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.”