squashed bug.



The teacher’s leg zipped back just as fast. Back into perfect form. Nobody else even noticed.



But Dave saw everything.



And in that moment, a strange fire lit up in his eyes.



If this was the kind of world he was in… he had to be ready.



He gritted his teeth.



He bent deeper.



He wanted to be strong.



He wanted to master yoga.



He wanted to master flexibility.







Stretch the Nut Out of It



“Stretch the nut out of it…”



That was Dave’s new motto.



He didn’t even know exactly what it meant. It just… felt right. Every time his body screamed, every time his joints locked up or his tendons shrieked for mercy, he whispered those words like a prayer.



And he trained.



Harder than ever.



Not just in class—on the sidewalk, in alleyways, even in traffic when he had to.



He did the bridge. The horse pose. The full doggy tilt. One time, he held a downward dog on a subway platform for six straight stops.



Old ladies passed by with narrowed eyes. One muttered—




“Can’t he just use a toilet like a normal human being?”




Another clutched her purse and pulled out her phone.




“I’m calling the police. This is disgusting!”




Dave didn’t flinch.



He was locked in. Obsessed. Every joint pushed to the limit. Every tendon singing.



One day in a narrow alley, as he dipped into a deep squat with ass high and pride low, someone crept up behind him.



It was a short guy in pajamas.



That dumb watermelon haircut. That rat face.



It was Benson.



Without a word, Benson sprinted forward and launched a full-on kick into Dave’s exposed ass, then ran off like a guilty little gremlin.



Dave flinched, turned, saw the blur of that small body vanishing.




“Goddamn it, Eason…”




But wait.



Eason lived the other way.



He paused, squinting at the horizon. The height… the vibe… the idiocy.



They were practically twins. Same build, same energy. Only the hair was different.




“They might be brothers,” Dave muttered. “Cursed little perv brothers.”




Still, none of that mattered.



He went right back into his pose.




“Stretch the nut out of it…”








About a month later, Dave returned to the yoga classroom.



By now, every move came smooth. Natural. The once-impossible poses? He flowed through them like water.



His flexibility was unreal.



Then, during one random stretch session, he felt a strange tension in his thigh.



He pushed through it.




“Stretch the nut out of it…”




He shifted into another pose—and suddenly, his leg extended. Way past its limit. Two whole meters long.



Before he could even gasp—his stretched-out foot swung forward and smashed right between Eason’s legs.



CRACK.



Blood burst out the sides of Eason’s white briefs like a ruptured ketchup packet.



Eason hit the ground instantly, grabbing his crotch and thrashing like a man being exorcised.




“HOLY FUCK!! IT HURTS! IT HURTS LIKE FUCK!!”




Dave froze, eyes wide.




“Oh shit… I stretched too hard. I kicked the nut out of Eason.”




He panicked, bolted out the door, and came back thirty seconds later with a chocolate protein milkshake from the bodega next door. He shook it violently to even out the taste, then shoved it into Eason’s hands.



Eason gulped it down like his life depended on it.



Seconds later, the bleeding stopped. The wound sealed. The fabric lifted.



Something stirred beneath the briefs.



Eason sat up slowly and muttered—




“Good as new…”




Dave stood there, holding the empty bottle.



Still half in shock.



Still half amazed.



Eason started to pull down his underwear.




“You wanna see?”





“No thanks,” Dave said, already turning away.




And as he walked back to his mat, one hand on his hip, the other wiping sweat from his brow, he mumbled—




“Stretch the nut out of it…”



Chapter 80: The Yoga Class (Part 3)
==================================================

The Forbidden Pose



Dave’s body had changed.



Not just stronger—but weirder. His flexibility had reached freak-show levels.



He could stretch his arms and legs several meters long, twist his spine like taffy, and whip his toes around like leather belts. Even turning his head 180 degrees backward? That was nothing. Child’s play.



The other students had stopped reacting a long time ago. They’d all accepted that Dave had become… something else. A yoga mutant.



One time, he bent forward while standing—slowly, gracefully—until his mouth wrapped clean around his own big toe. He held that pose for ten full seconds. Just to prove a point.



No one clapped. No one said a word. The room was dead silent, like they’d just watched a crime.



Then one day, during class, something felt off.



Eason was smiling way more than usual. Like, glowing. Beaming. Almost humming. It was weird.



Dave squinted suspiciously. Then—without even thinking—he casually stretched his neck out a full meter and leaned his head right next to Eason’s cheek.




“Hey. Why do you look so damn happy today? Something happen?”




Eason grinned with all five of his mouths.




“I got a good friend. A classmate, actually. He hasn’t been coming to class for a month or two—but tomorrow, he’s coming back. We’re real close. And I think you’ll get along with him great. He’s just like me.”





“You mean…?”





“Yeah. He’s a perv too.”




Eason gave a goofy wink.



Dave blinked. Then slowly retracted his neck like a tape measure going back into its case.




“I see… Well, I hope I get to know him, then.”




He returned to his mat, took a deep breath, and twisted himself into a ridiculous, high-difficulty position. His entire body looped into a tight human knot—arms wrapped around ankles, thighs around shoulders, spine bent in ways no chiropractor could fix.



Then he froze.



He was stuck.



A flicker of panic crossed his face.




“Ugh…”




It hurt.



Like, a lot.



His tendons squealed. His spine begged for help. But he couldn’t move.



The instructor suddenly sprinted over, shouting—




“OH SHIT, DAVE—NO! That’s one of the forbidden yoga poses! We’re not allowed to do that one!”





“What?”





“Best case? You’re going to the hospital. Worst case? You die.”




He didn’t wait for a response. He whipped out his phone and immediately dialed for an ambulance.



Sirens wailed in the distance. The entire class turned to look.



And just like that—Dave was stretchered out mid-pose. Still tangled. Still twitching. Still whispering faintly…




“I’ll… master… flexibility…”








Leaf Girl’s Trauma



The next day, class was back to normal.Well—normal for this place.



Dave didn’t dare try that forbidden pose again. Yesterday had nearly killed him. Turns out, once a human body locks itself into a cosmic pretzel, it doesn’t just unlock on its own.



He was lucky to still be walking.



Today, he played it safe. Just basic stretches. Touching toes. Twisting hips. Staying alive.



Meanwhile, right next to him, Eason wasn’t doing jack.



He just sat there bouncing with excitement, hands fidgeting, muttering under his breath like a kid waiting for Santa.




“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s coming back… He’s a legend. A total perv.”




Dave blinked and slowly tilted his head. He didn’t even stretch his neck this time. Just normal curiosity.



Before he could ask, Leaf Girl cut in with disgust.




“Oh no. That loser? He’s coming back?”




She clutched her stomach and made a gagging noise.




“Ugh. I swear, just hearing his name makes me wanna puke up yesterday’s tofu.”




Dave leaned a little closer. Not for drama—just to hear better.



Leaf Girl crossed her arms. Her tone dropped into trauma mode.




“Last time he was here… I was showering after class. You know, post-workout rinse. And that creep—and Pineapple Hair—were both peeking through the goddamn window.”




Dave blinked again. Processing.



It suddenly occurred to him—he’d never actually taken a good look at Leaf Girl before.



Now that he did… she was wearing a lime green thong, and two literal leaves taped to her nipples. That was it.



Not leaf patterns. Not leaf print.Real. Damn. Leaves.



Dave stared blankly for a second. Then shrugged.




“I mean… not much difference between now and shower time, right? You’re basically naked either way. I don’t get why they’d need to peep.”




Leaf Girl’s eyes twitched.



She looked like she just got slapped by invisible hands.



The air went cold.



Three other girls walked over. No one said a word—but their faces said everything.



Dave didn’t argue.



He just turned away, lowered himself into a crab-twist-lotus fold, and started training again.



His body extended, spine stretched, limbs looped.



Within seconds, he had coiled himself into a massive, wriggling noodle on the ground—long, thin, and silent like a python napping on a warm rock.



The girls just stared at him.



He didn’t care.



He didn’t need gossip. He didn’t need drama.All he needed… was growth.







The Pervert Returns



Class was in session. Stretching mats, soft music, ceiling fans spinning lazily.



And then—he appeared.



A chubby, medium-built guy slowly stepped into the room. Not fat, not fit. Just… doughy.



His expression was blank. Calm. Innocent, even.



The yoga instructor glanced over, didn’t even flinch.




“Just another student,” he thought.




No one clapped. No one welcomed him back.



But Eason—Eason lit up like a puppy who just found his long-lost littermate.



He jumped up, literally wagging.




“OH MY GOD—he’s back!! HE’S BACK!!”




His voice cracked with excitement. He was practically bouncing off the walls, almost foaming at the mouth.



Meanwhile, all the girls froze.



Every single one of them.



Their faces turned pale. Jaws clenched. Their eyes narrowed with disgust, anxiety… and fear.




That guy?





That damn guy?





He’s back?




Dave was doing a bridge pose at the time, arched up like a sturdy rainbow. When he spotted the newcomer, his entire body seized up.



He slipped.



Flipped.



And landed flat on his back with a brutal thud.




“HOLY FUCK!”




Everyone turned.



Dave sat up slowly, eyes wide, trembling.



That outfit…



A full Zhongshan suit. Buttoned all the way to the neck. Belly poking out like a baby watermelon. Hair neatly parted down the middle. And that face—



That damn innocent looking face.



It was Marvel.



A name Dave hadn’t heard in a while. A person he tried so hard to forget.



But now—he was right here.



And suddenly… the floodgates opened.



Memories he’d buried long ago flashed through his head like a movie projector set to trauma mode:



The two of them sitting on a bench together, laughing like idiots.



Meeting the jogging girl after training. She was bright. Outgoing. Gorgeous in a natural way.



She confessed to Dave.



His heart soared.



Then… darkness.



Marvel, transformed into a monster.



Dave, beaten senseless—flung into a tree like a sack of meat.



And beneath that tree…



Marvel raped the jogging girl.



Dave couldn’t even scream. He could only watch—paralyzed in body and soul.



That day never left him.



His first love… ended before it began.



A scar that never healed.



And now the demon was back. Smiling. Calm. Acting like it never happened.



Dave’s fists clenched.



He stood up.



Walked over.



He was taller—by half a brow. Not much, but enough to look down.



Marvel kept his gaze low. Then slowly shifted his eyes to the side. He didn’t dare make eye contact.



His body shrank inward just slightly. But enough for Dave to notice.



And just when the tension reached its peak—



Marvel’s eyes drifted.



They slid—almost accidentally—across the room… and landed squarely on Leaf Girl.



And just like that…



A tiny bulge twitched in his pants.







Rage of the Rotten First Love



Leaf Girl froze.



She wasn’t just uncomfortable anymore—she was straight-up alarmed.



Her eyes locked on Marvel’s crotch. Something was… happening. Like a slow-motion car crash.



His pants were bulging. And not just a little.



It rose. It tilted. It pushed.



Nearly twenty centimeters of cursed flesh fought its way upward, like it was trying to punch through his waistband.



Leaf Girl backed up a step, horrified.




“GO TO HELL, YOU CREEP!”




She screamed like she’d seen a demon crawling out of the mirror.




“BEAT HIS ASS, DAVE! KILL HIM FOR US! BEAT HIM AND FUCK HIM GOOD!”




The whole class went quiet for half a second.



Then—



An explosion of chaos.



Girls stood up, fists in the air.




“DO IT, DAVE!”“KILL THE PERV!”“MAKE HIM PAY!”




And right in the center of it all—



Dave.



His arm flexed like it was sculpted from steel. He grabbed Marvel by the collar and yanked him clean off the ground.



Marvel’s feet left the floor.



He kicked the air like he was stuck in a treadmill glitch. His hands clawed at Dave’s wrist, trying to escape. But Dave didn’t budge.



Marvel just hung there—dangling, flailing, helpless.



The yoga instructor looked up from across the room. Blank stare. Not even surprised.




“Hey hey hey, easy, guys… No need to get physical,” he said calmly, like he was talking about who gets to use the squat rack next.




He stretched his arms, yawned, and walked out.




“I’m gonna go take a piss. When I get back… I hope this little beef is already handled.”




He even hummed a tune on the way to the restroom.



The chaos didn’t stop.



The girls were still chanting. Some were stomping on the mats like it was a cage fight. One even threw a yoga block across the room like a judge slamming her gavel.



And right then—Eason finally caught on.



He ran up, arms out, trying to calm things down.




“Hey—hey guys, maybe we don’t need to do this. We could just sit down somewhere, have a little boba tea… You know? Talk it out like adults.”




Dave didn’t even blink.



His voice was low. Guttural. Sharp.




“You don’t know what this bastard did…”




His teeth clenched.




“He RAPED my first love.”




Everything stopped.



The girls froze mid-chant. The yoga blocks stopped flying. Even the humming from the restroom kept going—blissfully unaware.



Dave kept going—his voice trembling with rage.




“He raped her. She died afterward. She was left like a pile of broken meat under that tree.”




He stared up at Marvel like he was staring at a corpse that forgot to die.



Eason slowly turned to look at Marvel.



This shy, awkward, innocent-faced guy…



He did that?



Eason didn’t know what to feel.



A part of him was shocked. Another part… wasn’t.



Because deep down, Eason had always had those dark urges too.



He just never acted on them.



He didn’t have the guts. Or the madness.



He lowered his eyes and whispered—




“OIC…”




And stepped back quietly.



Dave raised his other hand.



Fist clenched.



His voice dropped to a whisper of judgment:




“Everything you’ve done… You must pay. In full. Today.”




Marvel didn’t even try to speak.



He just dangled there, eyes wide, breath shallow, like he knew he’d walked straight into hell.



And class wasn’t over yet.







Fists of Unforgiveness



Marvel stopped struggling.



His arms went limp. His feet dangled lifelessly in the air like a soaked marionette. He closed his eyes—accepting it.




“I’m sorry… for what I did,”“I truly am.”“I’ve been living in the shadows ever since. So go ahead… hit me. I won’t fight back this time.”




For a second, the room held its breath.



And then Dave punched him.



No hesitation. No warm-up. Just raw, unfiltered rage.



His fist rocketed straight into Marvel’s stomach—deep.



It wasn’t a punch. It was an excavation.



Marvel’s body lurched with the impact. His mouth opened wide like a cartoon character taking a cannonball to the gut.




“OH PLEASE STOP!” he screamed, voice cracking like shattered glass.“I didn’t think it’d hurt this bad! I thought—”“—I thought it’d be more poetic or something!”




He doubled over in pain.



So much for acting cool.



Dave didn’t care. He flung Marvel across the room like dirty laundry. His body smacked into the wall with a dull thunk, then crumpled onto the mat.



Marvel curled up on the floor, clutching his stomach, sobbing.




“Please… spare me… spare my life… I’m a scumbag… I admit it… please…”




Everyone in the class just stood there, dumbstruck.



Even the girls—who had been cheering a moment ago—fell silent. Like they were watching a deer get run over in slow motion.



Dave walked forward.



Slow. Steady.



Like a hunter approaching the kill.



He wasn’t even breathing hard. He just looked… disappointed.




“Why is he so weak?” Dave muttered.“Where’s that beast from the park?”




He didn’t realize it yet—but this wasn’t the same Marvel.



This was the real one.



No adrenaline. No rage. No beast-mode.



Just a pathetic, spineless loser in his natural form.



Marvel opened one eye, coughing.




“Before I die,” he wheezed, “can I say one last thing?”




Dave didn’t answer.



He just stopped walking.



Which was enough.



Marvel lifted his head, eyes glistening with tears. But he wasn’t looking at Dave.



He was staring at Leaf Girl.



Or more precisely… her chest.




“Your outfit,” he said softly, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”“So mysterious… so barely there… like a whisper of heaven.”“And your breasts… those proud, eloquent peaks…”“They make me drool every day.”




As if to prove it, a line of spit slid out of the corner of his mouth.



Leaf Girl gagged.



Then snapped.



She marched straight up and slapped him.



Hard.



Then again.



And again.



A flurry of palms smacking his face like a drum solo from hell.




“YOU DISGUSTING PIG!”“YOU CREEP! YOU GARBAGE!”“YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN NEUTERED AT BIRTH!”




Marvel just sat there, head snapping side to side, too stunned to resist.



Then Dave gently pushed her aside.



Didn’t say a word.



He just raised his fist again.



One final time.



The air grew still. Heavy.



Marvel knew what was coming.







A Teacher’s Duty



Marvel dropped down on all fours like a broken beast. No fight left. No pride. Just fear.



He crawled forward—knees scraping the yoga mat, forehead banging the ground over and over until it bled.




“Please… spare my life…”




His voice trembled. Broken.




“I can be your slave. Your servant. I can be your dog. You want me to bark? I’ll bark. Just… just don’t kill me. Please. Don’t kill me…”




Dave’s breath slowed. But in his mind… the memory stayed.



His first love. Under that tree. Turned into nothing but rotten soil.



His jaw locked. His whole body tensed up. He raised his fist. All the power in his body surged into that one punch. It roared through the air like a whip crack. The wind screamed.



But—



It didn’t land.



Instead, Dave’s knuckles slammed into something… weird.



It was soft… but solid. Like a rubber tire wrapped around steel.



The force rebounded. His arm shook.



Standing in front of him—was their yoga instructor.



His face calm.



His abs… ruined.



Blood poured from his nose. He coughed once, then again—a fine mist of blood sprayed from his lips, trailing down his chin and soaking into his tank top.



He bent forward, clutching his gut with one hand.




“Ohhh shiiit…”




He wheezed.




“That punch… was at least ten times stronger than I expected…”





“Yeah… I think I’m done for, guys.”




His knees buckled. His eyes rolled back.



The whole class froze.



Then someone started crying. Then another. Then everyone.



Girls covered their mouths. Eason held his head in his hands. Even Dave—rage fading—looked horrified.



He stepped forward to catch the teacher before he fell—



But the man suddenly snapped back upright.



CLAP. CLAP.



He dusted his hands off and smiled like he just finished a light jog.




“Just kidding, guys.”





“All right, everyone. Let’s get back to class.”





“In this classroom—nobody dies. No violence. Got it?”




The entire room stood there in stunned silence. Dave was speechless. Everyone else looked like they just saw a ghost.



The instructor turned his head just slightly. Eyes still bloodshot. Smile still calm.



He looked down at Marvel, who was still cowering like a wounded animal.




“Flee. Now.”





“I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to protect you again.”





“And don’t ever come back to my class.”




He didn’t say it with hate. Not with judgment. Just cold, matter-of-fact reality.



Because deep down, he knew—Marvel wouldn’t survive another session.



Marvel didn’t wait.



He scrambled to his feet and bolted—out the door, down the hall, limbs flailing like a terrified stray dog.



And then—



CLAP. CLAP.




“Okay. Let’s continue. Next pose—I want everyone in Downward Dog. Dave, you especially.”




Slowly… almost magically… the class returned to normal. One by one, they got back on their mats.



Like nothing ever happened.



Because in that room… in the strange world of yoga and secrets and bottled-up rage—The teacher did his duty.


Chapter 81: The Yoga Class (Part 4)
==================================================

The Graduation Speech



Another month had passed.



Dave had learned everything he could from the yoga class—every bend, every breath, every humiliating stretch that nearly tore him in half. Today… was his last day.



He stood at the front of the studio, looking out at the familiar faces. Eason. Leaf Girl. All the weirdos, the perverts, the sweat-drenched warriors of flexibility.



For once, Dave looked… reluctant.



His throat tightened. He opened his mouth to speak—But nothing came out.



His vision blurred. The words sat heavy in his chest.He didn’t want to leave. Not really.



That’s when—



CLAP! CLAP!



Their instructor stepped forward in his crisp white shirt and slacks. His smile was easy, his tone smooth.




“Let’s welcome today’s star with a few words. Come on, Dave—graduation speech time.”




The timing was perfect. Somehow, even in awkward moments, Mr. Moonly could steer the vibe like a seasoned nightclub DJ.



The class chuckled. Even Dave laughed through the lump in his throat.



He sniffed, wiped his eye, and finally spoke.




“Thank you… everyone… for growing with me.”



“I’ve gotten a lot stronger here—and I don’t just mean the muscles. I’ll always remember you guys.”



“Even you, Eason. Leaf Girl… and of course, our teacher—Mr. Moonly.”




The moment he said that last name—Moonly—the room froze.



Eyes widened. People looked at each other.




“Wait… he has a name?”





“I thought he was just called Teacher…”





“No one told me this guy had an actual name??”




A wave of confused whispers swept across the room.



Dave scratched his head and laughed.




“Yeah… I didn’t know either. But I accidentally punched him too hard a while ago, remember?”



“Had to take him to the hospital. And when they asked for his ID, I saw it… Moonly.”



“I always thought his name was just ‘Teacher.’”




Everyone burst out laughing.



The mood lightened again—warm, goofy, ridiculous. Just like every session.



Then Dave turned toward Leaf Girl, suddenly a little more serious.




“By the way, your outfit… it’s bold, sure. But it’s basically just two leaves. You might wanna be careful walking home late at night. Keep an eye out for creeps.”




Leaf Girl gave a smug little grin.




“Please. Compared to you, I’m basically modest.”




She gestured at Dave’s lower half.




“You’re literally wearing pink laced panties. Female cut. Front triangle. I don’t think I’m the problem here.”




The class exploded with laughter.



Dave blushed. He adjusted his waistband and muttered something about laundry day.



And just like that—on that absurd, happy note—they shared their final moment together.



The last day.The graduation speech.







No Goodbye Without Drama



Dave gave one last glance to the classroom.



Then, quietly, he reached down and adjusted his pink lace panties. Just a small tug. A soft gesture. One final embarrassment he had come to embrace.



He turned, ready to walk out.



But his steps were slow. Heavy. His eyes shimmered—not quite crying, but dangerously close. This place… these weirdos… this strange, sweaty yoga dungeon—it had become something he never expected.



Home.



And just as he was about to cross the threshold—




“Dave,” a voice called out.




It was Mr. Moonly.



The teacher stood casually in his white shirt and slacks, arms folded like nothing was wrong. He smiled—warm, genuine.




“I’ve got an event this Sunday. You wanna come support me?”




Dave paused.




“An event?” he asked, turning back. “What kind of event?”




Mr. Moonly scratched his head like he was about to talk about a family barbecue.




“Oh, nothing big. Just a world record attempt.”



“I’m going to jump from a very, very high place.”




Dave blinked.




“Like… how high?”





“Empire State Building.”




Dave’s brain froze. His lips parted.




“Wait—what?! That’s like… one hundred floors.”




Mr. Moonly stayed calm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.




“The current record is ten stories. Someone survived that fall.”




Dave’s jaw dropped.




“Then why not go for eleven floors? Or fifteen?”




Mr. Moonly looked him dead in the eye.




“Because I am awesome. And I know it.”




Dave stared, not sure if this was a suicide mission or the boldest flex ever spoken.



Then he nodded.




“Alright. I’ll be there.”




The other students, still lounging on their mats, raised their hands one by one—




“We’ll all be there, Teacher.”“Yeah, we’ll support you.”




It felt… weirdly good. Like a cult. But no one questioned it.



Dave lingered a bit longer. His eyes still watery. He wanted to say something else. Anything. Just to stay a few more seconds.



But Mr. Moonly moved first.



THUMP.



He stretched one leg out—casually, almost lazily—and kicked Dave square in the torso.



Not gently.



Dave’s body lifted off the ground and flew clean out of the studio, crashing into the hallway like a human cannonball.



There was a beat of silence.



Then Mr. Moonly calmly walked over and shut the door behind him with a quiet click.




“Go,” he said. “Don’t loiter.”



“It’s not like we’re never gonna see each other again.”




Dave gave one last look. And walked away.







Back inside—



Mr. Moonly stood still for a beat.



Then he dropped to his knees and clutched his head, wailing:




“Oh no… I’m gonna miss that boy so much…”



“One of my finest students! My legacy! My everything!”




The girls gasped. Some covered their mouths, trying not to cry. Even the guys shifted uncomfortably.



A beat of raw emotion—



Then suddenly—



CLAP. CLAP.



Mr. Moonly stood up, wiped nothing from his face, and smiled like nothing happened.




“Just kidding.”



“Alright. Back to class. Today’s pose—Downward Dog Style.”




The class exploded with laughter.



Because really…



There was no goodbye in that room without a little drama.







Show Me Your Progress



Dave wandered the street like a guy who had nowhere to be.



Graduation had ended. His pink panties itched a little, but that wasn’t the reason he felt off. Something was missing. He didn’t know what. Just… off.



Then, up ahead, he saw it.



A dog. Crawling along the sidewalk on all fours.



Dave squinted. The way it moved was weird. A little too human.



And then it stood up.




“Hey, what’s up, dude?”




It was Norman.



In a pink Hello Kitty t-shirt. Dirt on his knees. Just standing there like it was normal to be crawling through a city sidewalk pretending to be a dog.



Dave blinked. “Bro, I thought you were a real dog just now.”



Norman grinned. “You serious? Damn—I’ve been working on that. Nailed it.”



He jogged up and slapped Dave on the back.




“Anyway, how’s the yoga thing? You done with that?”




Dave nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I graduated. Got the mat, the weird little ceremony, the whole thing.”



He paused.




“Honestly? It changed me, man. I’m way stronger now. My flexibility’s off the charts. I can absorb impact like a sponge. I think if I jumped off the fifth floor, I’d walk it off.”




Norman raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”



Dave shrugged. “We had a teacher who said he’s gonna jump off the Empire State Building this weekend. Compared to him? I’m just a baby.”



Norman gave a long, slow blink. “Damn. Alright.”



A quiet beat.



Then Dave added softly—




“Hey… we haven’t seen each other in a while.”




Norman squinted. “We literally went shoplifting together yesterday.”



Dave blinked. “Oh. Right. Yeah.” He scratched his head. “Still feels like a long time.”



Norman rolled his eyes and pointed down the block. “You feel strong now? That kid’s walking like three meters ahead. Show me.”



Dave looked. A teenager was strolling down the sidewalk, unaware.



Dave didn’t even hesitate. He stretched his leg out—longer than normal, almost like rubber—and fired a side kick.



CRACK.



The heel smacked the back of the kid’s head. His eyes rolled up. He dropped like a sack of bricks.



Dave pulled his leg back. Casual.




“See? That’s progress.”




Norman nodded. “Not bad.”



He yawned.




“Still pretty normal though.”




Dave frowned. “What? That was a full knockout!”



Norman ignored him. “Hey, you ever try that pose where you bend yourself into a knot? Like wrap your body through your own leg?”



Dave shuddered. “Bro, that’s a forbidden pose. I tried it once, almost died. Had to get picked up by ambulance.”



Norman tilted his head. “Damn. Sounds boring.”



Dave huffed. “It’s not! It’s actually insanely powerful. You just don’t get it.”



Norman smirked and pointed at a nearby five-story apartment building.




“Then prove it. Let’s go up there. You jump.”




Dave froze. “Are you serious?”



Norman was already heading for the stairs.



Dave swallowed and followed.




“Oh shit…”








Jump Test



They made it to the fifth-floor balcony.



Dave climbed up onto the edge like it was nothing. One leg swung over the railing, the other balanced awkwardly. He stood tall, arms out, like some kind of yoga messiah about to perform a miracle.




“Should be easy,” he muttered. “Just five floors. No big deal…”




He looked down.



Cars. Sidewalk. A random grandma crossing the street with a grocery bag full of tofu and soy milk.



His confidence cracked a little.




“I mean… I probably won’t die.”




Norman leaned against the wall, sipping a juice box he brought from god knows where.




“Come on, man. Hurry up. Don’t waste time.”




Dave turned. “I’m just—”



SHOVE.



Norman ran up and pushed him clean off the balcony.




“OH SHIT—!”




Dave went flying.



Not diving, not flipping like an athlete. Just flailing. Arms and legs spinning in random directions like a puppet having a seizure midair.



Down below, the grandma looked up and screamed—




“Another one?!”




She ducked, dropping her soy milk. It exploded all over a guy in a business suit, who froze in place like someone just handed him a divorce.



Meanwhile, a delivery guy on a scooter swerved to avoid the chaos and flew straight into a garbage bin. A banana peel shot out and smacked him across the face mid-scream.



BOOM!



Dave slammed into the pavement.



Not on his feet. Not on his back. He hit sideways—hands first, then chest, then knees, like someone trying to slide into home base with zero athletic experience.



CRACK.



But somehow… he stood up.



Groaning. Spitting a little blood. Shaking his head like it was nothing.




“I think… I just landed wrong. My legs were supposed to hit first.”




He wiped his mouth, straightened up, and cracked his neck.




“But yeah. My flexibility’s like rubber now. It absorbed most of the impact. Probably.”




A few meters away, Norman ran down the side of the building like he had anti-gravity sneakers. Less than a second later, he was next to Dave.




“Damn, man. You actually didn’t break anything. That’s wild.”




Dave nodded, breathing heavy.




“Yeah. Felt pretty easy.”




Norman pointed across the street—at a ten-story apartment.




“Wanna try that one next?”




Dave glanced at the building. Then back at the pavement. Then down at the faint red stain he just left behind.



He smiled.




“Maybe next time. Didn’t we say we’d hit that Korean BBQ spot today? Eat and run?”




Norman’s face lit up.




“Oh yeah! Good idea. Let’s go!”




And just like that, the two walked off like nothing happened.







The Leaf Man



Sunday came faster than expected.



By noon, the sidewalk outside the Empire State Building was packed. A full crowd had gathered for one reason: to watch people jump.



Not just any people—wannabe legends. Daredevils. Idiots. And among them, one very specific idiot: Moonly, their yoga teacher.



Dave and Eason stood side by side near the front, squinting up at the skyscraper’s needle-like tip. But so far, no sign of him.



Before Moonly’s grand finale, a few warm-up jumpers had already gone for it. None of them made it.



Not even close.



They hit the pavement like bags of soup.



City workers, unfazed, hosed the red smears into the gutters.




“Meat sludge,” Dave muttered. “All of them.”





“I think that last guy twitched,” Eason replied.





“No he didn’t.”




They stared for a moment longer, the building stretching endlessly into the clouds.



Then, someone tapped Dave’s shoulder.



He turned.



It was a girl.



Long black hair. White blouse, black skirt, kitten heels. Elegant, poised, face like a K-drama lead.




“Who the fuck are you?” Dave blinked. “Do I know you?”




The girl smiled.




“Hey! I’m Leaf Girl, you jerk! I changed clothes. Don’t you recognize me?”




Dave took a long second.Then another.




“Wait—what happened to your leaves? And your boobs? You look like… a normal person now.”




She laughed.




“That outfit was just for yoga. I’m actually really traditional. Normally I dress modestly.”





“Oh,” Dave said. “Cool. So the leaves were just… for flexibility?”





“Exactly.”




Next to them, Eason was tearing up.



He clutched his head.




“Then how am I supposed to call you Leaf Girl now?! You don’t have leaves anymore!”




The girl raised a calm eyebrow.She just smiled.




“I have a name, you know…”




She tilted her head slightly, lips curving into a casual smirk.




“It’s Cecilia.”




Dave and Eason both tilted their heads and muttered softly:




“OIC…”




Before they could say anything else, the loudspeakers crackled overhead.




“Ladies and gentlemen… our final challenger has arrived!”




All eyes turned upward.



And there he was.



A lone figure stepped onto the ledge of the Empire State Building’s peak.



Familiar.



Terrifyingly familiar.



He wore nothing but a pair of green boxers… and two oversized leaves.



One taped to each nipple.



His arms stretched wide like a messiah about to fly.




“Moonly,” Dave whispered.





“That son of a bitch stole your look,” Eason said, pointing at Cecilia.




She said nothing.



Just watched in silence as their yoga teacher, The Leaf Man himself, prepared for the final plunge.







Moonly’s Leap Will Go On



Somewhere in the background, a lone violin began to play.



It was faint at first. But unmistakable.



“My Heart Will Go On.”



The Titanic theme.



Up on the Empire State Building, the final moment had come.



A breeze swept through the clouds.



Moonly stood tall at the ledge—arms wide open, hair flailing like a shredded mop in the wind. The green boxer shorts. The two leaves. The messiah pose. It was all real.



And then he jumped.



No, not jumped.He flew.



At least, that’s what it looked like. His arms outstretched, his body steady like a glider, descending from the heavens with the grace of a divine idiot.



From the ground, Dave, Eason, and Cecilia watched in awe.




“That’s our teacher…” Eason whispered.“So cool…” Cecilia added.“Like a flying watermelon,” Dave nodded.




Moonly’s descent was majestic. Controlled. Perfect.



Until the end.



A thunderous CRACK tore through the street.



Moonly hit the ground chest-first. Full force. His body bounced like a basketball, flipping backward through the air, legs flailing, leaves fluttering.



When he landed again, it wasn’t gentle.



He skidded like roadkill. A twisted smear of man, leaf, and boxer elastic. The pavement cracked in a spiderweb pattern beneath him.



