To Zi-Cheng, Karl was the embodiment of raw power, a man whose iron fists had haunted his nightmares. But now, those very fists tore through the air like battering rams, aimed straight for the bandit leader’s head.

Watching that monstrous figure with his back turned to him for the first time, Zi-Cheng felt something beyond fear.

(This guy… is actually incredible…)

For a moment, he thought the crushing blow would end the fight in an instant. Yet, in the instant before Karl’s fist connected, the bandit leader silhouette flickered, gliding just past the strike like a shadow in the wind.

Karl’s fist tore through empty air.

His gaze sharpened.

A rare opponent.

Finally.

A grin slowly formed on Karl’s face. With his knees bent, he rooted his stance, stabilizing his footing.

If one punch wasn’t enough….

Karl’s fists came down like a storm, each strike carrying the force to break bones, a barrage so intense that even the air seemed to shudder.

Yet, not a single hit landed.

The bandit leader’s cold eyes tracked Karl’s every move, reading him like an open book. Each time Karl closed in, the tip of his sword was already there.

It wasn’t just defense, it was control.

The blade weaved between them like a living thing, its arc drawn with pinpoint precision. It never struck Karl directly, but it didn’t need to. Every time Karl advanced, a flicker of steel forced him to withdraw.

Karl’s iron fists grazed past, missing its mark by mere inches.

It was like fighting a ghost.

His breath grew heavier, his pace slowing.

And in that instant, the bandit leader struck.

A single thrust, fast as lightning.

Karl barely twisted his body in time, but the shift in momentum was undeniable.

The bandit leader’s swordwork was deadly precise. Even without combat abilities from the ring, each slash was still fatal, forcing Karl back step by step, cutting off every opening.

Even with his strength, Karl was no longer dominating the fight. His footwork was sharper than ever, his reflexes honed in the heat of battle, yet – he was the one being moved.

Zi-Cheng watched in silence, a deep sense of helplessness slowly sinking in.

Even after training with Victor.

Even after witnessing the fights in the arena.

Nothing compared to watching these two clash at close range.

Only now did he realize just how far beyond his reach the fight was.

The mere thought that he could step in and make a difference felt like a poorly told joke.

(Damn it! Where is a ranged weapon when you need one…?)

Amid the chaos, Macky, the chubby bandit who had yet to be taken down, slowly crawled to his feet. His breath was ragged, his body aching, but his hands still clung to a stolen crate of potions.

Just one step—

Splat!

A glob of mud smashed into his face.

“Take your filthy paws off these potions! They’re for people who actually need them!”

Elena stormed out from the tent, eyes blazing with fury, mud dripping from her hands as she hurled another handful at him.

Macky staggered back, surprised, and the crate crashed onto the ground.

“Why you….!!”

His face twisted in humiliation, veins bulging at his temple. His fingers curled into fists as rage blinded him.

“You really shouldn’t be looking away in a fight.”

Macky barely registered the words before Karl’s uppercut smashed into his chin, sending his bulky frame flying clean off the ground.

“Karl, watch out!”

Zi-Cheng’s voice ripped through the battlefield.

Karl was still mid-air, his balance compromised, yet the bandit leader was already there.

“You sure you’re in a position to give advice?”

A flash of silver, a perfect opening – Karl had nowhere to escape from the impending death.

“Construct!”

Zi-Cheng shouted as his hands slammed onto the ground, erecting a wall of earth between Karl and the strike.

Clang!

The sword bounced off the barrier, but it wasn’t enough to stop the bandit leader.

Using the force of the rebound, he spun on his heel—

This time, the thrust of his blade aimed straight at Zi-Cheng!

Too fast.

Too close.

Too late.

There was nothing he could do in time.

(Damn it…. This is why I hate PvP matches….)

Schiiik—!!

Cold steel tore through flesh.

“VEN————!!!!!"

Elena’s scream tore through her throat, shaking her entire body.

Drip… drip… drip…

Blood splattered onto the dirt, blooming into vivid crimson petals.

Zi-Cheng gasped, his mind reeling as he felt the searing pain across his shoulder. The blade had sliced through flesh, leaving a burning gash—but it hadn’t run him through.

His heart pounded. That strike had been aimed straight for his chest, but someone had changed its course.

Shaken, he slumped to the ground, eyes widening as he looked up.

It was Karl Murry.

"W-why…?"

Zi-Cheng’s voice barely left his lips as he saw the usual smirk on the man’s face. Then, his gaze dropped to the gleaming blade buried deep in Karl’s abdomen, its tip piercing clean through his back.

“I’m... a bronze-tier combatant… I...don’t need a commoner’s protection….”

Before Karl could finish his sentence, the bandit leader ripped the sword free.

Steel sliced through the air, followed by a flood of crimson. Blood sprayed out like a torrential downpour, painting everything before Zi-Cheng’s eyes red.

