"Adam!?"

  Grace’s scream was louder than the roaring exhaust of the car. But even her voice was drowned out by the howling, manic laughter of the woman behind the wheel.

  "Vroom, vroom, motherfucker!"

  Tongue out, eyes wild, the woman shook her head violently as she slammed the gas pedal harder, pressing Adam even deeper against the wall.

  Adam couldn't even feel his legs anymore. He wasn’t sure if the cracking sounds filling the air were coming from the wall behind him—or from his own bones. Most likely, the latter.

  He drove his fist against the hood of the car, but it barely made a dent. If only he had his metal pipe, he could’ve shattered the window, maybe even caved the woman's skull in. But of course, his weapon was in his other hand—the one currently crushed along with the rest of his lower body.

  The woman only pressed harder on the gas, her tongue lolling further out like some deranged animal.

  Adam clenched his teeth, looking down at himself. And then—an absolutely ridiculous idea came to mind.

  Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he stopped struggling. Instead, he pushed.

  Not against the car—against the wall.

  A guttural, agonized scream tore through his throat as he pushed his upper body forward, tearing himself free inch by inch. Flesh ripped. His spine stretched and snapped. He kept going.

  And the woman? She loved it.

  Her giggling turned to squeals of excitement, her head thrashing as she leaned even further on the gas.

  But before Adam could register what was happening, he saw Grace.

  With a vicious snarl, she ripped open the driver’s door and drove her blade into the woman's neck—again and again. Blood sprayed across the dashboard. The woman's gurgling laughter finally died as her arms went limp.

  Before the body could slump forward, Grace yanked off the seatbelt and dragged her out.

  Samantha, who had been watching everything unfold, suddenly lunged, knife in hand.

  And she started stabbing.

  Again.

  Again.

  Again.

  "Move back, sweetie!" Grace pulled her daughter away, and Samantha quickly retreated toward the wall—her wide eyes now fixed on Adam.

  Without hesitation, Grace jumped into the driver’s seat and threw the car into reverse. The instant Adam was freed, Samantha rushed to his side, her small hands frantically grabbing at his arm.

  "Mister!"

  Adam barely heard her. His body was already knitting itself back together, bones fusing, skin weaving shut. But his mind? It was still trying to process how utterly skewed everything had become.

  "Adam!"

  Grace was at his side in an instant, running trembling hands over his arms, his chest.

  "Are you okay!? No, stupid question—of course you're not okay, you just got fucking flattened. But you’re—ugh, you’re already healing? Why? Why is everything so goddamn fucked up!? Where did that car even come from!? And that woman—she was on our team! Was she on fucking drugs!?"

  "What… what are drugs, Mommy?"

  "Shh!"

  Grace quickly covered Samantha’s ears, exhaling sharply before turning back to Adam.

  But she didn't need to check him anymore.

  Because Adam—despite everything—was already standing up.

  "Your… healing is getting faster," Grace muttered, her brows furrowing. "Ever since you were… eaten by that thing."

  Adam only sighed, rolling his shoulders before hopping on his feet to test them. Samantha, for no reason at all, mimicked him, bunny-hopping in place.

  Their brief moment of quiet, however, was shattered once more.

  "Hey!"

  Grace’s voice cut through the chaos as she spotted someone leaping onto the car—a fellow Red creep. The man didn’t even acknowledge them before speeding off, mowing down Red and Blue alike.

  “This…” Grace’s breath grew heavier as the battlefield descended even further into madness.

  But the car didn’t get far.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  It wasn’t because the tires were clogged with limbs.

  No, it was because something—or rather, someone—landed on the hood while it was still moving, crushing the engine instantly. The entire back of the car bounced from the impact, as if it had just hit an invisible wall.

  A name, glowing bright blue, hovered above the figure now kneeling atop the wreckage:

  [Dr. Syrio, the Duke of Scalpels]

  His gloved fist had caved the metal beneath him. His long white coat fluttered behind him, revealing a dark vest and crisp formal attire beneath. But the most striking feature?

  The dozens of scalpels hanging from his vest.

  With a flick of his wrist, the scalpels detached themselves and began floating in the air, orbiting around him like restless daggers waiting to be unleashed.

  Then, with an elegant, almost effortless wave of his hand—

  They struck.

  The scalpels shot through the car’s windshield, piercing through flesh and bone with surgical precision. Like a swarm of piranhas, they tore into the driver, carving away skin, tendons, muscle.

  In mere moments, the driver’s upper body collapsed like a ruined sandcastle. Flesh and bones reduced to pulp.

  Dr. Syrio tilted his head slightly, flicking his fingers.

  "May your health be better in the next life."

  The scalpels spun faster, whirring like a fan blade—flinging away the blood and gore stuck to them. In seconds, they were pristine again, gleaming under the dim, smoke-filled light. One by one, they drifted back toward his vest.

  "Hmm?"

  Before the scalpels could all latch onto him, however, a sudden gust of wind swept through the battlefield, rustling his hair and coat.

  Dr. Syrio’s eyes narrowed. Slowly, he looked up.

  A bright shadow loomed overhead.

  A giant translucent palm—larger than the car itself—was descending upon him at terrifying speed.

  And then boom!

  A violent shockwave tore through the air, hurling nearby creeps several meters away. The car was flattened without resistance, crushed into the crater that had formed beneath the massive handprint.