Cecilia instinctively stepped forward.




“We should check—” she started.




Dave casually placed a hand on her shoulder.




“No need. Our teacher’s tough.”




A cluster of medics and staff rushed to Moonly’s crumpled form.



One guy kneeled beside him, put two fingers under his nose.




“Oh my god… he’s dead.”




They froze. Stunned.



But before they could process it—



Moonly shot upright.




“HAH! Just kidding, man!” he yelled, clapping his hands like a circus clown.“I’m still alive, bitches!”




The crowd roared. People screamed. Applause erupted like a rock concert.



Moonly had done it. He had survived the leap.



Cameras flashed. Hands waved.



He had—SPLURT.



Moonly suddenly coughed up a geyser of blood.



Then collapsed again. This time, flat.



One medic leaned over and sighed.




“Okay. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice… shame on me.”“Let’s go, guys.”




They walked away.



That night, Moonly was rushed to the ICU. Unconscious. Possibly brain-dead.



The news hit fast.




“Today’s record-breaking leap is under review,” a stiff anchor announced on live TV.“Because Moonly is currently in a vegetative state, officials are waiting to see if he wakes up before confirming the result.”




Outraged viewers threw their rice bowls at the TV.




“DECIDED OR NOT? YES OR NO? SAY IT!” one man screamed.




But the broadcast continued:




“Only if Moonly regains consciousness will the jump be officially recognized. Until then, we wait.”




And just like that, the yoga studio closed its doors.



Not because Dave graduated.Because every student was forced to graduate.


Chapter 82: Toothache Apocalypse (Part 1)
==================================================

Toothache of the Apocalypse



Lindsay was at the shopping mall.



She wasn’t buying weapons. She wasn’t stocking up on emergency supplies or gathering rations. She was buying clothes. Makeup. A few boxes of strawberry-scented sheet masks.



It was her day off.



Even a raging warrior needed her self-care time.



She wore a men’s Zhongshan suit—like always. Not a single button fastened. Underneath? A snug pink bra barely containing what needed to be contained.Tall. Athletic. Well over six feet. She walked like a T-Rex on patrol.



But her face?



All smiles.




“Thank you! See you next time~”




She waved cheerfully at the cashier. The cashier, frozen for a second, gave her a bow back.




“Uh—y-yes. Please come again…”




Lindsay stepped onto the sidewalk, bags in both hands. The sun was shining. Her hair shimmered.



It was a perfect day.



Then— it hit.



A sharp pain. Like a hot nail driving into her gums. Then twisting into her skull.



She froze. She bent down. Her face contorted.



The pain was fast, sharp, primal.



It had been years since she’d had a toothache. She had forgotten how fast the body betrayed itself.



She fell to her knees. Clutched her face.



Tried to focus her inner energy—her qi—into her jaw. Tried to control it like she was taught.



Didn’t work. Not even a little.



She rolled onto the concrete, groaning, muttering nonsense into her palm like a cursed child.




“Aaaghhh—make it stop, please, anyone—KILL ME—”




People passed by.



Some slowed. Some stared. Most ignored her.



Until one man—a jogger with bubble tea in one hand—finally said something.




“The hell are you doing? Rolling around like a moron? Are you stupid or something?”




SHING. SHING. SHING.



Three silver flashes streaked through the air—so fast they barely existed.



Next moment: That man fell apart.



Four clean chunks of torso hit the ground like meat from a butcher’s rack. His head bounced twice. The bubble tea stood upright for a second longer before tipping over.



Lindsay didn’t even glance his way. She was still rolling. Still crying.




“Why… why this tooth… why today…”




Then she slowly pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly, shopping bags still clutched in one hand.



She looked around.



North. South. East. West.



The mall loomed in every direction.




“I got to find a dentist soon…”








The Waiting Room Massacre



Lindsay found a dental clinic on the third floor of the mall.“Emergency Walk-Ins Welcome,” the sign said. It was painted in Comic Sans. There were balloons taped to the door.



She kicked it open.



The waiting room was full—mostly seniors, a few screaming toddlers, and one dude in sunglasses watching a mukbang at full volume.



Lindsay stood in the doorway. Eyes red. Hair wild. Mouth trembling. She looked like she’d crawled straight out of a 1998 horror film.



Nobody looked up.



The receptionist, a plump young woman chewing gum with war-grade confidence, finally raised her head.




“Hi! Name and insurance?”




Lindsay didn’t answer.



She walked up to the counter. Put both shopping bags down. Grabbed the edge of the desk and leaned in.



Her voice was a whisper, but it landed like a blade.




“It’s urgent.”




The receptionist blinked.




“Sweetie, everyone here’s urgent. That guy’s molar exploded.”




She pointed to a trembling man in the corner with his entire face wrapped in a towel like a mummy.



Lindsay’s eye twitched.




“What do you mean by waiting?”“I never wait. The pain is killing me.”




The receptionist hesitated.




“Well… you see, there’s a lot of people in front of you—”





“Ah. Right.”




SHFFFF.



Lindsay tossed off her coat like she was in a stage play. Her qi surged out like pressure from a ruptured boiler.



Three silver arcs whipped through the air.



SHING. SHING. SHING.



Every patient in front of her was reduced to chunks. Arms. Legs. Jaws. Guts. All of it—neatly bisected.The mukbang guy’s tablet landed in the slime bucket.One of the grandmas exploded into dental coupons.



She dusted her hands.




“Now. Is it my turn yet?”




The receptionist stood frozen for a beat. Then nodded rapidly—like a bobblehead in a hurricane.




“Y-y-y-yes, madam! R-right this way!”




Lindsay stepped over a severed foot and smiled faintly.




“Thank you.”




Behind her, the wall clock cracked. The lights flickered. One of the decapitated heads blinked twice before going still.







A Dose of Diarrhea



The dentist was young. Maybe too young. Barely older than Lindsay.



He wore a Pokémon-patterned surgical mask and a nervous smile, like he’d rather be gaming than doing this job.



He took one look at her swollen face and muttered,




“Yikes…”




Then he snapped on gloves, poked around a bit, and said:




“Yeah, it’s just an infection. Happens. I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics.”




Lindsay didn’t move.



She just sat there, arms crossed, face twitching like a broken light fixture.




“I need them now.”




The dentist hesitated.



Then he laughed awkwardly and reached into his coat pocket.




“Well… I do have a few on me. Samples. Was gonna take ’em myself, but hey…”




He pulled out a little Ziploc bag—twenty pills, unlabeled.




“One a day. One week. You’ll be fine. The extra ones—just keep ’em somewhere safe. These things are strong. Like, really strong. Don’t let kids near them. We have to handle these responsibly.”




Lindsay took the bag.



Stared at it.



Then—snatched it, tore it open, and swallowed all twenty pills at once.



No water. No hesitation. Just—gulp.



The dentist’s soul left his body.




“WHAT THE HELL—”




Lindsay wiped her mouth.




“I’m tougher than that.”




She stood up. Walked out the door. Didn’t even close it behind her.



Ten steps later—her stomach growled.



Hard.



By the time she reached the escalator, she was sweating. Pale. Bent forward like a Victorian ghost bride. Every breath came with a squelch.



And then—she ran.



Sprint. Limbs flailing.



She made it to the food court bathroom… but the line was twenty people deep.



Children. Seniors. Tourists.



No chance.



Lindsay’s eye twitched again.



She turned around, scanned the area.



And then she moved.



Kicked open the nearest boutique—some overpriced women’s clothing store with French music playing inside.



A shriek erupted.



One of the clerks was in the back—squatting on the store’s employee toilet, mid-poop.



Too late.



Lindsay grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her out mid-dump. The poor woman flew into the hallway like a javelin, her pants still around her knees.



And behind her… trailed a single, horrifying brown tail—a poop comet, midair, spiraling into eternity.



Gasps. Screams.



Lindsay shut the door.



Silence.



Then…



BOOM.



A blast of weaponized flatulence tore through the boutique.



Mannequins collapsed. Dressing rooms shook. The store logo peeled off the wall and clattered to the floor.



Mall security took cover.



Teenagers cried.



A Shake Shack window shattered.



Inside, Lindsay sat quietly on the boutique toilet—arms resting on her knees, eyes half-lidded.



Serene. Powerful.




“I think I’m feeling better now.”








Lobster Shells and Loose Screws



Lindsay stepped out of the boutique.



Her hair was damp. Her cheeks glowed with relief. The entire corridor smelled like a chemical weapons test site. But she looked serene.



One foot in front of the other.



Then—TCHHH.



A sharp spark fired up her jaw again.



She froze mid-step.



The toothache.



Still there.



Still burning. Still clawing into her brain like a raccoon trapped in a garbage disposal.



She clutched her cheek, growled through her teeth—




“Twenty wasn’t enough… I need more.”




She turned back toward the dentist’s office, limbs stiff, knees bowed like she was marching back to war.



On her way through the food court, she passed a group of mall bros. One of them, in a tight tank top and flip flops, was eating seafood out of a styrofoam tray like it was his last meal before prison.




“Bro,” he said with a smirk, “these lobster claws? I bite straight through the shell. No problem. My teeth are like nutcrackers. Ain’t that right, Mikey?”




The other bro chuckled, mouth full of clams.




“Straight up. Hard shell, soft meat, and a hit of yeast sauce? That’s gourmet, bro.”




Lindsay stopped walking.



She turned her head.



Her jaw twitched.



Her eyes narrowed on the speaker like a hawk spotting prey.




“You… brag about biting shells…”




The man looked up, confused.




“Uh—yeah? Wait, what—”




SHICK.



She was already behind him.



She reached into his mouth and—ripped out his molars. With her bare hands. Fingers straight down his throat like she was unclogging a sink.



Blood sprayed. He screamed like a balloon letting out air sideways. His tongue flapped like a fish out of water.



Then she spun him by the jaw and snapped his spine backward like a folding chair.



The other bros ran.



Too late.



Lindsay bent low and bit the tray in half. Styrofoam and all.




“Nutcrackers, huh? I’ll show you nutcrackers…”




She dropped the body and headed back to the clinic.







The Cure That Cuts



Lindsay was still on the ground, curled like a dying animal. Her hands gripped the cold mall floor, nails scraping the tile. Her face was pale, drenched in sweat, twitching with rage and pain.



Then—Three shadows stood before her.



One was calm and tall, hands in his pockets, wearing golden-rimmed glasses that caught the neon light.



Michael.Captain Lam of the Humble Organization.



Beside him, slightly slouched, expression unreadable—



Raymond.



And between them—



A strange, tiny man in a too-long lab coat. Slipper shoes. Hair like uncooked noodles. Face flat with confidence that hadn’t been earned.



Mildy.Self-proclaimed doctor. Unlicensed. Undeterred.



Lindsay slowly raised her head, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.




“Michael… the great Captain Lam.You here to laugh at me?”




Michael gave a thin smile.




“Didn’t think I’d see the day.A woman like you… taken out by a molar.”




Raymond nodded seriously.




“Toothaches are hell.Two weeks ago, I had one.I rolled around like a dying cockroach. Screamed into a pillow for hours.Don’t worry, it’s not just you.”




Then Mildy stepped forward like he was stepping onto a stage.




“Actually… I can fix this.Tooth pain is simple.A few nerve tricks. One minute.Even I, a humble unlicensed doctor, can handle this.”




Michael squinted at him.




“You sure?She’s not exactly stable.You fail, she might tear your head off.”




Before Mildy could reply, Lindsay stood up on one knee and stared directly into his eyes.




“If you cure me…”




Her voice was low. Calm. Ominous.




“…I’ll owe you a favor.”




She stood up straight now. Still trembling, but not from weakness.




“But if you fail—I’ll cut you into ten pieces.”




Raymond gave a tiny cough.



Michael didn’t say a word.



Mildy smiled and said:




“Understood.”




Then he kicked her.



A sharp, precise snap of the foot—right into the side of her face. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to hurt. A test. A theory.



Lindsay didn’t even blink.



She stayed completely still. Face turned slightly from the blow.



No relief.



The pain in her jaw pulsed louder. Her gums throbbed. Her blood began to boil.



Slowly, she turned her head back toward him.



Her eyes were now red.



Dead quiet.



Her fingers twitched.Then clenched into claws.



She took one step forward.



Mildy froze. His grin faded.



Michael saw it.



Raymond saw it too.



Both of them instantly moved—



One to the left. One to the right.Positioning themselves around Mildy.Guarding him.



Because they knew what was coming.


Chapter 83: Toothache Apocalypse (Part 2)
==================================================

Concussion Royale



Lindsey’s eyes burned red like a cracked furnace. She stared down Mildy with murderous heat, her fingers twitching into claws.



And then she moved.



A blur.A ripple in the air.She vanished from the front—and appeared behind him like a phantom.



Her claws came down.Sharp. Precise. Aimed to slice Mildy into elegant, bloody ribbons.



But Michael had seen this trick before.



He was already turning.Both hands shot up—and caught her by the wrists.



The slam of force echoed through the room like a gunshot.



Locked in a power clash, their arms trembled from the tension. Their feet scraped the floor, neither backing down. The tiles beneath cracked from the pressure.



But Lindsey was stronger.



With a sudden shift of her weight, she twisted Michael off-balance and slammed him hard into the floor.



CRACK.



Concrete dented beneath him. Dust shot up. Michael lay sprawled, coughing dryly, eyes spinning.



Raymond didn’t hesitate.



He grabbed the stunned Mildy and hurled him across the room toward Michael.



Mid-air, Michael caught him—arms trembling in a bizarre princess hold.




“Take him and run!” Raymond barked. “I’ll hold her off!”




Michael stumbled back, still holding Mildy. Lindsey’s blood-red glare locked on them.



She was already charging.



Raymond stepped in.



One punch.



The Concussion Punch.



Lindsey didn’t slow.She met it head-on—threw her own fist to collide with his.



BOOM.



The impact shattered the silence.Walls shook. Dust rained from the ceiling.



Lindsey was sent flying.



Her body blurred mid-air, then dropped like a meteor. Blood sprayed from her mouth, her nose, even a line from her ear.



She crashed down, knees hitting tile. Her breath was shallow. Vision blurred.



Raymond stood steady, exhaling.




“Dead-on hit. Hundred percent.Normal folks can’t even twitch after that.”




Lindsey slowly turned her head.Blood streaked down her face—but she grinned.




“Just a little small scratch.”




Her claws curled again. Her spine straightened.Round two was loading.







Two Men, One Monster



Lindsey stood back up, still gritting her teeth. Her body trembled—not with fear, but with rage. Raymond didn’t wait. He slammed his fist down, hard, into the concrete floor.



BOOM.



A brutal shockwave tore through the ground, splitting tiles like crackers. The vibration crawled up Lindsey’s legs, shot through her spine, and smacked her brain like a mallet.



She dropped again—eyes rolling, blood seeping from her ears, nose, mouth, and even the corners of her eyes.



She wiped it off casually.




“That all you got? Just a little… small scratch.”




Raymond’s eye twitched. That was a full-power concussion punch. People usually vomit out their intestines after taking one of those.



Far away, Michael had already dashed off with Mildy in his arms—cradling him like a frightened princess. He ducked into the nearest women’s restroom and shoved him inside.




“Pretend you’re taking a shit. Don’t come out until we finish fighting.”




Mildy nodded, face pale.




“Too late. I already… it’s all in my pants.”




Michael winced, didn’t look back, and turned to run.



But just as he stepped out, a young woman pushed open the bathroom door.



She saw them.



Two men. In the women’s restroom.



Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened to scream.



She didn’t get the chance.



Michael, moving purely on instinct, swung his hand in a perfect knife-chop.



Her head fell clean off. A soft thump echoed as it rolled across the bathroom floor.



Michael didn’t even look back.



He sprinted toward the main hall. Toward the thunder.



He knew. Raymond couldn’t hold her off alone.



And sure enough—he was right.



Lindsey had already appeared behind Raymond like a ghost.



Raymond wasn’t built for speed. He barely had time to flinch.



Her claw came down, aiming straight for the back of his neck.



One strike—just one—and his throat would be gone.



But she never landed it.



A flying kick—sharp, fast, like a silver bullet—crashed into Lindsey’s ribs.



Michael.



His timing was perfect. His leg snapped like a whip. Lindsey flew sideways, smashing into the wall with a human-shaped dent.



Raymond stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.




“Oh shit. That was close…”




Michael landed beside him, still staring ahead.




“Yeah. She’s strong. Even the two of us together… we might not beat her.”




Raymond swallowed hard.



The floor was cracked. Blood was everywhere.



And Lindsey—Lindsey was still getting up.







Echo Chamber of Pain



Lindsey didn’t hesitate.



She blurred behind Michael again — and the battle resumed.



Michael spun around to intercept her. Their fists clashed. Raymond joined in, throwing a mix of normal and concussion punches. The variety kept their tempo high.



Lindsey began reading their rhythm. She dodged most of Raymond’s strikes — especially those carrying vibration force — and countered Michael’s instead.



She knew taking a concussion punch meant a moment of daze. A brief half-second where she’d be wide open. She couldn’t afford that.



So she danced through their strikes — claw against knuckle — for over a hundred rapid exchanges.



Then came the turning point.



Lindsey swung toward Michael again. Their fists collided.



Suddenly, both fighters froze.



Their bodies shimmered in place. Reality twisted.



Raymond had landed a concussion punch to Michael’s forearm mid-strike.



The shockwave rippled through Michael’s bones… and slammed into Lindsey’s body through the point of contact.



Lindsey spasmed in midair, vision fading. Blood burst from every hole on her face.



But Michael didn’t drop.



He had come prepared.



New vibration-proof glasses. Muscles already braced.



He recovered in 0.1 seconds.



With all his strength, he launched a full-force punch into Lindsey’s abdomen.



Her stomach crumpled.



And in the next instant, Raymond leapt into the air and drove a vertical kick straight into her jaw.



Her head snapped back from the impact.



For the first time, Lindsey looked… dazed.







The Toothless Storm



Lindsey was blasted backward, her body flung through the air like a sack of broken bones.



It wasn’t just the latest punch that did her in—it was the buildup. The stress, the rage, the sharp, gnawing toothache that had been pulsing in her jaw for hours. In a desperate move before the fight, she had swallowed twenty antibiotics all at once. A gamble. It killed the pain, but it drained her strength.



She was still strong, but not at her peak. Not enough to handle what came next.



Michael and Raymond weren’t holding back anymore.



They rushed her like animals—legs, fists, elbows, knees—driving her back with an unstoppable barrage. Raymond’s knuckles were glowing now, every other strike laced with the signature vibration of a concussion punch.



Then came the finisher.



Raymond stepped in and slammed a full-powered concussion punch right into her gut.



Boom.



The shockwave exploded through her body. Lindsey didn’t just stumble—she flew. She shot backward like a cannonball, crashing straight into the wall at the end of the alley. The concrete cracked. Chunks of brick collapsed over her body.



Dust settled. Blood dripped from the cracks.



Michael and Raymond slowed their breath. They weren’t here to kill her. Lindsey was part of the Frugal Organization—some kind of high-ranking fighter. Taking her life would mean war. But a message? A warning? That much was necessary.



Raymond exhaled through his nose, flexing his shoulders.



Michael stood tall again, brushing dust off his new vibration-proof glasses.



But just as they turned to leave…



BOOM.



The wall exploded outward. Shards flew in every direction.



And from the smoke—she emerged.



Lindsey’s eyes burned with madness.



She roared and lunged, claws out, both arms swinging with brutal, animal fury. Before they could react, her hands were already tearing into them.



Michael’s chest ripped open with three deep slashes.



Raymond caught one to the ribs—four gashes bleeding down his side.



Both men staggered. Blood soaked their shirts. Especially Raymond—his muscles were built for power, not durability.



Michael grit his teeth and threw a punch, forcing Lindsey back again. She choked on blood and stumbled. Raymond jumped in with a sharp vertical kick to her chin.



This time, Lindsey flew back again, but landed on her feet—barely.



All three fighters were gasping. Hunched over. Bloodied and exhausted.



Michael spit onto the ground and growled, “That’s enough, Lindsey. We’re even.”



But Lindsey shook her head, still wobbling, still defiant.




“No. I’m not done. I’m beating both of you down. And then I’m gonna find that bastard who kicked my tooth out—rip him into eighteen pieces…”




She was shaking with rage.



Then she blinked.



And paused.



For the first time in hours…



The pain was gone.



She touched her cheek. Her jaw. Nothing. No throbbing. No sting.



Her eyes widened slightly. “Wait…”



She murmured—




“OMG… that unlicensed doctor actually… cured me.”




What she didn’t know was that the antibiotics had finally kicked in. Her immune system surged during the heat of battle. Blood flow ramped up. The infection? Cleared.



Her toothache was gone.



And now, standing in the wreckage, soaking in sweat and blood… she looked almost confused.



Maybe even… grateful?







Let me know when you want Session 11–12 (Toilet of Command & A Doctor Reborn in the Restroom) added in same format.



You said:



Yes



ChatGPT said:



Perfect. Here’s Chapter 82, Sessions 11–12, combined and formatted with titles in heading format, no session numbers, and full original content preserved.







Toilet of Command



Michael pointed at Lindsey with a single finger.




“Hey, you jerk! You owe our unlicensed doctor an apology.”




Lindsey blinked. Then gave a slow nod.




“So be it. You’re right… Where is he now?”




The three of them—Michael, Raymond, and Lindsey—walked toward the women’s restroom. Outside the door, a headless corpse leaned against the wall, with its severed head a few feet away. Michael casually kicked the head aside, as if clearing a soda can from his path.



They entered.



One of the stall doors was shut. A faint grunting sound came from inside.



Michael marched forward and, without hesitation, kicked the stall door clean off its hinges.




“Sorry in advance, Mildy—”




But it wasn’t Mildy inside.



It was a woman.



Squatting.



Mid-wipe.



She screamed.



Before anyone could process the awkward horror, the stall next door creaked open. A short, pale figure stepped out—pants around his ankles, the unmistakable silhouette of Mildy, the unlicensed doctor.



He looked up at them, deadpan.




“You looking for me? My pants are full of shit right now.”




Lindsey stepped forward, completely unfazed. She stared at him.




“Why?”




Mildy didn’t skip a beat.




“You scared the shit outta me. Literally. And pissed, too. Motherf—”




Before he could finish, Lindsey turned to the girl still squatting in the other stall.




“You. Wipe yourself, get dressed, and clean this man’s pants. And his ass.”




The girl, still frozen in mid-defecation, nodded like a civilian receiving military orders.



Michael and Raymond stood behind Lindsey, arms crossed.




“Even in a situation like this…” Michael muttered.





“She’s still got leadership,” Raymond finished.




They both nodded, deeply impressed.



The woman in the stall scrambled into action, while Mildy just stood there, pants around his ankles, blinking at the absurdity of it all.







A Doctor Reborn in the Restroom



Mildy lay on the baby-changing table like a sulking toddler, arms limp at his sides, pants still soiled. The girl—still half-dressed from her interrupted toilet break—reluctantly stepped forward, clutching a wad of paper towels.




“I’m not trained for this…” she mumbled.





“You are today,” Lindsey replied, arms crossed, eyes unblinking.




The girl exhaled sharply, muttered something inaudible, and began wiping down Mildy’s legs and thighs. His face twisted in exaggerated discomfort.




“Ah! Watch it! That’s premium tissue, not a sandblaster!”




Once he was mostly clean, she helped pull off his ruined pants. Mildy glanced down at his exposed lower half and sighed like a defeated emperor.



Meanwhile, Lindsey walked over to the nearby headless corpse—the unfortunate woman Michael had beheaded earlier. Without hesitation, she stripped the skirt and leggings from the body and tossed them toward Mildy.




“There. It’s not Prada, but it’ll do.”




As Mildy inspected the donated garments, he paused, then looked at the girl.




“I still feel…unclean. Spiritually.”




The girl froze, not knowing how to respond.




“What do you want?” she asked hesitantly.




Before Mildy could speak again, Lindsey stepped forward, her claw hovering near the girl’s face.




“Help him feel clean. Or I help you feel decapitated.”




The girl blinked twice. Then silently nodded.



Meanwhile, Michael and Raymond stood near the broken bathroom sink, arms crossed like proud uncles.




“That’s our doctor,” Michael said.





“Maximized the situation,” Raymond added. “Used the environment. Claimed every advantage.”




The girl gave a blowjob to Mildy inside a stall. Several minutes passed. Eventually, Mildy emerged from the stall in the borrowed skirt and leggings, his head held high, as if reborn.




“I’m clean,” he said with peace in his voice.




The four of them exited the women’s restroom together—bruised, bloodied, freshly dressed, and strangely in sync.



And for a brief moment, they even laughed.



Like warriors after battle.



Like survivors of something truly unspeakable.


Chapter 84: In Search of My Cousin (Part 1)
==================================================

Love at Gunpoint



It was three in the afternoon. The weather was perfect.Lawson and Monica were strolling aimlessly down the street, casually chatting.




“I had a dream last night. Some pervert broke into my room.”“What, like a cat with a knife again?”“No, a real pervert. Oiled up, completely naked, wearing sunglasses. He pinned me down and moaned, ‘You like that, baby?’”“…You should probably talk to someone about that.”“Honestly? When I woke up, I kinda missed him.”




Monica giggled like she’d just gotten paid. She wore a red crop top, denim shorts, and a loose side ponytail. Her face carried that glowing smile—the kind that says, “I’m emotionally available to literally everyone.”



Lawson didn’t say anything. His face looked like someone who’d lived through this same conversation too many times.



Suddenly, there was commotion up ahead.They turned to look.



At the corner of the street, someone was getting their ass beat.It was a man in striped blue pajamas with a giant watermelon-shaped haircut—round, lumpy, like someone jammed a cooking pot on his skull.He looked confused, helpless, and half-asleep.That man was Benson.



He was face-down on the concrete, limbs sprawled like a starfish.And standing over him was Canelo—black hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.His face looked bored, like he was doing chores.But his hands were brutal.



He gripped Benson’s greasy hair with one hand and used the other to press his face into the sidewalk, scrubbing it back and forth like he was cleaning a stain.




“Bro… This your wallet? You serious? You got five f**king dollars?”“You disrespecting me with this broke-ass energy?”“I oughta smack you ’til your grandma feels it.”




Then he yanked Benson up by the hair like a shopping bag and delivered two heavy slaps—one from the left, one from the right.Benson just hung there like a wet towel.



Canelo spat on the ground and tossed him against a nearby wall. Benson hit it with a soft thump and slid down like a dying lizard.



Monica stared, wide-eyed. Her lips parted slightly.




“Damn… he’s hot.”“What?”“That guy. The one in the hoodie. The one beating people. I don’t know… there’s just something about him.”




Lawson turned to look at her.




“You said I was hot. Yesterday.”“You are! But… he’s got that dangerous vibe, y’know? Like… he could protect me, or choke me. Or both.”




Monica smiled like she was watching a K-drama.



Lawson said nothing.He glanced once more at the guy on the ground—Benson.Nose bleeding, cheeks swollen, pajama pants halfway off.



Somewhere in his brain, Lawson thought:That name sounds familiar.







The Can Collector



Lawson and Monica kept walking.Even though they’d just witnessed a public beatdown a few minutes ago, Monica didn’t seem bothered at all. In fact, she looked a little… delighted.



She hummed a tune while walking, slapping her denim shorts with each step.




“Did you see the way he slapped that guy? I swear, even the violence had rhythm. Like choreography.”




Lawson didn’t respond.He just wanted to get as far away from all this nonsense as possible.



A block later, they saw someone crouched by a trash bin.



It was a man—absolutely filthy—kneeling on the sidewalk and picking up a crushed soda can with two long, grimy fingers. His fingernails looked like they belonged to a stray animal. His sleeves were so blackened they blended into his skin. His whole outfit was a mystery of stains and wear. He looked less like a person and more like a sentient garbage bag.



That was Tom.



He didn’t say a word. Just quietly picked up cans one by one and stuffed them into a ripped plastic bag like he’d been doing it forever.



Then—He paused. Frowned.



Something was off.His nose was itchy.



Without hesitation, he raised his right hand and shoved two fingers straight up his nostrils, twisting around like he was stirring tea. Then he flicked the air, as if casting out invisible spirits.



Next, he reached straight behind him, slipped his hand into the back of his shorts, and casually scratched his asshole.Clean. Professional. Decisive.



He pulled his fingers out, gave them a quick wipe on his thigh—Then paused again.



Slowly… thoughtfully…He lifted those fingers to his nose, and sniffed them like perfume.Once.Twice.A third time.



There was no disgust on his face. Just calm… appreciation.Like it actually smelled kind of nice.



He nodded slightly, as if satisfied with the bouquet, and went right back to picking up cans—whistling as he worked, light on his feet.



Monica froze.Her eyes locked on him.




“Wait… look at him.”“He’s scratching his ass.”“No, no—I mean, look how hard he works. He’s filthy, he’s broke, he’s probably got every disease in the handbook… But he’s still out here. Still collecting cans. He hasn’t given up on life.”




Lawson looked at Tom.Then at Monica.



Her cheeks were slightly red. Her lips were curling into that familiar, dangerous smile.




“You’re not… falling for this guy too, are you?”“I don’t know… but there’s something in my chest. Like, a… flutter.”




Lawson looked up at the sky.His eyes were empty.His soul was starting to float away.







Is That Blood or Foot Cheese?



Lawson and Monica kept walking.



At this point, it was unclear whether they were on a date or in the middle of some cursed street-level psychological experiment. Monica was glowing—like she was the lead in a romantic reality show where every stranger was a potential soulmate.



They turned into a filthier backstreet.The air smelled like burned plastic mixed with cheap massage oil.Above them, a faded red sign read:“Hand Technique Only – Pain-Free Bone Unlocking – Free Medical Consultation”



Suddenly, a man burst out from the shop’s doorway, half-dressed, limping, and terrified.His pants were down to his knees, one shoe missing, and his wallet flew out of his hand as he stumbled.



A moment later, someone followed him out.



That someone… was Lindsey.



She wore a grey Zhongshan suit, but not a single button was fastened.Her entire chest was exposed except for a pink bra, straps sliding off her shoulders like loose seatbelts.Her face was completely neutral. Cold. Robotic.Both hands dangled at her sides—and her fingernails were long, curved, and sharp, like the claws of a hawk. Natural. Not fake. Not cute. Just deadly.



The man turned around mid-run, still trying to explain.




“I swear I’ll pay next time, sister! I just forgot my wallet, I’m good for it—”




Lindsey didn’t respond.She walked up—silent—and raked her right hand across his chest, from shoulder to hip.Skin split.Blood sprayed like busted plumbing.



Then, with her left hand, she gripped his face, and slashed twice across his cheeks like she was trimming a hedge.



By the time he hit the ground, he was already a pile of meat chunks, at least ten distinct pieces, with three extra ear-sized bits stuck to the wall like decorative stickers.



Monica stood frozen, watching the carnage.



Her lips slowly parted.Her eyes shimmered.




“She’s… so hot.”“She’s in a bra.”“Exactly,” Monica whispered. “That’s real confidence.”




Lawson exhaled through his nose like a man whose lungs were giving up.



But it wasn’t over yet.



A few blocks later, they passed under an old tree.Sitting beneath it was a man.



Shirtless.Wrinkled skin. Patches of hardened chest hair. A flip-flop string hung around his neck like a necklace.And down below—He wore nothing but a soggy adult diaper, swollen in the front and slightly yellow, like it had been through too many Tuesdays.



He sat there cross-legged, casually digging between his toes with one finger, humming a random melody while flicking skin flakes into the breeze.



Lawson tried to speed up, but Monica stopped again.Her eyes lit up like she’d found a holy man.




“He’s so free…”“He’s wearing a diaper.”“Yeah. But look at him. He doesn’t care. He’s just being himself. He’s not hiding anything. He’s pure.”“I think I might be falling in love again.”




Lawson stared at the sky.His pupils stopped focusing.Somewhere, deep in his brain, a wire began to snap.







Lust in the Distance



Right after Monica had nearly cried over the old man digging between his toes in a diaper, two new figures appeared in the distance.



They were still about ten meters away—walking side by side, approaching in the golden evening light.



The one in front was Dave.



A beast of a man.Chest like concrete slabs, abs lined up like a cutting board.He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Only a pink lace-trimmed women’s thong, hugging his hips like a secret weapon holster.Up front, the fabric was visibly struggling—bulging hard like he had a fire extinguisher hidden inside.



His face? Emotionless.Eyes cold.Focused straight ahead.



Then he paused.



His giant dick was itchy.



Without hesitation, Dave slid his hand down the side of the thong and reached in deep, fingers wrapping underneath, fully committed.He adjusted something.Gripped it.Twisted his wrist slightly—like he was realigning a loaded weapon—then pulled his hand out and casually flicked his fingers.



That was the moment Monica broke.



