"Oh—and Tristan."
Tristan looks up.
"I know about five hundred people who could whoop the shit out of you."
Bobby smiles.
"Stay humble, eh?"
His body vanishes.
"Shit." Tristan clicks his tongue in frustration, his hand gripping his chest as he catches his breath.
This is my 25th attempt. The only thing I could accomplish was fully understanding Rook's fighting style. Even after all those deaths, I still can't beat that guy. Each time I think I've understood his fighting style, he just changes it mid-fight.
He was adapting to my adaptation… Tristan deducts mentally, his head lowering in shame.
"..."
"Next time will be different," Tristan mutters under his breath, slowly standing before putting away his sword.
He stands firm, wind passing through his hair and clothes, his gaze drifting into the distance. His teeth grind. His brows furrow.
"Bobby."
---
"Shit!"
The trees pass by in a blur. The sound of his gasps overshadows his footsteps. His entire body is soaked in sweat—blood trickling down from a cut on his face.
Fucking bastards. No one told me crazy people like them would be participating…
…Fuck, what am I even saying? Every hunter currently on this island is crazy in their own way—me included.
His brain racks as his body slowly comes to a halt. He hides behind a tree, peeking over his shoulder to confirm.
"Are they gone?" he pants. "There will always be someone crazier, I swear…"
His head slowly turns forward. His eyes close for a second.
"-!"
SMASH.
His head lodges into the tree as the assailant calmly retrieves his fist.
"Did you get him?" a voice asks, emerging from the other side of the tree.
"See for yourself," the assailant replies, swinging his stained hand and splattering blood onto the floor.
"Shit…" the other mutters, covering the side of his mouth with his fist. His eyes squint as a small laugh escapes. "Ruthless as ever."
"Park."
Park slowly opens his eyes—hazel irises reflecting faint light. A small smile forms as he exhales. He adjusts his suit, shaking his short dark-brown hair afterward.
"You're one to talk, Cross," Park fires back, cracking his fingers as his gaze drifts behind Cross.
The unconscious bodies of multiple hunters lie scattered across the ground.
"Isn't that your handiwork?" Park continues, chuckling softly.
Cross glances back, the corpses reflected in his silver eyes. He turns forward again, eyes closing as he shakes his head in mock dissatisfaction. The corner of his lips twitches—then he begins to laugh.
Park joins him.
"Hahaha… low-key, I love this shit," Cross says, lowering his head as the laughter fades. "Nobody is a match for our martial art."
His hands settle on his waist.
"Yeah… we've definitely come far," Park replies, slipping his hands into his pockets.
I can still remember the struggle back then… Park reminisces.
---
Back then, we were both weak as hell.
"Ugh!" A younger Park crashes into the ground, skidding backward from the force.
"You fucking brat!" the offender snarls, his towering shadow looming over Park's sprawled body.
Park's eyes are red. Tears threaten to spill.
"Get away from him, you fucking pedo!" a younger Cross screams, gripping a metal pipe.
"Who the fuck is that?" the man turns, spotting Cross's trembling hands wrapped around the pipe.
"Hah." A sadistic smile spreads across his face.
"Die, you bastard!" Cross charges.
---
We got beaten shitless that day.
The money we worked so hard to steal was stolen from us.
Haha… karma is indeed a bitch.
After seeing the evil smile on that fucker's face as he pummeled us at the tender age of eight, we decided things couldn't stay the same.
Life was already bad enough.
We were kicked out of the orphanage because there were "too many mouths to feed."
In reality?
We beat up the director's fat kid for dumping food on Cross's head.
We lived in an abandoned car in some alley far away.
Each night we prayed not to get found.
Not to get killed in our sleep.
Or we breathed through our mouths so we wouldn't smell the rotting corpse nearby.
P.S.
It didn't work.
We had enough.
At sixteen, when we learned we could become hunters, we trained like hell—pushing ourselves past our limits.
Eventually, we created our own martial art.
Our own mana technique.
And once we got power?
We went wild.
Every gang.
Every thug.
Every prick.
Fuck it.
Everyone caught it.
It wasn't just revenge.
It refined us.
Four years later, we left the slums—hearts finally at peace.
We started our hunting careers.
And the world gave us a name.
"Vise and Versa."
---
How I miss those times… Park concludes, returning to the present.
"Let's find more prey. It's been a minute since we fought other hunters," Cross says, loosening his shoulders and flicking his wrists.
"Haha… yeah. I think I heard some noise that wa—"
Park stops.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Approaching.
Both turn toward the sound.
A figure emerges from the darkness.
Shoulders high.
Hands in pockets.
Short blonde hair.
Blue eyes.
His chin tilts just enough to look down on them.
"I heard ruckus coming from here and came to locate the source," he says.
Two men step forward behind him, flanking his sides.
"But to think I'd find lowborn peasants."
His nose wrinkles in disgust.
"The forest is already dirty… and now 'human' filth stands before me as well?"
He clicks his tongue.
There are four continents in the world.
The western continent of Unika.
The southern continent of Aphelek.
The northern continent of Karvûk.
The eastern continent of Sharuk.
Each with its own culture, customs, and people.
Sharuk—the land of nobility.
Ruled by the 9th Emperor.
His Radiant Grace, Leo De Carpilio III.
The most influential noble beneath him…
"Who the fuck are you?" Cross asks, rage thick in his voice, a vein bulging on his neck.
"I am Kovac Von Quishilm."
His name.
"The second son of Duke Idris Von Quishilm."
Duke Idris Von Quishilm.
The Perfect Sword.
"No wonder you have a dick so far up your ass," Park mutters, placing a hand on Cross's shoulder.
Cross calms.
"You know what I've been wondering since I arrived?" Kovac sighs, eyes briefly closing. "You both have been matching my gaze."
"Eat shit."
"-!"
THUD.
Cross and Park slam into the ground.
Crushed by invisible pressure.
Kovac Von Quishilm.
As a child, he was a mouth breather.
The mana he inhaled constantly altered his throat and vocal cords.
Granting him a constitution.
Mana Speech.
Anything he says—mana obeys.
"Yes…" Kovac smiles, stepping toward their prone bodies.
"Much better."