Mary pushed herself up from the worn leather chair, her movements heavy, as though the weight of recent events clung to her limbs. She drifted toward the back window, her gaze fixated on the street below. The sunlight filtered through the grimy panes, casting a warm glow over the cobblestones of the road where Jane and I had walked earlier. It was a quaint street, lined with charming old buildings and vibrant flowers in cracked pots, yet there was an undercurrent of peace in the air—one I could tell Mary was desperate to preserve. Her thumbs twitched restlessly, a nervous habit she couldn’t quite suppress. It betrayed the depth of her distress.

"Since this war started a couple of weeks back," she began, her voice tinged with exhaustion, "many of my friends became cripples. Those bastards have taken out more than thirty percent of my members." She raised her hand slowly, revealing a bruised and swollen fist, the skin mottled with shades of purple and blue. Her eyes glistened with a mix of anger and sorrow as she clenched it tightly, as though willing her strength back into her knuckles. "Give them hell for me, will you? They're... I know we're not perfect, but they're evil." I met her gaze but remained unmoved. "I have no feelings in this conflict. I'll do what I've been paid to do. Give me one hour."

Her eyes lingered on me a moment longer, searching for something—perhaps a glimmer of humanity—but she seemed resigned when she nodded. "Every Bloody Knuckle member wears a red cape. Easy to identify." She delivered the information hoping I would take it seriously, though my indifference was clear. I reached up and pulled back my hood, letting it drop. The shadows that had concealed my face slid away, revealing my trained body fully to Mary. Her cheeks flushed slightly at the sight, though she quickly turned her head, perhaps embarrassed by her reaction. I shifted my weight, dropping my heavy, worn bag near her couch. It hit the ground, my supplies inside. "I'm keeping this here until I'm done," I said flatly, my voice carrying the authority of someone who expected no argument. I stepped out of the room and moved with purpose through the lobby, the worn wooden floor creaking under my boots. I could feel the eyes of others lingering on me as I passed, but I ignored them, focusing on the task ahead. The west side of town beckoned—a place filled with the tension of rival forces and the promise of chaos. It was time to start dismantling.

I left the east side of town, a place dripping with decadence and lust. The air was thick with the scent of perfumes, the echo of laughter from dimly lit lounges, and the clinking of glasses from hidden parlors. Yet, even amid all that, there was a certain allure to it—a deceptive charm that, in its own way, felt less hostile than what lay ahead. I was on my way to the other side of town, one ruled by violence, where bloodshed and evil simmered just on the surface. Between them, a river flowed lazily, the last remnant of an old boundary that once kept the two worlds apart. That boundary had been respected, once. Now it was crumbling, breached by the arrogance of Bloody Knuckle. Either they believed they could bring Jiambou down without much of a fight, or they had an ace up their sleeve. Either way, their plans didn't concern me. I had my job to do, and nothing they did would change that.

A single bridge connected the two sides, the only passage across the river, and it was heavily guarded. Three men sat on the bridge, each built like they spent their days lifting crates instead of weapons, their red capes fluttering slightly in the breeze. They lounged around a makeshift table, laughing and tossing cards as though they had no care in the world. They looked like brothers, not in blood, but in their identical posture and shared cocky demeanor. Then there was the fourth man. Taller, thicker, and clearly more dangerous. His white cape billowed out behind him like a banner, and unlike the others, his eyes were locked on me from the moment I came into view. He didn’t smile or join in the card game. No, he was assessing me. The muscles beneath his shirt were better than the others. I stepped onto the bridge, making my presence known with the sharp click of my boots on the stone. Slowly, I slid my hands into my pockets, my posture relaxed but my mind focused.

"Yo." I called out casually. "I've been hired by Jiambou to eradicate Bloody Knuckle from the map." The laughter came almost immediately. The three card-playing men looked up, their faces splitting into wide grins as they mocked me with disbelief. One of them, with a smirk plastered across his face, flicked a card at me as if to show how little he thought of the threat I posed. I swiped it away without breaking eye contact. "What an idiot." the card-flinger scoffed, pushing himself up to his feet. He sauntered toward me with a swagger that showed his overconfidence, his eyes gleaming with the promise of violence. As he reached me, he cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the quiet air. He grabbed me by the collar, his grip rough, pulling me toward him so I could feel the heat of his breath.

The moment his hand clamped onto my collar, I moved. My fingers wrapped around his wrist, my grip tightening. His confident smirk faltered as he realized something was wrong, and a strained expression spread across his face. Slowly, I increased the pressure, my fingers digging into the tendons and bones beneath his skin. His muscles trembled as he tried to pull away, but it was too late. A sharp snap echoed in the air as his wrist gave way, the bone cracking under the force.

His scream never had a chance to fully escape. He crumpled to his knees, clutching his shattered wrist in agony. I took a step back and spun, delivering a roundhouse kick to his cheek with brutal precision. His head snapped to the side, and his body lifted slightly off the ground before tumbling over the edge of the bridge. There was a brief splash as he hit the water, disappearing beneath the blue. The two remaining men, their laughter silenced, stood up from their card game. Their expressions had shifted from amusement to cold resolve as they began to approach, but before they could take another step, a thunderous stomp shook the bridge. The man in the white cape, Tom, halted them with that single movement. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, and his eyes gleamed with a mix of respect and challenge.

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"You're not all talk." he said, his voice low and gruff but carrying a note of acknowledgment. "I'll introduce myself, as it seems you're from out of town. My name is Tom. I'm Bloody Knuckle's No. 4, 'The Bruiser.'" I nodded, rolling my shoulders and cracking my neck as if to stretch out the tension. "Good," I replied, my tone casual despite the impending fight. "I was getting tired of these small fry." Tom's jaw tightened, and he clenched his teeth. His posture shifted, his muscles coiling as if ready to strike at any moment. "Well, let's begin!" he shouted.