She stared in awe.Her tongue slowly slid across her lips.



Her eyes scanned from his shoulders, down past his pecs, over his abs, and finally landed on that monstrous bulge outlined beneath the tight pink fabric.




“I… I think I actually wanna f**k him.”“His arms, his chest, his control… He could lift me into the air and just—”




She didn’t finish the sentence.But in her mind, it was already happening.



She imagined Dave holding her midair, lifting her up like gym equipment.Her legs hanging off the ground, arms limp.He’d grip her thighs and use pure bicep power to thrust her body back and forth, in and out, in and out, with heavy rhythm and absolute domination.



Slapping sounds.Echoes.Air humping like war drums.



Monica’s face flushed.Her breathing grew shallow.She looked like she was on the edge of climax just from thinking about it.



Then—A voice, cracking, dry, defeated.




“Are you serious?”“I’m literally standing right next to you. I’m your boyfriend. Hello?”




It was Lawson.His voice trembled.His dignity was visibly crumbling.



Monica didn’t even turn her head.She just kept staring at Dave like he was a living sculpture designed for destruction and breeding.



Meanwhile, a second figure emerged behind Dave.



It was Eason.



He wore a loose, oversized striped pajama set.His hair was spiked into a crispy pineapple shape, and he looked like he had just been dragged out of bed and given a deadline.



He was walking slowly, head tilted down, scrolling through something on his phone, completely unaware of the energy radiating around him.



Lawson glanced at Eason, then looked back at Dave’s bulge, then back at Eason.







Keep Your Hands Off My Girlfriend



The four of them ran into each other at a street corner.



Dave stood upright and pointed to the pale, expressionless guy next to him — the one dressed in a faded old railroad worker uniform.




“His name’s Lawson. Ends in S-O-N. Maybe you two are cousins or something?”




Eason took one look at Lawson’s withered face and scoffed.




“Cousins? Bro, if anything, that guy’s my grandpa.”




But he didn’t give Lawson another glance. His eyes had already locked onto Monica.



She was standing there with her arms crossed, looking a little impatient. But the golden sunset behind her gave her face a glowing, filtered look — like some overly edited shampoo commercial.



Eason’s eyes lit up. He stepped forward with a smile and turned on what he thought was full gentleman mode.




“Hi, I’m Eason.”




He slowly extended his hand — not like a normal introduction, but like he was about to ask her for a ballroom dance.



Monica hesitated, then reluctantly reached out. But as soon as their hands touched, her face froze.



Eason’s fingers lightly slid across her palm — not quite a handshake, more like a flirty trace. It felt creepy. Gross.



She pulled her hand back in disgust.



SMACK!



A sharp hand chop landed clean across Eason’s outstretched hand. Lawson’s hand.




“Back off my girlfriend, you freak.”




Eason flinched, totally caught off guard. One second he was flirting, the next, his hand was numb.



He glanced back and forth between Monica and Lawson, then sneered.




“You’re dating him? Seriously? You’re so young — and he looks like he’s already got one foot in the grave.”




Lawson didn’t blink.




“I’m eighteen.”





“Eighteen? You’re younger than me?” Eason blinked in disbelief. “No way. You look eighty-eight.”




Lawson reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out an ID.



Eason took a look. His jaw dropped.




“Shit… he really is eighteen.”




But even that didn’t stop him.



He shamelessly dropped to one knee, plucked a tiny flower growing through a sidewalk crack, and held it out to Monica.




“Hey, pretty… I love you.”




Monica recoiled.




“Even if we were the last two people on Earth, I still wouldn’t pick you.”




That one line hit harder than any punch.



Eason’s face darkened. The flower in his hand wilted on the spot.



He stared at the ground, mumbling like a ghost.




“Why… why have I never scored in my life…”




Dave leaned toward Lawson and whispered,




“Is that ID even real?”




Lawson didn’t answer. He just stood there quietly, fixing the loose folds of his old uniform, completely unfazed.







Just Knock Him Out and See



Eason was still kneeling on one knee, holding the wilted flower like a Shakespearean tragedy.




“Why? Why has nothing ever worked out for me in this life…”




Dave walked over, grabbed the back of his collar like lifting a stray cat.




“Alright, enough goofing around. We’ve got real business to do. Aren’t you here to find your cousin?”





“Come on, man, there’s a beautiful girl standing right here. Why rush?”





“Let’s move. I’m not wasting the whole day on this crap.”




Eason cleared his throat and put on a fake formal tone.




“Mr. Lawson, I have serious reason to suspect we’re cousins.”




Lawson glanced over with a cold, tired expression.




“Get out of here. I don’t have an ugly cousin like you.”




SLAP!



Eason instantly snapped.




“Don’t you ever say I’m ugly! You look like some old corpse halfway to the grave, you bastard!”




Lawson grabbed his wrist. They started scuffling in the middle of the street—grabbing shirts, tripping over each other like two stray dogs fighting over a banana peel.



Lawson yelled between breaths:




“Who the hell are you calling old?! I’m eighteen years old, you douchebag!!”




Eason shouted back:




“Eighteen?! If you’re eighteen, then I’m eighteen months old, jackass!”




They kept tumbling, punching, clawing.



Monica sighed and crossed her arms:




“How old are you guys, seriously? You fight like you’re in kindergarten.”




Dave stood with arms folded, deadpan.




“If I wasn’t seeing this with my own eyes, I’d never believe an eighteen-year-old is out here brawling with someone who looks eighty.”




He thought for a second.



Then he remembered something: Eason said his cousin would transform if knocked unconscious.



Without warning, Dave calmly walked up and delivered a karate chop to the back of Lawson’s neck.



THWACK.



Lawson collapsed like a dropped mannequin—eyes white, body limp.



Monica screamed and rushed over.




“Hey! Are you okay? Talk to me!”




Everyone froze.



One second…Two seconds…Thirty seconds…One full minute.



Nothing happened.



Eason walked up, spat directly on Lawson’s face, and muttered:




“Guess he’s not my cousin after all. Been out cold for a while and still nothing.”




He turned to Monica with a bright, hopeful smile.




“Anyway, where were we? You and me, destiny, soulmates or something—”




Before he could finish, Dave yanked him backward by the collar and started dragging him away like a mop.



Eason slid along the ground, flailing, yelling behind him:




“Babe! I love you! I miss you!!”




Monica stood still, staring at the sky like someone reconsidering her entire life.


Chapter 85: In Search of My Cousin (Part 2)
==================================================

The Golden Retriever, God, and a Slap



After parting ways with Dave, Eason wandered the streets alone.His mind was still circling that one word—cousin—like a moth trapped in a lamp.Who was it? Where was he? Why did it even matter? He didn’t know. But he was obsessed.



Suddenly, a woman’s voice rang out from across the corner:




“Wilson! Don’t run off too far!”




Eason’s eyes lit up.Wilson? That sounded… human. That could be something.



He darted around the corner like a man chasing fate—Only to find a chubby golden retriever squatting mid-pee.



The look on his face collapsed.




“Motherf—”




He grabbed a rock. Threw it.Not to kill the dog. Just to vent.



But before the stone could even land, a massive man emerged from the alleyway.Full beard. Tank top. Muscles like overinflated tires.



Eason froze. Their eyes met.



Then—He ran.



No hesitation. Full sprint. Gone.







Somewhere down the street, still gasping for air, Eason leaned against a pole.



That’s when he heard a calm, soothing voice behind him:




“Hey… You look lost.”




He turned.



There stood a guy. Clean white shirt, khaki pants, good posture.Looked like someone who handed out church flyers for a living.Or ran a cult.




“Name’s Sonic. S-O-N-I-C. I walk in the name of God.”




Eason stared at him for a moment.The letters hit him: S… O… N… I… C…He didn’t know what to think.So he went for it:




“Wait… are you my cousin?”




Sonic smiled like he had rehearsed this in the mirror a hundred times:




“We are all God’s children. Brothers and sisters. Cousins in spirit.”




Eason’s face fell flat.




“Don’t give me that crap.”




Sonic’s smile didn’t fade—it just shifted.Something about it got… brighter. Too bright.He pressed his palms together, lifted his chin, and said:




“Then I shall strike you down… in the name of the Lord.”




WHACK!



Before Eason could even react, Sonic landed a slap that spun his head like a pinwheel.



Then came the kick. A clean front kick to the stomach.Then a palm to the chest.Another slap.A knee.A weird spinning backhand that felt both gentle and traumatizing.



And throughout it all, Sonic kept muttering:




“Love thy enemy…But kick his ass when needed.”




Eason ended up on the ground, limbs tangled, breathing like a dying donkey.He looked up at the sunlight.Sonic was still standing tall, haloed by the light like a divine idiot.




“That guy’s not my cousin,” Eason groaned.“He’s just… mentally gone.”








The Pajama Alley Brawl



It was nearly sunset. Shadows stretched down the alley like lazy dogs.Eason shuffled forward, head low, sipping his bubble tea like it was the only thing keeping his soul intact.



Then—bam.



Someone was walking from the other end. Same pace. Same angle. Same miserable posture.



They stopped, face to face.



Both were in hospital-striped pajamas.Both had messy, bird’s nest hair.Both looked like they hadn’t been loved in years.



Eason took a polite step to the left. So did the other guy.



He stepped right. The guy mirrored him again.



Eason narrowed his eyes. “You messin’ with me?”



The guy snapped back, “I was about to ask you the same damn thing.”



A full three seconds of tension.



Then they both lunged.



No stances. No style. Just straight-up chaos.



They clawed each other’s hair. Slapped like toddlers. Tripped over trash bags and fell into puddles.Eason tried a knee strike and ended up kneed in the balls himself.The other guy—later revealed to be Benson—managed to pull Eason’s sleeve over his head like it was a hockey fight.



A homeless man peeked out from a cardboard box and shook his head.




“Two damn pajama roaches fighting in my alley. Pathetic.”




By the third minute, both of them were gasping, tangled on the ground like a crumpled pile of dirty laundry.No blood. No honor. Just sweat, snot, and shame.



No one won.No one even knew who the hell the other was.



They were just two lonely nobodies, colliding in a forgotten corner of the city—because fate thought it’d be funny.



And in a way, it was.



Another pointless detour in Eason’s ever-stupid journey to find his mysterious cousin.







The Battle of the Weaklings – Part 2



The alley was still ringing with the pathetic sound of two pajama-wearing men rolling around like knocked-over laundry hampers.This wasn’t some high-level duel. No kung fu stances. No energy waves. No hidden power levels. Just raw, unfiltered weakness.



Eason and Benson were still fighting—if you could call it that.



They were gasping for air, grabbing at each other’s collars, sleeves, anything they could reach with their trembling, noodle-like arms.




“You… filthy rat…”Eason wheezed, slapping Benson’s ear like he was swatting a fly.





“You’re the rat! I swear I’ll rub your face into the pavement until it turns into cement!”




Benson lunged, but his foot landed on a banana peel (God knows where it came from), and he slammed into the wall with a heavy thunk.Eason saw his chance. He dove forward and started squeezing Benson’s cheeks together like he was folding a dumpling.



Benson retaliated—not with a punch, but by poking Eason right in the bellybutton with his finger.




“What the hell?! That’s… that’s tactical!”




Eason shrieked and backed off, only to trip over his own feet.Benson tried to follow up but ended up tangled in his own pajama pants.



It was a full-blown catfight now.



Slapping. Hair-pulling. Face-mushing. Nose-flicking. Ear-flicks.One of them even tried to spit into the other’s shoe.At one point, they both ended up pulling each other’s ears and screaming like toddlers in a sandbox.



A passerby saw the scene, paused for a second, and then quietly dialed a mental health hotline.



There was no rhythm. No flow. No form. Just desperation and the soft, pitiful paps of slaps landing like soggy toast.



Eventually, both of them collapsed from exhaustion—shoulder to shoulder, heads hanging down, looking like two dead fish left out in the sun.




“…Who the hell are you, anyway?”Eason muttered, still panting.





“…I was gonna ask you the same thing.”




Then they both spat weakly in each other’s direction and slowly rolled back up, somehow ready for round three.







Shared Humiliation



It was late. The alley was damp and dark, littered with trash and silence.On the cold concrete lay two men—flat, beaten, and dressed identically like matching clowns who just got tossed out of a circus.



Eason and Benson were both wearing wrinkled pajamas, faces swollen and bruised, limbs sprawled out like used laundry.They were barely conscious, eyes empty, breath shallow.



Then came the footsteps.



Cocky, uneven, a full crew of trouble.



Canelo swaggered into the alley with his little gang, laughing like they already knew how the story ended.




“Well, well, what do we have here? A matching pair of psych ward escapees?”




They stepped closer. Canelo squatted down, looked at the two beaten figures lying side by side.




“You two look way too damn similar. Like—what, were you conjoined twins who got separated with scissors from the dollar store? You guys look like twin freaks.”




Eason’s eyes twitched. He immediately threw Benson under the bus.




“I don’t look like him! We’re not even related!”




Canelo grinned.



He held out his hand.



Eason, trembling, fumbled for every bit of cash he had—bills, coins, even his last piece of gold chain—and handed it over like tribute to a warlord.




“I-I gave everything. Please, no more.”




Benson, barely able to move, pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill from his sock and handed it over, ashamed but desperate.



Canelo looked at the money, then at them. He chuckled and said with fake sincerity:




“Hmm… one of you at least tried. The other one? You’re a damn joke.”




He raised his foot and kicked Eason straight in the ribs.Eason rolled across the pavement, coughing and groaning.



Then he turned to Benson with a devilish smirk.




“You? You think five bucks can save your ass?”




He snapped his fingers.



Two of his goons stepped forward and beat Benson senseless. The punches came hard and fast, until Benson was a crumpled mess.



And then—the grand finale.



One of the goons squatted down, casually scooped up a fresh pile of dog shit from the alley floor, and shoved it straight into Benson’s mouth. Like he was packing a lunchbox.



Benson tried to resist, but his arms were jelly. All he could do was whimper as the filth filled his mouth.



Eason watched, horrified. His face went pale.




“I… I gave you money. Why hit me too?”




Canelo shrugged, as if explaining basic math:




“Hitting you? That’s just policy. But look at him. Five bucks? Yeah, he deserves the deluxe punishment.”




The alley echoed with cruel laughter.Two pajama-wearing losers lay broken on the ground—one coughing blood, the other choking on literal shit.And above them, Canelo and his boys lit up cigarettes like it was just another Tuesday.







Could You Be My Cousin, Grayson?



They let Eason go.



Apparently, throwing money at your problems still worked in this city—just not that well. The goons gave him a few lazy kicks and told him to piss off, muttering something about “premium beatdown tiers.”



Behind him, Benson was still getting his soul rearranged. Eason glanced back. One of the thugs had just picked up a steaming pile of dog shit and shoved it into Benson’s mouth like it was some kind of punishment pudding.



Eason rolled his eyes.




“I gave you money. Why am I still getting hit?”“’Cause that’s standard procedure,” one goon grunted. “But he paid less—so he eats shit.”




Fair enough.



Eason limped down the block, muttering to himself.




“People say we might be twins, cousins, some shared DNA crap. Please. I don’t look like that. We’re not related. Not even spiritually.”




He was still muttering when a group of cops shouted from across the street.




“Chief Grayson! Chief!”




That name stopped him.



From behind a police cruiser, a man emerged.



Short. Pudgy. Face like melted plastic. He adjusted his belt, smacked his lips, and had that look—that look—like he just got a whiff of someone’s used bathwater and decided he liked it.



Eason froze.



He knew that face. Or at least, the type.



The greasy stare. The twitchy smile. That air of moral rot wrapped in a badge. It was like watching a parody of himself on TV. The kind of guy who gets bribed for a living and thinks it’s a public service.



He walked up to Grayson slowly, cautiously. Studying him.




“You ever get the feeling,” Eason asked, “like there’s a dark version of yourself? Like… deep down, you’re not a cop—you’re a parasite in uniform?”




Grayson blinked slowly. Then smiled. Not with his mouth—with his teeth.




“Dark version, huh?”




Eason leaned closer, voice lowering.




“I’m serious. That stare, that crooked vibe—you remind me of me. Same sleaze. Same appetite. You ever think we might be… cousins?”




Grayson didn’t answer at first. He just kept smiling.



Then he whispered,




“Oh yeah? You wanna see my Dark Mode?”




Eason took a step back. He wasn’t sure if he was scared or aroused.



Grayson planted his feet wide. Lifted his arms to the sky. His body started shaking—like he was summoning something ancient, evil, and extremely unnecessary.




“Behold!”




A gust of wind stopped midair. A soda can rolled backwards. A pigeon fainted.



Cut to black.







Dark Mode Activated



Grayson had just shouted, “Behold!”



Eason leaned forward slightly, eyes hopeful. Was this going to be it? A transformation? A demon emerging? A sudden shift in aura?



…Nothing.



Grayson just stood there, mouth half open, twitching like he had mild indigestion. The only transformation was that his armpit stains got noticeably darker.



Eason frowned. “Wait, was that it?”



But then—Grayson’s eyes shifted. He spotted something across the street.



His expression changed instantly. Pupils shrank. Mouth curled into a greasy smirk. He whispered like a creep in a confession booth:




“Robbery… and seduction.”




Eason blinked. “Excuse me?”



Across the street, a girl had just stepped out of a boba shop.



Normal outfit. Normal day. But Eason recognized her instantly.



Cecilia.Also known in yoga class lore as “Leaf Girl.” Not because of her lifestyle, but because of a legendary day when she showed up wearing only two leaves and pulled off the full split without blinking.



Today, though, she was dressed perfectly normal. Leggings. Hoodie. A backpack. But to Grayson, apparently, that didn’t matter.



He crouched slightly, doing a weird stretch like he was loosening up for a football game—or a crime.




“Dark mode… engaged,” he whispered.




Then he sprinted.



Eason panicked. “Dude! WHAT THE HELL—”



Grayson darted across the street like a man possessed. He approached Cecilia from behind like a cartoon villain about to do something profoundly stupid.



Cecilia heard the steps. Turned.



WHACK!



Without hesitation, she delivered a textbook hand chop right into Grayson’s neck.Clean. Efficient. No wasted movement.



Grayson’s body locked up like he’d just had a full-body seizure.His eyes rolled. Legs gave out.



Collapse.A pathetic thud echoed through the block.



Eason walked over slowly, staring down at the unconscious mess of a man.



Grayson didn’t move for a full minute. Not even a twitch.His body was stiff, face twisted in a pervy grin, like a corrupt cop who got caught sniffing evidence.




“There’s no way this guy’s my cousin,” Eason muttered.




Cecilia dusted off her hands, then looked at Eason.



“…You wanna grab a bubble tea or something?” Eason asked, trying to salvage the mood.



She stared at him for a moment. Then nodded.



The two of them walked toward the nearby tea shop.



Behind them, Grayson remained on the ground, limbs awkwardly sprawled, mouth slightly open.



From inside the boba shop, a soft romantic track played faintly:




🎵 “Can’t Help Falling In Love…” 🎵



Chapter 86: In Search of My Cousin (Part 3)
==================================================

Milk Tea and Misery



The two of them walked side by side down the hot sidewalk—Eason in his wrinkled pajamas, hair still molded into a grotesque pineapple, and Cecilia in a clean white tee and denim shorts, fresh from a casual shopping stroll.




“I can’t believe you actually agreed to get bubble tea with me,” Eason said, his voice a mix of disbelief and hunger.





“Well,” Cecilia replied, “you’ve been messaging me non-stop since graduation. I figured you’d keep going until I said yes.”




They arrived at the corner milk tea shop and sat at one of the cheap plastic tables outside. Eason plopped down with a sigh, his shirt lifting to reveal his stomach.



He stared at her for a moment.




“You look… normal,” he said. “I mean, like, healthy. Alive.”




Cecilia blinked. “Okay.”




“Me?” He chuckled, pointing at himself. “I’m still in the same PJs I wore three nights ago. Haven’t even washed my hair. Still got the pineapple. You remember this?”





“Unfortunately,” she said flatly.




There was a brief silence as the shopkeeper handed them their drinks. Eason took a long slurp, then leaned in across the table, eyes glinting.




“You know… I really miss those two little leaves from yoga class…”




Cecilia’s eyes narrowed immediately.




“The ones that were taped to your body?”





“Yeah, yeah,” he nodded too fast. “The way they barely covered anything… I swear, I could see the edge… like the edge of something pink. Just a little blur, a little sparkle. It was like watching a butterfly land on a cherry blossom…”





“Stop talking.”





“I’m just saying. Those were sacred leaves.”





“You’re disgusting.”





“I’m honest.”




Trying to pivot, Eason took another sip, then asked:




“You hear about Mr. Moonly?”




Cecilia’s tone softened a bit. “Yeah… the Empire State Building thing.”




“He didn’t die, though,” Eason said. “They say he’s in the ICU. Total vegetable. They keep him on Celine Dion loop—like on repeat.”





“Does he react?”





“Apparently when the violin part hits, he twitches a little. Like he’s remembering the jump.”




They both went quiet for a moment.




“He was a weirdo,” Cecilia finally said.





“But inspirational,” Eason added. “I mean, who else jumps off a skyscraper in boxers and survives?”




Another beat of silence. Eason stared into his drink.




“Can I ask you something real?”




Cecilia looked cautious. “What?”




“Have you ever been in love?”





“Yeah.”





“Oh.” He smiled weakly. “I haven’t. Never even had a girlfriend. Not a hug, not a kiss. Nothing. Sometimes I stare at my hand and say ‘thank you’ out loud.”




Cecilia visibly recoiled.



Eason leaned forward, eyes low.




“I want to feel something. Just once. Sleep with me, then dump me. Wreck me. Please.”




Cecilia stood up.




“I should go.”




Eason half-stood too, his hand reaching across the table.




“Come on—just once, I won’t tell anyone. Just once. Please—”




But she was already backing away, fast-walking toward the crowd.




“Wait, wait! Don’t leave so fast! Just once! Please—”




Cecilia vanished into the moving sea of strangers.



Eason stood alone, clutching his milk tea like a life raft. He took a long slurp—and immediately gagged.



The straw was clogged.




“Fuck my life,” he muttered.








Bubble Tea and Tears



Eason walked alone.



Still in his pajamas. Still with that pineapple-shaped mess on his head.The day was sunny, but his heart was soggy.In his hand—half-finished bubble tea. In his chest—half-finished dignity.



He stopped by a bench, slowly sat down like an old man with back pain, and stared at nothing. His reflection warped in the side of the bubble tea cup.




“Why…” he whispered.




A fat tapioca ball rose through the straw and smacked the roof of his mouth. He didn’t even flinch.His eyes were blank. But inside—a slideshow of personal failure.







High School.



He remembered trying to talk to a girl in biology class. Just a simple “Hey.”She glanced up, looked him up and down like he was a broken vending machine, then scooted her chair an inch away.



He remembered holding the door for another girl once. She didn’t say thanks. She just gave him a look like:




“Why are you even breathing near me?”




He wasn’t creepy. He wasn’t even loud. Just… awkward.He thought being nice would help. He watched other guys joke with girls, touch their arms, get smiles and giggles in return.



So he tried it.One time he said:




“That shirt looks good on you.”




And the girl replied:




“Okay. Gross.”




That night, he Googled “Am I ugly?” for the first time.Then every week after that.







He stared into the melting ice of his cup.




“Why do they never talk to me like they talk to other guys?”“I try. I really try.”




His face twitched.




“Do I smell? Is it the pineapple hair? Or maybe I was just born… cursed?”




He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Then realized the sleeve still had dried toothpaste from that morning.Even his own clothes rejected him.



A passing girl walked by with her friend. They glanced at him—then quickly looked away.




“See?” he muttered.“They always look away. I’m not even scary.”




He took a deep breath. Tried to calm himself.



Then whispered:




“Maybe I was never meant to be loved.”




Another tapioca got stuck in the straw. He tried to suck. It didn’t budge.He sucked harder.



Still stuck.




“Figures,” he said, shaking the cup.“Even this drink’s trying to ghost me.”




He looked up at the sky. Clear. Cloudless.Nothing like his mind.



Then, as if on cue, a single leaf drifted from a tree branch nearby.It was green. Slightly curved. Just like the ones Cecilia once wore.




“Damn… I miss those leaves,” he murmured.“That soft edge… that pink blush…”




He stared at the leaf for a long time.



Then whispered:




“I should’ve been born as a leaf. At least then someone would’ve worn me.”




He took one last sip of his tea.The tapioca finally shot up—too fast—and choked him again.He coughed violently, eyes watering.



Then muttered, to no one in particular:




“Fuck my life.”




And with that, he slouched forward, slurped the final bits of tea, and let the city pass by him like he wasn’t even there.Just one more loser in pajamas, sitting in the sun.







Just Once… Please?



A quiet street. Faint city hum.Eason wandered aimlessly, sipping on a half-finished milk tea, his mind drifting nowhere.



That’s when he noticed something strange in the alley up ahead.



A man was pressing himself against a woman—close, aggressive, and way too familiar. Her office uniform was slightly wrinkled, her expression tense. It was Toilet Girl—not someone Eason personally knew, but a local face in the area. A regular.




“Hey! Get the hell off her!”




Eason surprised even himself with the shout. But his body moved before his brain could stop him. He lunged forward and punched the man square in the cheek.



A scrappy fight broke out. Neither of them was strong—but Eason fought like a maniac. After a few wild minutes, both of them were bruised, breathless, and bloody. But somehow, Eason stood while the other guy backed off, cursing, and disappeared into the shadows.



Toilet Girl stood frozen in place, shocked.



Later, the two of them ended up at a nearby bubble tea shop. She insisted on buying him a drink to say thank you. Eason, still sore and limping, sat across from her in a quiet booth.



The two didn’t speak much at first. Then Eason broke the silence.




“Y’know… I’ve never dated anyone.”




He stirred his drink slowly, his gaze lowered.




“Back in school, I used to try being nice to girls. Really nice. Polite, respectful… But all I got was, ‘Get lost, loser.’ Every time.”




His fingers tightened around the cup.




“I see other guys just joke around, tease a little, suddenly girls are laughing and leaning in. I try the same thing, and I get death stares. Like… is it my face? My voice? Am I that disgusting?”




Toilet Girl looked a little uncomfortable but said nothing.



Eason leaned in slightly.




“So… can you be my girlfriend?”




Toilet Girl blinked.




“Eason… I’m really grateful. You saved me. I won’t forget that. But… you’re not really my type. I’m sorry.”




There was a pause.



Eason forced a smile. Then that smile cracked. And from behind it, something desperate peeked through.




“Okay… then just once?”




Toilet Girl narrowed her eyes, confused.




“Just once… what?”




He gulped, looked down, and muttered:




“Y’know. Have sex. Just once. I won’t tell anyone, I promise…”




The air froze solid.



Toilet Girl’s tone didn’t rise. She didn’t lash out. She just stood up, took a breath, and said:




“You’re a good person, Eason. What you did for me tonight… I won’t forget it.”




She grabbed her purse.




“If there’s ever something you need help with—anything I can do, within reason—I’ll do my best. But not this. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.”




She turned and walked out of the shop. Her heels clicked against the tile floor and vanished into the crowd outside.



Eason sat alone. His straw bent from too much chewing. He took one last frustrated sip.



But the straw was blocked.



He stared down.




“…fuck my life.”








The Reporter, the Bar, and the Old Man



The bar was dim, shadows crawling across the shelves of half-empty bottles. Eason sat alone at the counter, hunched over a watered-down whiskey like it was the last warmth left in the world.



He had just been rejected again. Another “you’re a good person, but…” moment. His expression was blank, drained, like a cartoon character left in the rain too long.



That’s when she walked in.



A flash of yellow. Ripped jeans. Dangly earrings. A touch too much makeup, smeared slightly under the eyes. Vanessa. The local TV news reporter—recognizable even from behind a tequila bottle.



She dropped onto the stool beside him and slapped her hand on the counter.




“Two shots of tequila. Fast.”




The bartender didn’t ask questions.



Vanessa downed one, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and muttered:




“Just got dumped. That asshole didn’t even say a word.”




Eason blinked.




“Same.”




Vanessa finally glanced at him—really looked at him—and gave a half-snort of amusement. Then she sighed, almost to herself:




“I don’t wanna be alone tonight. I don’t even care who. I just need… somebody.”




Eason hesitated.



Then said softly, “What about me?”



Vanessa smiled.




“Sure. Why not.”




Eason’s eyes widened. His lips twitched like he didn’t believe it.



But then—Vanessa looked him up and down. From his fraying jacket to his thrift-store sneakers. Her smile faltered. Her eyes squinted a little.



Then she leaned back and shook her head.




“Actually… no. Sorry. You’re not my type.”




Eason felt like the floor gave out under him.




“Please…” he whispered. “Just once. I’ve never… done it before. One time. I swear, I’ll die with no regrets.”




Vanessa’s face tightened.




“Okay, wow. You’re really creeping me out now.”




She waved her hand, pushing her barstool back.




“No offense, but I’m done talking to you, boy.”




She turned away just as the door creaked open.



In walked an old man.



Silver hair. Velvet vest. Gold rings on fingers that curled like dried tree branches. He didn’t look rich—but he looked… seasoned. Like a retired mafia don who still carried power in every measured step.



He took a seat at the bar, ordered a whiskey.



Vanessa’s eyes lit up.




“Well, hello there, silver fox.”




She slid down to his side. Within seconds, the two were laughing like old friends. Her hand touched his arm. His voice was deep and calm.



A few minutes later, they left together—smiling, chatting, heading off into the night.



Eason watched them disappear into the city lights.



He looked down at his drink, melted ice floating like broken dreams.



He whispered to himself:




“She’d rather sleep with death than with me.”




He put the glass down gently. Closed his eyes.




“Fuck my life.”








The Heartless Massage



Eason walked into the so-called massage parlor — the kind with faded curtains and a flickering red light above the door. A cheap sign hung crookedly, printed with peeling letters:“Full-body relief – Relax to the depths of your soul.”



He drifted in like a ghost, face drawn, eyes hollow. But somewhere, buried deep under the shame and fatigue, was… a glimmer of hope.



Behind the front desk sat a woman with heavy makeup, scrolling her phone without looking up.




“300 to start,” she said flatly. “Extras, you ask. Room’s in the back.”




Eason nodded, didn’t speak. Just handed her the cash and shuffled down the hallway.



The room was dim and cramped. A half-collapsing massage bed stood in the middle. In one corner, a plastic bin overflowed with crumpled tissues. The walls were decorated with torn-up posters of nude women — like a passive-aggressive reminder of what this place really offered.



Eason took off his clothes, wrapped himself in a thin towel, and lay down. Waiting.



A few minutes passed. Then the girl came in.



Young. Pretty, even. Fishnet stockings, short skirt — but her face was dead cold, like a math teacher who hated her job.



She squirted some oil into her hand and spoke without looking at him:




“Basic massage only. Extra 200 for service. Oral only. No kissing. No feelings.”




Eason hesitated. Then he whispered:




“Can I… can I just get a hug? I’m not even here for sex. I just… I feel so lonely.”




She didn’t even pause:




“We don’t offer emotional support.”




He bit his lip. Tried again:




“Maybe just… a kiss on the cheek?”





“No.”





“What about if you sit on top of me and I just… touch your face?”




She stepped back.




“Do you want anything or not? If not, I’m leaving.”




Eason deflated completely.




“No, sorry… I… never mind.”




He got dressed in silence. Walked out of the room, past the desk.



The girl called after him:




“Hey! You didn’t pay for the extras!”




His voice came out like a ghost’s echo from a deep well:




“I didn’t get anything… Why should I pay?”




And with that, he ran.



Out the door. Into the cold, misty evening.



Outside, a light drizzle had started.



He stood on the curb, soaking wet. Eyes blank. Jaw trembling.



That’s when he heard it:




“You can’t run from this.”




He turned.



Michael.



Dressed in all black. Standing in front of the massage parlor like a debt collector from hell. Hands in his pockets. Staring like a butcher who just picked his next slab.




“The boss said 300 isn’t optional,” Michael said. “Bodies don’t get touched for free.”




Eason’s voice cracked:




“I-I didn’t even do anything…”




Michael took one step forward, slow and steady:




“That’s worse. You insulted the professionalism of this establishment.”




And then—



Darkness.



Judgment was coming.







Double-Headed, New Life



The night was dry and still. Not a drop of rain, not even a breeze. Just the soft hum of streetlights and the occasional rumble of a passing car.



Eason stumbled out of the shady massage parlor, pale and defeated. He had hoped for some warmth—any warmth. A little human touch, even if it was fake. But no. Not even that.



He lit a cigarette with trembling hands, his thoughts swirling into smoke—until he heard it.



The sound of leather shoes, clicking steadily on the concrete.



He turned.



Michael.



Dressed the same as always: white shirt, slacks, leather shoes. A black briefcase in hand. Clean. Cold. Unstained by life.



Eason opened his mouth to speak.



