The arena of Hollowpetal buzzed with energy, layered in mist and petals drifting from the blooming trees overhead. The sun filtered through broken clouds, spotlighting the stone circle where two silhouettes stood tenses, poised.
Albert adjusted the brim of his brown-blakish hat, casting a calm gaze. Cloak fluttering, hair tousled, he looked as if he had just wandered in from a storm.
Across from him, Wasp crouched low and lean and taut. A venomous grin curved his lips, his twin daggers twitching with anticipation.
A chime rang. The match had begun.
Wasp burst forward like a spring uncoiled. His daggers slashed down in X-formation, but Albert shifted his weight, stepping in with a Wing Chun chain block, redirecting the blades with precise deflections. He struck a fast elbow aimed for Wasp's temple—but Wasp ducked, twisting his body into a Capoeira sweep, forcing Albert to hop back.
Albert regained balance mid-air and landed in a northern Shaolin stance, his palm shooting out like a spear. Wasp barely sidestepped, flipping into a handspring and using the momentum to launch a dagger throw.
Albert leaned aside, catching the blade with two fingers.
The crowd gasped.
He dropped it casually.
Wasp charged again, using Jeet Kune Do footwork, bouncing unpredictably. His left hand jabbed. Right dagger sliced upward—real.
Albert used a Jujutsu redirection, letting the blade pass by, catching Wasp's arm mid-motion and using the flow to spin behind him. With a Muay Thai clinch, he kneed Wasp in the ribs. The crack echoed through the arena.
But Wasp wasn't down.
He broke free with a spinning elbow of his own. Albert staggered.
Wasp pressed the advantage, launching a flurry of rapid strikes, mixing Silat's fluid combinations with dirty, close-range attacks. The tempo climbed.
Albert exhaled slowly, stepping back—then dropped into a Drunken Fist stance.
His movements became erratic, almost lazy. He dodged three slashes with drunken sways, then pivoted sharply—his boot smashing into Wasp's thigh with a Savate side kick.
Wasp stumbled.
Albert moved in. His hands flowed like rivers—Tai Chi grapples that caught Wasp off-balance, redirecting him into a shoulder throw.
The ground cracked under the impact.
Albert stepped back, breathing steady, eyes calm under the shadow of his hat.
Wasp rose again, barely.
Albert didn't wait.
A final combination—Bajiquan explosive palm, followed by a Taekwondo spinning back kick, then a precise Boxing uppercut landed clean.
Wasp dropped.
Silence.
Then the arena erupted.
Albert stood tall, cloak flowing, hat untouched.
Just like this, Albert Newton won the Semi final too, against a Hermit.
....
The final bell echoed like a war drum.
A sea of spectators rose from their seats as rose-petal confetti spiraled down from above. The Hollowpetal Arena trembled with a thousand voices calling for blood.
"Death match! Death match! Death match!"
Banners waved. Cups rattled. The stadium was boiling with savage excitement.
Albert Newton stood on one end of the marble platform, wearing his half-tattered cloak, brown-blakish hat shadowing his eyes, his breathing steady. The bruises from the semifinal still ached across his ribs and back, but his spirit stood unshaken.
Across the ring, his final opponent arrived.
The Shogun.
Clad in obsidian armor laced with golden threads, his face hidden beneath a horned kabuto mask carved like a snarling demon. He walked slowly, each step sounding like distant thunder. The hilt of his curved blade gleamed at his hip.
The announcer's voice shook the clouds above.
"This is it! The final round of the Hollowpetal Tournament! Albert Newton versus The Eastern Shogun!"
The crowd erupted again.
"DEATH MATCH! DEATH MATCH!"
Albert clenched his fists, uneasy.
The Shogun turned his head. "What will it be, Newton?" he asked in a deep, mechanical tone. "Shall we give them the show they crave?"
Albert hesitated. He looked toward the crowd. Then toward the high balcony, where Verno sat quietly, arms crossed, watching with a neutral face.
Albert inhaled. He gave a nod.
The Shogun smirked behind his mask and drew his blade.
The gong struck.
They moved.
Albert darted in first, using short bursts of acceleration from his heel mechanisms. He twisted his body midair and brought down a heel kick aimed at the Shogun's masked face. The Shogun blocked with the flat of his katana and twisted, throwing Albert off balance.
The armored giant lunged forward and swung in a wide arc. Albert rolled, then spun behind him and unleashed a trio of pressure-point strikes along the Shogun's spine. But the armor was reinforced.
The Shogun spun suddenly and delivered a blindingly fast elbow. It clipped Albert's shoulder, sending him staggering.
Albert regained posture and summoned a pair of twin hook daggers from his inventory.
The next exchanges were a blur. Metal clanged. Sparks flew.
Albert used misdirection, bouncing off columns and broken statues, feinting with one hook while looping the second behind the Shogun's knee. The crowd gasped as the Shogun stumbled.
The Shogun retaliated by hurling a small grenade at Albert's feet. It exploded with a blast of steam and powder, blinding him for seconds.
Through the smoke came the katana. Albert bent backwards, nearly horizontal, dodging by an inch. He responded with a staff sweep from below, catching the Shogun's ankle and throwing him off-balance again.
