Garou's footsteps echoed unevenly down the darkened alley, each one dragging heavier than the last. His vision swam, a haze of pain and exhaustion painting the edges of the world in crimson. Every muscle screamed, every breath cut sharp through his ribs. He could taste blood in his mouth, metallic and bitter.
The crowd, the heroes, the chaos all of it faded behind him. He had escaped again, but this time… barely.
He stumbled into the shadows of a derelict building, the remnants of some forgotten construction project. Rusted beams jutted out like broken bones. Shattered glass littered the floor. No one would come here. No one would find him.
Garou collapsed against a pillar, sliding down until he sat in the dust. His chest heaved, blood dripping down his arm from a deep gash. He pressed a trembling hand against it, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.
"Damn it…" he hissed. "Too close."
Hours bled together.
He tore strips from his tattered shirt, wrapping them clumsily around wounds. The fabric soaked quickly, dark and heavy, but it slowed the bleeding. His body shook uncontrollably, caught between exhaustion and adrenaline.
Yet his eyes never dimmed.
Even on the brink, Garou's gaze burned with defiance.
"They call me a monster," he muttered to the emptiness. "They cheer for their heroes, blind to their hypocrisy. But I… I'll expose them. Even if it kills me."
His voice cracked, softer now. "No… not yet. Not until I prove it. Not until I surpass them all."
He leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling above. In the silence, his mind drifted. Memories surfaced unbidden Bang's stern face, the drills in the dojo, the weight of Kaizen's watchful eyes.
For an instant, he almost let himself feel regret. Almost.
Then he shoved it down, forcing the weakness from his chest with sheer will. Regret was for cowards. He was the Hero Hunter. The one who would break the cycle.
Days passed.
The world outside believed he had vanished, maybe even died from his injuries. Rumors spread like wildfire:"Garou's finally gone.""No one could survive that beating.""Maybe a monster finished him off."
But Garou endured. Alone.
He scavenged for food at night, his movements ghostlike, avoiding every patrol. Rats, scraps, anything he could find. He trained even as his wounds throbbed, forcing his body through stances and strikes until the pain blurred into numbness.
When his legs gave out, he crawled. When his arms failed, he clenched his teeth and imagined the faces of the heroes he had yet to crush.
The silence was suffocating, but also cleansing. Without the noise of crowds, without the interference of master or disciple, there was only himself.
And in that silence, Garou sharpened.
Elsewhere, Kaizen searched.
Every corner of Z-City whispered of Garou's fall, yet Kaizen felt no certainty in the rumors. He knew better. Garou was too stubborn, too relentless to die unseen.
Each night Kaizen walked the streets, scanning shadows, listening for traces. And though he never found Garou, the weight of their last encounter lingered. The look in his eyes. The challenge left hanging between them.
Find me.
The words haunted Kaizen more than any wound could.
But Garou did not want to be found. Not yet.
On the fifth night, Garou's fever broke.
He awoke drenched in sweat, his body weak but his mind clearer. He forced himself upright, leaning on the pillar, and looked at his reflection in a shard of glass.
His face was gaunt, shadows beneath his eyes, hair matted with dirt and blood. He looked like the monster they called him.
And he smiled.
"Good," he rasped. "If the world sees a monster, then a monster I'll become. But one of my own making."
He flexed his hands, the bones still aching but steady. He could feel it his body adapting, pushing past limits, reforging itself under pressure. Every wound was a lesson, every scar a reminder.
The heroes thought they had broken him. They were wrong.
He was only getting stronger.
Weeks passed.
Garou emerged from hiding like a shadow reborn. His steps were firmer now, his strikes sharper, his eyes colder. He no longer bore the look of a fugitive running from death he carried the aura of something inevitable.
He moved from district to district, never staying long. At night, he prowled rooftops, studying heroes from afar. He memorized their patterns, their flaws, their hesitations.
And slowly, silently, he rebuilt himself.
The city had forgotten him in his absence, lulled into fragile comfort. But soon, they would remember.
Meanwhile, in the dojo, Bang spoke quietly to Kaizen.
"Do not be deceived by rumors. I know my former disciple. Garou will return. And when he does, he will be stronger than before."
Kaizen clenched his fists. "Then I'll be ready."
Bang studied him, the weight of unspoken warnings in his eyes. He had lost one disciple to obsession. He could not lose another. But Kaizen's path was his own to walk.
"Remember this," Bang said finally. "Strength without purpose is emptiness. Do not chase him into the void he has chosen."
Kaizen bowed, but inside, the fire burned hotter.
Garou's path and his own were converging. Whether as rivals, enemies, or something else entirely, he could not yet tell.
But one truth was certain Garou had survived. And soon, the world would know it.
Deep in the forgotten corners of the city, Garou wrapped fresh bandages around his arms, tightened his fists, and exhaled slowly. The moonlight cut across his features, sharpening the lines of his face.
He was ready to step back into the storm.
And this time, there would be no mercy.