  Dr. Syrio, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  Instead, he was already meters away, scalpels spinning defensively around him. His sharp gaze locked onto a new figure emerging from the dust and debris.

  From the scattered creeps still struggling to sit up, a bald man strode forward.

  Barefoot, shirtless, his baggy pants rippled in the wind. His muscular chest bore a massive mandala tattoo, intricate and ancient. He raised a hand to his face, his forehead and nose resting lightly against his index finger.

  Above his head, his name glowed a deep, unyielding red.

  [Paik, the Buddha’s Wind]

  “Amitabha.”

  Paik whispered the word, yet his voice carried effortlessly on the wind, reaching Dr. Syrio despite the distance between them.

  “Why did you leave? We were fighting. And why let the sheep suffer? You are a doctor.”

  Dr. Syrio did not respond. Instead, he took a step forward. Then another. By the third step, he vanished—along with his scalpels.

  And in the blink of an eye, he reappeared just a couple of meters away from Paik, sprinting toward him, his arms flailing behind him like a ninja. With a flick of his fingers, his scalpels shot forward, slicing through the air toward the monk.

  Paik’s thick brows furrowed as he thrust out his palm.

  A colossal translucent hand materialized before him, its shape mirroring his own. The wind-based construct surged forward, colliding with the oncoming scalpels.

  Some of the blades wobbled mid-flight, their momentum killed instantly. But the majority curved sharply, changing trajectory like homing missiles—aimed right at Paik’s exposed sides.

  Still, he did not flinch.

  He thrust both palms outward, sending two bursts of wind spiraling to the sides. The force deflected the incoming scalpels before they could reach him.

  But in that moment—

  Dr. Syrio appeared behind him. A scalpel already in hand.

  Paik’s arms were still extended. He had no way to counter, and the sharp blade plunged into his back, tearing through flesh before slicing deeper.

  “Kh—!” Paik’s face twisted in pain.

  But instead of stumbling forward, he dropped low.

  The scalpel ripped further into his shoulder as he crouched, but he gritted his teeth and swung his leg backward—

  Sweeping Dr. Syrio clean off his feet.

  Dr. Syrio’s eyes widened as his balance was ripped away. But before he could even attempt to correct himself in the air, Paik was already there.

  His rugged palm pressed firmly against Dr. Syrio’s chest.

  “Ho.” And then, with a breath, he shot a devastating palm blast, point-blank.

  The shockwave erupted straight through Dr. Syrio’s back.

  The sheer force cratered the ground beneath them, carving into the earth before his body could even hit it. And when his back finally slammed onto the pavement—

  He didn’t stop. His entire body sank into the ground, driven deep into the earth by the impact.

  Dr. Syrio never uttered a final word. His eyes dimmed before he could even attempt one.

  So Paik spoke for him.

  “You have been blown by the Buddha’s wind. Rest, and try again.”

  Silence followed.

  Paik stood at the edge of the hole he had created, offering a silent prayer to the fallen Hero.

  His prayer did not last long, however, as a set of heavy footsteps approached behind him.

  Paik exhaled, not bothering to turn.

  “What took you so long?” he muttered.

  No answer came. The approaching figure could not speak.

  It was Bjorn.

  His suit—once pristine—was now in tatters, soaked in blood.

  Paik glanced at him, scanning him from head to toe. Then, without a word, he raised a palm and sent a gentle gust of wind toward him, sweeping away the grime and gore from Bjorn’s suit.

  “Did the Chained Killer give you a hard time, Brawler?”

  Paik smiled as he spoke, and Bjorn nodded in response before signing a quick thank you—followed by something else.

  Paik watched his hands for a moment, then let out a breath and smiled.

  “Luck plays a huge role in the Game, Brawler,” he said, before glancing at Dr. Syrio’s corpse. The body was already beginning to dissolve into shimmering particles of light, fading away piece by piece. “Dr. Syrio was strong, but I just happened to be a bad match for him. Amitabha.”

  And while the two Heroes spoke as if they weren’t standing atop a battlefield, Adam watched from a distance—his blade cutting through endless waves of enemy creeps.

  One thought would not leave his mind.

  The Heroes.

  Just how strong were they?

  He’d seen videos before—clips captured by drones hovering outside the Dome, zoomed in from thousands of feet away. But those recordings never did justice to the speed, the precision, the sheer destruction these warriors could unleash.

  But now?

  Now that he was witnessing it in person?

  He couldn't help but wonder—

  If he became a Hero… what kind of abilities would he receive?

  But what Adam didn’t know was that while he was watching the Heroes—others were watching him.

  From those very same drones he had just thought of.

  And they were talking.

  Oh, they were talking.

  [Is it just me… or is that one vet on the West Lane really hard to kill?]

  [You mean the one who just got hit by a car? I saw that too.]

  [Why’s he even still alive?]

  [Must be a pre-Hero who dumped everything into Strength. But who is he? I know all the faces of this month’s pre-Heroes, but with all the smoke, I can’t tell.]

  [Look at him now—he’s… letting those two other creeps take his kill?]

  [Is he helping them? Or does he just want to stay a creep longer!?]

  [Okay. We might have another psycho on our hands, folks!]

  PATREON. I have... like 16 or so chapters I've posted there before I got banned and lost motivation.