Muscle mechanics for throwing punches. The optimal angle for kicks. The instinctive body movements for dodging. The practiced feel of pulling a trigger.
And the memory of how, ten minutes ago, this lump of lard called "Fat Ray" had snuck up behind him and knocked him out cold with a sucker punch.
How he'd smugly dragged Cloud into this alley. Even the sleazy thoughts running through his head about which bar he was going to hit up tonight to pick up women—all of it played out in Cloud's mind like a VR movie, crystal clear.
Now!
In the millisecond before Fat Ray was about to pull the trigger.
Cloud's body moved as if it no longer belonged to him—as if a seasoned veteran had taken the wheel.
Following the combat memories he'd just acquired, his body executed the fastest, most vicious, most correct response possible.
His head jerked sharply to the right. His body twisted at an impossibly slick angle, slipping away like an eel.
BANG!
The deafening gunshot echoed through the narrow alley.
The bullet grazed past his temple. The scorching shockwave singed his skin, and he could actually smell burning hair.
Fat Ray froze in place.
He absolutely had not expected this Asian kid—who'd been pissing himself in terror just a second ago—to actually dodge his point-blank shot.
This doesn't make sense!
Cloud used the momentum of his twist. His right hand shot out like a striking viper, five fingers clamping down on Fat Ray's gun wrist with pinpoint precision.
Simultaneously, his left elbow rose and drove forward with ruthless commitment, slamming without mercy into Fat Ray's thick throat.
The dirtiest, most shameless move in Street Fighting—the Throat-Lock Elbow Strike!
"Guh... hrrk!"
Fat Ray's eyes bulged instantly. A sound like a broken bellows wheezed from his throat. The choking agony drained all the strength from his body.
His meaty hand could no longer grip the revolver. The weapon clattered to the rain-soaked ground.
One hit. Cloud didn't hesitate, showed no mercy.
He kicked the gun away, then spun and drove a clean knee strike deep into Fat Ray's gut.
The two-hundred-plus-pound man crumpled like a sack of wet cement, clutching his throat and stomach, twitching on the ground like a dying catfish.
The tables had turned completely.
Cloud picked up the cold revolver and, mimicking Fat Ray's earlier pose, pressed the barrel firmly against the thug's forehead.
The rain at the alley's mouth fell harder, washing away the filth.
Cloud's hand trembled slightly on the gun—half from the post-adrenaline shakes of surviving a near-death experience, half from the thrill of holding someone else's life in his hands.
He looked at Fat Ray's face, now twisted with terror and disbelief, and let a cold, mocking smile curl at the corner of his lips.
"Now it's my turn to ask the questions."
His voice was quiet, but it cut into Fat Ray's ears like a blade dipped in ice.
"In the back alleys of South Town, you're either a friend or a corpse."
"Which one do you want to be?"
In the damp air, the only sounds were raindrops drumming on trash cans and Fat Ray's ragged, bovine gasps.
Cloud knew that his damned—yet destined to be spectacular—King of Fighters journey had officially begun. Right here, right now, in this filthy back alley.
...
Fat Ray was panicking. Panicking hard.
He swore he'd never seen anything this bizarre in his entire life.
One second, this Asian kid was under his boot, crying with snot running down his face.
The next second, it was like the kid had activated some "invincibility plus reflect damage" cheat—dodging his bullet and landing a flawless three-hit combo that absolutely KO'd him.
Those moves! That savagery!
Damn, even scarier than Boss Billy Kane's staff work!
Feeling the cold, hard pressure against his forehead, Fat Ray had zero doubt that if he said a single wrong word, this guy would send him to meet his maker without blinking.
And then he could arm-wrestle Jesus while he was at it.
"Friends! We're friends! Best friends forever!" Fat Ray's survival instinct maxed out instantly. He forced his face into a smile uglier than crying, his voice hoarse and sandpapery from the throat injury.
"Bro, we're on the same team! Let's talk this out—please don't let the gun go off by accident!"
Cloud raised an eyebrow, internally roasting the man to a crisp.
Best friends forever? With that face? You think you qualify to be my brother from another mother... and another father?
But outwardly, he maintained his icy expression.
In a place like South Town, showing mercy to your enemies was cruelty to yourself.
That was the first lesson he'd just learned from Fat Ray's own memories.
"Oh? Friends?" Cloud used the gun barrel to tap Fat Ray's forehead rhythmically.
"Funny, I seem to remember you wanting to crack my skull open with a 'peanut' just a few minutes ago."
"A misunderstanding! A huge misunderstanding!" Cold sweat mixed with rain rolled down Fat Ray's triple chin.
"Bro, I was blind! Couldn't see Mount Tai! Mistook a true dragon for a worm! You're the bigger man—forgive and forget! Just treat me like a fart and let me go!"
"Let you go?" Cloud laughed coldly, but his mind was racing.
Kill this guy—clean and simple, but it might bring Geese's organization down on his head.
Don't kill him—and he'd be a ticking time bomb.
Just as he was weighing his options, the system's voice chimed in his head.
[Ding! Congratulations, Host, on completing the Newbie Quest: Rookie's Last Stand!]
[Quest Rating: B (Process was a bit rough around the edges, but the counter-kill was decisive. Commendable.)]
[Quest Rewards Distributed: Source Points x100, Random Draw x1.]
[Detected: Host's first successful 'Plunder.' Unlocking System Core Function Panel. Please explore at your leisure.]
Immediately after, a semi-transparent blue panel—visible only to Cloud and dripping with cyberpunk aesthetics—slowly materialized before his eyes.
The panel was sleek and minimal, divided into four main modules: [Personal Attributes][System Shop][Quest List][Gacha Wheel]
Cloud's gaze immediately locked onto [Personal Attributes].
...
[Host: Cloud]
[Constitution: 5](A healthy adult male averages 10. Host, you may want to consider hitting the gym.)
[Strength: 4]("Can't even truss a chicken" describes you perfectly. Perhaps try opening a jar of pickles for practice.)
[Agility: 6](Thanks to years of sprinting to catch the subway, this is passable.)
[Spirit: 12](As a keyboard warrior, your mental fortitude is extraordinary. This is your greatest asset.)
[Source Points: 100]
[Bloodline: None](Pure Earth human. No special bonuses.)
[Skills:]
1. "Street Fighting (Basic)" — You have mastered the art of fighting dirtier than a dog in an alleyway.
2. "Revolver Marksmanship (Novice)" — Congratulations, you can now hold a gun without shooting yourself.
[Overall Assessment: Trash-tier combatant. Recommendation: In a place like South Town—where even the starter zone can spawn final bosses—Host should take a left at the exit and purchase life insurance first.]
...
Cloud finished reading his stats. The corner of his mouth twitched violently.
Holy crap, this system has zero chill!
He was a six-foot guy, and his Constitution and Strength weren't even half the average?
And what the hell was that parenthetical about not being able to open a pickle jar? Personal attacks! This was straight-up character assassination!