This year marked the 20th anniversary of the defeat of the Evil Emperor Melos.
But that was it. Nothing much had changed.
The poor still suffered while the influential sipped wine and enjoyed the fruits of those very struggles. In fact, it would be wrong to say “nothing has changed.” Things had changed—just not for the better.
The world, once united by the looming threat of the Evil Emperor, had fractured back into petty rivalries. War, racism, and the suffering of the unprivileged grew unchecked, spiraling like a cursed loop.
In one sentence: “The cycle of suffering remains unchanged.”
But enough with the history lesson! Let’s focus on the real lesson—the one Pumpkin is about to learn, assuming he doesn’t somehow wriggle out of his current predicament.
Right now, our self-proclaimed Grand Master Pumpkin is dangling midair by his collar, hoisted up like a scrawny chicken ready for the slaughter. His captor? A towering, bald, and muscular man whose veins were bulging with righteous fury.
The bald man’s sudden appearance brought the middle-aged woman back to reality, and with it, the realization that she had almost fallen for the yellow-caped stranger’s ridiculous flattery. Her embarrassment was palpable.
Meanwhile, her daughter—the small girl clinging to her side—saw her father as a beacon of salvation. She pointed at Pumpkin with newfound hope in her eyes.
“Papa! You’re here! That bad man was going to kidnap me and Mommy! Please teach him a good lesson!”
The middle-aged woman quickly joined in, eager to redirect attention from her earlier lapse in judgment. “Yes, honey! That creep almost made a fool of me. Make sure he gets what he deserves!”
The bald man’s temples throbbed with anger as he listened to his family’s complaints. He nodded grimly, his face darkening like an approaching storm.
“Don’t worry!” he declared, tightening his grip on Pumpkin’s collar. “After I’m done with him, even the gods won’t recognize him anymore!”
He reassured his family with a firm nod, then turned his focus to Pumpkin. It was time for the fun part—the beating. But as he prepared to deliver the first blow, he noticed something unsettling.
Pumpkin was staring at him.
Not with fear. Not even with regret.
But with excitement.
Pumpkin’s eyes gleamed as if he’d just unearthed a treasure chest, his expression so disturbingly eager that the bald man instinctively released him and took a cautious step back.
“What… what are you looking at?” the bald man demanded, his voice tinged with unease.
Pumpkin didn’t reply. Instead, he took a bold step forward and—without hesitation—began touching the bald man’s bulging biceps.
“Wha—what are you doing?!” the bald man yelled, his voice breaking slightly. He tried to swat Pumpkin away, but the yellow-caped lunatic was undeterred.
Pumpkin moved with the precision of an appraiser inspecting a rare artifact, running his hands across the man’s shoulders, chest, and arms with unsettling focus.
“These biceps… magnificent!” Pumpkin murmured. “And these wide shoulders—perfectly symmetrical! And this chest—hard enough to break rocks!”
The bald man froze, goosebumps erupting all over his body.
“Stop it! Get away from me, you creep!” he bellowed, retreating a few more steps.
But Pumpkin was too engrossed in his “inspection” to notice the man’s distress. He stepped back, looked the bald man up and down, and then—while practically drooling—rubbed his hands together.
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“Hey, Baldy!” he exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “Your body is perfect. I want it. Why don’t you become mine?”
The bald man’s eyes widened in horror. Sweat poured down his face as he instinctively clutched his behind. “You! What the hell is wrong with you?! Whatever strange fetish you have, I’m not the man for you!”
From a safe distance, the middle-aged woman and Potat watched this bizarre scene unfold. Their expressions were a mix of shock, disgust, and secondhand embarrassment.
Potat, barely able to contain himself, muttered, “And this is supposed to be my master? The great Pumpkin? What a joke.”
Realizing the growing awkwardness in the air, Pumpkin blinked a few times, coughed, and waved his hands dismissively.
“Ahem! Don’t get the wrong idea!” he said hastily. “I only want you to become my student. Not for any… dubious activities. Your body is ideal for my unique training methods!”
If anything, Pumpkin’s desperate explanation only made the situation worse. The bald man’s glare grew more intense, the middle-aged woman shielded her daughter, and Potat buried his face in his hands, groaning.