Tom lunged forward, extending his front leg as he stepped in for a snap jab. The movement was clean and practiced, but I sidestepped it with ease, weaving out of the way as if it were nothing. His speed was better than the rest—sharper, more refined—but still, it wasn’t enough to put me on edge. I remained calm, assessing his every move with cold precision. He followed up with a more powerful shot, his fist coming at me with heavy force. I caught it in my palm. With a flick of my wrist, I deflected his strike, and for a brief moment, his balance faltered. His feet shuffled awkwardly, and I seized the opportunity. Raising my arm, I prepared to attack, but instinct held me back. I could see it—if I struck now, he’d be ready to counter.

Instead, I shifted tactics. My foot shot forward, driving into his stomach with a hard kick that sent him stumbling backward. The force pushed me back as well, giving me a few feet of distance to reevaluate the situation. My fist had been cocked and ready, but the hesitation had saved me from a costly mistake. If I had committed to that punch, Tom would’ve had the opening he needed to strike back. He wasn't one to give up easily, though. Tom came at me again, closing the gap quickly and throwing a barrage of punches. His hands moved with precision—jabs, straights, a blur of fists aimed at taking me down. His form was solid, his blows well-practiced, and though I deflected and dodged most of them, it was clear that he knew how to fight. He wasn’t some brute relying solely on strength; he had discipline, technique.

He swung a hook at me, but I raised my arm and blocked it, the impact sending a very minor jolt up my forearm. Tom sneered, his voice thick with mockery as he shouted, “Finally stop running?” Running? Is that what he thought this was? Testing his limits, gauging his abilities—that was all I had been doing. But if he mistook my patience for cowardice, that was his error, not mine. Despite his taunt, his expression shifted, and I caught something odd in his eyes. He was smiling—a wide, confident grin that didn’t match the situation. Why?

Then, out of nowhere, I was hit—square in the jaw. My head snapped to the side, and for a moment, my vision blurred as the world tilted. The sky above was a vibrant blue, a few wisps of clouds drifting lazily across it, completely unaware of the fight below. For a second, I let my mind drift, oddly calm as I curved with the momentum of the blow. Instinct kicked in. I twisted my body, letting the force of his punch guide me as I lashed out with my leg. My foot connected with Tom’s jaw, the impact sharp and precise. He flipped backward, his large frame crashing down onto the bridge. As his back hit the ground, I completed my full rotation, landing lightly on my feet. My hand brushed against my mouth, wiping away a small streak of blood. The punch hadn’t been strong; I had just bitten my tongue. Fortunately, the hit was enough to awaken something inside me—an awareness I hadn’t fully grasped before. My strength and speed far exceeded his, far exceeded anyone at this level. Yet, even with that advantage, I realized my flaw. It wasn't a matter of power or skill. It was experience. I had grown accustomed to fighting a certain way—fighting against Zero, a masterful opponent whose style I had memorized, whose movements I could predict. Boxing was not in Zero's skillset. But Tom? Tom struggled back to his feet, wiping at his own jaw with a smirk still plastered across his face. "You're fast," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "but you're weak."

I looked down at my arm. The veins in my right hand were pulsing, more pronounced now, a reminder of the strength I held back. I allowed myself a moment of reflection, my voice quiet as I monologued to myself. "You're fairly skilled, strong, and fast." I admitted. "You can beat most people easily." Tom raised his fists, determination flashing in his eyes as he prepared for a final blow. He bellowed with confidence, "Of course!" I lifted my gaze, locking onto him, staring deep into his soul with an intensity that made him hesitate. My eyes voided, any trace of doubt or hesitation vanishing as the air between us seemed to shift. My voice dropped, cold and unwavering. "I'm not most people," I said slowly, each word a promise of what was to come. "and I’m certainly not going to lose to you."

I moved. The twenty-foot distance between Tom and me disappeared in less than a quarter of a second, my body becoming a blur of speed. My hand was already poised at my side, fingers splayed in a spear formation. With precision and deadly force, I drove all five fingers into Tom's torso, cutting through him like a razor through cloth. He didn't even have time to react. His body stiffened as blood surged from his mouth in a choked gurgle. His eyes bulged, the shock clear in them. "What... was that?" he coughed, his voice weak and slurred. I held my head high, "My unique martial arts style, Piercing Hand. Be grateful I used it against you." Blood pooled in his throat as he struggled to speak. "Egotistical... prick." His body went limp, his strength failing him completely as he fainted. I slowly retracted my hand from his body, now slick with blood. It dripped from my fingertips. I swiped my arm to the side, shaking off the majority of the blood, watching as it splattered onto the ground.

The two men who had been standing guard with him froze in place, their faces pale. Their commander, Bloody Knuckle's No. 4, had been defeated in mere moments. Their confidence shattered, they stood helplessly, paralyzed by fear. I turned my gaze to them, my voice calm but commanding. "I'll spare you if you take off those capes right now and never come back." The first man hesitated, tears welling in his eyes as he looked down at Tom's motionless body. His voice trembled as he replied, "We're never going to abandon our friends." I sighed. Loyalty was admirable, but misplaced in this situation. "Okay." I said quietly.

I raised my foot straight into the air, bringing it down with unrelenting force onto the man's face. His skull caved under the impact, and his body crumpled into the ground. The other man had no time to react before I spun, my heel connecting with his chest. The force of the blow sent him flying off the bridge, tumbling through the air before splashing into the river like his friend. I straightened up, brushing off my hands before turning my attention forward. The west side of town lay before me, the heart of Bloody Knuckle’s territory.. If Tom was No. 4, then maybe, just maybe, No. 1 would be able to take more than one hit before losing.