Jose rounded a bend and stumbled into a brutal scene: three men beating someone while a woman stood nearby, sobbing.
He drew his ninjato instinctively. He knew—monsters were terrifying, but humans could be worse.
Still, he hesitated. It was easy to jump to conclusions, but life rarely made things simple. For all he knew, the woman and man could've been the instigators.
He cupped his hand to his mouth, shouting, "Hey! What the hell's going on over there?"
The woman screamed. "Help! They are killing him and are going to r—!"
A flash of silver.
One of the thugs slashed her throat. Just like that.
She clutched her neck, eyes wide, blood pouring between her fingers.
Jose froze. For a moment, all he could do was stare.
How could someone end a life so casually?
Then he remembered—some people didn't need reasons. Some were just animals in human skin.
Others were worse: predators who twisted their own pain into justification for inflicting more.
Rage swelled, burning away the shock.
These weren't just thugs. They were terrorists. He always called them that—the kind of people who used pain and terror to cow the googly people of the world into submission.
In the old world, punishing them would land him in jail.
But not anymore.
Not here.
No laws.
No excuses.
Just justice.
Here, he had the power. And he'd be damned if he let men like this carve their mark on this new world.
Jose moved before he could think.
He dashed forward, blade high, and before the closest thug could turn, he swung.
The sword caught him in the neck—halfway through—stuck in bone.
The man crumpled, gurgling.
Jose didn't stop.
He abandoned the sword, pulled his baton, and cracked it against the next thug's shoulder with a sickening crack.
The man dropped hard.
The third was already running.
Jose hurled the baton. A lucky hit—it clipped the man's ankle and sent him sprawling.
Jose turned, ripped his sword from the dying man's neck, stabbed the second one through the spine for good measure, and ran after the last.
The thug was scrambling up as Jose reached him.
Jose kneed him hard in the head, dropping him again.
This was the one with the knife—the one who'd killed the woman.
He tried to crawl away.
Jose didn't let him.
He grabbed the man by the hair, slammed his face into the dirt once, twice, again—until he stopped moving—and dragged him back to the dying second man.
He dropped him and screamed, "Strike!" over and over as he kicked the second man's head in.
Then he turned back, grabbed the sword, and slashed the third man's throat. Just like the woman.
The scream that left Jose wasn't human. It tore through him like wildfire.
"Are you happy now?! Is this what you like?! HUH?! Answer me, you fuck!!"
He panted, chest heaving, blood dripping from his sword.
Then his voice dropped—ice cold.
"You're in pain? You don't wanna die? You're sorry? Maybe you should've thought of that before you became a murdering piece of shit."
Each word punctuated by a jab of the blade. An arm. A leg.
The man whimpered.
Jose didn't care.
"YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" he roared. "WHY DO YOU HURT PEOPLE?! WHY DO MONSTERS LIKE YOU EXIST?! WHY?!"
His voice broke. He was screaming without words now. Just fury.
"JUST FUCKING DIE!"
And then—nothing. No more sound but his heavy breathing.
The man was dead.
Jose stared at the ruined body.
His stomach twisted.
He bent over and vomited onto the corpse.
People such as this were exactly the kinds of people Jose was worried about getting ahold of magic and skills. Should they live and gain these things, the world would become a living hell.
Jose stood and returned to the victims.
He'd failed.
The woman was sprawled in a pool of her own blood, her hand stretched out—reaching for the man who lay broken beside her.
She had tried to crawl to him.
She hadn't made it.
The man was still alive, barely. His jaw hung at a wrong angle. His face was almost unrecognizable, swollen and bloodied. Breathing came in ragged gasps.
Jose's chest tightened.
They wore wedding bands.
He felt the full weight of it then. They were a couple. And the man had watched her die—slowly, painfully—while he lay powerless on the ground.
"P…s… k..l… m.."
The man's voice was a broken whisper, barely audible.
Jose didn't need to hear.
He understood.
Jose, sadly, had no medical experience from which he could pull to save the man's life either.
First aid was something he could do and even had the supplies for, but this required a lot more than just first aid.
And it was obvious, that even if he could somehow manage it, saving the man's life after watching his wife die in front of him would not be appreciated.
They were a young couple too.
The wife beautiful in her youth.
The thugs intentions were clear.
Had he not come along, they would have made the husband watch with his dyeing breaths as they ravaged and violated her.
Once done they would have killed her too. Discarded like an unwanted toy.
He knelt beside him, eyes blurring with tears. "I'm sorry… I couldn't save her. Or you."
The man's hand groped the dirt—Jose guided it to rest against his wife's outstretched arm.
The man smiled.
A nod.
A single tear.
Jose gritted his teeth and slid the sword through his brain.
He didn't move for a long time.
Just stared.
At their bodies.
At the blood.
At the finality of it all.
He wanted to scream again. To tear the world apart. To bring those bastards back just to kill them again.
Why? What joy did they take in doing this?
He didn't understand. He would never understand.
This wasn't the first violence he'd seen—but something about this… it was different. It was too much.
A part of him, the naive part, always believed people would stand together, united against the monsters.
And this… this was his wake-up call.
The voice came, quiet and cruel.
"You couldn't even save them."
"What good is your power if you're still useless?"
"How do you expect to save your family?"
It was the voice of depression. Of hopelessness.
It was insidious, the way depression twisted and warped things in one's mind. Often using logic against you.
Yes, he'd failed these two, but so what?
Yes, he had power now, but would any amount of power ever be enough in circumstances such as this?
He'd done all he could and that was what mattered. At the very least, he was able to avenge them.
For a long time, he stood there unmoving, unable to gain his bearing, calm his emotions, and come to terms with the situation.
No amount of hardship had prepared him for this, and he almost lost himself.
Eventually, his legs moved.
He ran.
Ran from the corpses. From the guilt. From the voice.
But the grief chased him. The shame clung to his skin.
He knew it might never leave.
And worst of all—deep down—he knew this wouldn't be the last time.
He ran.
Through tears, through rage, through fear.
He ran.
His legs felt like stone. His breaths came in short gasps. His mind flipped through every nightmare, every horrible image of his loved ones suffering such a fate.
And so, he ran.
His mind and heart were in turmoil. He knew the right thing was to kill the thugs for what they had done.
But could he do it again if he had to? Could he keep the promise he'd made himself in anger?
Could he become a merciless arbiter of justice, dispensing pain and death in kind to the evil as situations would dictate?
At the end of the day, he wasn't sure.
He was a good person by nature and prided himself in always trying to resolve problems without violence.
Of course, life was never that easy, so he'd been forced to use violence on occasion, but still, violence and murder were different things.
But this new world was a brutal struggle for survival.
Some situations would require merciless violence not compassion or understanding.
He would have to adapt.
To survive
To live
To thrive.