...

One of the men, trembling, dropped his machete, the blade clattering against the asphalt. "I... I surrender!" he stammered, stepping back in fear.

But before anyone else could react, another thug, braver, or perhaps more foolish than the others, rushed toward the MK3, swinging his metal bat wildly. His eyes were wide with desperation, his hands shaking as he tried to land a hit. The bat came down hard, aiming straight for the MK3's head.

Without flinching, the MK3 raised one hand and caught the bat mid-swing. The force of the blow didn't even cause him to budge. The man stared in disbelief, pulling at the bat to free it from the MK3's grasp, but it was no use. The MK3 tightened his grip and, with a slight twist of his wrist, bent the metal bat as if it were made of soft clay.

The thug's eyes widened in horror as the MK3 casually tossed the twisted remains of the bat aside. "What... what are you?!" he whimpered, stumbling backward in fear.

Panic spread quickly among the remaining men. They tried to scatter, some dropping their weapons in hopes of surrendering, others charging in blind desperation. But it was no use.

One MK3 delivered a swift punch to the stomach of an oncoming attacker, his fist connecting with such force that the man doubled over, gasping for air, before collapsing to the ground. Another thug swung a knife at the second MK3, but before the blade could come close, the MK3 sidestepped effortlessly, grabbed the man's arm, and twisted it behind his back. The sound of bones snapping echoed in the still night as the thug screamed in agony before falling to the ground, his arm bent at an unnatural angle.

The MK3s moved with precision and ruthlessness, each strike calculated and devastating. One by one, the thugs were taken down, their bodies falling limp to the ground as their bones broke and their weapons were rendered useless. It was a massacre, swift and brutal.

One of the men, too terrified to fight back, dropped to his knees, his hands raised in surrender. "Please! I give up!" he cried, tears streaming down his face. But the MK3 didn't stop at all, he swung his fist toward the man's face, ready to end the fight.

Just as the punch was about to connect, Zastan's eyes flashed, and he mentally gave the command. To stop.

The MK3 froze, his fist mere inches from the man's face. The thug, trembling in fear, looked up at the burly figure in disbelief, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

Zastan stepped forward, walking calmly among the broken bodies of the dozen men now lying on the ground, groaning in pain. Some had broken arms, others had shattered ribs, and all of them were incapacitated. He stopped in front of the man still on his knees, who was now shaking uncontrollably.

"You," Zastan said, his voice low and cold, "are lucky."

The man gulped, his wide eyes never leaving Zastan as he nodded frantically.

Zastan glanced over the broken scene before him, then turned back to the MK3s. "Leave him. Let him crawl back and tell whoever sent him what happened here tonight."

The MK3s stepped back, their eyes still locked on the man as if waiting for any sudden movements. But the thug didn't dare make a sound. His body trembled as he slowly backed away, his fear palpable.

Zastan turned his back to him and walked toward the car, his expression calm as ever. The MK3s followed, silently stepping into position behind him.

Zastan turned his back to the man and walked toward the car, his expression was calm, and almost indifferent. The MK3s followed silently, slipping into formation behind him. But as soon as Zastan got into the co-pilot seat and closed the door, his calm facade began to fade.

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His chest tightened, and he could feel a wave of nausea building up inside him. It was his first time witnessing such brutal violence firsthand. The sight of broken bones, twisted limbs, and the blood-stained ground replayed in his mind, making him feel as though he might vomit or faint at any moment.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. "This is the path I've chosen," he reminded himself, forcing the the urge to vomit to slightly back down. "If I want to fight, I need to get used to this." Slowly, with each breath, he calmed his nerves. The swirling nausea eased, and the trembling in his hands subsided. Though the experience had shaken him, Zastan knew this wouldn't be the last time he'd encounter such violence. He had chosen this life, and he needed to steel himself for whatever came next.

...

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, the Xia family sat in anticipation. They had been keeping a close eye on Zastan, especially after hearing he had ventured into the suburbs as they were being hunted.

Which made them think that Zastan made a grave mistake. In their eyes, this was either an act of arrogance or foolish bravery.

The Dragon Talon, the group they had hired for the job, was notorious for their ruthlessness and efficiency. The Xia family knew this all too well. The organization was known for its deadly methods, able to extract information and eliminate targets with precision, leaving no trace behind. "There's no way Zastan survives this," one of the elders had confidently remarked earlier. After all, no one had ever walked away from an encounter with the Dragon Talon unscathed.

But as the hours dragged on, no news came. The Xia family grew restless, exchanging glances of impatience. Surely by now, Zastan would have been taken care of.

Little did they know, their plan had already failed miserably.

...

Back at the scene of the fight.

The last man standing from the Dragon Talon mission shakily dialed the number of his headquarters. His body ached, and his breath came in short, uneven long gasps for air as he tried to steady himself.

When the line connected, his voice trembled as he spoke. "Mission... failed. There was a strong practitioner among them."

On the other end of the line, there was a brief silence before a deep voice responded. "A practitioner? Elaborate."

The man swallowed hard, his eyes looked straight to the bodies of his fallen comrades. "There was only one who made a move, but he took out the entire team. And there were others, at least a dozen who just watched all of these. They must all be practitioners, stronger than any of us."

There was another pause on the other end of the line.

Finally, the voice spoke again, colder and more deliberate. "Stay where you are. Rescue will be dispatched. We will handle the rest."

The call ended abruptly, leaving the man in a state of shock and fear, his body trembling as he awaited whatever would come next.

...

At the Dragon Talon headquarters, the news of the mission's failure sent ripples through the organization. The report was quickly relayed up the chain of command, and within minutes, a call was placed to the Xia family.

In a lavish reception room where the secondary branch of the Xia family held their meetings, an elder named Xia Rong was seated, sipping tea as he awaited news of Zastan's demise. The room was rather neat, and simple, yet, it is filled with fine wooden furniture and exotic plants that spoke of the Xia family's wealth and influence.

When Xia Rong's phone rang, he glanced at the screen.

Seeing the familiar number from the Dragon Talon. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Finally," he muttered, answering the call with a sense of triumph.

But the voice on the other end wasn't up to their expectation.

It was deep, cold, and filled with irritation. "The mission you provided us with... failed."

Xia Rong's smirk vanished, his body tensing at the unexpected news. "What?" he spat, his voice sharp.

"You provided us with incorrect information," the voice continued. "There was a practitioner far beyond the strength we were led to believe. We suffered heavy losses. Thirteen men, including a C-rank member which was cultivated by our organization."

Xia Rong's grip on the phone tightened. This was a disaster. The Dragon Talon was not an organization to be crossed lightly, and failure of this magnitude came at a high price.

"We are demanding compensation for the wrong information you provided," the voice stated coldly. "Three hundred thousand dollars for each casualty."

Xia Rong's blood ran cold as he quickly did the math. "Thirteen casualties?" he repeated, his heart sinking. "That's nearly four million dollars."

"And," the voice added, "an additional 2.5 million dollars for the loss of a C-rank member."

Xia Rong sat in stunned silence, the weight of the demand settling over him like a crushing force. "I... I understand," he finally muttered. "We'll arrange the payment."

"Good," the voice replied, unyielding.

...