Michael didn’t respond.



He stepped forward.Lifted his hand.And with a single, swift motion—like a blade through air—he chopped.



Clean decapitation.



Eason’s head dropped like a bowling ball, thudding and rolling across the pavement. His face was frozen in a mix of fear and disbelief.



Michael stood still for a second. Then he calmly wiped his hand, picked up his briefcase, and walked away—his silhouette swallowed by the night.



Blood pooled beneath the body. The street returned to silence.



Minutes passed.



A young man walked by, holding a takeout box from his late shift. He froze when he saw the headless corpse.



He looked around. No one. Just him and the body.




“Shit… someone really got killed.”




He crouched down, pulled out his phone, hesitated.Muttered to himself:




“Should I… should I call someone? Maybe bring him to the crematory or something? Let him rest in peace?”




He stood there, eyes flicking between the corpse and his phone.



Eventually, he sighed.




“Nah… not my business.”




And just like that, he turned and walked away.



If that man had done it—if he had brought Eason’s body to be cremated—then it would’ve been over. Forever.Even the strongest regeneration can’t beat total cremation.



But Eason got lucky.



The body remained untouched.The blood dried.The night passed.



And then…



Sometime before dawn—his neck began to twitch.



Muscle.Bone.Skin.



Slowly. Painfully. Quietly.



It took the entire night, but by morning—a brand-new head had grown from Eason’s neck.



He gasped.



Sat up, dazed. His limbs trembled. His shirt was soaked with blood and dirt. He looked like a mess dragged out of the grave.




“I… I’m alive? I… why?”




Staggering to his feet, he looked down.And then he saw it.



His old head.Lying not far away in a patch of overgrown grass. The expression frozen in shock, lips slightly parted.



Eason stared at it for a while. Blank. Silent.



Then he reached into his backpack and pulled out a black plastic grocery bag. Slowly, almost respectfully, he placed the severed head inside and tied the bag shut.



And with that—



He walked off. One hand gripping his bag. One head on his shoulders. Another in his hand.




“All I wanted… was a little love…”




One man. Two heads. A lifetime of absurdity ahead.Rebirth always comes with a price.


Chapter 87: In Search of My Cousin (Part 4)
==================================================

Restaurant Panic



At dawn, the sky began to lighten. Eason’s headless body still slumped against a mailbox outside the noodle shop. Throughout the night, it didn’t rot. It didn’t stiffen. It began to… regrow.



Around 5 a.m., something started to sprout from his neck. Slowly. Like moss growing on damp stone. His face—battered, familiar, pathetic—took shape inch by inch.



By sunrise, a new head was fully grown.



And just a few meters away, nestled under a bush, was his original severed head—the one Michael had sliced off with a hand chop. The eyes were still open. The mouth still twisted in disbelief. If it could speak, it might’ve said: “You got chopped like tofu, dummy.”



Eason quietly picked it up, and without a second thought, he held it in his hand—motionless, still.



He stepped into a casual Cantonese restaurant for breakfast. Still dazed, he sat at a table near the window, his old head resting on the table in front of him.



That’s when all hell broke loose.



A woman screamed. A baby cried. A grandpa spat out his congee in horror. One of the cooks looked out from the kitchen, shouted “HOLY SHIT!” and leapt out the back window—from the fifth floor—splatting on the alley like spilled sauce.



Chairs toppled. Tables flipped. Everyone ran.



Except one man.



A man walked in from the street. Slow. Steady. Calm.



Khan.



The strongest man on Earth.



Khan was dressed in his signature look—a long coat, unbuttoned, flowing freely across his shoulders. His bucket hat was tilted low, casting a shadow over his face, adding to his intimidating presence. He moved with ease, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, walking as if nothing around him mattered.



Eason recognized him immediately. Everyone did. Khan was built like a beast, muscles firm as stone. His eyes—sharp, focused, completely calm.



Khan walked up to Eason’s table, not even glancing at the severed head resting there.



Khan raised his right hand slowly, palm open.



A soft, barely perceptible draft began to swirl. The air around them shifted. The subtle force of Qi gathered, and with the slightest gesture, Eason’s severed head—still held in his hand—began to float.



The head rose from the table, drawn gently yet forcefully by the invisible current of Qi. Eason’s hand opened, releasing it, and the head flew toward Khan’s awaiting palm. It hovered just in front of him.



Khan’s eyes locked on the head, still filled with silent authority.



Then—BOOM.



Without warning, Khan’s fist shot out. His punch collided with the head mid-air, the force so precise that the skull shattered, and the fragments turned into dust. The head disintegrated, reduced to microscopic particles, scattered in the air like ash caught in the morning breeze.



The air was still. Silent. The particles settled.



Eason blinked slowly. He didn’t move. The chaos around him seemed muted, distant.



Khan stood perfectly still, his hand still raised, his eyes calm, watching the result of his strike.



Without a word, Khan lowered his hand. He turned and walked out the front door. His long coat flowed effortlessly behind him, the bucket hat still tilted low.



Eason stared at the empty space where his head had been. His body was still, but something had changed.



He nodded slowly to himself.



Then, picking up his chopsticks, he silently finished his meal.



After paying the bill, Eason walked out of the restaurant without a word—no more second head, no more showing off. Just a quiet man, with a brand new neck, trying not to die again.







Society’s Rejects: Round 2



The morning sun peeked into the alley like it regretted waking up.



Eason trudged through the dusty path, his body fully restored from last night’s execution—but the emotional wreckage remained. His pride was gone. His second head? Vaporized. Now he was just back to being regular, pathetic Eason… again.



At the alley’s bend, he saw someone squatting alone, legs curled up, shoulders drooping like wet laundry.



It was Benson.



No words. No greetings. Just eye contact—and then instant violence.



Eason charged like a dog chasing a bus. Benson stood up just in time to get tackled, and the two immediately launched into the world’s saddest street brawl.



Hair-pulling. Sloppy slaps. A missed punch that ended with a loud “ow” as Eason hit the wall by accident. Benson tried a spinning kick and tripped over his own feet. It looked like two ghosts in slow motion trying to settle an unpaid lunch tab.



Eason screamed mid-fight:




“Why do you still get to live like a normal person?!”




Benson grunted:




“Says the guy who grows back heads like weeds!”




Neither had any real fight in them. They were just pissed. At life. At themselves. At each other. At the invisible audience of a world that kept laughing without them.



It was round two—not of rivals—but of rejects.



Eventually, both collapsed on opposite ends of the alley wall, gasping and wheezing like retired vacuum cleaners.



A man passing by gave them a glance and muttered:




“Losers.”




And kept walking.



Silence returned. One of them coughed. The other sniffled. Neither of them wanted to get up first. They just sat there… two nobodies, covered in sweat and regret, pretending they still had fight left.



Freeze frame.







Sushi Knife Ambush and Unbelievable Regeneration



The alley was still—eerily still. It felt like even the air had given up breathing. Eason and Benson leaned against opposite walls, motionless, two wrecks of men left behind by the world.



Then, Benson turned his head slightly. A flicker of resolve flashed through his eyes. Slowly, he stood up, reached behind his waistband… and pulled out something shiny.



A sushi knife.



Eason blinked.




“…Hey, wait—what are you—”




Before he could finish the sentence, the blade came plunging in.



The first stab—straight to the gut.The second—across the shoulder.Then a third, a fourth, a fifth—no rhythm, no pattern. Just blind, desperate stabbing.



Over a dozen stabs in total. Eason collapsed onto the ground, covered in blood, lifeless.



Benson stood over him, chest heaving, watching the carnage. His heart was pounding like a war drum. He muttered under his breath:




“That should’ve done it… You’re dead now for sure…”




But then—



Less than thirty seconds later, Eason’s fingers twitched.



Like a stitched-up scarecrow, he lifted his torso, swaying slightly. His entire body was soaked in blood, but his eyes were calm. Too calm.




“…Good as new.”




Benson nearly pissed himself. His knees buckled. He staggered back a step, then turned and ran as fast as he could.



Eason stood tall again, casually brushing some blood off his shirt. He picked up the sushi knife, his lips curling into a quiet grin.




“Running already? But you haven’t even paid the bill.”




The scene froze—Eason gripping the sushi knife, calmly stalking after Benson.







Accidental Murder and Collapse



The alley echoed with frantic footsteps.



Benson was sprinting, his face pale and twisted with panic—as if he had just escaped hell itself. He glanced over his shoulder. Eason was walking slowly behind him, holding the blood-stained sushi knife, his expression disturbingly calm… almost peaceful.




“Why are you running?”“Weren’t we just having a conversation?”




Benson shivered. That voice felt colder than the blade.



He darted through the alley, ducking left and right, trying to shake off the monster behind him. But Eason was always a few steps behind—silent, steady, unstoppable.



Eventually, Benson tripped and fell. Before he could get up, Eason was already towering above him.




“You’re too loud, Benson. I just want some peace and quiet.”




He pressed his foot into Benson’s chest and wrapped both hands tightly around his neck.



Benson struggled, gasping, clawing at Eason’s arms. He managed to land a wild punch across Eason’s face. The grip loosened. Benson kicked with all his strength, throwing Eason off and scrambling to his feet.




“You’re insane! I was just trying to defend myself!”




Eason didn’t reply. He calmly picked the sushi knife up off the ground. His eyes… emptied.



And then—he slashed.



Whoosh—



A clean, sickening sound sliced through the air.



Benson’s head flew off his shoulders, bouncing twice before landing. Blood sprayed like a fountain, painting the alley red.



The world went quiet.



Eason stood still, staring at the corpse.



His hands trembled.The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.He whispered:




“I… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t… I just…”




And then—he dropped to his knees.



His breathing became erratic. His face turned ghost-white. He began to sob.




“I just didn’t want to be a nice guy anymore…Why did it end like this…”




He slammed his fists into the pavement.Punched his own legs.Tears streamed down as his body shook in anguish.



Blood. Silence. Horror. A mistake he could never undo.It all sat heavy in the night air, like a weight pressing down on his soul.







The Return of Dark Benson and the DeepSuck Invitation



Eason stood frozen, staring at the puddle of blood where a man had just lost his head. He had seen it with his own eyes—Benson’s head, sliced clean off by some unknown force.



But then, the impossible happened.



The headless body twitched… then straightened. Slowly, silently, it bent down, picked up the severed head, and gently placed it back onto the neck stump.



With a series of squelches and clicks, the muscles reattached, veins stitched themselves back together, and bones aligned with perfect precision. The whole thing took no more than a few seconds.



No scar. No wound. Just… back to normal.



Benson—or rather, Dark Benson—opened his eyes again, a dull, eerie glow in them. He looked forward, unblinking.



Eason’s voice cracked slightly as he stepped back:




“Wait… Benson? Are you… my cousin?”




Dark Benson didn’t answer. He only gave the slightest nod.



The atmosphere was thick with tension. Eason, always quick to adapt, forced a grin and started talking fast:




“Listen, bro. There’s this group—called DeepSuck. They, uh… they research people like you. You know… special folks. People who can, uh… survive things like this.”




Dark Benson just stared.



Eason licked his lips and kept going:




“You wouldn’t need to do anything crazy. Just show up. Let them poke around a bit. They’ll pay you, give you food, a place to stay. You don’t even have to talk to anyone. Just… be there. Be observed.”




A pause.



Then, in a gravelly, low voice, Dark Benson asked:




“Where?”




Eason didn’t miss a beat. He rattled off the address, like a well-trained rep who’d done this many times before.



Dark Benson gave him one last glance. Not grateful. Not angry. Just… neutral.



Then he turned and walked away.



His gait was calm. Stable. Not a trace of damage. As if his head had never been separated.



Eason watched him disappear into the night.



He exhaled slowly, wiped a hand across his forehead, and muttered to himself:




“Well… he’s DeepSuck’s problem now.”








The Challenger in Pink



The alley was quiet—so quiet it almost felt abandoned by sound itself. A stray newspaper fluttered against the wall, rustling in the breeze like dry leaves.



Dark Benson stood in the middle, motionless. His eyes were half-closed, as if dozing off. But the air around him pulsed with a quiet, deadly pressure. Like a wild beast asleep with one eye open.



Across from him, Eason and Benson stood still, exchanging tense glances.



Then—footsteps. Slow, steady, almost lazy. Slap, slap, slap.



Someone was approaching from the end of the alley.



And then… he appeared.



A hulking mass of muscle, glistening under the sunlight like carved bronze. Every curve, every bulge, exaggerated to a comic degree. Veins popped like ropes wrapped around his frame. His chest and abs flexed with each step, like living armor.



He was wearing only one thing.



A tiny, bright pink women’s thong. Triangular, minimal coverage, somehow holding on. It bounced slightly with his stride, dangerously close to slipping.



In one hand, he held a half-finished bottle of soda. With the other, he scratched his neck casually.



Dave had arrived.



Eason instinctively stepped back.




“This idiot again…”




Dave strolled to the center of the tension, smiling like he’d just shown up to a beach party. He looked up and down at Dark Benson, then gave a slow nod.




“So you’re the dark dude, huh? Heard you can reattach your own head. That’s pretty cool.”




Dark Benson slowly opened his eyes. There was nothing sleepy in his gaze now. His pupils locked onto Dave’s like a blade meeting flesh.



Dave grinned wider. He took a loud gulp of soda, then flicked the bottle at the wall. It exploded with a pop.



He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders. Muscles rippled like waves under his skin. Then he crouched slightly and raised his fists into a classic, no-nonsense boxing stance.



No gimmicks. Just raw power.



Every inch of him shimmered with sweat and madness.



This wasn’t a joke.



Dark Benson’s voice scraped out of his throat like rusted metal:




“Do you want to die?”




Dave laughed.




“That depends. Can you hit hard enough to make it happen?”




The wind picked up.



And just like that, the challenge was set.


Chapter 88: Khan
==================================================

Overview



Khan is recognized as the strongest man on Earth, a living myth cloaked in silence and mystery. His mere presence demands reverence — as if the air around him respects him more than it does gravity.



He rarely speaks, and when he walks, it’s as if the entire world tilts ever so slightly in his direction.







Characteristics



AttributeValuePower100Speed70Wisdom80Height160 cmWeight120 lb



Despite his small frame, Khan exerts an overwhelming aura of dominance. His strength defies physics, and his calm demeanor is often more terrifying than violence itself.







Main Appearance / Outfit



Khan’s outfit is deceptively casual — yet utterly iconic.




Bucket Hat (tilted low, partially shadowing his eyes)



Long Coat (draped loosely over his shoulders — not worn, just resting like a cape)



Hands in Pockets (always)



No Buttons Fastened (not even one)



Pants and Shoes are unremarkable — the kind of clothes that draw no attention, because he doesn’t need them to.




His look is so understated that people feel rude for noticing him… and yet they can’t look away.







Fighting Style



Khan doesn’t have a style — he is the style. Every move is absolute. Every strike ends something.



He never wastes motion, and he rarely needs a second attack.




Signature Traits:

Punches that erase matter



Movements too subtle to be seen



Unshakable posture



The ability to control Qi Vortexes with a breath










Highlight Moments



🥇 Chapter 62 – The Pinnacle of the Kung Fu World




Khan walks down a street. That’s it.No words, no fight.But every major fighter on the block clears the path, and dozens line the streets just to watch him walk. The atmosphere shifts. It becomes a moment — one of those rare, once-in-a-generation moments where the peak decides to move.








🥈 Chapter 84 – Restaurant Panic




Eason regrows his own head — a monstrous feat.Khan enters a restaurant silently. Without breaking stride, he uses his Qi to pull the regenerated head across the room like a magnet.Then, with one casual punch, he reduces it to molecules. Not blood. Not bone. Nothing.Witnesses are frozen. Eason doesn’t move. Khan sits down and eats quietly — like nothing happened.








Personality



Khan is silent, stern, and untouchable. He doesn’t threaten. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t brag.



He exists like a natural disaster in a human shell — unreasoning, unmoved, but always just.



When he looks at you, it’s not to intimidate.It’s because he’s deciding whether your existence is still necessary.







Legacy



Khan is the universal measuring stick.




“He’s strong, but not Khan strong.”“You saw Khan punch once? And lived?”




His presence alone inspires dread, awe, and reverence. No one dares to challenge him, because no one survives his casual attention.







Status: Active



Rumors say he has not used even 10% of his full power.






Chapter 89: Character Wiki Format
==================================================

[Character Name] (Character Wiki)



Alias: (Optional)Affiliation: (Group, gang, organization — if any)Occupation: (e.g. Fighter, Enforcer, Doctor, etc.)First Appearance: Chapter [X] – [Chapter Title]







Overview



[Character Name] is known as [short summary—e.g. “one of the most unpredictable fighters in the Kung Fu world” / “a mysterious doctor who treats patients like science experiments”]. [He/She/They] walks a line between [trait] and [trait], and every move [he/she/they] makes feels like it’s backed by a secret storm.



[One or two sentences describing their mystique or how others react to them.]







Characteristics



AttributeValuePower[X]Speed[X]Wisdom[X]Height[X cm]Weight[X lb]



[Optional line summarizing how their stats contradict their appearance, or how they use their traits.]







Main Appearance / Outfit



[Character Name] dresses in a way that [brief description—e.g. looks unassuming, radiates chaos, demands attention].




[Hat / Hair / Face Details]



[Main Clothing Piece — jacket, robe, uniform]



[Hands / Accessories — gloves, rings, etc.]



[Notable Item — a weapon, tattoo, or object they always carry]




[One or two lines about how their outfit reflects their personality or throws people off.]







Fighting Style



[Character Name] fights with a style that [e.g. blends discipline and madness / looks like luck but is pure precision / feels improvised but is calculated].




Signature Traits:

[e.g. unpredictable tempo, unblockable throws, psychic pressure]



[e.g. illusion attacks, golden techniques, emotional manipulation]



[e.g. brute strength, sonic shockwaves, dog-style movements]






[Add any unique technique names if applicable.]







Highlight Moments



🥇 Chapter [X] – [Chapter Title]



[1–2 sentence highlight of a major moment. Make it dramatic.]







🥈 Chapter [X] – [Chapter Title]



[Another iconic or terrifying scene, possibly humorous or devastating.]







🥉 Chapter [X] – [Chapter Title]



[A subtler moment — a quote, gesture, or short scene that captures their spirit.]







Personality



[Character Name] is [describe key traits — e.g. unhinged, calm, driven, childlike, haunted]. [He/She/They] doesn’t [verb] — [he/she/they] just [verb] [because/when/if…].



[One more sentence with poetic flair, or a contradiction — something deep and simple.]







Legacy



[How others view this character — with fear, respect, confusion, mockery, or obsession.]




“He’s [line other characters say about him].”“You don’t [verb] when he’s around. You just [reaction].”




[Final remark about how their presence changes the world around them.]







Status: [Active / Missing / Unknown / Dead / Rumored to Return]



[Any myth or future tease — e.g. “Some say he’s training underground.”]


Chapter 90: Micheal
==================================================

Alias: Captain LamAffiliation: Humble OrganizationOccupation: Enforcer / StrategistFirst Appearance: Chapter 10 – Path to the Golden Eyes







Overview



Michael, better known as Captain Lam, is one of the most dependable enforcers in the Humble Organization — a mix of brains and brawn who speaks rarely, fights cleanly, and observes quietly. While others flex or rage, Michael simply calculates. His calm presence and tactical mind make him not only a fighter, but a thinker — the kind of man who can disarm you with logic before knocking you out with a palm strike.



Behind the golden-rimmed glasses is a man who’s seen everything… and still chooses to walk the path with his hands in his pockets and his principles intact.







Characteristics



AttributeValuePower80Speed65Wisdom75Height172 cmWeight145 lb



Michael isn’t the strongest or the fastest — but his efficiency, instinct, and control allow him to outfight opponents with higher raw stats. Everything he does is measured.







Main Appearance / Outfit



Michael’s look blends sharp intellect with understated authority.




Golden-Rimmed Glasses (gifted by Colin, enhances his psychological advantage by making enemies underestimate him)



Formal (buttoned shirt, black pants, leather shoes, briefcase)



Always Carries Cash (for covering hospital bills after “reflexive” knockouts)




His outfit never screams “threat,” which is exactly why he’s so dangerous. Most opponents don’t see the punch coming until they’re waking up on the floor.







Fighting Style



Michael combines clean form, adaptability, and a reactive sense of justice. He fights like a teacher giving a harsh lesson — precise, surgical, and never wasteful.




Signature Traits:

Reflex-based counters (punches or chops that look effortless)



Psychological reads before engaging



Knows when to talk… and when to shut everything down with one move



Golden-Rimmed Glasses Deception – lowers enemy vigilance, boosts his first-strike advantage






He rarely initiates a fight — but when pushed, he finishes it quickly and walks away before the dust settles.







Highlight Moments



🥇 Chapter 14 – The Absolute Power



Michael accidentally decapitates Long Neck with a reflexive back-chop after being attacked. Instead of boasting, he immediately apologizes and offers cash for hospital bills, unaware the man is dead. This action cements him as terrifyingly calm — someone whose reflexes kill before his brain even fully processes the threat.







🥈 Chapter 10 – Sleeping Hyena Awakens



In a mall confrontation with Raymond, Michael dodges shockwave punches, climbs decorations mid-fight, and tactically uses environmental tools (hot string, a sock) in an attempt to weaken the opponent. Though he ultimately loses, his intelligence and timing prove he’s a serious contender even against overwhelming brute force.







🥉 Chapter 19 – Innocence at the Edge



After Marvel’s adrenaline rampage, Michael nearly strikes a finishing blow. However, Brian stops him. Michael, still radiating calm authority, accepts the interruption and walks away — a perfect example of his controlled power and loyalty to strategy over ego.







Personality



Michael is logical, loyal, and steady. He rarely shows strong emotion, but his sense of justice runs deep. He respects power — not brute force, but discipline, control, and the ability to walk away when others can’t.



He isn’t cold — just focused. And when he fights, it’s not to win. It’s to teach a lesson that his opponent will never forget.







Legacy



Among the Humble Organization’s top fighters, Michael is considered the most balanced — not the strongest, not the fastest, but the most reliable.




“He’s the guy you send when things are messy — because he’ll leave it clean.”“Michael doesn’t raise his voice. He just lowers your blood pressure. Permanently.”




He commands quiet respect, even from rivals. And while others seek titles, Michael simply carries his weight — and yours, too, if you fall.







Status: Active



Currently deployed under Colin’s command. Known to operate solo or in two-man teams with Brian.


Chapter 91: In Search of My Cousin (Part 5)
==================================================

One Punch to the Head



Eason stepped off to the side, out of the battle zone. He just stood there, watching. A few meters ahead, Dave and Dark Benson faced each other—eyes locked, dead silent.



The air felt heavy. Like something was about to snap.



And then, just a few blocks away, on top of a five-story building, a man stood alone. He had put everything he owned into the stock market—and lost. Worse, he owed the loan sharks a small fortune.



He didn’t leave a note.He just jumped.



A loud, wet thud echoed through the street.



That was the signal.



Dave launched forward—no warning, no buildup. Left hook, right hook, fast and hard.



Dark Benson didn’t flinch. He just tilted his body, slipping past the punches like it was nothing. Then he raised a finger, waggled it slowly, and said:



“No, no, no. Too slow, man. You’re not hitting me like that.”



Dave didn’t say a word. He just threw a straight punch.



Dark Benson stepped back, smug.



But Dave reached.Arm fully extended—and landed a clean shot right to his face.



Dark Benson’s head exploded like a watermelon.Blood splashed everywhere.



Somehow, the only thing left was his mouth, jaw, and a chunk of neck.But the mouth kept talking.



“Not bad,” it said. “Didn’t think you had that kind of reach.You do yoga or something?”







Underwear Man



Dark Benson’s body stood upright—headless, but still moving.He slowly backed away, like nothing had happened.



The blood and chunks of flesh that had splattered across the ground suddenly started wriggling—then shot back toward his neck like they were being pulled by magnets.



Within seconds, his head was fully restored.Good as new.



Dave saw it happen, and weirdly, it fired him up.This guy really lived up to the hype.His regeneration wasn’t just strong—it was godlike.



Dave charged forward, shouting:“Fine! Then I’ll beat you until there’s nothing left to regenerate!”



Dark Benson smiled.“That’s not gonna happen,” he said, calm as ever.



Dave threw another flurry of punches, fast and wild.



Dark Benson dodged them effortlessly—just a few lazy sways of his body, like he wasn’t even trying.



Then he paused.Glanced down at his right shoe.



The shoelace had come undone.



He crouched down to tie it.



While he was tying his shoelace, Dave kept attacking—kicks, punches, the whole arsenal.But none of it landed.



Dark Benson just kept tying his shoe, dodging every hit with casual little shifts of his body.It was like he was bored.



It took him a full minute.



Finally, he finished tying the knot and slowly stood up.Dave was still swinging.



Dark Benson dodged every strike as he rose—like he was brushing away flies.



Then he gave a low chuckle.



“Underwear Man,” he said,“My turn.”







Claws and Blood



Dark Benson suddenly lunged forward, slashing the air in front of Dave with his claws.The strike tore through the wind like invisible blades.



Dave quickly brought up his arms, crossed over his chest.His forearms were dense with muscle—hard as steel.The claws scraped against them with a metallic hiss, but barely left a scratch.



Just a few light marks.No real damage.



Dark Benson sucked in a cold breath.



“Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Who the hell has a body that hard?”



Then he vanished.



Instantly—gone from sight.



That was one of his other abilities: teleportation.



And just a second later, he reappeared behind Dave.



Dave looked around, spinning in every direction—but couldn’t see him anywhere.It was like he disappeared into thin air.



Right then, behind him—Dark Benson gathered all his energy into his claws.



He slashed straight into Dave’s back.



Three deep lines ripped across his skin.Shallow, but sharp enough to sting.



Dave screamed.



“Holy fuck!”



It hurt.



Even with a body like iron, the pain shot through him.



Dark Benson grinned quietly to himself.



You keep this up five more times… maybe ten, he thought.I’ll take him down.



Dave spun around, catching a glimpse of Dark Benson—but just as he did, the bastard disappeared again.



A second later—another slash.Same place.Same three claw marks, but deeper.



This time, the skin split open.



Blood poured down his back.



Dave screamed again, louder this time.



“Holy FUCK! That one hurts more!”



Dark Benson didn’t say a word.But in his head, he was already counting down.



Five more times… maybe ten…







The Stretch of Justice



But just before he could disappear again—



Dave twisted his waist with impossible speed.His upper body spun 180 degrees—legs still facing forward, spine bent like rubber.His flexibility was completely insane.



In one smooth motion, he reached back—and caught Dark Benson’s wrist.



Firm grip. Solid hold.



Dark Benson froze, shocked.



“How the hell did you react that fast?” he said.



Dave grinned.



“You disappear, then show up behind me. Every. Single. Time.Even a dumbass like me can see the pattern.”



He tilted his head.



“Next time, try switching it up, yeah?”



Dark Benson tried to yank his arm free—but before he could teleport again,Dave’s other arm shot forward.



And kept going.Two meters.Three.



His arm stretched out like a rope.



Then Dave shouted:



“In the name of my dead teacher, Moonley—I use the sacred stretching technique he taught me in yoga class…to bind you here and now!”



His elongated arm wrapped around Dark Benson like a snake.One loop. Two.It circled his arms, his legs—tightening every time.Locking him in place.



Dark Benson couldn’t move.



And far away, in a hospital bed on the other side of the city,a man in a coma suddenly sneezed.



His name was Moonley.



And inside his mind, a groggy thought floated up:



WTF? They said I was dead?I’m literally still alive.







A Nod, A Slash, A Goodbye



Dark Benson struggled in place for a full minute.He twisted, jerked, and tried to break free from Dave’s stretchy grip—but it was no use.



Eventually, he sighed.



“…I give up.”



That was it.



Dave had won.



He slowly released his hold, letting his arm coil back to normal, dropping Dark Benson to the ground.



At that moment, Eason walked over.



“All right,” he said. “Fight’s over. That was… honestly, kind of impressive.”



Dave nodded.Still catching his breath.



He looked over at Eason.“Your cousin’s strong. That fight actually taught me a lot.”



Eason smiled.“Yeah, you’re both pretty insane.But we’ve got something to take care of—me and my cousin.”



Then—



just as Dave let his guard down—Dark Benson spun around and clawed him across the face.



Three sharp lines.A flash of pain.Blood.



Dave stumbled back.



“What the hell was that for!?”



Dark Benson replied calmly, “That was for the punch you gave me earlier.”



Dave was clearly pissed.The fight was over, and he still pulled that crap?



Eason stepped in again.“Easy,” he said. “Let it go.”



He turned to Dave.



“We’ve got to go.Catch you next time.”



And just like that, the three of them parted ways.



The two cousins walked off in one direction.Dave walked off alone, in the other.







Karl’s Lab



Eason and Dark Benson walked side by side down a quiet road.



The fight was over, but the silence between them lingered.



Eventually, Dark Benson glanced sideways.“So… what now?”



Eason exhaled slowly.“I’m taking you to someone.”



“Friend of yours?”



“Not exactly,” Eason said. “He’s my boss. Name’s Karl. He runs a company called Deepsuck.”



Dark Benson raised an eyebrow.“Deepsuck? That some kind of cult?”



“Feels like one,” Eason muttered. “But no—it’s a biotech lab. Karl’s the CEO. Rich, smart… and dying.”



They kept walking.



Eason continued, “He’s got a neurodegenerative disease—same kind Stephen Hawking had. Body shutting down, voice fading, everything going bit by bit. But his brain’s still sharp. Sharp enough to realize he doesn’t have much time left.”



“And you think I can help him?”



“Karl thinks so. He wants to study your genetics. Says your body’s unique. High-speed regeneration, impossible flexibility, whatever it is—you’re not normal. He believes there might be something in your biology that could help him… maybe even reverse his condition.”



Dark Benson didn’t answer right away.



Eason added, “He’s not trying to hurt you. No cutting, no crazy experiments. Just scans, data, maybe a few samples. Non-invasive stuff. And…”



He looked over.



“…he’s willing to pay. Millions. If you help him, we both walk away rich.”



Dark Benson kept walking.



After a long pause, he said,“…If it helps someone, and it doesn’t kill me…Fine.”



Eason nodded.



Up ahead, the road stretched toward the horizon.



Somewhere in that direction, inside a cold white lab, Karl was waiting.



Would this meeting change anything?



Could a dying man find hope in the DNA of a monster?



We’ll find out next time.


Chapter 92: Karl Is Reborn
==================================================

Good as New



The room was dark.Karl’s voice was low, almost cracking. “My time is running out. I can’t wait much longer.”



His body was twisted in on itself, bones sharp under his skin. He looked like he could go any second.



Then—three months vanished in a blink.



A massive press event. Bright stage lights. Camera shutters firing like machine guns.At the center stood a thin, sharp-looking man in a tailored suit—Karl, CEO of Deepsuck.



“I’m honored to share this breakthrough in biology,” he told the world’s media. “I’ve merged genetic technology into my own body. It cured my illness. Not only am I completely healed… I’m stronger than ever.”



Without warning, he drove his fist into the podium. The heavy wood split apart, collapsing into chunks and splinters.The room froze. Then—flash after flash, like lightning in a storm. By that night, the footage was everywhere—TV, front pages, social feeds.



When it was over, Karl walked out of the building alone.For the first time in over a decade, he stood straight under the sun. Eyes closed, he felt the wind and heat on his face, the power running through his body.



He tilted his head back and yelled to the sky, “I am free!”







The Street Encounter



From behind him, several bodyguards in dark suits and sunglasses trailed close.



Karl raised a hand. “No need to follow me. I’m perfectly safe.”



They hesitated. “Sir, we don’t think—”



“My word is an order,” Karl cut them off. “Find a café, grab a drink. If I’m not back by tonight, you can come look for me. But I promise you—nothing will happen to me.”



The guards exchanged an uneasy glance but obeyed, peeling away.



Karl strolled down the street, mind spinning. There was so much he wanted to do.Then, three floating letters appeared in his head—SEX.It had been over a decade.Today, he was going to remember exactly how that felt.



That’s when he saw her.



A young woman in a Zhongshan suit, her ponytail swaying, a katana strapped across her back. She was stunning—perfect figure, commanding presence. Karl’s jaw slackened; he was practically drooling.



He stepped right up to her. “Hey, young lady. I’m Karl, CEO of Deepsuck. Pleasure to meet you.”



Jessica looked him over, surprised to run into a celebrity in the middle of the street. She reached out to shake his hand. “I’ve heard about your legendary story—and all your incredible inventions. You’re my idol.”



Karl, forty-five, grinned. “And your name?”



“I’m Jessica. I’m twenty-five. Mr. Karl, could I get your autograph?”



He whipped out a pen, scrawled his signature, and added underneath:May I have sex with you? I can give you $1,000,000.