"No—!!"

Zi-Cheng barely caught Karl as he collapsed, blood spilling between his fingers.

He reached for his bag, fingers fumbling for the last of the Peach Potions.

One bottle, then another….

He poured them over Karl’s wound, but the bleeding just wouldn’t stop.

“Fuck it! Stop bleeding already!”

Karl coughed weakly, a crooked smile forming on his bloodied lips.

“Heh… looks like… the joke’s on me. The piece of trash I beat down… trying to save my ass….”

“And now you just got stabbed for me!”

Zi-Cheng pressed harder, but Karl’s body was growing colder, his breath turning shallow.

“You...where the hell did you get… all these potions….?”

“We can talk later! Just stay with me, damn it!”

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Karl barely seemed to hear him. His hazy gaze flickered, then suddenly, a breathless laugh escaped his lips.

“Shit… so you’re the one Morris kept talking about… the guy making Peach Potions….” Karl let out a ragged breath, barely able to continue. “Guess this world really has a fucked-up sense of humor….”

Zi-Cheng froze.

This was Karl Murry. The same bastard who had stomped him into the ground, the same brute who swung his fists for a silver without a second thought.

Yet here he was.

Throwing himself in front of a blade for the very man he once mocked.

“Why are you doing this?” Zi-Cheng asked.

Karl fell silent for a moment, then let out a bitter laugh.

“You really think… I did everything for money….”

His grip shot out, fisting Zi-Cheng’s collar with what little strength he had left.

“You still don’t get it... do you….?” His grip trembled. “Your potions… they don’t just save lives… they gave us… hope…”

“Hope?”

Zi-Cheng felt a chill running through his body. It appeared he had underestimated something crucial.

It was true that the Peach Potions had outstanding healing properties and may play a major role once the thane passed the law mandating everyone to partake in the arena matches. But the impact didn’t just stop there.

For a city that had long relied on the invocation ritual, the emergence of these potions meant an entirely new future. If Peach Egg Trees could be cultivated within the city walls, even the poor folks at the Old Town district will have a chance for making a living.

And to key to that future lies with unlocking the secrets to create the potions.

"Hope, huh?" The bandit leader scoffed, rolling his shoulders. "I’ve been to enough to know how that story ends. You give the poor a taste of hope, and they choke on it. This world doesn’t hand out chances."

He let out a dry chuckle, leveling his sword at Zi-Cheng. "Still, guess I should be thanking you. Messing with another man's commission isn’t very nice—but lucky me. Since you’re the original creator, my client might still pay up."

“Ven, run!”

Elena grabbed a handful of mud and threw it at the bandit leader, but he barely tilted his head and dodged it with ease.

“Come quietly, and I won’t hurt the girl.”

“Go to hell!”

Zi-Cheng barely got the words out before a boot slammed into his face. Pain exploded as his body hit the ground hard, his head spinning from the force.

The bandit leader loomed over him, voice calm but cold.

“This isn’t a request.”

Blood dripped from the corner of Zi-Cheng’s mouth, mixing with the crimson streaks trailing down his face. His body swayed, barely holding up, but he pushed himself up and crawled towards Karl with another potion in hand.

“Wasting potions on a dead man, how pathetic.”

The word “pathetic” echoed in the air as the bandit leader lifted his boot again, his eyes gleamed with the promise of violence, ready to strike downward when—

“For once, I agree.”

An icy voice drifted in from behind, each word landed like a death sentence.

For the first time since the fight began, the bandit leader felt a chill creep into his gut, triggering an instinctive scream in every fiber of his being.

As he turned around, the world tilted.

The passage of time itself seemed to slow.

He tried to call out, but his mouth only made a wet, garbled sound.

Then, he saw it.

His own body.

His shoulders, his arms, his chest, everything still standing – except his head.

Where his head used to be, blood gushed like a fountain, spraying into the sky.

Yet, before another thought could formed, darkness has already swallowed him whole.

Thud.

Zi-Cheng watched as the bandit leader’s body collapsed onto the ground. A figure in black robes and a gray mask stood before the pool of blood, his entire presence wrapped in the aura of death.

Of all the possible reinforcements… this had to be the worst.

“You...you’re that...damned Outsider…”

Karl barely propped himself up, but in his half-conscious state, he was hardly worth the masked man’s attention.

“Crimson Plume….”

Zi-Cheng’s gaze locked onto the masked killer.

“The ones you killed in the streets… they were bandits, weren’t they?”

Crimson Plume said nothing, his eyes fixed on the man who had crossed path with him twice yet lived to tell the tale.

“They stole your name, so you slaughtered them all. That it?”

Still no answer.

But the silence in the air weighed heavier than any words ever could.

Zi-Cheng let out a slow breath, turned his head away, and decided not to press his luck further.

