The stifling atmosphere of the arena weighed heavily on Galahad and Mimi as they cautiously ventured forth, the sandy ground crunching underfoot and the distant jeers of onlookers cutting through the air like venom-tipped arrows.

Their guard, however, dropped momentarily when a familiar figure, the very same man who had pilfered Mimi’s treasured knife, surged forth from the shadows like a ravenous beast, delivering a swift, merciless stab to Mimi’s back. Time seemed to distort for a heartbeat as Mimi’s eyes widened in shock, falling heavily with the grim thud of finality. A cacophony of laughter, callous and mocking, erupted from their taunting audience, echoing the darkness of the moment.

A tempestuous storm roared to life within Galahad. Opting to shun the allure of weapons, he became an embodiment of raw, untamed power. Every fiber of his being radiated deadly intent. His movements, fueled by both rage and purpose, were swift and precise, a mesmerizing dance of death.

Each strike, each deftly evaded blow, further punctuated his indomitable prowess. Seven opponents fell like dominos, unable to anticipate or counter the ferocity he unleashed. They tried to surround him, but his movement difficulted their intentions.

"Grab him from the back!"

"Kick him!"

"He can't be better than us!"

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With a particularly devastating roundhouse kick, Galahad sent the knife thief sprawling, retrieving Mimi's knife with a fluid motion that spoke of countless hours of practice. Two men tried to overpower him, but two quick slices cut their throats. The bodies fell to the dusty ground. Everyone ran away.

Amid the now silent expanse of destruction, the broken body of Mimi became the epicenter of Galahad's anguish. While a part of him yearned to deliver a farewell, he was acutely aware that any kind of gesture would betray his veiled identity.

The Overseer, with his imposing silhouette, sauntered forward, an intrigued gleam replacing the earlier disdain in his eyes.

"Singlehandedly decimated my best fighters," he observed, an eyebrow raised. "All for him?" he gestured dismissively toward Mimi. "Family ties, perhaps?"

His heart brimmed with anger, but as desperation clawed at Galahad, he was pushed to fabricate yet another deception.

"He was indebted to me. Owed me crates of Powerjuice. At least I have his knife," he retorted, voice rough as gravel.

The Overseer's laughter, deep and resonant, echoed across the battlefield.

"These pitiful souls are fodder at best," the Overseer remarked, sweeping a contemptuous glance over the fallen. "But you, you possess a spark. A fire. Perhaps Lord Mortis himself would take interest."

Galahad's initial attempt to decline was cut short by the Overseer's chilling admonition.

"Understand this: my words are not mere suggestions."

Surveying the aftermath, the weight of his actions, and the profound cost of this relentless conflict, pressed down on Galahad. Even as the oppressive walls of the enemy stronghold loomed, he held onto a fragile strand of hope, vowing to navigate this treacherous path to whatever end awaited. Now he knew that his kindness might mean the end of his quest.