Malthus couldn't touch Jack.
And that's not even a metaphor — he literally couldn't.
Because Jack was a ghost.
Punching him was like trying to slap depression — you just go through it and feel worse.
Malthus swung with the full fury of a man whose Wi-Fi just cut out mid-boss fight… and hit nothing.
His fist went through Jack like unpaid taxes through a corrupt politician.
Jack, being the disrespectful legend he is, dropped a one-liner so cold it froze Malthus' self-esteem on contact.
Then — bam — his aura shot up to max level, glowing like a spirit who just unlocked "Petty Mode."
But Malthus' punch still cratered the ground hard enough to make the planet moan.
The shockwave sent soldiers flying through the air like popcorn kernels of despair.
A few landed face-first, some sideways, but no one died. Because apparently physics respects the plot.
Nobody even turned to look back.
They knew it was Malthus.
They also knew he was my problem.