Jessica took the card, scanned the words, and froze. Her expression shifted sharply.She muttered under her breath, “…Say what?”







The Blade and the Claws



Jessica stared at him for a few seconds, her face twisting with disgust.“With all due respect, I can’t believe you’re this kind of man. All the admiration I had for you—it’s gone. You’re nothing but a scumbag.”



Karl chuckled. “Scumbag or not, I’ve got money. Money is almighty. Don’t believe me? If a million doesn’t do it… how about five million?”



Her eyes narrowed. The temperature around her seemed to drop.With a sharp shhhk, she drew the katana from her back, the blade catching the light.“If you dare insult my dignity—or poison this society—again, I won’t be polite.”



Karl smirked. “Maybe money can’t buy what I want. But it can cover every bad thing I’ve ever done.”



He raised his right hand. From between his fingers, several razor-sharp claws slid out, glinting like a predator’s talons.



Jessica let out a sharp cry and swung her sword.CLANG! Sparks burst as Karl caught the blade between his claws.



And then—he vanished. The air rippled where he stood, leaving only a fading afterimage.It was a stolen trick, copied straight from Dark Benson’s genes—instant teleportation.



Jessica spun around, scanning the street. Karl was gone.Then—whoosh—he was behind her, seizing her wrists in both hands.He leaned close enough for her to feel his breath. “How about this?”



She thrashed wildly, but his grip only tightened. Sweat and tears slid down her face as her mind raced through every worst-case scenario it could conjure.OMG…







The Man with the Bangs



Karl’s eyes went wide.His waist had been sliced clean through. He let go of Jessica and spun around.



A tall, sharp-looking young man with straight bangs stood there, katana still mid-swing.



“Oh my god,” Karl gasped. “Did you just cut me in half?”



A beat later, both halves of his body hit the ground—the legs first, then the upper torso with a dull thud.



“I won’t forgive you,” Karl snarled.



The young man straightened up and slid the katana back into its sheath. He wore a Zhongshan suit with not a single button done up. This was Dinello—Jessica’s boyfriend.



“Well,” Dinello said coolly, “if you won’t forgive me, then when you get to Hell… you can come find me.”



He took Jessica’s hand and started leading her away. “You okay, sweetheart?”



Jessica shook her head. “I never thought Karl, such a great scientist, could actually be a scumbag.”



Behind them, the two halves of Karl’s body twitched, then slid back together midair, sealing seamlessly before they even touched the ground.



Good as new.He had inherited every one of Dark Benson’s abilities.



In a blink, Karl vanished.



A rush of wind. Dinello ducked just in time as claws swept past his neck.He spun and kicked, booting Karl through the air and sending him crashing more than thirty feet away.



Dinello stared. “What? I cut you in half just now! How—? Impossible!”







Immortal



Karl sneered. “I’m immortal. You can’t possibly beat me.”



Dinello’s eyes hardened. “I don’t believe that.”



He lunged forward—fist and blade moving in perfect sync. In a rapid, blazing flurry, he sliced Karl into over a hundred pieces, the chunks scattering through the air like flying meat.



“Let’s see you now,” Dinello said coldly.



Before the fragments could even touch the ground, they snapped back together midair with a sharp, unnatural zzt. Karl landed on his feet, perfectly whole.



“Good as new. Instantly.”



In the same breath, he slashed his claws across Dinello’s chest, leaving shallow, bloody lines.



Dinello stepped back. Jessica rushed to steady him.



They exchanged a look—both knowing the same truth.This was near-perfect regeneration.If that was the case… blades might be useless.



Dinello handed Jessica his katana. “Hold this for me.”



He pulled Karl toward him with a sudden rush of air, debris swirling. The moment Karl was within range, Dinello launched a punch that sent him flying two blocks away.



Karl skidded across the asphalt for more than ten meters, leaving a long, bloody trail.



He pushed himself up, spat blood, and muttered, “Oh shit… this guy’s strong.”



Dinello took Jessica’s hand, leading her away.



Far behind them, Karl stood again. He inhaled sharply—every drop of blood on the street shot back into his body in a single, violent rush.



“Good as new,” he said, rolling his neck.



The road, once smeared with blood, was now spotless—eerily clean, as if nothing had happened.







Freedom and Loyalty



Karl could feel it—he was stronger now.But strength alone wasn’t enough. There were still others out there, powerful enough to match or surpass him.



He needed more research… more genetic material from the strongest beings in the world, fused into his own body.



And why stop there?With AI technology, he could push his limits even further. The possibilities were endless.



But for now—for the first time in years—he let himself savor the pure, intoxicating thrill of freedom.



Across the city, inside a thumping, neon-lit club, Eason and Benson were celebrating like kings.They sprawled on a leather couch, each with an arm around a pair of women, drinks in hand.



Eason laughed over the pounding bass. “We’ve got money now—millions. Cousin, from here on out, we’re living rich.”



Benson grinned. “Oh yeah, baby.” His hands roamed shamelessly over the women pressed against him.



Eason’s smile wavered for a moment, and his mind flashed back to two days earlier.



Karl had stood in front of Dark Benson. “Hey, Dark Benson—if you want to keep that… let’s call it your evil form, I can arrange surgery. You won’t have to go back to your weaker state.”



Dark Benson gave a faint smile. “No need. My existence is only for Benson. Without him, I have no meaning. Just make sure you pay me—give Benson the money. And you, cousin Eason… take care of him.



“When something happens, I’ll come back. I’ll always be watching from behind. But I don’t need to exist in this world.”



Karl had listened, genuinely intrigued. In a world overflowing with selfishness, here was someone who existed entirely for another.



He respected Dark Benson’s choice.


Chapter 93: Karl’s Great Gene Hunt
==================================================

Shadows in the Office



The Humble Organization’s headquarters office was dim, lit only by the warm glow of a desk lamp.Michael sat with Raymond, Brian, and Colin, talking over the latest news—breakthroughs in biology, and the sudden return of Karl.



Michael smirked.“This Karl guy… he seems pretty strong. I don’t know exactly what he can do, but I’ve got a feeling he’s gonna be one of the brightest new stars in the kung fu world.”



Colin nodded.“I think so too. The man’s smart—really smart. As for his actual strength, I can’t say. But he’s got something even more dangerous—money. In this world, money means resources, and resources mean a whole army of skilled people. He’s not someone you can just ignore.”



Brian leaned forward with a grin.“Want me to go test him? See what he’s really made of? I could use my Golden Eyes.”



Colin shook his head.“Test him? No. I don’t want the Humble Organization getting into it with DeepSock over nothing. He’s backed by big money, and you don’t take that lightly. As for his strength… if he’s really that good, we’ll find out soon enough.”



Raymond nodded.“Yeah. Gold always shines in the end. We just have to be patient.”



Brian chuckled, and Michael’s mouth curled into a faint grin.







Wings in the Alley



In a dark, narrow alley, a few gangsters had a skinny, strange-looking young man surrounded, pounding him with fists and boots.



One of them pointed at his back and laughed.“Ha! First time I’ve seen a guy with wings—and he still can’t fly!”



The man’s shirt had been ripped to shreds, leaving his upper body almost bare.Under the dim streetlight, two tiny wings stuck out from his back—no bigger than chicken wings, thin and leathery like a bat’s. They trembled weakly, far too small to ever lift him off the ground.



Between blows, the young man said calmly, “I was born with these. Had ’em since the day I was born. Don’t even know what they’re for.”



One of the gangsters burst out laughing.“What—your mom slept with a bat and had you?”It was a nasty, completely random insult.



The young man smiled faintly. “Don’t insult my mom. Probably just some kind of genetic mutation or something.”



Before they could hit him again, four men in sunglasses stepped out of the shadows.Without a word, each one grabbed a gangster and hammered them with straight punches and hooks, finishing with a single kick that sent them flying.



Their movements were perfectly synchronized—same punches, same kicks, same height, same precision. It was like watching four copies of the same fighter.



From behind them, a thin, average-height man stepped forward at a slow, deliberate pace.It was Karl.



He raised his voice.“Take this strange one back to the lab.”







Gene Transfer



After several days of research, they succeeded in transferring the strange man’s genes into Karl’s body.



When Karl stepped out of the lab, two massive bat-like wings stretched from his back—not tiny, chicken-sized ones like the man’s, but full three-meter spans of dark, leathery muscle.



Karl looked over his shoulder at them, a faint smile on his lips.“I can do more than just take his genes,” he said. “I can amplify the strengths hidden in them, strip away the weaknesses… That’s the power of my gene-editing ability.”



His men clapped their hands.“Boss, with wings like that, you might be the strongest man in the world.”



Karl knew it was just flattery.He bent his knees, leapt into the air, and circled twice before landing back on the ground.



“Cut the flattery,” he said. “From now on, I want more people like him. I’m going to fuse even stronger genes into my body. I’m not the strongest yet. I’m not even that strong right now. Send more men out there to find people like this.”



He looked toward the horizon.“The hunt has begun.”







City Sweep



From that day on, the city filled with men in suits and sunglasses—identical in height, build, and expression.



They moved through streets and alleys with mechanical precision, pulling people off the sidewalks and loading them into black cars bound for the lab.



Of course, many of those they grabbed only looked unusual. Their genetic makeup turned out to be perfectly normal.



One of them was Norman—but he wasn’t dragged in. He went willingly.



Norman was known in whispers as Dogman. He could sprint 150 kilometers, running on all fours like a dog, and had a “death roll” attack just like a crocodile.



At first glance, his genes seemed to contain traces of various animals—dog among them. But after testing, the truth came out: Norman’s dog-like traits came from living in the wild for a time. They were learned behaviors, not written in his DNA.



Which meant, for Karl, Norman’s genes were worthless.



Norman shook his head as he walked out of the lab. Eason and Dave fell in step beside him.



“So?” Eason asked. “Did they use your genes? Did they pay you?”



Norman sighed.“Nope. They said what I’ve got isn’t some genetic gift—just skills I picked up through training. So I’m not getting a single cent. Damn it.”



Dave chuckled.“Hey, man, you’ve never needed money to eat anyway. You’re always pulling that dash-and-dine thing. Money doesn’t seem to mean much to you.”



Norman cracked a small smile.“True. I don’t really spend money anyway.”



The three of them strolled off and ended up at a bubble tea shop, sipping milk tea like nothing had happened.







Red Scooter



On a busy street, a familiar figure appeared—Frank—riding a red scooter at a slow, lazy pace, his round belly stretching the fabric of his white shirt. Across the shirt, in bold black letters, was the word: FUCKLIN.



One hand rested on the handlebar while the other casually picked at his nose as he cruised along, delivering food.



Legend had it there was a man with the highest defense in the world—someone who’d once taken a direct hit from an atomic bomb and walked away without a scratch.



The men in black suits and sunglasses quickly surrounded Frank. One of them kicked at his scooter, forcing it to a sudden stop.



Frank looked up at them, unfazed.“Hey, you guys trying to rob me? ’Cause I’ve only got twenty bucks on me.”



One of the bodyguards said, “Our boss wants to run some experiments on you. He thinks you’d make an excellent test subject.”



Frank frowned.“Experiments? On me? You’ve gotta be kidding. No way.”



He twisted the throttle and tried to drive forward, but the bodyguards blocked his path.



Frank sighed.“Come on, guys, could you just move? I’ve got a customer waiting on their food. If I don’t deliver it, they might starve to death.”



Just then, from among the crowd, a familiar figure stepped forward—two massive wings unfurled behind him.



It was Karl.



He gave Frank a faint smile.“Please,” Karl said. “We need you.”







The Price of Progress



Frank looked Karl straight in the eye.“No, sir. By the way… why do you have two wings?”



Karl’s lips curled into a faint smile.“These wings are the result of my experiments. I need you to help us finish the next one. We want to understand exactly how your so-called invincible defense works.”



Frank’s mouth started to open again—Karl could tell another refusal was coming.



“Hold on,” Karl said. “If our research succeeds, I can give you a reward—millions, maybe even tens of millions.”



Frank straightened up.“Yes. For the scientific progress of humanity, I’m willing to help you with this experiment.”



Karl smirked to himself.There’s nothing money can’t buy.



And so, Frank followed them toward the lab, completely forgetting about the customer’s lunch.



Because of that, Frank ended up with a one-star review.


Chapter 94: Karl’s Most Impossible Experiment
==================================================

The Fifty-Million Touch



Frank stepped into the lab and froze. The place was massive—shiny floors, glass walls, and row after row of machines that looked like they could cost more than his scooter.



He remembered that, right when he walked in, one strange-looking device had caught his eye. He’d poked it, twisted a knob, and—click—something inside snapped. He quickly let go, casually pretending nothing happened. Nobody seemed to notice, so he relaxed.



Then the bodyguard’s earlier words echoed in his head. That piece you just touched? Worth fifty million.



Frank began doing the math. Okay… I deliver food. If the tip’s bad, maybe three bucks. If it’s good, ten or fifteen. So… fifty million divided by five dollars… that’s… a hundred? No, wait… one million?



He kept counting on his fingers. If I do thirty deliveries a day, I’ll… uh… yeah, that’s… many years. A lot of years.



Frank didn’t know it yet, but he was off by a mile. The real number was ten million deliveries—something no rider could finish in a lifetime.







The Discovery of True Qi



They eventually stopped in a small white room with a single bed surrounded by scanners. The machines hummed quietly, blinking with strange lights. Karl and his assistants, all in white coats and masks, stood nearby.



“Just lie down and relax,” one of them said. “We’ll collect some samples. That’s all you need to do.”



Frank blinked. That’s it? Lie here and earn millions?“Exactly,” the assistant said. “If the experiment works, it’s that easy.”



Frank lay down, hands behind his head. Within minutes, boredom set in and he began picking his nose with his right hand.



In the monitoring room, Karl and his team stared at the live feed. On the thermal scanner, countless streams of energy—True Qi—flowed through Frank’s body like rivers of light. It moved constantly, never breaking, never fading.



Karl leaned closer to the screen. “Excellent… If I could get a body like his, I wouldn’t just have the strongest defense. I might become the strongest attacker as well.”One thing was clear: Frank had never trained properly. His absurd natural talent was going completely to waste.







The Failed Extraction



A masked staff member entered with a pair of surgical tweezers, aiming for Frank’s arm. The moment the metal touched his skin, Frank let out a howl.



“Please, please stop—it hurts like fuck!”



The staffer looked at the tweezers—nothing. Over his earpiece, a voice explained, “There’s a layer of True Qi shielding his skin. You can’t get anything off him.”



The man tried again, pressing harder and longer—thirty agonizing seconds. Frank’s screams filled the room, the kind you’d expect from a slaughterhouse at peak hour.



Still nothing. Gritting his teeth, the staffer poured all his strength into his grip. Snap. The tweezers broke clean in half.



In the monitoring room, Karl smiled faintly. “This is exactly the defense I’ve been looking for. We’ll try another way.” His assistants nodded instantly.







The Drill That Couldn’t



Frank glanced at a staff member. “How much longer is this gonna take?”“Not long,” came the reply—before the man stepped out.



Moments later, a robot rolled in. Its arm was fitted with a precision jackhammer tip, the kind you’d see at a construction site—but sleeker, stronger, forged from the hardest known metal.



Frank’s eyes widened. “Hey, wait a sec—” The drill started lowering toward his arm.



Then the screaming began. “It hurts! It hurts my f**k!” he shouted, throwing in random phrases like “Stop raping me!” just to emphasize his misery.



In the monitoring room, Karl’s team watched as the drill pressed against the True Qi barrier, actually pushing it down slightly. Everyone held their breath. Victory seemed close—until a deafening BOOM! ripped through the lab.



The jackhammer shattered, the robot collapsed into a heap of smoking scrap.



“Oh shit,” one technician muttered, “there goes eighty million.”



Frank stared at the wreckage, sweat dripping down his face. If they make me pay for that… I’m dead. I’ll have to sell myself ten times over.







The Breakout



In the control room, Karl slammed his fist onto a nearby table, splitting the million-dollar piece of equipment in two. He ignored the staff’s protests.



“Find a way to get biological tissue from him—today—or I’ll take all four of your heads.”One man trembled so hard he wet his pants, begging Karl for mercy.



Meanwhile, on the bed, Frank’s thoughts spiraled. Are they planning to make me pay? He tried to convince himself it wasn’t his fault. Their gear probably wasn’t from a good company. Cheap materials. They can’t blame me for that.



Then another thought hit—What if I just leave?



He jumped up, sprinted to the door, and smashed through it, leaving a perfect human-shaped hole in the metal. Without looking back, he bolted down the corridor and out of sight.







The Hair That Saved the Day



A technician chased after him, shouting, “Hey! Don’t leave! We’re not done yet!” But Frank was already gone.



The man who’d wet himself dropped to his knees, grabbing Karl’s leg. “Boss, please, don’t kill me! I’ll serve you forever—clean toilets, eat shit, anything—just let me live!”



Karl wasn’t listening. His gaze had locked onto the bed. A single strand of hair lay there—the result of Frank tearing at his head in frustration before his escape.



“That’s it,” Karl whispered. Finally, they had a biological sample.



Over the next few days, the team ran exhaustive experiments. They tried to decode the hair’s DNA and merge it with Karl’s own genetic structure.



But Frank’s genes were far too strong. The moment they attempted integration, the raw power in the DNA struck back, damaging Karl’s body so severely he was bedridden for ten days.



A worker cautiously asked, “Boss, do you want me to find Frank for another test?”



Karl stared at the ceiling, voice low. “No need. Maybe he’s just too strong… and I’d like to live a few more years.”


Chapter 95: Karl Kicks Off the Grand Tournament
==================================================

Building Up Again



In those weeks, Karl tracked down one unusual test subject after another—each carrying strange, almost absurd traits—and folded their abilities into himself.



Some of these were no secret. One gene gave him a neurotoxin in his body; a single scratch from him could paralyze someone completely, wiping out any hope of attack or defense. Another added the ability to unleash ultrasonic bursts—sharp, focused waves from his mouth that scrambled a target’s mind at close range, leaving them dazed and confused.



His speed improved—not blindingly fast, but quick enough to outpace most eyes—and with it came raw strength from a line of exceptionally resilient genes. His sight sharpened until moving objects seemed to slow down, like the world had slipped into half-speed. His ears lengthened subtly into sharp, almost elfin points, picking up faint noises others missed; even his sense of smell grew keen enough to track scents through a crowd.



Those were the powers he allowed the public to know about. The rest remained secret. Outsiders could only guess how strong he really was, and what other bizarre techniques might be waiting for his opponents to discover the hard way.



One afternoon, he stood on a rooftop with several of his men.“Boss,” one of them grinned, “you’re probably the strongest man in the world now. Congratulations.”Karl smirked. “Not yet. But I’ve improved a lot. You know what? I want to hold a martial arts tournament—see exactly where my skills stand. Get in touch with that martial arts association. Set it up.”The men nodded eagerly. Excitement rippled through the group—until one of them stepped too close to the edge. His foot slipped.



Thirty floors down, the body hit the street with a dull, final thud.







The Tournament Plan



The call went through quickly. Karl’s men reached Mr. Seng from the Martial Arts Association, who was more than happy to take the job. Within days, the association officially announced it would host the grand martial arts tournament Karl had proposed.



Karl put ten million on the table for prize money. Mr. Seng quietly kept two million for himself before the event even began. The remaining eight million was still a staggering prize, enough to draw fighters out of every back alley, dojo, and dusty gym in the country.



Promotion went into overdrive. Ads hit every major newspaper, every TV channel, every radio slot that would take the money. The posters screamed challenge in thick red letters. Soon, everyone knew about it. Even elderly women in the park, flipping through their morning papers, were talking about joining—half in jest, half in curiosity.



The city began to buzz. It wasn’t just a tournament now—it was an open call to anyone with a fist, a grudge, or a dream of easy money.







Noodles, Smoke, and Sign-Ups



In a small ramen shop on the corner, two separate groups sat slurping down their late dinners. The owner shuffled between the tables, muttering, Every time they come here, they never pay. At this rate, I’m going to go out of business.



Those “customers” were two crews of black-clad enforcers—one led by Canelo, the other by Robinson. Bowls clinked, broth steamed, and then the TV over the counter blared out breaking news: the upcoming martial arts tournament. All eyes shifted to the screen.



Canelo took a long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke right into the face of the lackey sitting beside him. He turned to Robinson.“You planning to enter? I don’t know about you, but I’m in.”



Robinson grinned. “Oh yeah. I’m definitely joining. If I meet you in the first round, I’ll beat the crap out of you.”



Canelo chuckled. “Not possible. If I fight you, I’ll hit you so hard you’ll crap yourself.” Still grinning, both men pulled out their phones and registered. Behind them, their lackeys scrambled to do the same.



Canelo looked over his shoulder. “You losers think you can join too? You won’t survive the first round.”



One lackey shrugged. “No problem, boss. We’ll beat some weak guys first. If we run into you, we’ll surrender so you advance.”



Canelo nodded. “Good. That’s why you’re my lackeys. I like you losers.”



Robinson suddenly turned to the shop owner. “Hey, boss, what about you? You look pretty strong. Hands as soft as a woman’s—I think you should sign up.”



The owner shook his head. “Nah… I’ll stick to making noodles.”



In his heart, he knew the truth: if he had the skill to join a tournament like that, he would’ve already thrown these two gangs out of his shop. But reality was cruel, and all he could do was keep stirring the broth.







The Sign-Up Stunt



Norman and Dave finished their dinner at a fancy Western restaurant without paying, strolling out like nothing had happened. A few streets later, a newspaper on the ground caught Dave’s eye—bold letters across the front page: MARTIAL ARTS TOURNAMENT – GRAND PRIZE: EIGHT MILLION.



Dave grinned. “Looks like I’m joining. You in, Norman?”Norman nodded. “Oh yeah, I’m in.”



The problem? Neither had a phone. Dave was wearing nothing but women’s pink underwear, and Norman was in a pink shirt and shorts. No pockets between them.



Then Dave noticed something in the paper—real-world sign-up locations, open twenty-four hours. Even better, they offered unlimited free cola and ice cream. Seconds later, they were sprinting there.



Two hours later, they were still at a table, devouring everything in sight. The staff finally asked, “Are you here to sign up or just eat?”



Only then did they remember. At the registration counter, they hesitated. Last time they’d fought together in their “combined form,” their strength had been incredible. Dave asked, “Can we register as one fighter? In combined form? We could call ourselves Nordic or Demon.”



The clerk refused instantly, grabbing Dave by the collar and shoving him back. “Let me talk to your manager,” Dave barked.



A quick call went to Karl. His dry response came through the line: “Move along.”



And that was that—Norman and Dave were officially entered as a single fighter, ready to compete in their bizarre combined form.







Weapons Out of Control



Across town, a long line stretched down the block. The first man in line registered his weapon: a machine gun. The clerk approved it without hesitation.



The man behind him scowled. “A machine gun? One pull of the trigger and you wipe out half the field—how is that martial arts?”



The line moved on until a familiar face appeared: Jack, the best driver in town. He registered his weapon as his sports car.



The crowd behind him erupted. “A car? What’s next—someone bringing a missile?”



The clerk picked up a loudhailer. “As long as your weapon isn’t too ridiculous, we’ll approve it.”



Shouts came back: “Machine guns and sports cars aren’t ridiculous? What counts—planes and missiles?”



The clerk lowered his voice. “Planes, tanks, missiles? That’s nothing. Not long ago, someone registered with a nuclear bomb. We approved it.”



The line went silent. Moments later, half the people stepped out, deciding they valued their lives more than the prize.







The Opening Chaos



A few days later, the square was overflowing—thousands packed in, a sea of bodies pressing from all sides.



The judges emerged to cheers: three of the Four Kings of the Draw—Khan, Mario, and Joshua. The fourth, Colin, was absent.



In the commentary booth sat Mr. Sang, vice chairman of the Kung Fu Organization, and Mr. Wei, its chairman.



Khan wore his usual police uniform, trench coat draped over his shoulders, bucket hat low, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Arms folded, one leg crossed, he looked every bit in control. Beside him, Mario and Joshua talked quietly.



“Colin will never show up to a public event,” Mario said. “He hides in the shadows.”



“I’ve never even seen his face,” Joshua replied. “He’s always crafty.”



Mr. Wei took the mic and cleared his throat, but the crowd was restless. In the crush, a small-time thug was shoved outside the ring. Enraged, he turned to the man beside him.



“F*** you! You want me to beat you up and f*** you good?”



The man gave him a cold look—it was Michael, from the Humble Organization. He didn’t like being cursed at. Without a word, he brought his hand down in a sharp chop. The thug’s head hit the ground.



Mr. Wei announced the tournament open. Before a single match began, the first casualty had already fallen. It was going to be one brutal, spectacular event.


Chapter 96: The Grand Tournament (Part 1)
==================================================

The Rules, the Crowd, and the First Blood



Mr. Wei stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand, and announced the rules for the first round.



For the next twenty-four hours, each contestant would be dropped off in a different part of the city. Everyone wore an electronic watch that looked like a GPS tracker. It not only tracked their location but could also black out the display on command. The city was wired for surveillance—every watch feeding in data, while drones hovered in the skies, recording every detail.



The scoring was simple: knock someone out, cripple them, kill them, or force them to surrender—one point. At the end of the day, everyone would return to the arena, and the top thirty-two scorers would advance to round two.



The contestants grinned with confidence. Even an old lady leaning on a cane was smiling. “Too easy,” she said. “This is way simpler than I thought.” She barely got the words out when a contestant came sprinting past, laser-focused on something ahead, not even seeing her. His shoulder clipped hers hard. She staggered, dropped her cane, and collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. No scream, no struggle—just silence.



The crowd froze for a moment. Then a drone camera zoomed in on her body. Somewhere backstage, the scoring system beeped, and the runner’s watch ticked up by one point.



Soon after, buses and helicopters began ferrying contestants to their assigned drop-off points. A few, along with some staff, went on foot. The battleground was five square kilometers wide, and there was only one real rule: there were no rules. Across the city, civilians sat glued to their TV screens, flipping channels to watch different corners of the action. In the broadcast booth, Mr. Seng and Mr. Wei randomly picked fights to stream live, sending the most explosive moments into living rooms.







The Aunties’ First Hunt



Four middle-aged aunties had been assigned to the same park. They huddled together under a tree, whispering like they were plotting a weekend bargain raid.



“Here’s the plan,” one said. “We stay hidden here. If we see anyone with one of those electronic watches, two of us distract them from the front, one flanks from the side, and the last one—” She mimed stabbing someone. “—we take them out and score a point.”



The others nodded like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.



Just then, a young man jogged into view, wearing a watch and holding a phone, watching the tournament livestream as he ran. The aunties’ eyes lit up. Their first victim. Three of them quickly moved to block his path.



“Hey, handsome, stop for a second. We just wanna ask you something,” one said. Her clothes dipped low enough to show cleavage, but her body was so large that the effect wasn’t exactly seductive.



The young man glanced at them. “Oh, you’ve got the wrong idea. Yeah, I’m wearing a watch, but it’s a Swiss luxury watch, not your tracker. I’m not a contestant—I’m just watching the match.”



They didn’t care. One of the aunties planted her foot on a bench and yanked up her skirt, exposing a thick, dark thigh that looked like it hadn’t seen soap in days. The jogger shuddered head to toe. “I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to do. Can I go now?”



That’s when the fourth auntie came up behind him with a knife. Luckily, he sensed it, spun around, and smacked her hand hard enough to knock the blade to the ground.



“What the fuck are you doing, man? I told you I’m not a contestant!”



Then he really let them have it—cussing them out, dragging their parents, their ancestors, their ancestors’ ancestors. When he was done, he just kept jogging, shaking his head. Looking down at his phone, he realized the whole tirade had been broadcast live. On-screen, Mr. Sang was commentating with the same enthusiasm he reserved for fights.



“This young man’s swearing ability is truly impressive,” he said. “Kids watching at home—please, do not try this yourselves.”







Dave Enters the Game



The aunties kept waiting in the park for hours, with almost nothing to show for it—just a few unlucky bystanders stabbed along the way, and not a single point earned.



Then, out of nowhere, a tall, broad-shouldered man strolled past wearing nothing but a pair of pink women’s triangle underwear. His name was Dave.



The three front-line aunties went into their usual routine—blocking his path, flashing cleavage, hiking skirts to show thick inner thighs. This time, another one decided to go all out: she yanked off her top entirely, revealing sagging breasts in a display that was more unsettling than seductive.



Dave scratched his head, genuinely confused. “What exactly are you doing? I don’t get it.”



Before he could get an answer, a shadow stepped up behind him. A blade drove straight toward his waist—then snap! The sound of metal breaking rang out. The sword had shattered.



The attacker froze, clutching the broken hilt. “No way… his body’s harder than steel?!”



Dave turned his head lazily. “Yeah. My muscles really are harder than steel. You didn’t know?”



That’s when he noticed all four of them were wearing the tournament’s electronic watches. Suddenly it clicked—these weren’t just random middle-aged women with zero martial skills. They were contestants, chasing that eight-million-dollar prize.



He couldn’t believe such obvious weaklings had entered. But he didn’t care. He decided to take all four points right now.



His first punch crushed the face of the auntie behind him. Beep! +1 point.



He swung a kick at another auntie, sending her flying more than ten meters before she crashed into a decorative fountain. The water turned red instantly. Beep! Another point.







The Last Chase



The last two aunties weren’t as helpless as they looked. In fact, they possessed one of the most powerful escape techniques in the world—Gale Step. They seemed to float a few centimeters above the ground, moving so fast their feet barely touched it. Up ahead, two pedestrians were walking shoulder to shoulder, leaving only a narrow gap between them. The aunties slipped right through the space without even brushing them. Amazing.



Dave didn’t bother chasing at full speed. Instead, he lazily extended one leg—except it stretched five meters long in an instant. His foot slammed into one auntie’s back, punching straight through her body and out her chest. Her entire body went limp and damp, hanging in midair. Beep. +1 point.



The last auntie panicked. She launched her ultimate move, leaping sideways into the air, arms tight at her sides, legs locked straight—a perfect human rocket. Her shins brushed against a burst of flame, propelling her forward at a blistering speed, easily over a hundred kilometers per hour.



She was seconds from escaping when something leapt from behind a tree. It wasn’t just an animal—it was Norman, the Dog Man.



In one clean motion, he clamped his jaws around her neck mid-flight and dragged her down to the ground like prey. Then came a brutal death roll, tearing her head clean off. The severed head bounced along the ground like a basketball, rolling several times before stopping.



Beep. Another point for Dave.



Dave and Norman walked over to each other, calm as ever.



“These people are way too weak,” Dave said. “Think we can pull in a hundred, maybe two hundred points by the time we get back to the arena tomorrow?”



“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Norman replied. “Not if everyone in the North District is as pathetic as these four.”



Their precise, efficient performance was broadcast to every corner of the city. Viewers clapped and cheered from their living rooms. “Oh yeah, baby,” one shouted at the screen. “That’s the show we love to watch!”







Blood in the Red-Light District



Michael had been assigned to a street in the red-light district. The whole place was dead quiet—no one in sight. Looked like today was going to be a bad day for scoring points.



Then, out of nowhere, an old man burst out of a massage parlor. Behind him, a woman in nothing but a towel came storming after him, shouting, “You old bastard, you didn’t pay! People like you—enjoying the special service and running without paying—you’re why our shop loses so much money every year!”



Michael’s instincts kicked in. Without a word, he flashed forward, grabbing the old man by the collar and lifting him into the air.



“You’re gonna pay the 150-dollar massage fee,” he said coldly, “and another 150 as a penalty for wasting my time. If you don’t have the money, I’ll just cut your head off.”



The old man begged for mercy, saying he had nothing—he was just a homeless beggar. Michael snarled, “Then you shouldn’t have gone for such an expensive service.” Without another word, and without even blinking, he swung his weapon and took the man’s head clean off. Blood sprayed across the entire street.



Beep. +1 point. Turns out the old man had been a contestant all along. Michael shook his head. Why the hell would a contestant stop mid-tournament to get a special massage? Whatever.



A few streets away, another Humble Organization member, Raymond, was surrounded by more than a dozen gangsters. “Give it up,” one of them sneered. “We’re taking that point.”



Raymond didn’t even glance at them. He slammed a fist into the ground. The pavement shattered instantly, cracking into a spiderweb pattern. The shockwave hit so hard that the gangsters’ bodies blurred for a split second—then every last one of them spat blood, reeling from massive concussions.



His watch went off in a rapid beep-beep-beep-beep, like it was broken. In one move, he’d scored thirteen points. Raymond’s face didn’t change. He just kept walking.



At a crossroads, he ran into Michael. They didn’t greet each other—just exchanged a brief glance before walking side by side down the street. On TV, viewers across the city saw the moment and murmured in awe.



As Mr. Sang put it, “The Humble Organization’s members are as strong as their reputation. With Michael and Raymond together… they’re practically unstoppable.”