But Pumpkin, being Pumpkin, was completely oblivious to the awkwardness he’d created.
As he stroked his chin, a grin crept across his face—a grin that would have made even the most confident con artist jealous.
“Ha ha ha!” he cackled, his laughter ringing out like a villain in a third-rate play. “Not one, not two, but three students! Oh, Pumpkin, you truly are a genius! What luck to find such promising disciples so easily!”
His maniacal laughter echoed through the fairground, drawing the attention of several passersby who stopped to gawk at the strange yellow-caped man and his captive audience.
The bald man, still clutching his behind protectively, muttered under his breath, “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”
Meanwhile, Potat sighed deeply and shook his head. “Why do I feel like my life just keeps getting worse?”
But Pumpkin’s grand daydream of student domination came to an abrupt end when a loud voice shattered his thoughts.
“Stop your laughter, you bloody pervert!”
Annoyed at being interrupted for what felt like the hundredth time that day, Pumpkin scowled and spun around, shouting angrily.
“Who dares to interrupt this Grand Master’s noble mission?! Show yourself, you insolent fool!”
His question was answered when he spotted a mob of 30-40 villagers charging toward him. Armed with an assortment of kitchen utensils and farming tools, their faces were etched with righteous fury.
Pumpkin’s eyes bulged so far out of their sockets they might as well have landed on the ground. His legs wobbled like jelly, and his trademark confidence evaporated faster than a puddle on a hot day.
At the front of the mob was an important-looking man dressed in neat clothes, his expression stern and commanding. He exuded authority, the type of person you instinctively knew was either the village head or someone equally important.
The man pointed dramatically at Pumpkin and hollered, his voice booming like thunder.
“You must be the pervert who beat up my son!” he roared. “And now, not satisfied with children, you’ve turned your depraved eyes to adults too! What are you? A slave trader? A degenerate scoundrel?!”
Pumpkin blinked. Then he blinked again. It took him a full three seconds to process what was happening, but when he finally did, his jaw hit the metaphorical floor.
Behind him, Potat was already retreating, carefully inching away from the escalating chaos. His expression was a mixture of pity and amusement.
“Ah, what a shame,” Potat muttered to himself. “I won’t get to watch the old man get beaten into the dirt, but I’ve got to save my own skin first. Rest in peace, you crazy bastard.” He bowed mockingly before scurrying off to safety.
As for Pumpkin, he wasn’t the type to give up so easily. His determination to recruit students—his precious lab rats—burned brighter than ever. Grinding his teeth, he resolved to turn the situation around.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Please, please, this is all a misunderstanding!” he said, flashing his most disarming smile. His tone oozed with false sincerity.
But the mob leader wasn’t having it.
“Don’t listen to his lies!” he bellowed. “Everyone, beat him up!”
The villagers roared in agreement and charged forward.
Pumpkin sighed dramatically, his shoulders slumping. “Why does nobody appreciate a good grand master these days?”
Straightening up, he grabbed the large brown box he always carried and hoisted it effortlessly into one hand. His expression shifted to one of cool confidence—a look he probably thought was domineering but came across more as mildly constipated.
“You think I, the Grand Master Pumpkin, am so easily bullied?” he declared, his voice ringing out with theatrical flair. “Prepare to suffer the consequences of angering me, you foolish village idiots!”
The villagers faltered, their anger momentarily giving way to hesitation. The sight of Pumpkin standing tall with his mysterious box held like a weapon made them second-guess their actions.
“Wait… what’s in that box?” one of them whispered nervously.
“Maybe he’s hiding some kind of magical artifact in there,” another muttered, gripping his pitchfork tighter.
“I heard stories about strange wanderers with secret powers,” said a third, his voice shaking. “What if he’s one of them?”
As these doubts rippled through the crowd, Pumpkin seized the opportunity. He took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and… turned tail and bolted.
Before the villagers could react, Pumpkin was already halfway across the square, running at an unbelievable speed with the big box balanced precariously on his head.
For a moment, the mob was completely speechless. They stood frozen, watching the absurd spectacle of the yellow-caped man sprinting away like his life depended on it.