The coward ran nonstop until he reached a crumbling building deeper in the Neutral Zone — a hideout. Voices, laughter, the stench of alcohol. At least ten people inside. The hideout door slammed open.
A bloodied thug stumbled inside—panting, trembling… eyes unfocused. The gamblers and drinkers paused mid-motion, staring.
"What the hell happened to you?"
"Did someone jump you?"
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
But the man didn't answer. He kept looking over his shoulder… like something was following him. His legs gave out, crashing to the floor. Hands shaking violently, he finally screamed:
"H-He killed them! A kid—white hair—he's coming!"
The room fell silent. Confusion. A few uneasy glances. No one moved to grab a weapon yet—
they were too busy trying to process the madness spilling from his mouth. And then—
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
A soft footstep, echoing from the center of the room.
They all looked up.
Knox was already standing above them, on the long table—one hand lazily adjusting his white hair, eyes curved in a crescent.
"Hiii~ What a beautiful night, isn't it?"
"You little—!"
A man grabbed his weapon—
Knox raised a hand.
A tiny spark ignited on his fingertip.
"…Burn."
Boom.
A wave of fire exploded outward like a blooming inferno. Tables overturned, bottles shattered—flames devoured everything they touched. Screams echoed. Men rolled desperately on the floor—but the fire clung to them like hungry beasts. One after another, they fell, charred, unmoving.
The crackling of burning timber swallowed the bandit's screams. Flames slithered along the walls like hungry serpents, devouring everything in their path. Smoke thickened, turning the air into a choking nightmare.
Knox walked through the inferno as though fire itself was parting for him.
A bandit rushed with a desperate swing of his axe—
Knox didn't even look.
FWOSH—!!
A pillar of flame swallowed the man whole. No time for a scream.
Knox felt his heartbeat slow. His breathing calm. His vision sharpen.
Newtype sense.
Every motion around him unfolded like a slow-moving diagram.
He saw openings before they existed.
A lunging knife?
Knox stepped aside — palm igniting — and drove it into the attacker's ribs.
A crossbow bolt fired from behind?
He tilted his head, letting it whistle past his ear before aiming his palm.
BANG!
The shooter's chest bloomed with fire.
The hideout became a slaughterhouse.
In less than a minute—The hideout was a burning tomb. Only one survivor remained—the same thug who brought Knox here. He coughed, shaking violently, cornered by the spreading flames. Knox approached slowly, eyes reflecting firelight.
"Don't die yet," he said calmly.
"We still have business."
He squatted down, staring directly into the man's terrified eyes.
"Where. Is. Your. Stash?"
The thug pointed frantically at a locked backroom door. Knox smiled and patted his head.
"Good boy."
He walked away—ignoring the man's sobbing prayers—and kicked the door open. Inside: crates of stolen goods — glittering coins, bundles of dried food, medicine, illegal weapons. But one object drew his eye instantly.
"…You're coming with me."
He swung his hand through the air—space rippled, swallowing every piece of loot like invisible jaws. Fire roared louder now—walls crumbling, heat distorting everything. Without a second look, Knox stepped through the flames and vanished into the dark.
Moments later—
The survivor burst out of the collapsing building, screaming like a madman:
"A-white hair! Red eyes! A devil! WHITE DEVIL!! He slaughtered everyone—A CHILD!!"
People gathered around him, horrified, whispers spreading like wildfire.
A rumor was born.
The White Devil of the Neutral Zone.
And now, that so called 'White Devil' is busy sorting his loots.
"Phew… not bad for my first real fight."
Knox exhaled slowly, wiping dust from his clothes as he examined the valuables piled before him. "Experience gained, loot secured… it's almost like a game."
He crouched, counting food rations, weapons, and stacks of dull coins. Enough to survive comfortably for a while.
But his expression didn't show triumph.
"Still…Just because the results are good doesn't mean I can get complacent."
A faint, cold breeze swept through the alley. Knox stared at his palm—steady, unshaken. A killer's hand. A child's hand.
"In this place, strength decides everything. Predator or prey—hunter or hunted."
His tone dropped, almost a whisper. "But if I forget the weight of what I've done… what difference would there be between me and some psychopath? Or a mindless killing machine?"
His red eyes reflected the burning hideout in the distance, flames dancing like judgment.
"I chose this path. So, I'll carry everything that comes with it."
He packed the remaining loot into his spatial magic, pulled his hood up, and returned to his house.
Shortly after, Knox arrived at his house. On the way, he never let his guard down, maintaining his vigilance while checking if there were any tails or not. After making sure that he was safe, he immediately took some kind of simple mattress from his inventory, put it on the floor, and then threw himself onto it. Few seconds later, he closed his eyes.