The Dark Corners of the Game



With millions in prize money on the line, and the chaos of the tournament as the backdrop, the darkest corners of human nature were on full display. In every street, in every alley, scenes unfolded that no one could have predicted.



Two close girlfriends were walking side by side, both contestants. “We need to find someone to ambush,” one said. “That’s the only way we’ll score points.” She never saw it coming—her best friend suddenly drove a blade straight into her heart. She turned her head, eyes wide, trying to speak, but it was too late. She was gone, and her friend had earned herself an easy point.



In a pitch-black alley, a man passed by a woman leaning against the wall, smoking. He was a contestant too, but he wasn’t here to win—just to see what he could get out of the game. He raised his watch-wearing wrist and said, “How about this? I surrender, if you… give me something in return.” The woman looked him up and down, then shrugged. “Alright.” Moments later, in the shadows of the alley, they struck their deal—he gave up, she gained a point.



Out in the middle of a road, an old granny lay sprawled on the asphalt. Concerned passersby rushed over to help her up. The moment they reached down, she whipped out a dagger and stabbed them dead. She repeated this trick again and again, racking up more than ten points in no time.



And these were just a few of the countless schemes playing out across the city.



In the broadcast booth, Mr. Seng and Mr. Wei shook their heads in disbelief. “Looks like people in this society are getting more strategic,” Mr. Seng said. “Some of these folks are brilliant tacticians. Fighting isn’t always about raw strength—it’s about cunning.” Mr. Wei nodded in agreement.



But back in living rooms across the city, many viewers sat staring at their screens, wondering if maybe—just maybe—it had all gone a little too far.


Chapter 97: The Grand Tournament (Part 2)
==================================================

The Boy with the Lollipop



A young man in a red cape, shirt half-buttoned, jeans hanging a little loose, walked down the street. All around him was chaos—trash everywhere, broken pieces of things scattered across the ground, and bodies lying still. He let out a quiet, weary sigh.



This was Local Hero Sean. He was one of the tournament’s contestants, but the scene here felt far beyond any “normal” fight. He knew that while he had to compete, he also had to protect the innocent—keep them from getting swallowed by the ruthless flames of war.



As he walked, Sean spotted a little kid not far ahead, standing there crying. The boy was holding a lollipop in his hand, calling out for his mom and dad over and over. Sean’s chest tightened. He figured the boy had just lost everything—his parents likely caught and killed in the chaos.



He walked over slowly, crouching down as he reached out with his right hand to gently ruffle the boy’s messy, dirt-caked hair.“Hey, kid. You okay? I’m here—Local Hero Sean. You’re safe now. I’ll help you find your family. Were your parents… killed in all this?”



The boy just kept crying, not saying a word. Still, Sean felt like something was off, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Then he noticed it—the wrist holding the lollipop had a digital watch strapped to it. That’s when Sean finally realized what was wrong. But by then, it was already too late.







The Hidden Sting



Right then, the boy’s lollipop drove straight into Sean’s side. It wasn’t candy at all—it was a hidden weapon, a dagger disguised as a child’s treat. The blade punched clean through one of his kidneys.



Sean clutched his waist, pain shooting through him, but he stayed on his feet. With a sudden burst, he kicked the boy hard, sending him flying several meters away.



“Come on, kid… what happened? Tell me where your parents are,” Sean said. He still thought the boy might have a shot at redemption. The kid looked no more than ten, maybe eight. If Sean could get him locked up in a detention center for a few years, maybe—just maybe—he’d come out a better person.



The boy threw his head back and laughed into the sky. Then he lifted his hand, showing Sean the digital watch on his wrist. The display read: 2 points.



“I just killed my parents not long ago,” the boy said flatly. “Got two points for it.”



Sean froze, uneasy. In that instant, he knew the kid was beyond saving. Whatever hope he’d had vanished completely.



Sean suddenly kicked off the ground, his whole body launching into the air. Mid-flight, he unleashed his signature move—the Horizontal Execution Kick. He flew sideways straight to the boy and slammed his foot into the kid’s head, smashing it to pieces—clean off.



The headless body collapsed to the ground, the watch slipping from its wrist. Sean picked it up.



+1 point.







Stop the Bleeding



Sean ripped off his cape—blood still pouring from his side—and wound it tightly around his waist. The thick fabric became a makeshift bandage, cinched hard until the bleeding slowed. Only then did he start moving forward again, one steady step at a time.



From now on, he told himself, he’d have to be more careful than ever. If even children could be contestants—and use such cold, merciless tricks—then there was no one he could afford to take lightly.



Up ahead, lying in the middle of the road, an old woman was calling out for help. Cars swerved around her. People passed by without stopping.



Sean slowed, every sense on alert. He glanced at her wrist to check for a digital watch, but it was wrapped in a thick layer of cloth. He couldn’t tell if it was on purpose or because of an old injury.



He approached cautiously.“Ma’am, put your hands behind your head. No sudden moves,” he said.



She obeyed, and Sean slowly helped her up. For a moment, he thought she was just an innocent bystander. Then, from between her lips, a thin black needle slid out—aimed straight for his heart.



At this range, without preparation, it would have killed him instantly. But the lesson from the boy earlier still burned in his mind. The moment the needle left her mouth, Sean spat from above, the glob hitting it mid-flight and knocking it to the ground.



The old woman hadn’t expected him to block her attack. Her mouth began moving again—ready to fire a second needle.



The moment Sean saw her mouth muscles tense, he lunged forward and clamped her jaws shut with both hands. The needle, forced by the built-up pressure, changed course—shooting out the side of her neck instead. It tore straight through her carotid artery.



Blood sprayed violently. Within seconds, the old woman collapsed to the ground, twitching as the life drained out of her.



Sean stood, breathing hard, a cold sweat running down his back.“It’s too close,” he muttered. Without another glance, he kept moving. From now on, he told himself, he’d have to be even more careful.



Up ahead, a young woman was walking down the road, pushing a baby stroller. Sean’s eyes went to her immediately. She was stunning—graceful, pure, with a smile that could have belonged to an angel. More importantly, she was wearing short sleeves, and her wrists were bare. No digital watch. That meant she wasn’t a contestant.



Relieved, Sean slowed as he passed her.“Hey, ma’am,” he said, “you need to be careful. The city’s a mess right now. I’d suggest going home and staying in for a couple of days. Too many contestants out there—crazy for points. They might hurt innocent people.”



The woman smiled softly. “It’s fine. I just wanted to take my child out for some fresh air and sunshine.”



She bent over the stroller, cooing at her baby. The one-year-old laughed brightly.



Sean looked at the baby’s innocent, unguarded face and couldn’t help but smile. Today, he’d seen too much deceit and malice—from children to the elderly—and it made him think that maybe the only truly pure thing left in this world was a newborn.



He leaned in and made a playful bubbling sound. The baby giggled back at him. For one fleeting moment, in the middle of this chaotic city, Sean found a rare and quiet sense of peace.







The Angel Turns



It happened in the one moment Sean had no guard up—because he truly believed this baby was safe.



Without warning, the child sprang into the air. A tiny hand, sharp as a blade, slashed across Sean’s neck. Blood spilled instantly, warm against his skin. In that flash, Sean saw it—the digital watch strapped to the baby’s wrist. The mother wasn’t a contestant… but the child was.



A stampede of curses tore through his mind.“Shit,” he growled. “I didn’t see this coming.”



Still, the kid’s skill wasn’t fully developed yet. The slash had cut Sean’s neck, but hadn’t gone deep enough to be fatal. Sean struck back instantly, driving a punch toward the child. The baby crossed both arms to block—revealing that, at less than a year old, he already knew martial arts.



Sean’s thoughts hardened. This was a child who could never be allowed to grow up. At this age, he was already this vicious—raise him well and he could become a powerful talent; raise him wrong, and he could destroy society.



The mother, seeing the situation, rushed forward to stop Sean. He caught her mid-charge and threw her over his shoulder, sending her tumbling several meters away. She wasn’t seriously hurt, but she was out of the fight—and couldn’t interfere.



The baby scrambled up from the ground, ran a few steps, then leapt into the air with a flying kick. But his legs were too short. Sean stepped back twice, letting the kick slice through empty air, then caught hold of the tiny leg as the boy came down—gripping it tight.



From the ground, the mother screamed, “Please, don’t hurt my child! He’s just a kid!”



But it was already too late. Sean spun twice in place, then slammed the child into the ground with brutal force. The small body hit the pavement with a sickening crunch, reduced to nothing more than a smear of flesh.



Sean didn’t look back. He walked away, leaving behind only a young mother, collapsed on the ground, sobbing in the raw, hollow pain of losing her child.







Three More Points



And just like that, Sean’s watch showed three more points—three encounters in a row with people who had looked perfectly normal, but turned out to be contestants, each one vicious and relentless.



Now, Sean was on high alert. Anyone he saw, he automatically assumed they were a contestant. He couldn’t afford even the smallest mistake—one slip, and he could be the next to fall.



Just then, an old man came speeding past on a bicycle. Suddenly, the bike hit a large rock. The old man must not have seen it—at least, that’s how it looked. The bike stopped dead, and the man flew several meters through the air before slamming onto the ground.



He cried out in pain, but no one went to help him. In the sweltering heat, he was wearing a heavy coat, making it impossible to see if there was a watch on his wrist. One look was enough for Sean to decide—this old man had to be a contestant. The act was just a little too fake.



Sean stopped a meter away, keeping his distance.“I’m not helping you up,” he said flatly. “Get up on your own. Your tricks won’t fool me. You’re even faker than the last three.”



The old man lay trembling, spitting a mouthful of blood.“I’m not a contestant,” he groaned. “Help me up. Call me an ambulance—please. I think I’m done for. My leg’s broken.”



Sean studied him. The injuries looked real enough… but he wasn’t about to be fooled again. He shook his head.“No. I’ve had enough of this. If you don’t get up right now, don’t blame me for what happens next.”



He began counting down.“Ten… nine… eight… seven… six…”



The old man struggled desperately, managing to almost get to his feet. But with his leg broken, he collapsed back to the ground.



In that instant, Sean grabbed him by the collar, hauled him upward, and kicked him into the air. As the body rose, Sean aimed a punch straight for the man’s chest, ready to blow through it entirely.



The old man’s eyes went wide, locking onto Sean’s—then his whole body went stiff.



Sean immediately seized both wrists, turning them over. No watch. The old man wasn’t a contestant at all—just an ordinary passerby.



“Shit,” Sean muttered.



That day, Sean had killed several people. But his watch still showed the same three points. A deep, lingering shame sat heavy in his chest. Yet as time passed, it was as if nothing had happened.


Chapter 98: The Grand Tournament (Part 3)
==================================================

Couch, Smoke, and Easy Points



They say sometimes you don’t even need to move — the points just roll in.Canello was sprawled out on the couch in his little mob hideout, eyes locked on the screen. Well, not TV exactly — more like a porn video running on loop. He bounced one leg lazily, cigarette hanging from his lips, looking more bored than entertained.



On his wrist, the digital watch glowed. The score underneath had already climbed to a solid two hundred.



A bunch of his underlings showed up, dragging in five or six middle-aged uncles and aunties with their hands and feet tied.



Canello barely shifted on the couch.“So… you guys giving up or what?” he asked, voice lazy, almost bored.



The group nodded, muttering, “Alright, just let us go. We forfeit. You win.”



His watch gave a soft beep — six more points.



Canello glanced at the glowing numbers and let out a sigh.“Man, scoring is way too easy these days. Haven’t even taken a single step all day.”And just like that, he’d secured a spot in the final thirty-two.



One of the underlings eyed one of the aunties in the group.“Boss,” he said to Canello, “this one’s got a real full figure. I like ’em big and plump. Mind if I… you know… take her?”



Canello didn’t even turn his head. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and said,“Do what you want. Just don’t let it slow down your hunting. I want each of you bringing in at least ten people today.”



“No problem, boss,” the guy grinned. “I’m quick. Three minutes, tops.”



“Then get moving,” Canello said flatly.



The underling dragged the woman into a shadowy corner of the alley. Moments later, the air was split by the kind of animalistic screams you didn’t want to trace back.



Canello took another drag from his cigarette, eyes dropping to his watch.Bored out of his mind, his thoughts drifted back to a winter years ago.







Snow and Shirts



He remembered the snow — thick, steady, swallowing the streets in white.Back then, it was him, Sean, Robinson, and Robinson’s kid brother Grayson, all trailing behind Jason as they wandered down a snow-covered street.



Canello and Robinson had always been like sailors cut from the same cloth — same style, same grit. Every day, the two of them would square off, trading blows, pushing each other to the edge. Three, sometimes four hours at a stretch, hundreds of rounds, and still no clear winner.



One day, the snow was coming down in sheets. They were at it again — but this time, it started over a pack of fries. Robinson had snatched the longest fry without a second thought, and that was enough to light the fuse.



They went at each other in the McDonald’s parking lot, fists swinging, boots crunching in the snow, locked in for hours. By the time they were brawling near an old steamboat display, two familiar figures appeared.



Everyone else around was bundled up in heavy coats, but these two? White dress shirts, half the buttons undone, cold be damned — Jason’s chest muscles catching the snowflakes. And right beside him was Sean.



Jason, the boss of all three, stepped right between Canello and Robinson, sliding a long iron rod into the space between them.“Enough! Stop fighting!” he barked.



They froze, panting clouds into the cold air.



Robinson eyed him curiously.“Boss Jason… why the hell are you out here in this cold, wearing just one shirt?”



Jason shrugged, unfazed.“It’s ’cause my pores are naturally small,” he said. “My body temperature never really rises, so I only fear the heat. Cold? Doesn’t bother me at all. Weather like this—this shirt is perfect.”



Beside him, Sean was shivering so hard his teeth chattered, lips cycling through colors — black, purple, white, almost transparent — then back to purple again. He looked ready to keel over, but still puffed out his chest and said through the tremors,“I’m not cold either. I’m a man’s man. This kind of weather doesn’t affect me one bit.”







The King of Thieves



While the four of them were talking, a middle-aged man walked up. Martial arts uniform, black belt — everything about him screamed fighter. He stopped in front of them, and they all looked at each other, puzzled. Was he here to rob them? Couldn’t be — nobody in this city was dumb enough to rob them.



Then he said, “I’m here to rob you.”



One of them blinked. “Say what?”



In this town, just hearing their names made people’s knees buckle — and yet here was someone brazen enough to try and rob them.



The man sighed. “I lost everything in the stock market. All my savings, gone. Still owe the bank a fortune. So I’ve switched careers — I’m a robber now. People call me… the King of Thieves.”



Robinson and Canello didn’t even hesitate. They lunged at the same time, fists swinging in perfect sync. But the man dropped into a Taichi stance, hands spinning in wild loops. Their punches twisted off course — straight into each other’s faces. Both dropped to the ground, stunned.



Sean just stood there, too cold to move, trembling so hard he looked like he was vibrating. His lips went black, then purple, then white, then almost transparent, then back to purple again — on loop. He looked about one cycle away from death.



Jason stepped forward. “Alright. I’ll take your challenge. If you can beat us, I’ll give you all the money we have.”



Not that it was much — combined, they didn’t even have twenty bucks. They never paid for their meals anyway. The King of Thieves had clearly picked the worst targets possible.



Jason struck first, swinging his long iron staff in one clean arc. The martial artist spun midair, twirling his stick — but his swing went wide and slammed into a passing bystander, dropping the poor guy like he’d been sliced by a demon’s blade.



The King of Thieves nodded. “Impressive. That’s some serious power.”Jason smirked. “You’re not bad yourself. Your footing’s solid.”



They traded a few more words of mutual respect, then stepped back into position.



Round two was about to begin.







Second Round



The King of Thieves made the first move in round two.He spun twice in place, then launched himself into the air with a tornado kick. The force behind it was brutal.



Jason caught it on his left arm, but the impact still sent him skidding several meters across the icy ground — the slick surface turning his defense into an unplanned slide.



He jammed his iron staff into the ground to stop himself, the tip biting into the ice. Using the rebound, he shot forward like a spring-loaded spear, closing the gap in a single leap.



He slammed into the martial artist head-on — or at least, tried to. The King of Thieves twisted mid-spin, absorbing the hit and redirecting all of Jason’s momentum.



The next thing anyone saw was Jason hurtling sideways, smashing straight through McDonald’s glass wall in an explosion of shards.



Jason wasn’t just some street brawler — in this city, he was top-tier. Not quite an Elite Fighter, but the step right below it.



He slammed his staff into the ground, sending a shockwave rippling through the ice. The vibration shattered the surface and raced straight toward the King of Thieves’ feet.



The martial artist sprang aside just in time, dodging the burst. But Jason was already gone from sight — only to reappear behind him in a blur.



The staff came down in a crushing arc. The King of Thieves swung his arms in frantic circles, catching the blow just enough to drain its force. But with no time to redirect it, all he could do was bleed off the power and keep from being flattened.



But that swing from Jason’s staff? It was just a feint. Barely a fraction of his real power was in it.



The rest — the real force — was already coiled in his left fist.



So while the King of Thieves was busy neutralizing the push from the staff, Jason’s punch came from the blind side. One clean blow, straight through the man’s chest.



The martial artist froze, blood spilling from his mouth.“You… really are strong,” he managed to say — and then collapsed on the spot.







Back to the Present



The four of them acted like nothing had happened. Without a word, they each grabbed a limb of the martial artist’s body and casually tossed it onto a heap of trash by the roadside. Then they turned and walked away.



As they left, Robinson noticed something sliding out from inside the man’s clothes — a thin book with bold black characters across the cover: Tai Chi Chuan: The Secrets of Tai Chi. He stuffed it into his pocket without hesitation.



That book changed everything. After that day, Robinson went home and studied it obsessively. Day after day, he drilled every move until the style became second nature.



Back then, he and Canello had been evenly matched in strength and speed. But once Robinson mastered Tai Chi, the balance shattered — Canello could no longer touch him. Over the years, their sparring sessions simply stopped. Not because they didn’t want to train together, but because there was no point anymore.



Canello also remembered something else from that time — the very next day, Sean had gotten sick. Spent two whole weeks in bed, unable to get up. All because he’d seen Jason strutting around in that thin shirt and decided to copy him, thinking it looked cool. Instead, he froze himself half to death. They’d gotten him to the hospital just in time; otherwise, he might not have made it.



And then — snap — we’re back in the present.



Canello sat smoking, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. The woman on screen was moaning, the man’s hips moving rhythmically, but none of it registered. He wasn’t watching the video at all. He was thinking about when it was that he first started losing to Robinson.



Just then, a few more underlings came in, hauling another batch of bound contestants into the hideout.



Among them was a face Canello knew well — Norman. Even his hands and feet were tied up tight.



Norman looked at Canello with wide, innocent eyes, as if to say I have no idea how this happened.



Canello stared back, equally baffled. Norman was supposed to be one of the strong ones. How the hell could someone like him get caught?







Norman’s Rescue



Norman finally spoke up, his voice flat with boredom.“Man, here’s what happened. I was bored, so I just lay down on my belly on the sidewalk, like a dog, right next to an electric pole. Fell asleep there. Next thing I know, I wake up all tied up. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”



Canello’s face lit up with excitement.“Everyone else can surrender,” he said, “but not you, Norman.”



Opportunities to beat down someone this strong didn’t come often. And Canello was not about to waste the rare chance to give Norman the thrashing of a lifetime.



Norman sighed, shaking his head. “Oh, shit… you’re not seriously gonna beat me up, are you?”



He didn’t even get to finish before Canello’s fist smashed into his face, swelling it instantly. Canello pulled back for another punch — but a steel staff suddenly came down between them, blocking the blow.



On the other side stood Dave, with a pack of scrappy little dogs growling at his heels.



Norman blinked. “How the hell did you even find me?”



“Easy,” Dave said. “I saw a few dogs on the street and told them to find you. They sniffed around, went straight to you. I’ve got no clue what they were saying, but I just followed them — and here we are.”



Before Canello could react, Dave launched a flying kick that slammed into his chest. The impact sent Canello crashing into the window, coughing up blood against the glass.



“You’d better surrender,” Dave said coldly. “You’re not our match.”



Canello just laughed. “Over my dead body.”



He turned and leapt out the window, forgetting it was the fifth floor. The fall ended with a brutal thud, and by the time they looked down, he was already being carried away.



Canello’s watch went dark — tournament disqualification. Dave’s watch beeped, adding a single point to his score.



He untied Norman, and the two exchanged a look.“Let’s find a good steakhouse,” Dave said.Norman grinned. “Yeah — and then dine and dash.”


Chapter 99: The Grand Tournament (Part 4)
==================================================

A Street Full of Aunties



In another corner of the city, Robinson was strutting down the street with a pack of a dozen thugs at his back. The guy looked like he owned the place, swaggering through neon lights and cracked sidewalks as if the whole block was just another stage for him to rack up points.



One after another, contestants tried their luck—only to get flattened in seconds. By now Robinson had steamrolled more than twenty of them.



He glanced at the numbers glowing on his wristwatch: 25 points. Not bad. Respectable, even.



But something about it felt… off.



Walking beside him was one of his higher-ranking lackeys, the kind of guy you notice for the wrong reasons. His hair was absurdly long—practically dragging behind him like he’d lost a bet at a hair salon—and his face wasn’t doing him any favors either. The crew just called him “Long-Hair Dude.”



“Hey, boss,” Long-Hair Dude muttered, squinting around, “you feel like something’s weird?”



Robinson didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I’ve felt it too.”



“Right? I mean, think about it. Every single fight today—it’s just been aunties. Not one serious fighter, just a parade of middle-aged women with kitchen tools. Like, spatulas, rolling pins, ladles—what is this, Iron Chef? Are we in the wrong tournament, or is this some kind of cooking show spin-off?”



They kept walking until the street opened up. At the far end, a whole swarm of aunties—fifteen, maybe twenty of them—stood waiting, blocking the road.



The two groups froze, facing each other from thirty meters apart. For a second, the street felt like it was holding its breath.







A War of Voices



Long-Hair Dude puffed up his chest, eager to mock.“You aunties should be home doing chores, not out here pretending to be kung fu fighters. What kind of joke is this?”



But before he could go on, the aunties erupted, their voices tearing into him from every direction.



“Why don’t you chop off that filthy hair? You look like a mop!”“Ugly! You’ve been single since birth, haven’t you?”“He’s not even human—probably some beast that crawled down from the mountains!”



The insults overlapped, louder and louder, until Long-Hair Dude’s voice disappeared completely, drowned under a tidal wave of auntie fury.



A few of Robinson’s other lackeys stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder. They gave each other a look—time to fight noise with noise. Together, they yelled at the top of their lungs:“You aunties better go home and do your housework! Stop disturbing public order!”



But the counterattack was instant. The aunties screamed all at once, a hurricane of sound, high-pitched shrieks stabbing the air like sonic weapons. It wasn’t even words anymore—just a wall of sound that rattled bones and made ears go numb.



Even Robinson himself couldn’t take it. He froze in place, clamped both hands over his ears, and bellowed:“Shut up!”



But his shout was swallowed whole by the storm.







The Brawl Breaks Loose



Robinson snapped. With both hands still on his ears, he broke into a run—straight toward the wall of aunties. His men roared and followed, and in seconds the two sides collided in an all-out brawl.



The noise stopped. Now it was fists, feet, and frying pans.



A punch landed, swelling an auntie’s cheek in an instant. A kick slammed into another’s stomach, launching her several feet through the air. But the aunties weren’t helpless. One blocked a strike with her cooking pot and smashed her spatula right into a thug’s face.



And then, through the chaos, one figure stood out—spinning in place like a human tornado.



It was Robinson.



His legs whipped through the air in a blur, each Tornado Kick launching an auntie into the sky—ladles, peelers, spatulas flying out of their hands. The whole thing looked absurdly stylish, like a kung fu movie shot on steroids.



Even the aunties paused. A few of them, cheeks pink, looked at Robinson with open admiration. His men stared in awe.



“Damn, boss is a monster,” one whispered.



Long-Hair Dude shouted, eyes sparkling:“Boss—you’re invincible! An absolute professor of violence!”







Long-Hair Dude’s Disaster



Inspired, Long-Hair Dude felt a surge of power inside him. This must be it—the secret of Tai Chi.



He stumbled forward, spun three times, and launched his own Tornado Kick.



It was a disaster. He locked mid-spin, tripped, and fell right at the feet of an auntie with a butcher’s knife. One swing—and his right arm was gone.



He screamed, clutching the stump.“My god! You ambushed me!”



The auntie scoffed. “Ambush? Boy, I don’t even know what clown act you’re pulling. You sick or something?”



She pulled out a fistful of salt and flung it onto his wound. He writhed on the ground, shrieking.



Desperate, he pushed himself up and kicked. She swung again—this time cutting his throat wide open. Blood poured as he gasped:“What… the hell… Am I really dying here today?”



Robinson, seeing his beloved lackey collapse, sprinted to save him.



And then came the final blow.



The auntie drove her knife into Long-Hair Dude’s chest. His whole body went stiff, locked upright, trembling like a puppet refusing to fall.



Robinson screamed, his voice breaking with rage and desperation:“Long-Hair! Don’t die on me! Stand strong—stay with me!”



But Long-Hair Dude’s body stayed frozen, then toppled lifelessly to the ground.







Queen of the Aunties



The auntie wrenched her knife out of his chest and, just to humiliate him, gave two playful flicks of her blade. Robinson’s loyal lackey—Long-Hair Dude—was instantly reduced to Flat-Top Dude, his treasured locks hacked away in mockery.



Robinson’s veins bulged as fury consumed him. He shot forward, roaring:“Fuck you! I’ll make you pay. I’ll beat you up and fuck you good!”



But she lunged first, knife aiming straight for his chest.



At the last second, Robinson circled his hands. The blade froze just short of his heart, its force dissolved by Tai Chi. He caught her wrist, ready to smash her face—



—but she planted her feet, dropped low, and yanked him forward like a rag doll. She was a head shorter but twice as strong. Robinson staggered, released her, and jumped back in shock.



“Who the fuck are you? You’re no ordinary auntie.”



The woman laughed, voice booming:“Ever heard of Lady Spatula? Lena Wok? I am the one they call—the Queen of the Aunties!”



Robinson blinked. “Oh my god… never heard of you. But—damn—it sounds scary as hell.”



She struck again, her speed overwhelming. Robinson blocked and retreated, sweat flying, his mind racing:Oh shit. If this keeps up, I’m done. The only way out… is if I can truly understand the essence of Tai Chi.







The Revelation



The Queen’s attacks grew faster, her rhythm merciless. Robinson kept retreating until he was nearly cornered. Then came the pepper spray, hissing toward his face.



He spun his arms, gathered the mist, and shaped it into a glowing ping-pong-sized orb. The auntie’s blade nicked his waist, blood dripping, but he held on.



And in that desperate instant, his mind cracked open.



He saw the universe—the flow of matter, the birth of stars, the origin of life. Cosmic reels flashed across his vision like a film strip. And in that dizzying storm, Robinson finally grasped the true essence of Tai Chi.



With a roar, he redirected the orb. The Queen dodged, but another auntie behind her took the full hit.



“Who the fuck did this to me? It’s burning!” she screamed, coughing flames.



The Queen pressed again, knife flashing. Robinson smiled calmly, traced circles, and swept her strike aside. The redirected force hurled him into a roll across the pavement. Her blade struck the ground with such violence that it snapped in half.



Robinson leapt to his feet, fists clenched, and shouted, triumphant:“Finally—I did it!”



For a moment, he basked in glory. And then the Queen’s eyes went wide—she dropped and rolled, fleeing into the shadows. The remaining aunties scattered after her, stumbling in panic.



The street went silent.



Robinson stood tall. He hadn’t won the point from defeating the Queen, but it didn’t matter. Because now, he was no longer just a street thug.



He had become something else.A brand-new master.


Chapter 100: The Grand Tournament (Part 5)
==================================================

The Commentators and the Beggar



The match had been going on for hours, but the two commentators—Vice Chairman Mr. Sang and Chairman Mr. Wei—were still at it, nonstop. They hadn’t even taken a break for dinner.



Mr. Sang was shoveling plain rice into his mouth while talking into the mic. His voice came out muffled, like someone trying to broadcast with a mouthful of sticky rice. Every now and then the audience could even hear the chewing noises—wet, smacking, annoyingly loud.



Mr. Wei finally lost it. He slammed the desk and barked, “Fuck you! You can’t talk and eat at the same time. That’s disgusting. Cut it out!”



But just as the bickering heated up, the broadcast cut to a drone shot. The drone hovered over a garbage heap, zooming in on a massive figure crouched there. The man was squatting, eating like he hadn’t had food in days. A mountain of rice in a giant bowl, shoveled down in desperate, sloppy gulps.



Mr. Wei’s voice shifted instantly into curiosity. “Hold on, everyone. Look at this. We’ve spotted someone unusual. Even squatting, he’s at least a meter ninety. Covered in fat, sure, but underneath—yes, I can feel it—there’s muscle. A lot of it. Why would someone like this be squatting by a trash pile, eating rice? Nobody eats there unless… unless he’s setting traps, or lying in ambush. This man is suspicious. Very suspicious.”



The drone drifted closer. His thick arms flexed under the fat, his face buried in the bowl. Mr. Wei leaned in toward his mic, whispering like he was revealing a state secret. “He’s up to something. Just watch.”



And then—disaster. The drone camera caught the man’s shorts yanked down around his knees. While he kept scarfing rice, his backside erupted. Streams of shit blasted out right in front of the garbage heap.



The entire city went silent for half a second—then chaos. Viewers all over the city puked out their dinners. Some gagged. Some fainted. Kitchens, living rooms, restaurants—everywhere people were spitting rice, noodles, soup across their tables.



Even in the commentary booth, Mr. Wei choked on his water and sprayed it all over Mr. Sang’s face.



Sang wiped his glasses, fuming. “What the hell was that for?!”



Mr. Wei could only shake his head. “Looks like we were wrong. That wasn’t a mysterious master. Just a random beggar. Nothing more.”







The Brothers’ Bet



After the chaos with the beggar, the broadcast froze in silence for a full minute. Millions of viewers sat stunned, half-chewed food still in their mouths, unsure if they were watching a tournament or some surreal documentary gone wrong. In the booth, Mr. Wei shoved his rice aside. He’d lost his appetite completely. Adjusting his headset, he forced a calm voice:



“Alright… let’s move on. Let’s check out another area.”



The drone feed cut to two men standing side by side. Identical faces, identical smirks—at first the cameraman thought the stream had glitched. But no, they were brothers. Perfect reflections of each other.



They slapped each other’s arms, laughing like drinking buddies.“Hey, brother. Let’s see who racks up more points tonight.”“Deal. You go left, I’ll go right. Midnight, same spot. Loser buys dinner.”



Bags of ammo slung over their shoulders, laser rifles in hand, the twins split off in opposite directions.



The elder brother headed left. He wasted no time, firing into crowds on the street, laughing as people scattered like extras in a bad horror flick. No police showed up. Nobody cared. His wristwatch lit up with flashing numbers—hundreds of points piling on in seconds.



Soon he scaled a fifty-story hotel and slipped into a high window. Below, a massive concert was in full swing—lights, music, thousands of fans waving glowsticks. He propped up by the glass and opened fire. The scoreboard on his wrist spun like a slot machine, blasting past a thousand. He glanced at the watch, smirked, and muttered, “Easy points.”



Meanwhile, his younger brother took the opposite path. He hadn’t gone far when he spotted someone leaning against a bright red scooter. The guy was eating from a takeout box, phone in hand, watching the very same broadcast live. He scoffed, mouth full.“Damn, somebody really ate while taking a shit? First time I’ve ever heard of that.”



Across his chest, in bold letters, his shirt read: FUCKLIN.That guy was Frank.



The younger brother raised his rifle from a distance and fired. The crack echoed down the street.



“AHHH!” Frank’s scream rang out. He clutched his chest, staggering. “Oh no! I’ve been shot!”



He looked down. His shirt had a neat little hole. No blood, no wound—of course. Frank was invincible. Nothing could pierce him, nothing could break him. But his nerves didn’t care. His chest throbbed with sharp pain, like fire running under his skin.



He crouched, picked the bullet off the ground, groaning.“Oh Jesus Christ,” he yelled. “Who the hell planted this on me while I’m eating? That’s not funny!”



He rubbed at the sore spot, shaking his head, as if someone had just pulled the dumbest prank in the middle of his dinner.







Frank’s Pain, Frank’s Power



The younger brother froze. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His shot had gone straight for the heart—he was sure of it. And yet Frank just sat there, still chewing his food like nothing happened.



He crept closer, gun raised. His eyes widened. “Holy crap. He really is fine.”



Pointing the rifle straight at Frank’s chest, he barked, “Hey, idiot up front. I’m going to shoot you dead. Beg all you want, it won’t matter.”



