At the core of Ashwood Town, Yorknew City, the sun bathed the bustling marketplace in golden light. A large crowd had gathered at its center, but the market’s usual activity was not the main attraction for the townsfolk.

  They were headed toward the corner of the marketplace, where the Martial Club stood in its humble glory.

  A long queue had formed outside, stopped at the entrance by a young man who appeared to be less than twenty. He wore a neatly ironed yellow uniform with the emblem of the Martial Club stitched onto the left side of his chest—a simple insignia of two fists crossing each other. The design had, of course, been approved by the club leader, Cade.

  As a new recruit, he had been assigned the monotonous job of collecting tickets. He scratched his buttocks absentmindedly while scanning the tickets, a clear sign of how dull he found the task.

  "Here’s my ticket, man," said the man at the front, handing it over. The recruit barely glanced at it before motioning him inside.

  "Next," he called, and so the queue crept forward at a steady pace.

  A few paces behind the front of the line stood a middle-aged father and his plump son, waiting patiently for their turn.

  "Dad, why are we even waiting in this line?" the boy, barely in his early teens, whined.

  The father sighed. "You have no patience. Well, since we're already here, I might as well tell you. This is the Martial Club, and we’re here to witness the monthly fight between the vice leaders of the club."

  The boy rolled his eyes. "Dad, no need to explain the history to me. I live in the same town, you know."

  The middle-aged man lightly smacked the boy on the back of his head, drawing a few chuckles from nearby bystanders.

  "Shut up and listen to your father once in a while. You might actually learn something, you buffoon," he scolded lightly. "As I was saying, the vice leaders have never fought each other directly—only their students compete. Five thousand Jenny per ticket is quite expensive, but this is no ordinary match. I've been here three times, and every fight teeters on the edge of being transcendental. But this one—this one, I've heard, is going to be truly phenomenal."

  The boy's sullen expression brightened at the mention of supernatural elements, and he suddenly found himself eager for the match.

  After a while, it was finally their turn. The plump boy, too excited to wait, barreled the entrance first, forcing his father to hurry after him.

  What greeted them inside was a miniature version of an arena. At its center stood a raised concrete platform—two meters high and twenty meters square in area.

  Surrounding it were tiered rows of seats that climbed higher the further they were from the platform. People scrambled to secure whatever seats remained.

  Father and son joined the crowd, searching for a place to sit.

  Before long, the arena was overflowing with people. Nearly five hundred people had gathered, an unusually large turnout due to the year-end festivities. Visitors from surrounding towns had come as well.

  "Dad, who are those people sitting there? I want to sit there too," the plump boy said, pointing toward the front row. The seats were occupied by several middle-aged men and women.

  "They are the kin of the official members of the Martial Club, son," his father explained.

  "Unlike us, who have to buy our seats, theirs are reserved for free."

  Then, turning to his son with a soft look, he added, "I brought you here to broaden your horizons. Watch closely and learn what you can. After all, you might be training here in the future."

  The boy shifted excitedly in his seat, anticipation bubbling in his chest.

  Slowly, a young man climbed up the stage with confidence. He was wearing a uniform similar to the one the new recruit wore, differing only in color. This man’s uniform was violet, with the emblem of the Martial Club secured on the left side of his chest.

  He stood proudly, his hair slicked back with style. Adjusting his bulbous yet fashionable glasses, he addressed the spectators.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Martial Club arena. For those who know me and those who don’t, my name is Vigil Grey. I am one of the three vice leaders of the Martial Club. Along with my fellow vice leaders, we welcome you! and are tremendously grateful for your support in this endeavor of ours!"

  He turned around, now facing the other side of the arena.

  "Today, the two toughest among us three will fight, and we hope to put on a show that will be truly memorable. I ask all of you who have come from far and near—"

  He paused for a few moments, letting the suspense build.

  "ARE YOU READY FOR THE MOST EXCITING FIGHT OF YOUR LIFE?!"

  His voice boomed through the room, and the spectators’ response was even more resounding.

  "YEAH!!!"

  The roar of the crowd was so powerful that it traveled beyond the establishment, reaching the ears of people in the marketplace.

  "It seems we're about to miss a great show today," one passerby lamented, having, for some reason, missed today's event.

  Inside the Martial Club, Vigil Grey stepped off the stage, leaving two individuals standing inside.

  One of them was shirtless, his chest bare, and his red hair flowed like a lion’s mane. The other contestant, also shirtless, wore a spotless tank top that clung tightly to his well-developed physique. His hands were loosely wrapped in thick white rags, and his short hair gave him a sharp, disciplined look.

  "Hey, Ezra, ready to get your ass kicked? I won’t be pulling my punches today," the red-haired man provoked his opponent.

  "You shouldn’t worry about me, Martin. Instead, you should be concerned about saving your own skin," Ezra countered with a light smile.

  "Bring out the props." Ezra waved his hand.