But then, as Zi-Cheng watched Crimson Plume stride toward the wrecked carriage, retrieving the scattered Peach Potions and placing them into his bag, a familiar figure rushed forward, arms spread wide, blocking the masked man's way out.

“Stop! Those are for the free clinic!”

“Let him go, Elena!”

“But—”

She stood firm, stubborn as ever, but defiance meant nothing to the man before her.

The distance between them closed with each step he took.

Zi-Cheng gritted his teeth, forcing out the last of his strength.

“We can make more potions, but we can’t bring back the dead!”

With that final shout, Zi-Cheng’s hands slammed onto the ground, and a thick wall of earth rose between Elena and Crimson Plume.

“This trick’s getting old.”

Before the wall could even touch Crimson Plume’s cloak, it crumbled into loose soil.

Elena barely had time to blink before a cold chill slithered down her spine. Her courage, the will to stand her ground, all was shattered along with the wall.

Crimson Plume passed by her like a ghost, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t blame yourself. No one stares death in the face without trembling.”

And just like that, he was gone.

By the time Elena’s legs finally gave out, the masked killer had already vanished beyond the farthest street corner.

What remained was the lingering numbness of having brushed against death and survived.

Their bodies felt both tense and drained, the echo of adrenaline still thrumming beneath their skin.

Yet, they barely had time to process it all before—

“Gah—!!”

A violent cough ripped through the air.

Karl lurched forward, blood splattering onto the ground, his face draining of color until he looked like a ghost.

“Where the hell are the medics?!”

Zi-Cheng screamed, his voice raw with frustration.

They were standing in the middle of the Sanctuary’s free clinic, the very place meant for saving lives, yet Karl was bleeding out and there wasn’t a single medic in sight.

His hands trembled as he poured the last of his Peach Potions over Karl’s wound, watching helplessly as the liquid mixed with the flood of crimson.

“Empathetic Heart!”

A warm red glow wrapped around Karl’s body as Elena joined in to save him. Yet, even with Elena’s boost with the potion’s healing power, the wound that ran through Karl’s body refused to close.

“You guys….stop wasting...the damn potions….”

“Just shut up! Shut up and focus!”

Karl’s breath was ragged, his strength fading with each passing second, yet his fingers gripped onto Zi-Cheng’s wrist with what little strength he had left.

“Listen to me…. I was pulled back from the brink of death once… by the medics… I had my chance already….”

“Save your breath, damn it!”

“There are kids... in Old Town…. people… who deserved this… more than me….”

Zi-Cheng stared at the battle-worn hands that had once beaten him into the dirt. They now felt fragile, the warmth fading from them. It was the same Karl Murry, yet so different from the nightmare that had haunted him for so many nights.

Karl exhaled shakily.

“Eyren…used to say… if you’re gonna make a sacrifice… best be sure...it’s worth it….”

“I don’t know who the hell Eyren is, but you gotta stop talking nonsense!”

Karl let out a weak chuckle.

“Heh...all these years… I never understood…why he...threw his life away… for me… what he… saw in me…”

“Hang in there, damn it! You’re stronger than this!”

“I think… I finally… get it…”

Karl’s fingers loosened.

A faint smile touched his lips.

His eyes, once sharp and defiant, slowly lost their light.

As the last flicker of life faded, a single tear slipped from the corner of his lifeless eyes.

“Elena, more potions!”

“Ven…”

“I said don’t stop!”

Karl Murry was supposed to be a tough bastard.

An arrogant moron.

A bully Zi-Cheng should have hated.

(So why does it hurt this much to see him like this?!!!!!!)

“Urghhhhhhh—!!!!"

Zi-Cheng threw his head back and screamed, tears breaking free as he clutched the man who should have been his enemy.

-----------------------------

Time passed, but Zi-Cheng had no idea for how long.

Everything seemed blurred together.

Through the haze, he saw figures approaching – Morris, Chris, Julia, a squad of city guards, and several medics from the Sanctuary. Their movements felt sluggish, like a dream unraveling in slow motion.

Chris’s boots crunched against the grass, each step heavier than the last. He stopped, staring down at Karl’s bloodied body, his voice barely above a whisper.

“This… this isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

(Who was he talking about?)

“He had a future ahead of him….”

(Who… had a future?)

Chris’s jaw clenched. His fists trembled. “Why… why am I always too late…?!”

The weight in his voice wasn’t just grief. It was something deeper—something breaking.

Just as Zi-Cheng’s strength finally gave out, his vision fading into darkness, he caught a glimpse of Chris’s expression—anguish, regret, something raw and unspoken.

As Chris knelt beside Karl’s lifeless body, his fingers curled into the bloodstained dirt. He stared at the face he once knew, the echoes of a past he had yet to say aloud clawing at him from within.

It was the same.

Exactly like that rainy day.

Then, in the silence, he heard it.

The faint echoes of warm voices. The clinking of glasses. The taste of that last drink they shared on that fateful night.