Frank’s eyes went wide. He knew his body couldn’t be killed, but the pain—oh, the pain was real. His nerves screamed every time a bullet tore through his skin. His face went pale. One shot, he could grit his teeth through. But a volley? That meant wave after wave of agony.



Then the younger brother pulled the trigger—again and again. Bullets cracked through the air, hammering Frank in the head, chest, even between his legs.



Frank collapsed, clutching himself, howling.“Ahhh—shit! Holy fuck! It hurts! Oh no, oh please, fuck me!”



He rolled across the pavement, thrashing, writhing, his voice echoing down the street. The younger brother watched with a sick grin.“I love this. Torturing others—that’s what I live for. This is the perfect scene.”



But the show wasn’t over. Frank groaned, staggered upright, and brushed the dust off his clothes. Holes riddled his shirt. The “FUCKLIN” across his chest had lost a letter, the L blasted clean off. Now it simply read: FUCKIN.



The camera zoomed in. Millions of viewers burst out laughing, half in horror, half in disbelief.



Frank muttered through clenched teeth, “Jesus Christ. Who does this to me while I’m eating? Not funny.” He bent down, scooped up his half-finished meal, and started eating again.



Back in the booth, Mr. Sang and Mr. Wei leaned forward, eyes wide, voices trembling with excitement.“Oh! Fucking awesome! It’s him—it’s Frank! One of the Four Kings!”



Mr. Wei’s voice rose into a shout. “He just took over a hundred bullets and he’s still standing. What’s he going to do now? Will he unleash some kind of shockwave? A secret weapon?!”



The feed lingered on Frank’s battered figure, the suspense stretching out. Across the city, millions of viewers held their breath, waiting to see what he would do next.







The Endless Barrage



The younger brother went berserk, screaming at the sky as he squeezed the trigger. His machine gun roared, magazines emptied one after another. For three, maybe five minutes, bullets rained across the street like an ice storm, shattering windows, ripping through walls, mowing down unlucky bystanders who didn’t even have time to scream.



Frank took it all head-on. The storm of lead slammed into him, driving his body a full meter back. His clothes were shredded, riddled with holes, while he rolled across the ground, clutching himself and shrieking.“Oh fuck! Fuck me! Please don’t! Oh no! Stop raping me!”



The commentary booth was filled with static, the audio peaking from his endless screams. Then, unbelievably, one bullet went straight into Frank’s throat. He gagged, swallowed, and… nothing. The bullet disappeared.



Inside his body, his qi surged, crushing the slug into powder, grinding it down until it dissolved into iron dust. What little remained would be spat out the next day.



The barrage finally stopped. The younger brother’s rifle clicked empty. He stood frozen, sweat dripping, eyes locked on the impossible scene.



Frank staggered up, brushing dust off his shirt. The holes in the fabric were everywhere. He frowned, tugging at the hem. “Damn it. You ruined my clothes. This shirt cost ten bucks.”



He turned his head lazily toward his attacker. “Are you done?”



But the younger brother just stood there, dazed, gun limp at his side, his mind completely broken.



Frank shoveled the last bite of rice from his lunchbox, licked the chopsticks, and tossed the empty container onto the ground. Without another word, he straddled his red scooter, engine buzzing, and rode off like nothing had happened.



The street went quiet. Then, out of nowhere, a pack of aunties appeared. They spotted the glowing wristwatch on the younger brother’s arm. Their eyes lit up.



With a battle cry, they swarmed him, fists and feet flying. The poor bastard didn’t even fight back. Within seconds, his face swelled up like a pig’s head, and he collapsed to the ground.



The aunties didn’t even look at him again. They simply marched forward, stepping over his twitching body, and disappeared down the street.



On every TV screen, a red stamp appeared across the corner: ELIMINATED.







Toys for Losers



On the other side of the city, the gunman’s rampage had left streets piled with bodies. Panicked survivors fled through alleys, their cries echoing in the distance. One man glanced up and spotted a cluster of police officers. His face lit up. “Cops! We’re saved!”



But then the camera zoomed in. The lead officer was combing his thinning hair across the bald spot, strands plastered down like a desperate disguise. It was Grayson. Within seconds, he and the others bolted—not toward the fight, but behind a dumpster, crouching low, refusing to come out.



Meanwhile, Raymond and Michael strolled calmly down another street, wristwatches showing a few dozen points each. They walked as if out for an evening stroll, until the staccato rhythm of gunfire echoed around the corner.



“Sounds like someone’s still playing with toys,” Michael muttered.Raymond smirked. “Guns are for losers.”



They rounded the corner. A bullet sliced through the air toward Raymond’s face. He raised two fingers, caught it clean, and held it up like a cheap trinket.“Really? People still play with these?”Michael folded his arms. “I don’t think so.”



Then the gunman himself appeared. Michael leaned back against a wall, arms crossed, nodding toward Raymond.“Go for it. Show him how boring these toys are.”



“Fine,” Raymond said with a shrug.



The gunman unloaded a storm of bullets. Raymond’s body swayed, effortless, each shot missing by inches. Sparks danced in the air, but not a single round touched him.



The gunman snarled, swapped magazines, and let loose another barrage. This time, Raymond simply snapped his wrist, whipping his apron through the air. A gust of wind roared out, twisting gravity itself. The bullets slowed mid-flight, their speed collapsing, tapping against his chest like pebbles tossed by children before clattering harmlessly to the pavement.



He brushed his shirt. “Too weak. Pathetic toys.”



Then he turned to Michael. “Your turn. Want to play a round?”



Michael stepped forward, calm and amused. Raymond crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, settling in like he was about to watch a show.



The camera lingered on Michael’s smirk as the gunman tightened his grip, ready for another desperate volley.







Bored Masters



The gunman slammed another magazine into his rifle, face twisted with rage. He knew it now—these two weren’t fighting him seriously. They were just toying with him.



He roared and pulled the trigger. Bullets poured down the street like rain, hundreds of rounds vanishing in under a minute.



Michael stepped forward, calm as ever. One hand in his pocket, the other moving lazily through the air. He tilted his head, caught a flying bullet neatly between his teeth, and clenched down with a grin. Sparks flashed as the slug crumpled.



But in that same instant—another round smacked into his chest. The gunman’s eyes went wide, then he jumped in the air, shouting:“Oh yeah, baby! Bullseye!”



For a heartbeat, the crowd thought he’d landed a fatal shot. But the bullet only struck Michael’s pectoral. His chest flexed once, muscle tightening like iron, and the round instantly disintegrated into dust. A faint puff of metal powder drifted into the air. Michael barely even blinked.



The gunman screamed louder, swapping mags, firing again and again. Michael swayed casually, plucking bullets from the air, his palm filling up with glinting brass. By the time the gun clicked empty, his entire hand was stacked with slugs like a magician’s trick.



He clenched his fist. Crack. The bullets powdered instantly, iron dust streaming through his fingers and scattering on the wind. When he opened his hand again, it was empty—nothing left at all.



Raymond, still leaning against the wall, groaned. “Hey, come on. This isn’t even fun. We’ve got things to do. We only have, what, fifty points?”



Michael smirked. “Yeah… this is boring.”



He stepped forward. His hand shifted into a knife’s edge. With a single flick, faster than a blink, the gunman’s forehead flew clean off.



The severed forehead spun in the air, its mouth somehow moving as it gasped, “Impossible…” Then it hit the pavement with a dull thud.



Michael’s watch beeped once. +1 point.



Raymond jogged up beside him, fuming. “Fuck you. That point should’ve been mine. You always hog the easy ones.”



Michael slid his hands back into his pockets, already walking away, voice flat. “Whatever, man.”



The two of them strolled down the ruined street, bickering like old friends, as if they’d just left a card game instead of a massacre.


Chapter 101: The Grand Tournament (Part 6)
==================================================

Eat Our Words



Inside the broadcast room, Mr. Wei and Mr. Seng sat glued to the monitors, still rattled by what they’d just witnessed. Seng muttered with conviction,“Michael and Raymond from the Humble Organization—they’re monsters. Modern weapons don’t mean a thing against them. Nothing. I don’t think a single gun on earth can beat real kung fu masters.”



Wei rolled his eyes. “Fuck you. What if somebody rolled in a tank, or even a fighter jet? You telling me they’d still win?”



Seng hesitated, then gave a crooked shrug. “Yeah. Fuck me. You’re right, Chairman. That doesn’t make sense at all.”



Before either of them could add more nonsense, the live drone feed cut to a new scene. Five tanks encircled a giant figure towering in the street. He stood nearly five meters tall, his body like a stone colossus. That wasn’t just anyone—it was Chief Wayne, the cop.



The tanks opened fire in unison, thunder shaking the ground. When the smoke cleared, Wayne barely had scratches. His skin looked like some hybrid of iron, cement, and wood—unyielding. He grabbed a tank with one arm and hurled it into another, the machines exploding on impact. He crushed a third with his fist, then launched a fourth into the sky, smashing it into a passing fighter jet.



The second jet fired a missile straight into his chest. The blast knocked him back a few meters and drew blood from his mouth, but he steadied himself, clutching his chest in pain. With his other hand, he seized the last tank and hurled it upward, taking down the jet in a fiery crash.



On TV, the crowd went insane—applause, cheering, as if it were the greatest show on earth.



Back in the broadcast room, Mr. Wei muttered, “Oh no… we really have to eat our words. This is embarrassing.”



Mr. Sang tried to reassure him. “Chairman, don’t worry. If someone dropped an atomic bomb, even these kung fu freaks wouldn’t survive. Science still wins.”



Wei snapped. “Fuck you. Honestly, I’m not even sure a nuke would stop them.”



Sang nodded gravely. “Oh, right, Chairman. Fuck me. Hard to say. You’re always right.”







The Boring Hunt



Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the city, Brian walked alone. Assigned to a remote sector, he strolled toward downtown with his hands in his pockets, whistling without a care. Every opponent he ran into was just another auntie.



“Damn, this is boring,” he sighed. What he wanted was to find Michael and Raymond, team up, and grab points together. At least then he wouldn’t feel so damn alone.



In a narrow alley, an auntie was squatting mid-defecation. The moment she spotted him, she yanked up her pants and charged at full speed.



Brian shook his head. “Work shit.” Without even giving her a chance to finish, he kicked her straight back to where she came from. One point. He didn’t even slow down.



A shadow dropped from a third-floor balcony. Brian’s eyes narrowed—“Oh, shit, another auntie.” He sidestepped cleanly, letting her slam into the pavement. Then he stomped her head with one kick, bursting it like a melon. Another point.



He sighed again. “Oh, shit. So boring. Bored out of my mind.”



So he kept walking, humming an old tune from the ’80s. At the end of the street, a figure appeared—dressed almost exactly like him: short athletic shorts, sneakers, casual as hell.



Brian squinted. “Yeah, I know that guy. Some captain’s brother. Robinson… or was it Goblin? Something like that.”







Old Scores



They closed the distance slowly, then stopped just two meters apart.



Brian tilted his head. “What the fuck are you doing here? You competing too?”



Robinson’s eyes burned. “Yeah. I’m taking your source. That point is mine.”



Brian exhaled. “Don’t do this. You and I—we’re both strong. We should be focusing on weaker opponents. If we fight, we both lose. And let’s be real, you can’t even beat me. I just don’t want to waste my energy on you.”



Robinson’s face hardened. “Even if it wasn’t for points, I’d still beat the crap out of you. You killed one of my brothers months ago—right in front of me.”



Brian frowned. “Did I? I don’t remember.”



Robinson barked, “The pregnant guy. The one with the belly like he was nine months in.”



Brian snapped his fingers. “Shit. That ugly bastard. Yeah, I remember. He even went to a prostitute and didn’t pay.”



He waved it off. “But our grudge can wait. Today’s about the tournament. I’m not about to throw away my chance at the top thirty-two for this. Tell you what—two hundred bucks, you go get a massage, chill out. That pregnant guy? Even if I hadn’t killed him, someone else would’ve. Losers like that don’t last long.”



Robinson’s rage boiled over. “Fuck you, stop talking. I’ve got nothing else to say.”



Brian stopped too, drew in a deep breath, and steadied his gaze. “Alright then. Let’s get this over with. I’ll crush you in minutes. You don’t stand a ghost of a chance.”







The Kick vs. The Flow



Brian knew Robinson’s specialty—Tai Chi. He’d seen him dissolve and redirect attacks before.



“Fine,” Brian muttered. “Let’s see if he can handle this.”



He sprinted forward and launched Sean’s move—the Horizontal Execution Kick—flying across the street with both legs outstretched like a missile. Pure raw force.



But Robinson wasn’t the same as before. He’d mastered Tai Chi’s deeper trick: not just neutralizing, but redirecting. He caught the kick and twisted its energy ninety degrees. Brian spun out of control and smashed into a wall, stone and dust collapsing on top of him. Crawling out, he spat blood.



“Shit. He’s stronger than before.”



Brian’s Golden Eye flickered. If he can do it, I can learn it.



Robinson leapt, spinning through the air with a tornado kick. Brian tried to copy the Tai Chi redirect—but his form was off, his body frozen mid-motion.



“Guess my stance isn’t nice enough,” he muttered, right before the kick slammed him across the street.



Flat on the ground, Brian coughed, his mind racing. Why didn’t my Golden Eye work? It’s never failed before.



And then he understood. Tai Chi couldn’t just be copied—it had to be grasped in the thin space between life and death. Without that, all he saw were empty moves.



He sighed. “Not my toy. Not yet.”



Standing up, brushing the dust off, he smiled—confident again. “Alright then. Back to basics.”







Windwalk



Robinson saw the smile and charged again, spinning once, twice, three times—his kicks slicing the air like a cyclone. Brian’s Golden Eye tracked every movement. He rolled, hopped, pivoted, dodging each sweep with perfect timing, until Robinson’s triple kick landed on nothing but air.



Brian tapped him with a light punch. Robinson redirected it easily, sending him a few steps aside. Brian chuckled. “So that’s the weakness. You’re all circles up front, but your back? Wide open.”



He stepped back, grinning. “I actually learned something today. From an auntie, believe it or not. Let me show you.”



And then he vanished. His body blurred, shimmering half-transparent. He called the move Windwalk—straight out of Warcraft III’s Blademaster. Like a ghost, he slipped through Robinson’s guard.



Robinson panicked, thrusting a Tai Chi fist at the blur. His strike cut through nothing. Brian’s form phased right through, appearing behind him in a blink. Robinson’s body turned a full one-eighty, back completely exposed.



Shit. I’m done, he thought.



Brian lifted his fist, smiling slyly. “Ready or not… here I come.”



And everything froze on that image.







The Atomic Surprise



Brian’s fist was half a second away from ending it. Any normal opponent would’ve been torn apart. Robinson’s fate seemed sealed.



Then the sky erupted. From miles away, a mushroom cloud rose, white light searing their vision. For a moment, they were blind, both of them staggering in the glare. The shockwave thundered across the city, ripping through streets, flattening buildings.



From a distant vantage, Michael and Raymond watched in awe.



Michael whistled. “That power? He’s gotta be pulling ten thousand points at least.”



Raymond grinned. “Ten thousand? Nah, that’s a hundred thousand.”



Closer to ground zero, Brian and Robinson weren’t so lucky. The shockwave launched them like rag dolls, slamming them into the wreckage of shattered houses. Bloodied, broken, they both passed out.



Brian’s last thought before going under: Shit. Guess I’m done this time.



Their tournament watches went black, the lights flickering out. Eliminated.



But somewhere in the darkness, another watch went wild—its numbers spinning out of control, surging straight to 999,999, breaking the system itself. A thin hand raised the glowing watch, casting just enough light to show a crooked smile.



“Man… gotta admit. Modern weapons still win. Looks like I’m champion this year.”



From the shadows stepped a short, dark, skinny middle-aged man—the one who had unleashed the atomic bomb.


Chapter 102: The Grand Tournament (Part 7)
==================================================

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.


Chapter 103: The Grand Tournament (Part 8)
==================================================

The Grand Opening



The next day came quickly. The main arena was dressed up in an over-the-top way, covered with balloons and wreaths, like some strange mix of a wedding and a street fair. This was the stage for the grand finals — impressive, but also a little ridiculous.



In the center stood thirty-two contestants, lined up in a neat row, facing the roaring crowd. Among them were familiar faces: Ginello, Carl, Michael, Raymond — plus a whole bunch of others, even several aunties who somehow made it this far.



Just as the crowd settled, a sudden roar came from above. A helicopter dropped out of the clouds, piloted by Mr. Wei. Hanging below it was a long rope, and at the very end of it dangled a man.



Clutching the rope with one hand and a microphone with the other, the man swung in the air but spoke with full energy. He was today’s host — Mr. Sheng.



“Welcome, everyone, to the grand finals!” His voice boomed through the mic, like some surreal rock concert in the sky. “This lineup of thirty-two is one of the strongest ever! And look at this — sixteen aunties among them. What an unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime sight!



“But unfortunately, the Queen of the Aunties… didn’t make it here.”



The moment he said that, the audience erupted. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of aunties in the stands raised their banners and shouted at the top of their lungs:“Aunties, go!”“Aunties will win!”



The chants rolled like waves, shaking the arena. At the same time, other fans booed loudly, clapping and heckling, each side rooting for their own favorites. The noise clashed together, messy and wild, but it only made the whole scene feel more absurdly alive.







The Helicopter Lands



The opening dragged on with a dull speech that barely lasted a minute. As soon as it ended, the helicopter suddenly dipped, shooting straight toward the ground.



Inside the cockpit, Mr. Wei leaned out of the window, too impatient to wait.“Friends, ladies and gentlemen! I can’t wait to get down there, back to my commentator’s booth, and see the first match. I know none of you can wait for the real fight either!”



He hadn’t even finished before the helicopter slammed down with a deafening bang. Something hit the ground hard, followed by a sharp scream that cut across the arena.



On the floor lay a man in a crumpled, bloody heap — Mr. Sheng. He had been knocked out cold. Turns out, in the rush to land, Mr. Wei had completely forgotten about the host dangling beneath the helicopter.



Mr. Wei stepped out through the cabin door, finally noticing the scene behind him: medics were already rushing over with a stretcher, hauling Mr. Sheng away. He shrugged, muttered, “Oops! Totally forgot he was back there,” and brushed it off.



Without missing a beat, he raised the mic again.“But that’s not important. Let’s get straight to the first match! Though, before we begin, I’d like to invite our sponsor for this grand event — DeepSak’s CEO, Mr. Carl — to say a few words.”



Wei strode quickly into the line of contestants. Standing among them was a tall, skinny figure with two enormous bat wings stretched out behind him. Wei pushed the mic toward him.“Mr. Carl, would you like to address the finals?”



Carl took the microphone, cleared his throat, and began to speak.







The Sponsor’s Words and the First Match



Carl’s wings cast long shadows as he spoke. “Welcome, everyone, to the grand finals. Since we have sixteen aunties among the contestants, why don’t we make the first round a little more interesting? Each fighter will draw an auntie at random. Let’s see whose fighting style turns out the most creative. Whoever impresses me the most… gets a thousand bucks.”



He gave a small nod, as if that settled it. “No more talk. Let’s begin.”



The crowd buzzed with excitement and confusion, some cheering wildly, others shouting that it was unfair. Mr. Wei, meanwhile, had already dashed back to his broadcast booth, eager to deliver his commentary the moment things kicked off.



Up in the judges’ seats, three of the Four Kings — Khan, Joshua, and Mario — sat like stone. Their faces showed almost no excitement at all, as if they were watching something routine.



The first draw was announced: Chief Wayne. A giant, nearly five meters tall, stepped out from behind the wall. Each stride shook the concrete, leaving cracks where his feet landed.



Across from him shuffled an auntie, simply called Auntie A. She held her weapon — just a pair of chopsticks. Looking up at the massive figure, her voice trembled: “Guess I’m unlucky… drew the strongest one right away.”



Wayne didn’t wait. With two steps he was on her, scooped her up in one hand, and tossed her into his mouth. No chewing, just a single gulp.



“Didn’t have breakfast today,” he said, brushing his hands off like nothing happened. “Looks like the first round’s already over.”







The Judges Speak



Out of nowhere, the Attack on Titan soundtrack blasted across the arena, heavy and tragic, filling the air with exaggerated drama.



Chief Wayne lifted his head, nodding along as if he had ordered the music himself. “Wow, even the atmosphere matches perfectly. This soundtrack captures the horror of what just happened. Too powerful.” He turned toward the judges’ table. “Let’s hear what the judges have to say.”



Joshua spoke first, his voice calm. “That move looked cool, sure. But it only works against weak opponents. If Wayne tried it on someone stronger, they could probably blow his throat apart from the inside. That would backfire quickly.”



Mario leaned into the mic. “Yeah. If it were me, I’d use Tornado Blade. Slice the giant from the inside out, cut him into meat scraps.”



Then Mario passed the microphone to Khan. Khan looked bored. “Oh, I don’t really have anything interesting to say. But I do hear something—too much noise. Who’s blasting that music?”



He stretched out his hand. From across the arena, a radio player lifted into the air and flew toward him. With a single punch, he smashed it into pieces. The Attack on Titan theme cut off instantly.



Khan’s voice was flat. “Whoever played that annoying track—next time I’ll turn you into air.”



Down in the crowd, a few of Wayne’s henchmen dropped to their knees, trembling. “Please forgive us! We won’t play it again. Our Chief just loves that music during his attacks!”



Khan gave a small shrug. “Fine. But there won’t be a next time.”



The men froze. Their pants were already soaked, fear written all over their faces. They shook violently, unable to even stand back up.



Back in the booth, Mr. Wei’s voice cut in, trying to keep the show moving. “Look at those pants—if you can’t tell how terrified they are now, you’ll never understand fear. After all, Khan is the strongest man in the world. The pinnacle of the Kung Fu world. Enough stalling—let’s get to the next round.”







The Second Round



The nameless man stepped onto the arena floor. Across from him stood Auntie B, clutching her weapon — a simple ceramic bowl.



From the booth, Mr. Wei’s voice rose with mock curiosity. “A ceramic bowl as a weapon? What kind of secret move could that hold? It looks dumb, sure, but sometimes the dumbest things are secretly deadly.”



The fight began. The nameless man shot forward, lightning fast. In a single motion, he reached inside Auntie B’s collar, brushed across her chest, then pulled his hand back out.



Auntie B gasped, her face red with shock. “You pervert!” she shouted, loud enough to echo through the arena.



Wei nearly fell off his chair. “Oh my god! There are children watching this broadcast! This is way too indecent! Do we cancel his qualification right here?”



The camera cut to the judges’ table. Joshua, Mario, and Khan lazily waved their hands in unison. “Continue,” they said, almost in chorus.



Just then, Auntie B ripped at her clothes, tearing them open in anger. The crowd erupted—then froze. Beneath her yellow undershirt was something strapped tight to her chest.



A bomb.



The truth hit all at once: the nameless man hadn’t been groping her at all. He had planted an explosive device, sealed firmly against her body.



Gasps swept through the arena. Wei’s voice cracked over the mic: “Wait—what?! He wasn’t being indecent… he was strapping on a bomb!?”







From Bowl to Bomb



The ceramic bowl slipped from Auntie B’s hands, clattering to the ground. It shattered instantly, water spilling everywhere.



Wei stared at it in disbelief. “So it wasn’t some hidden secret weapon after all. Just a plain bowl. That’s it.”



But the match was far from over. The nameless man darted toward the edge of the arena, a detonator in hand. Auntie B clawed frantically at her chest, trying to rip the bomb loose, but it was glued fast to her bra.



In desperation, she unhooked it, baring herself in front of the whole arena.



Somewhere outside, a middle-aged man watching the broadcast choked on his drink and sprayed water everywhere. “Oh my god! This is way too much for roommates to be watching, damn it!” he shouted.



Back in the arena, before Auntie B could take another step, the device went off. The blast thundered across the stage, reducing her to blood and scraps of flesh in an instant.



Wei’s eyes widened. “Oh shit… it all makes sense now. Yesterday’s atomic blast — it was him. This nameless guy… he’s the bomber.”



The scene cut to a hospital room. Robinson and Brian lay in separate beds, wrapped in bandages, watching the broadcast on a flickering TV.



Both sat up, shouting at once: “Oh shit! It was this loser who blew us up! Next time we see him, we’re smashing his face into a pig’s head!”


Chapter 104: The Grand Tournament (Part 9)
==================================================

A Casual Entry



Right after the previous auntie got blown into pieces, the organizers didn’t waste even a second—they jumped straight into the second round, not even bothering to clean the stage. At that moment, an auntie walked in, her name was Auntie C. Her opponents crawled in right after—Dave riding on top of Norman, and Norman on all fours like a dog, slowly dragging himself to the center of the arena.



Auntie C was holding a weapon in her hand—a spoon. She raised it, pointing at Dave and Norman. “What the fuck are you guys doing? You can’t both be in here at the same time. I don’t even know why you’re still allowed in this tournament.”



Mr. Wei, sitting off to the side, calmly explained, “Our organizers approved their combined mentality as one single unit in this tournament. So them being here together is perfectly legal, reasonable, and compliant.”



Auntie C didn’t care anymore. She lowered her body, spoon in hand, ready to launch an attack. But right then, Dave slowly lifted up a bottle of Coke, cracked it open, and started sipping in front of everyone.



“Man, it’s been a long time since I had Coke. Feels so guilty. I’m gonna hit the gym tonight to train my muscles, since I’ve already taken in way too much sugar today.”



Norman looked at him and shouted, “Fuck you, why’d you only bring one? Why don’t I get a Coke too? I want one!” The two of them just kept chatting casually, completely ignoring Auntie C standing there.



Norman suddenly tilted his head back and howled at the sky, like a wolf. Auntie C stared at the two of them doing all this weird shit, and finally couldn’t hold it in anymore. She cursed, “Fuck your mother, treating me like I’m invisible here! I’ll show you what it means to be a real Auntie.”







The Dog Invasion



Just as Auntie C was about to strike, a pack of dogs suddenly stormed in from outside—big ones, small ones, all shapes and sizes. In an instant, Auntie C was surrounded.



“What the fuck? Why are there so many dogs here?” she shouted. She swung her spoon wildly and smacked one on the head. The poor dog collapsed, knocked out cold. But the rest of the pack immediately rushed her, biting and clawing.



Norman sighed from the sidelines. “Oh, my children… always feed yourself.”Turns out, those were the very dogs summoned by his earlier howl.



Auntie C kept swinging her spoon like crazy, but it was too late. The dogs tore her apart, leaving nothing but bones. One even snapped off a rib and ran away with it through the wall.



Mr. Wei, watching calmly, commented, “Huh. What did this auntie ever do to piss off so many dogs? Looks like before the fight even started, our two-man fusion team already claimed victory.”



Obviously, Mr. Wei had no idea—Norman was the king of dogs, with the power to command them.



Dave, meanwhile, finished the very last drop of his Coke. He tilted the can above his head, letting that single drop slide down his throat. He let out a deep breath, satisfied. “Tasty.” Then he casually tossed the empty can into the middle of the arena.



And just like that, he and Norman slowly walked out together. A perfectly clean and easy victory.







The Mop and the Beggar



The staff rushed in, swept the pile of broken bones straight into a trash bin, and wheeled it away. Mr. Wei wasted no time. He stood up and shouted, “Next round starts immediately!”



Walking in now was Auntie D. Her weapon? A mop. She slung it over her shoulder, chewing on a toothpick with a cocky look on her face.



From the other side of the arena came her opponent—a tall man, head down, with a bit of a belly. His clothes were filthy, torn, and hanging off him. He was a homeless guy. His name was Tom. Behind him, stuck to his pants, was something yellow. Probably shit.



Tom slowly raised himself up, and Mr. Wei narrowed his eyes. “What kind of dirty trick is this sleazy man about to use? Look at that stance… he’s setting up for some secret move.”



But Tom only bent down, picked up the Coke can Dave had finished earlier, and slipped it into his pocket. The corner of his mouth curled into a little smile.“Sweet. That’s another five cents.”



Right then, Auntie D charged forward. She swung the mop across his face. Tom’s face was smeared instantly with a mess of yellow, white, and black gunk—most likely shit.



Tom looked at her, annoyed. “What the hell is that? You trying to steal my Coke can? I picked it up, it’s mine, it’s all mine. Go find your own trash somewhere else.”



Auntie D didn’t stop. She went crazy, swinging the mop and smashing it against his body over and over.



Tom groaned, “Alright, alright, if you keep this up I won’t hold back. It’s just a Coke can! You can find one in any trash bin. Don’t fight me for this, Auntie, Auntie… bird’s got no soup…”



The mop cracked across him again, hard enough to snap hairs from his head and send them flying into the air.



“You beggar!” Auntie D shouted. “I’ll beat you till even your mother won’t recognize you!”



Tom clutched his head, mumbling, “Oh shit… looks like if she doesn’t get this Coke can, she won’t let me go. Guess I’ll just have to reflect on my life right now.”







A False Victory



Tom realized he had no way out. He grabbed both of Auntie D’s arms, yanked her close, and started running in place, knees pumping high. Each strike drove into her stomach like a relentless piston. He kept at it for a full minute.



Blood burst from Auntie D’s mouth as she collapsed, unconscious. Tom lifted her limp body and tossed her straight out of the arena.



It was over—an easy win. Tom advanced to the next round.



But then, another figure walked in. Medium build, muscular. It was Jackie Chan—a famous dance instructor. He looked straight at Tom and snapped, “What the fuck are you doing here, man?”



From the commentary booth, Mr. Wei cleared his throat. “Ah, it turns out this homeless guy was never a contestant at all. He was just a random passerby. The real competitor is Jackie Chan. Looks like Jackie moves on to the next round without even fighting.”



Security rushed in, grabbed Tom, and dragged him away.



As they hauled him off, Tom shouted, “I was just here to pick up cans! Don’t take me to the cops—I didn’t steal anything!” He bolted for the exit, but on the way, he scooped up one of the dogs that had been knocked out earlier and slung it over his shoulder, sprinting wildly.



In his head, he thought, Finally, maybe a decent dinner tonight. Dog soup, perhaps.



But he didn’t get far. A shadow blocked his path. It was Norman.



Norman roared, “Put that dog down. I know exactly what you’re trying to do. Not happening. I watch over every one of my children.”



Tom frowned, frustrated. “Man, first someone tries to steal my Coke can, and now someone’s stealing my dog meat? What the hell… can’t I just get one good dinner today?”







The Fair Division



Tom let out a helpless sigh. With no way out, he grabbed the dog tighter and, in a burst of desperation, tore one of its legs clean off. He held it out to Norman.“Here, brother, take this leg. Boil it up, it’ll taste good. The rest is mine.”



The dog shrieked in agony, the pain shocking it awake. Blood poured from the wound as it whimpered weakly in Tom’s arms, pitiful and broken.



Norman’s eyes widened. He snatched the severed leg, shouting, “Imbecile! What have you done to my children?” He raised one hand, claws sharp as blades, ready to deliver a fatal strike that could slice Tom clean in half.



But before he could, a flash cut between them—a samurai blade blocking Norman’s claw. The man holding it was Mario, one of the Four Kings, who had just been sitting calmly at the chairman’s table.



“Hey,” Mario said casually, “no need to get violent over a dog.”



The dying dog looked up at him with a flicker of hope, tongue hanging, eyes filled with longing. Mario just sighed. “It’s only dog meat. No point fighting over scraps. Let me divide it fairly for you.”



Before Norman could react, Mario’s blade moved in a blur. In one clean motion, the dog was sliced into a dozen pieces. He neatly arranged them on a platter, then pulled out a leg and handed it to Tom.“Here. One leg each. Fair. No need for violence when distribution can be solved equally.”



Tom stood frozen, still processing. Mario cocked his head. “What? You don’t like that leg?” He tossed it back onto the platter and handed Tom a dog’s head instead. “Here. Take the head. I hear people like you—homeless types—enjoy the strange parts the most.”



Norman’s face twisted with madness. His child—cut up before his eyes. His legs stretched long, trembling with fury. Just as he was about to explode, Dave rushed in, grabbed Norman by the shoulders, and yelled, “Hey, don’t lose it! You can’t beat Mario. He’s one of the Four Kings. Let it go. It’s just a dog. We’ll bury the right leg and hope it comes back luckier in the next life.”



Norman’s rage trembled in his chest, but Dave held him firm. Step by step, Dave dragged Norman away from the arena.







Hotpot and Bat Wings



Mr. Wei stood up and clapped his hands. “Ah, excellent! No wonder Mario is one of the Four Kings. Fast, precise, and fair—making sure everyone gets their share. Truly outstanding!”



Mario simply nodded, carrying the platter of dog meat back to the chairman’s table. Joshua was already waiting there with a pot of water boiling over the fire.“It’s hotpot time,” Joshua said, grinning. “I had my eye on that dog earlier, but looks like this homeless guy grabbed it first. Excellent work, Mario.”



Mario gave a faint smile. “Let’s dig in.”