  Attendants emerged, carrying crates draped in red cloth onto the stage. Once they placed them down, they left as swiftly as they had come. Each vice leader was handed a crate. When they removed the covers, the spectators finally saw what lay inside.

  "Dad, is that a gun in that crate?"

  The plump boy tugged at his father’s sleeve and inquired softly.

  "Yes, son. It seems they’re about to do something big today," his father replied in a low voice.

  Others murmured amongst themselves as well.

  While Ezra picked up the gun with practiced ease, Martin strapped on a vest and spoke to the crowd. "This here is a standard-issue bulletproof vest. And that gun Ezra is holding? Totally licensed—just in case any lawkeepers in the crowd were getting itchy trigger fingers." He swept his gaze over the people with a knowing smirk. "Now, pay attention, or you'll miss something incredible."

  He spread his arms wide and stood in front of Ezra, who took aim straight at his chest.

  The spectators remained calm, knowing the contestants were positioned so that no one in the audience was in the line of fire. Martin faced the entrance while Ezra faced the back of the Martial Club.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Ezra rapidly fired three 9mm rounds into the vest. Martin tanked all of them without so much as flinching. Though he seemed unscathed, the same could not be said for the vest. Removing it, he held it up for the spectators to see. The bullet indentations were clear as day.

  Once the audience realized what had just happened, they burst into wild cheers.

  The plump boy didn’t fully understand what had just occurred, but he cheered along with everyone else.

  Once the applause died down, Martin beamed.

  "You liked how I tanked bullets with a vest, huh? I bet you’ll like our next stunt even more."

  With dramatic flair of a showman, he tossed the now-damaged vest aside.

  This time, he stood in the same target position—but without the vest. His bare chest was completely exposed. Ezra leveled his gun and steadied his aim, his posture honed like that of a seasoned shooter.

  The murmurs among the audience were now far less subdued. One man in the front row abruptly shot to his feet.

  "Son! What is this nonsense?! Stop it immediately!"

  The man’s red hair was similar to Martin’s, but the plump boy couldn't see his face from where he sat.

  In his peripheral vision, Vigil Grey reappeared, approaching the red-haired man. He spoke a few cryptic words, which seemed to calm him down.

  The show continued.

  Martin cast an apologetic glance at the man—his father, it seemed—then refocused. He closed his eyes for a second before abruptly opening them, his mouth stretching into a wide grin. A strange suffocating pressure descended upon the spectators, and the plump boy was no exception. He felt as if someone were gripping his neck and choking him—yet, just as suddenly as the sensation came, it disappeared.

  "Bring it on, Ezra." Martin puffed out his chest, making an inviting motion with his hand.

  The air tensed.

  Ezra pulled the trigger without hesitation.

  BANG!

  A 9mm round struck Martin's chest—but he remained standing like a monolith. Before the audience could even react—

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Ezra kept firing, unleashing a merciless barrage of bullets. His first magazine emptied. Without pausing, he swiftly reloaded with another fully stocked magazine and continued firing. By the time the second magazine was empty, many spectators had their hands overtheir ears.

  Tendrils of smoke rose from the gun’s muzzle, and the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder.

  The plump boy’s eyes darted to the stage, where a plethora of warped rounds lay scattered. Then, his gaze locked onto Martin’s chest—the very center of the firepower. His eyes widened in astonishment.

  Although Martin’s skin had turned slightly red, there was not a single wound or injury in sight.

  Before the boy could fully process what he was witnessing—

  Clap!

  A sharp clap echoed through the silence.

  Then, like a domino effect, more and more people joined in, their cheers and applause drowning the arena in an unceasing clamor.

  The plump boy’s father, noticing his son's astonished gaze, wrapped him in a hug and muttered in disbelief, "How is this kind of strength even possible?"

  "Cant.....breath!"the boy wheezed.

  As the cheers slowly faded, Ezra tossed the Glock aside and took on a martial arts stance, the thick white rags around his fists fluttering.

  "Shall we proceed with the main course?" he asked.

  "You know I love the main course," Martin replied, mirroring his stance.

  And so, the onlookers bore witness to a fight that would leave their hearts pounding.

  ..........

  Cade, conversely, was driving the flamboyant blue Mustang with fiery patterns that the trio of ruffians had used a few months back when they trespassed on the Zoldyck estate. From the way he cruised the car so freely and effortlessly, it was clear he’d taken quite a liking to it.

  And it seemed he wasn’t the only one enjoying the ride, his companion snake was fiddling with the radio knob, sinking its jaws into it and rotating it aimlessly like a curious child.

  Every now and then, it hissed in satisfaction when it landed on a station playing jazz.

  After making a stop at the Yorknew City Zoo to collect some samples for bioserum, Cade had left the heart of Yorknew City behind. He was now on his way to Ashwood Town, utterly unaware of the chaos his unruly students might be causing in his absence.