And so, with food on the table, the three chairmen and the referee happily ate while watching the next round unfold, as if it were dinner and a show.



Who would be next?



An auntie stepped slowly into the arena. On the opposite side, no one appeared. The stage was empty—until you looked up.



From above, a man came gliding down with two enormous bat wings stretched wide.



It was Karl himself—the sponsor of the tournament. And somehow, he was also stepping in as a competitor.


Chapter 105: The Grand Tournament (Part 10)
==================================================

Auntie G Appears



As soon as the old lady walked into the arena, Karl jumped in first, speaking with absolute confidence, like he had already solved the mystery:“Don’t even ask. I already know your name. The ones before were Auntie A, B, C, and D. By logic, you’ve got to be Auntie E.”



The old lady smirked and shook her head slowly.“Wrong. I’m Auntie G.”



Karl blinked. “Say what? That doesn’t make sense at all. Logically, you should be E. What happened to E and F?”



The old lady straightened up and said, like announcing a great revelation:“Because my cup size is G, I had to skip E and F.”



Then she yanked open her ceremonial outfit, exposing two massive breasts. Huge like papayas, yet dark and heavy, like overripe fruit. The grotesque sight froze the air, making people gag.



Karl shouted angrily:“What the fuck are you doing? You’re destroying the whole scene. Everyone wants to puke!”



And sure enough, while he was speaking, people outside the ring started retching. Many collapsed, vomiting in piles—yellow in one place, green in another. The stench filled the whole arena.



Mrs. Wei clutched her stomach, moaning:“Oh no, I just threw up all of yesterday’s food. Put your damn clothes back on! This is unbearable!”



The entire scene devolved into chaos: piles of vomit everywhere, people groaning, the air filled with stench. Yet Auntie G just stood calmly, as if nothing had happened.







The First Strike



Auntie G refused their demands. Not only did she refuse to put her clothes back on, she gripped one side of her breast with both hands like she was charging a weapon.



In the next moment, a stream of white liquid shot out from her black nipple, firing like a laser cannon straight at Karl.



Karl shifted lightly, dodging at the last second. The beam didn’t touch him, but the blast of air cut off a few strands of his hair. He realized instantly—the pressure of that “milk laser” was enough to pierce straight through a body.



And it did.



The beam tore past him, straight toward a middle-aged man outside the wall. The man opened his mouth wide, angling himself to catch it. In his mind flashed memories of childhood; he believed this liquid would give him massive energy.



But the blast shot directly through his throat, out the back of his head, and flew off into the distance. The man collapsed instantly, dead, sprawled on the ground.



Karl finally understood why she had exposed her chest: this was her weapon.



From the commentary table, Mr. Wei’s voice trembled:“So this is it… behind such disgusting breasts hides such destructive power. Our sponsor must be careful. If he dies, what happens to the prize money?”



Karl smiled faintly and whispered to himself:“Don’t worry. It’s just child’s play… except it’s child’s play with adult breasts.”







Consecutive Fire



Karl stood still, calm and steady. He wanted to see what other tricks Auntie G still had.



She screamed: “Consecutive!”



She gripped her two papayas, one in each hand, and squeezed them madly, faster and faster, like some machine gun gone insane.



Streams of white liquid fired out one after another, dozens of blasts flying straight at Karl.



But Karl only turned his body sideways, then swayed lazily left and right, like brushing off dust. Every single blast missed him.



Behind him, the people weren’t so lucky. Screams filled the air as dozens were struck and killed. By the end, at least twenty people lay collapsed, the arena filled with chaos.



At that moment, the papayas shrank—from G to F.



Auntie G panted heavily, muttering:“Wait a second, I need to eat some bread to recharge.”



Karl nodded, allowing her.



But these weren’t ordinary loaves. They were chocolate bread, coconut bread, high-fat, special bread, rich in protein and nutrition—all the best ingredients for producing fresh milk.



She finished them quickly. Her size swelled back from F to G, then straight up to H.



Above them, Charles hovered with wings flapping, arms crossed, floating in mid-air like a judge from heaven. He said flatly:“Are you done yet?”



Auntie G lifted her papayas in both hands, feeling the weight. She grinned and shouted at Karl:“Now you’ll taste the power of motherly love!”



Karl raised his middle finger and smirked:“OK. Bring it on.”







The Power of Motherly Love



Auntie G screamed and pressed them together with all her might. H collapsed to G, G to F, F to E, then down to D.



Two streams of white liquid shot forward, colliding in the air. The clash exploded into thousands of bright streaks, like meteors raining from the sky, flooding the entire arena.



The pressure was immense. Not raindrops, not milk—lasers, covering every corner, even spilling into the outside crowd.



The spectators tried to flee, but dozens, maybe a hundred, were already struck. The beams punched straight through their bodies, leaving them full of holes, collapsing on the ground.



From the booth, Mr. Wei cried out with trembling voice:“Oh my god… this is the legendary Power of Motherly Love! A technique lost for ages! But what will happen to our sponsor?”



In the center, Karl stood there, his body riddled with over a hundred holes. He didn’t move, didn’t fall. He stood stiff in the middle of the stage.



Mr. Wei cried out:“Oh no… our sponsor is dead. Completely dead. What do we do without our sponsor?”







Karl’s Turn



But then, as Mr. Wei tugged at his hair, Karl’s body began to heal. Every hole closed by itself, one after another, until his body was whole again. Good as new.



Karl smiled confidently:“This is what I got from the essence of Dark Fences. A powerful healing ability.”



He grinned wider.“All right then. My turn… Auntie Dee.”



The insult stung. Her size had fallen from G to D, and Karl made sure to call it out.



To her, he looked like a demon—an illegal demon destroying another.



Karl vanished, reappearing in front of her. His hands clamped down on her papayas, gripping tight.



She shrieked: “You pervert! Let go!”



But his grip only tightened. His fingers pressed in like squeezing balloons. They deformed, his fingers sinking deeper.



Karl muttered:“Fine, I’ll increase my strength.”



Two loud cracks echoed. Then both mammaries exploded, blasting white liquid in all directions.



Auntie G collapsed to her knees, clutching her flattened chest.“My babies… my mammaries… they’re gone. I’ve lost all my memory, all my meaning!”



Karl walked closer, leaned down, and whispered softly:“Then let me do you one last favor.”



He spat.



The spit landed on her back, sizzling like acid, dissolving her lungs, heart, and spine into air. She collapsed, lifeless, her chest a hollow shell.



From the booth, Mr. Wei screamed:“Unbelievable! Our sponsor is a demon! Auntie G is dead—she’s Uncle Minus G now! Look at her chest, hollow!”



Then he sighed and muttered:“If such a strong auntie had used her motherly love in the right place, with just her two papayas she could have fed hundreds of poor children. But she turned them into weapons. What a waste.”







Judges’ Commentary



Then Mr. Wei pointed toward the three judges at the table.“Let’s hear from our judges. What do they think about this battle?”



The camera cut to the judges. A staff member walked up with a microphone.



But the three judges were hunched over, completely absorbed in eating dog meat. They hadn’t noticed anything that happened outside.



The mic was pushed in front of Mario. He chewed, swallowed, and said blankly:“Oh… I don’t really know what’s going on. I’ve just been eating this whole time.”



The two beside him nodded silently, mouths full, and went back to gnawing their meat.


Chapter 106: The Grand Tournament (Part 11)
==================================================

The Frying Pan of Faith



The three judges sat at the table, still tearing into plates of dog meat, grease dripping down their fingers, not even bothering to glance at the fight.



Then the next round started. Auntie H walked onto the field, holding nothing but a frying pan. She lifted it proudly and gave a big grin.“This frying pan,” she declared, “is made of titanium alloy. It can block any attack in the world. It’s never failed me before.”



But before the crowd could even process her words, chaos erupted. From behind the wall of spectators, a sports car burst out of nowhere. The car plowed through the stands like a bowling ball smashing pins, sending a dozen people flying into the air. Some landed with their bodies bent into impossible shapes, others slammed headfirst into the ground, and one auntie literally split into two pieces on impact. The exhaust roared loud enough to shake the arena.



Behind the wheel was Jack—the strongest driver alive. He floored the pedal, eyes locked on Auntie H.



Khan jumped up in protest, shouting, “This is against the rules!”



But Mr. Wei leaned into the mic without blinking. “No, we allow it. Continue.”



Auntie H tightened her grip on the frying pan. Her face didn’t flinch, though her stomach twisted a little. A sports car… that’s something else.



Jack slammed the accelerator, and in one second the car was already flying at 100 kilometers an hour, charging straight at her.



Auntie H planted her feet, lifted the frying pan, and muttered to herself with complete faith:“It has never failed me before.”







The Dog Leg Dispute



The whole arena roared with chaos. Tires screeched against the floor, engines howled like wild animals, women screamed, and the crowd cheered. All the noises tangled together into one insane background track.



And yet, at the judges’ table, the three referees didn’t even glance at the fight. They were still huddled over their bubbling dog-meat hot pot, slurping away like nothing else existed.



Mario fished out a fat, juicy dog leg from the pot. He sniffed it deeply, eyes watering with joy. “God, the aroma’s incredible. This is too good. I don’t even want to eat it—it smells that amazing.”



Then—poof—the leg vanished. Across the table, Khan was grinning, holding the same steaming thigh in his hand.



“What the fuck was that, Khan?” Mario barked.



Khan shrugged, calm as ever. “It’s mine now. Don’t worry.” He picked up a random chunk of meat from the pot and dropped it into Mario’s bowl. Mario stared at it—it was a dog’s penis.



His face twisted. “The hell is this? You can even eat this?”



Joshua leaned in, nodding like an expert. “Of course. It’s good for stamina—good for your manhood. Eat it.”



Mario sighed, frowned, and shoved it down his throat. “Fine…”



Khan, meanwhile, held the dog leg close, drooling as he sniffed it. “So good… too good… I almost don’t wanna eat it.”



“Then give it to me, asshole,” Mario snapped, reaching again.



Joshua rested a hand on his shoulder. “Mario, forget it. You can’t beat Khan.”



Mario groaned, gave up, and dug back into the pot. This time he pulled out a dog’s tail. He stared at it, unsure. “Can you even eat this?”



Joshua smirked. “Sure. That’s good too. Keeps you hooked. Eat it.”



Mario squinted at the tail, then sighed and swallowed it whole.



He was still muttering under his breath, “Damn it… I still really want that leg,” when—suddenly—a frying pan came crashing down from the sky.



It bounced twice on the ground, clanged loudly, and though one handle bent off at an awkward angle, the thing was still perfectly usable.







Tom and the Dog Head



Right in front of the judges’ table, a tall, pot-bellied man appeared. He bent down and picked up the frying pan that had fallen from the sky—the very same pan Auntie H had lost when the car sent her flying. In his other hand, he held a dog’s head.



“Finally,” he said with a satisfied grin, “something I can use to cook this.”He dragged over a short stool, sat himself down like he owned the place, and started piling scraps of wood from the garbage heap into a makeshift fire. Within moments, the pan was balanced over the flames, the dog’s head simmering inside.



When it was done, he lifted the steaming head, stared into its eyes, and leaned in close. He kissed the socket gently, then sucked out the eyeball in one sharp pull. He swallowed and sighed. “Oh… tasty. Haven’t had meat in so long.”



Then he turned to the other eye, slurped it out just as easily, and—without hesitation—locked lips with the head itself. What followed looked like a twisted kiss, his teeth tearing apart its tongue mid-embrace before he gulped it down.



To anyone watching, the man looked like some deranged pervert making out with a corpse. But to him, it was nothing more than pure enjoyment—just a man savoring his meal.







Frank’s Return



Tom had already finished the dog head, but he was still licking the bones, gnawing like he hadn’t eaten in years. Joshua watched him for a moment, shook his head, then kindly tossed a chunk of dog meat onto the ground in front of him.



Tom immediately dropped down on all fours, licking it up without hesitation.



Joshua chuckled and said, “He’s just like a good dog.”



And just then, a red scooter screeched to a halt at the judges’ table. The rider hopped off, dropped a full crate of Coke onto the table, and shouted cheerfully, “Hey! Your delivery’s here. The Coke you ordered has arrived!”



The judges’ eyes lit up instantly. They all shouted in joy, “Finally! Coke! How can you eat hot pot without Coke?”



When they looked up, their smiles froze. The delivery guy was wearing a white shirt with seven big letters printed across the chest: F-U-C-K-L-I-N.



It was Frank.



The three referees jumped to their feet, faces full of shock.“Frank?! How could it be you? We haven’t seen you in over ten years! How have you been? How did you end up as a delivery rider?”



Frank just picked at his nose with one hand and answered casually, “Eh, couldn’t find any proper job these last ten years. So I’ve just been doing deliveries.”



From the other side, Khan, known as the Pinnacle of the Kung Fu World, stood up, eyes misty with emotion.“Big brother… I’ve missed you. Where have you been all these years? What happened to you? You used to be so badass—now look at you. A belly this big? What the hell happened?”







The Short Stool



Frank gave a lazy shrug. “Oh, long story.”



Khan smiled. “Big brother, please sit. It’s been so long—let’s talk. We’ve got dog meat, Coke, and a little booze.”



He glanced around—no spare chair. With a casual flick of his hand, he pulled the short stool out from under Tom, like the air itself grabbed it.Tom dropped straight onto the floor. “Ouch, it hurts! What the hell was that?!”



Khan set the stool neatly by the table and bowed a little. “Please, big brother.”



Frank sat down. From a distance, it looked almost normal—four people at a table, chatting and eating. But the stool was so short that Frank looked like a kid among adults, his head more than a full level lower than everyone else’s.



They dug into the dog meat, passed bottles of Coke, and laughed through old stories. None of them even glanced at the arena.



At one point, an auntie’s body came crashing down from above and slammed onto the floor right beside their table. She died instantly.



Nobody at the table flinched. They just kept eating, drinking, and talking like nothing happened.







The Nameless Dog



Dozens of meters away from the chaos of the arena, hidden in a small patch of bushes, two figures were hard at work. Norman clutched a dog leg tightly in his hands while Dave dug into the ground with all his strength. The hole was already half a meter deep.



Dave sighed. “It’s time to say goodbye. I hope in your next life, you’ll be a happier dog.”



Norman hesitated, eyes full of reluctance. But finally, he tossed the dog leg into the pit. Together, they shoveled dirt back over it, patting the ground until the grave was sealed. Then they stuck a wooden marker into the soil. Carved into it were the words:



“My good child, the nameless dog.”



The two of them bowed in silence for a full minute, paying solemn respects to the makeshift grave. Then, without a word, they turned and walked back toward the arena. It was their final farewell.



And yet, even as Norman and Dave lingered in grief, just a short distance away four others were feasting happily on the very same dog’s meat. Around a steaming hot pot they laughed, guzzled Coke, and reminisced about the past—stories from ten years ago.



Then the camera pulled back from the banquet table, panning fast, and the scene snapped back to ten years earlier.



What really happened a decade ago?



Find out in the next chapter.






Chapter 107: The Good Old Days (Part 1)
==================================================

The Flying Entrance



The scene cut to a quiet high school campus. Out on the walkway, a short but ridiculously muscular boy in a crisp white shirt came gliding across the ground. His feet were hovering a few inches above the pavement, arms stretched wide, one leg forward, the other trailing behind. To anyone watching, it looked like he was flying.



That boy was Frank—one of the Four Kings.



As he slid past, a gust of wind lifted the skirts of a group of girls. They yelped, clutching at the hems with both hands, faces flushed red. But even in their embarrassment, they couldn’t help blurting out:



“That’s him… Frank! One of the Four Kings! He’s so damn cool. Sure, he’s not tall, but he’s handsome—and strong.”



They gushed louder, recalling the last time they saw him punch a tree into dust—literally dust, without leaving a single trace behind. The two girls were already in love.



Just then, another girl walked up beside them, rolling her eyes.“Forget it. Stop fantasizing. Frank already has a fiancée. It’s Rebecca from the next class.”



The first two girls froze, annoyed. But instead of giving up, they doubled down.One huffed, “That’s fine. I don’t mind being his mistress.”



The other shrugged, whispering with burning eyes, “I’d settle for being the side chick too. As long as I get his genes, nothing else matters.”







The Long Jump Test



Class moved on to P.E. The teacher barked out instructions: today’s exam was the standing long jump. One by one, students lined up at the sand pit, each taking their turn.



Most of the regular kids managed jumps around two or three meters—already pretty impressive.



Then came a tall, familiar figure. Tom. Back then, he wasn’t a homeless drifter—he was just a normal student, towering at a full 1.9 meters. With his height, everyone expected something spectacular.



He bent his knees, swung his arms, and leapt.



Ninety centimeters. Not even a full meter. The class erupted in laughter.



Joshua strolled forward, gave Tom a light pat on the shoulder, and muttered, “Hey man, you suck.” Then, without even trying, he gathered his energy, bent low, and launched himself.



The result: fifty meters. He landed so far away it looked like a glitch in reality.



The class went wild. Boys and girls clapped like crazy, cheering his name. A few of the girls turned red, gushing about how handsome he looked, whispering about how strong his genes must be. Still, they admitted, compared to Frank’s legendary bloodline, Joshua was still a tier below.



But it wasn’t just the girls. Even a few of the boys flushed red, their imaginations running loose—already picturing themselves in bed with Joshua, lost in unspeakable fantasies.







Tricks, Smirks, and Disappointment



The long jump went on.



Colin stepped forward. His jump barely cleared a meter and a half—far from impressive. But he just brushed it off, muttering, “Sports aren’t really my thing. Whatever.”



As he spoke, golden letters shimmered out of his mouth and drifted across the air like glowing sparks. They slipped straight into the P.E. teacher’s body.“I’ll take a hundred points for this,” Colin added casually.



The teacher’s eyes glazed for a moment, then he nodded and wrote down: 100.



Mario scoffed from the side. “That bastard—using his Golden Speech again. No doubt he’ll walk away with a perfect score.”



Then Mario crouched, swung his arms, and launched himself forward. He soared five meters, landing with a grin. Perfectly enough for a top mark.



“Long jump isn’t even my specialty,” Mario said with a smirk. “Wait till the next round—I’ll show you what I’m really good at.”



Finally, Khan stepped up. He gathered his qi, focused, and leapt. His body sailed through the air, hitting twenty-five meters before crashing down into the sandpit. A solid result by any standard.



But the class didn’t even blink. No applause, no whispers. With monsters like Joshua, Mario, and Colin’s flashy tricks around, twenty-five meters was just… average.







Frank Jumps to the Sky



It was finally Frank’s turn. The whole class lined up in two neat rows, eyes locked on his every move. Some whispered that Frank might be able to clear a hundred meters. Others scoffed—“A hundred? Too short. At least a hundred and twenty.”



The P.E. teacher overheard, stormed over, and slapped both students across the face. “Two hundred. Minimum,” he barked.



Frank stood at the edge of the sandpit. He didn’t even swing his arms—just bent his knees slightly. Then, with the smallest push, he launched himself at a perfect forty-five-degree angle.



He shot straight into the sky, up through the clouds, and vanished from sight.



The students and the teacher raised their hands to shield their eyes. The sunlight was too blinding; there was no way to measure how far Frank had gone. With a resigned sigh, the teacher pulled out his grade book and scrawled the infinity symbol on the page.



He shook his head, muttering with a smile, “Typical Frank. Always nonstandard. Too damn stylish.” His cheeks flushed pink—this middle-aged man, maybe even he was falling for Frank.



Checking his watch, the teacher announced, “All right, free time. He should be back in a few minutes.”



The students scattered. Some stayed by the sandpit, piling sand into castles. Others sprawled on tree branches, taking naps. A few boys crept after girls, trying to sneak peeks under their skirts.



Two or three minutes later, a familiar figure appeared on the horizon. Arms stretched wide, one leg forward, one back, Frank came gliding across the ground at over a hundred kilometers per hour. He slid right up to the teacher and stopped.



“Where’d you go?” the teacher asked casually.



“Oh, just jumped a little too far,” Frank said, brushing it off. “Ended up in another city—maybe a few dozen kilometers away.”



The teacher chuckled, shaking his head again. “That’s typical Frank. Always nonstandard.” His face reddened once more, and in the back of his mind, he had already fantasized about Frank hundreds of times.







The Speed Test



The next exam was running—one full lap around the track, one thousand meters.



Whispers spread through the class: “Frank doesn’t even need to run. He’s obviously going to get first place, a hundred points easy.” Even the P.E. teacher chuckled and said, “I like Frank. Maybe I should just give him a perfect score right now. What do you think?”



Frank shook his head. “No. I don’t want special treatment. I’ll run like everyone else.”



Before anyone could respond, Mario marched forward, pressing a tree branch against the teacher’s throat. “No way. First place is mine. When it comes to speed, I don’t lose to anyone—you bastard.”



Cold sweat dripped down the teacher’s face. “Easy! Watch where you’re pointing that. One wrong move and you’ll slice my artery open.”



Mario tossed the branch aside and stepped to the starting line. The whole class lined up beside him.



The teacher raised his starter pistol and fired into the sky—only it wasn’t a starter pistol at all. A real gunshot cracked, and a passing eagle dropped from the sky, stone dead. He had brought the wrong gun that morning, but didn’t care in the slightest.



The instant the shot rang out, Mario’s body flickered. In less than a second, he was gone—then suddenly reappeared behind the teacher.



The teacher spun around, eyes wide. “What the hell?! Did you even run or not? I didn’t see anything!”



Mario smirked and blurred again, leaving an afterimage as he zipped around the entire track in a single second and came to rest behind the teacher once more.



The teacher exhaled, defeated. “Fine… I get it. You’re fast. Way too fast. That’s five hundred points.”



Mario smiled with quiet confidence.



Not even a few seconds later, another figure came gliding across the track. Frank. His arms stretched wide, one leg forward, one leg back, he hovered just above the ground, sliding with effortless grace.



He crossed the finish line in under ten seconds flat. The teacher marked him down for a hundred points without hesitation.



“Nice job,” the teacher said warmly, patting Frank’s shoulder. His hand lingered a little too long… then slid upward, brushing across Frank’s solid chest. Flustered, the teacher quickly shoved both hands back into his pockets, pretending nothing had happened—though his face had turned noticeably red.







Golden Speech on the Road



Not long after, Joshua and Khan came sprinting in. They weren’t as blindingly fast as Mario or as effortless as Frank, but their speed still dwarfed the rest of the class. Both crossed the line in no time, easily earning full marks.



Meanwhile, the ordinary students were hopeless. Most hadn’t even reached halfway around the track. A few had barely made it one-fifth of the distance, dragging their legs, gasping for air.



Colin was done trying. Sweating and annoyed, he let golden letters pour from his mouth and sink into the body of a nearby muscle-bound classmate.“Hey, loser,” he commanded. “Carry me to the finish.”



The boy immediately scooped him into a princess carry and sprinted toward the line, holding him like a bride. The run took over a minute, and Colin’s real score was only fifty. But with a lazy grin, he whispered more golden words, and the teacher obediently wrote down a perfect hundred anyway.



The bell rang, signaling the end of class.



As the sun dipped low, the group headed home together, chatting and laughing on the road. Colin glanced at Frank, Joshua, and Khan.“So what about you guys? Headed to the Qi Master dojo again?”



The three nodded. “Yeah. We go every day. Learn a bit of kung fu.”



Mario scoffed. “Not me. I don’t need kung fu. I only care about sword technique.”



Colin folded his arms smugly. “And I don’t need martial arts at all. My Golden Speech makes me unstoppable.”



To prove his point, he turned to Mario with a grin.“Hey, Mario. Kneel down and lick my shoes.”



Mario dropped instantly, licking at Colin’s shoes like a dog, tongue dragging across the leather.



Colin tilted his head, smirking at the others.“You see what I mean?”


Chapter 108: The Good Old Days (Part 2)
==================================================

The Empty Dojo



Joshua, Frank, and Khan slid open the doors of their dojo. The place was huge—echoes bounced off the wooden beams—but it was almost empty. In fact, the three of them were the only students left. Everyone else had quit, too intimidated to keep training in the same room as Frank.



At the far end stood their master. White robe, beard flowing down like a curtain, easily past eighty. He barely moved, just stood there with his hands tucked behind his back, as if he’d been carved out of stone.



The three stepped forward and bowed.“Good evening, Master.”



The old man gave the faintest nod. His eyes drifted over them—then froze on Frank. His tone cut the air.“You again? Didn’t I tell you not to come back?”



Frank pouted, dropping his usual cocky grin. “But Master, I still need your guidance.”



The old man’s voice was steady, almost tired.“You don’t need it. Every vein, every muscle in your body already flows with qi. You were born strong—you don’t need to learn how to use it. In fact, you’re too strong. Your presence alone scared the others away.”



Frank dropped to his knees, hands pressed to the floor. His voice cracked between stubbornness and desperation.“Please, Master. I need to learn. I need your teaching.”



The master shook his head, as if already done with the conversation. He sighed.“Fine. If you insist—go outside and chop wood.”



Frank rushed out, fired up. He raised his hand like a blade and slammed into the nearest tree. One strike. Then another. And another. Before long, the mountainside thundered with cracks and crashes. Whole trees toppled like matchsticks.



By the time the dust cleared, the entire slope was bare. Piles of lumber stretched so far it looked like they could last the dojo for years.



Inside, Joshua and Khan stared through the open doorway, completely speechless. The master just shook his head again. His plan to brush Frank off had backfired spectacularly.







The Match Begins



The master stroked his beard and looked at the two still standing in front of him.“It’s been a week since I’ve seen either of you train. Why don’t you two spar? Let me see your progress.”



Joshua grinned, brimming with confidence. “Alright then. Guess it’s time I teach my junior a lesson.”



Khan didn’t answer. He just slid into a deep horse stance, eyes locked forward, every muscle tensed with focus.



The fight began. Joshua raised one hand—then another. With a surge of qi, he pulled Khan toward him like a magnet yanking steel. The sound of friction screeched across the floor as Khan’s boots scraped, sparks practically flying. His stance was solid, but the pull was relentless.



Just as he was about to be dragged right into Joshua’s chest, Khan gathered qi into both hands. With a sharp strike, he severed the force holding him. In the same motion, he ducked low and swept his leg across the floor. His kick carried the weight of his qi—Joshua’s body flipped sideways, seemingly helpless.



But Joshua didn’t crash. Ten centimeters above the ground, a burst of qi exploded from his chest, stopping him mid-fall. The floor shook as he shoved both palms down, releasing a shockwave of energy that launched him straight into the ceiling.



From there, he twisted in the air, leg cocked at a forty-five-degree angle, and dove like a missile.



Khan raised both arms to block, but the impact still ripped through him. The strike sent him flying, smashing straight out of the dojo doors.



The room went silent except for the fading echo of wood rattling in the beams overhead.







Talent and Effort



Their master knew the truth. Joshua was a natural prodigy. His lungs held twice the capacity of an ordinary man’s, and his skin wasn’t just tough—it was literally metal, a fused layer of steel and gold covering his body. Fire couldn’t scorch him, blades couldn’t pierce him. By any normal standard, he was a martial arts genius.



But compared to Frank, even that counted as “ordinary.” Frank was simply… something else.



Khan, on the other hand, had no such gifts. His body was plain, his breath no stronger than anyone else’s. Yet his one advantage was obvious to anyone who paid attention: he never stopped learning. He pored over dusty manuals at home, flipped through diagrams, even streamed PBS specials about qi. On YouTube, he’d study tutorials, pausing and replaying moves until he could mimic them exactly. Walking down the street, he’d mutter about the principles of qi; watching TV, his eyes stayed glued to anything that hinted at energy flow.



And the truth was, Khan wasn’t dumb. His IQ was high, his focus sharp. If he wanted to master something like the Golden Technique, he had the brains for it. But instead, he buried himself in the study of qi itself—the theory, the mechanics, the why behind every movement.



Months passed. Two, then three. Slowly, his obsession turned into mastery. Khan’s lung power still couldn’t match Joshua’s, but his control over qi—its precision, its efficiency—became razor-sharp. He had gone from the “ordinary one” to someone his master could finally call a true martial artist.







Frank the Janitor



Three months later, the three of them returned to the dojo after school. As usual, Frank was sent off to handle chores.



He grabbed a mop and tore across the floor like a man possessed, the woodboards squeaking under his speed. Then he picked up a rag and started wiping the windows—too hard, of course. The glass shivered, cracked in a web of lines, and nearly gave way under his hands.



Out in the courtyard, he switched to sweeping leaves. Only, Frank didn’t need a broom. He just took a deep breath and blew. The leaves spiraled up in a massive whirlwind, carried clean across the yard. Unfortunately, his “breath control” slipped, and the gust ripped the bricks from the ground. Concrete split, tiles went airborne, whole slabs of masonry flew across the sky and landed somewhere near Hongyong Lake.



Meanwhile, Joshua and Khan came walking around the front of the dojo—just in time to notice their master crouching behind a tree. At first they thought he was testing out some mysterious new technique. They crept closer, curious.



Then they peeked around the trunk.



The old man was squatting.



Joshua and Khan both blurted out, “What the fuck!?”



The master shook his head, stroked his beard with one free hand, and muttered, “Holy fuck. Your classmate Frank blew up our toilet.”



Khan stammered, “Wait, what? How?”



The master sighed and, still squatting, began telling the story of an hour ago.



Frank had been assigned to scrub the bathroom. The place was filthy, grime caked on every surface. He scrubbed and scrubbed, but nothing came off. So he pressed just a little harder—too hard. One swipe and boom. The entire restroom and half the outhouse went up like a bomb. By the time the dust settled, the bathroom was nothing but rubble.



Back in the present, the master calmly pulled out a rag, wiped himself clean, tugged his robes back into place, and stood.“Well,” he said, dead serious, “guess we won’t have a toilet for the next few days. If nature calls, find a tree.”



Joshua and Khan just stared at him, speechless.







Effort Pays Off



Months rolled by, and the master decided it was time to see their progress again. Joshua and Khan squared off in the yard, fists flying, qi surging. This time the fight was different.



For fifteen minutes straight, they hammered at each other. Bruises bloomed, shirts tore, the ground itself cracked beneath their feet. And for the first time, Joshua realized his junior was no longer trailing behind. Khan’s precision with qi, his efficiency, had caught up. Even without Joshua’s monstrous lung power, he was matching him blow for blow.



Finally, Khan drove a fist into Joshua’s gut. The sound rang out like a hammer striking metal, echoing across the courtyard. Joshua slid back several meters, shocked—not just by the hit, but by the fact that he hadn’t won.



Their master clapped his hands once, his voice calm but approving.“Khan… you’ve grown stronger. Your effort wasn’t wasted.”



From that day on, it became routine. After school, Joshua and Khan would meet in the dojo courtyard and fight until the sun disappeared behind the rooftops. Their battles weren’t just duels—they were lessons, each clash sharpening them both. They grinned through bloodied lips, enjoying every strike, every bruise, every push forward.



And in the background, as always, Frank was there—sweeping, mopping, hauling buckets—like some cosmic janitor doomed to chores while his classmates turned into legends.



But the master had finally learned his lesson too. Frank wasn’t built for delicate jobs. Glass shattered under his rag, toilets exploded under his scrub. Instead, he was given “heavy-duty” chores: digging massive pits, which soon filled with water and became ponds; hauling boulders, stacking them into decorative rock gardens; planting towering trees that transformed the dojo’s plain yard into something out of a painting.



Thanks to Frank, the once-empty courtyard became beautiful—ponds with fish, stone hills, trees that reached for the sky. The master stroked his beard and thought, with a touch of pride and fear, Never again will I let this boy near a window or a toilet. From now on—heavy labor only. If not, the whole dojo might vanish in a day.







Spring Festival Picnic



Before long, the Spring Festival arrived. The master and his disciples decided to celebrate right there in their newly decorated courtyard. Cherry blossoms were in full bloom, petals drifting slowly in the breeze and scattering across the grass. The place looked more like a painting than a dojo.



This time it wasn’t just the four of them. Friends came along too. A picnic blanket was spread across the lawn, dishes laid out, everyone eating and laughing under the blossoms.



They talked about their dreams. Conn and Frank both wanted to become policemen—heroes who could use their martial arts to wipe out crime. Joshua smirked and said he wanted to start his own company. Colin stayed quiet, offering nothing. Mario said he dreamed of opening his own dojo.



The master stroked his beard and looked at Mario. “Why don’t you study qi as well?”



Mario waved him off. “Nah. I’m into architecture. Qi doesn’t interest me at all.”



Then Rebecca leaned close, clutching Frank’s arm. Her voice was soft, almost shy. “I don’t really have a dream. I just want to stay by Frank’s side. To be… his teardrop.”



Frank’s face lit up with a smile, the kind of rare, honest smile that made him look almost ordinary for once.



And so, surrounded by cherry blossoms, good food, and laughter, they spent the Spring Festival together in peace and warmth.