The Shogun leapt and spun midair, bringing his blade down like thunder. Albert caught the attack with both hooks crossed, but the force drove him to one knee.
Then Albert grinned.
With a click of his boots, he discharged compressed air into the ground, launching himself backward, flipping, and landing behind the Shogun.
Before the Shogun could turn, Albert slammed an elbow into the back of his head, sending him crashing forward.
The arena roared.
The Shogun rose again, his breathing now audible. His movements slower.
Albert threw a flash marble high into the air. The light burst across the arena ceiling. As the Shogun raised an arm to shield his eyes, Albert closed in, spinning once, twice, and landed a crushing blow with his left hook into the Shogun's chestplate.
Cracks spread. The Shogun fell to one knee.
Albert stood before him. Panting. Bloody. Tired.
The crowd chanted again.
"FINISH HIM! KILL HIM! FINISH HIM!"
Albert reached slowly toward his revolver.
He paused.
The Shogun looked up, eyes now visible through the broken helm.
Albert stepped back.
"No," he said.
The entire stadium quieted in an instant.
Albert raised his voice, addressing all of them.
"We've fought. We've shown strength. But power without control is just another kind of madness."
A murmur began in the audience.
Albert continued, eyes blazing.
"Is this what you crave? Blood, when a lesson can be learned? Mercy is not weakness. It is what separates us from beasts."
Silence.
Even the Shogun lowered his head, acknowledging defeat.
In the stands, Verno finally smiled.
Albert turned his back on the fallen warrior.
"I will not be your executioner. I choose to walk away. And I ask you all—learn to 'Have Mercy'."
One man clapped. Then another. Albert had won. Not just the match.
But the hearts of Hollowpetal.
....
The sun had already begun its slow descent, casting a golden hue over the worn cobblestones of Morhat's Ctifftown district. The air buzzed with chatter—merchants crying their last calls, children chasing each other with streamers, and townsfolk still talking about the grand finale.
Albert Newton walked beside Verno Luxfar, his tattered cloak catching the breeze, a pouch heavy with 100 Gaus coins bouncing at his hip. The weight should have felt satisfying. Instead, it felt oddly hollow.
He eyed Verno.
"You said we'd split it," Albert muttered. "But you never even cared about the prize money, did you?"
Verno didn't answer. His hands were tucked in the deep pockets of his long coat, his silver hair brushing his jaw as he walked without turning.
Albert sighed. "You dragged me into this whole damn thing. And yet, I'm the one who had to throw hands with a Shogun in front of a bloodthirsty crowd."
Verno chuckled lightly. "And you threw them well."
Albert narrowed his eyes. "Why did you want to win the tournament so badly? You barely even stepped in the ring."
Still no answer.
They turned a corner into a quieter lane, where only paper lanterns swung gently from doorways. There, in the shadow of a closed apothecary, Verno finally stopped.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a wrapped object, nearly as long as his arm.
"I had my reasons, Albert," he said calmly, eyes dark and unreadable. "And you fulfilled them, whether you understand it or not."
Albert raised an eyebrow.
Verno unwrapped the cloth slowly.
Inside was a staff—twisted silver-wood entwined with runes that pulsed with faint, otherworldly blue light. Its head bloomed outward like a crown, and from its center glimmered a small, steady ember.
"The Staff of Revolution," Verno said. "Forged during the final rebellion of the Ivory Realm. Lost for decades. It only surfaces when fate stirs."
Albert stared at it.
" Heh? Wasn't it a staff? Why it looks like a mirror with a folding cover? "
Verno scratched the back of his head.
" Don't ask this ever again. Just take. "
"You're... giving it to me?"
"You earned it. Whether you realize what it means yet or not."
Albert hesitated. "You always speak in riddles."
"And you always ask questions you're not ready to hear the answers to."
They stood in silence for a moment. The air was thick with unspoken weight.
Albert reached out, fingers closing around the staff. The moment he touched it, he felt a rush—not of power, but of responsibility. Like holding history in his hands.
"Whatever you're planning, Verno," Albert said quietly, "I'm not your pawn."
Verno smiled faintly. "No. You're the player who doesn't yet know the board he's standing on."
Then, without another word, Verno turned and disappeared into the lantern-lit street, his coat fluttering behind him.
Midday in Morhat, the sun above Island of Esteem struck like molten silver. The streets sweated light, and shadows clung to corners like fading equations—half-erased, never solved. Albert Newton wandered beneath balconies heavy with ivy, his black coat catching dust, eyes glazed with thought. There was a silence between footsteps, a weight between heartbeats.
He paused in front of a crumbling sundial at the center of Philos Square. Its time was always wrong—intentionally, some claimed, to reflect how even wisdom can be warped by perception.
Albert sat on a stone bench, scribbling imaginary symbols into the air with his finger. "If I were to write an equation for the world," he muttered to himself, "I'd start with compassion as a constant. Mercy as the force of cohesion. But chaos—chaos is entropy. It accelerates everything."
The wind curled past him, lifting dust like forgotten memories. Somewhere, a bell rang—not to mark time, but to mourn it.
"Kindness," he said, "has symmetry. It repairs. It holds atoms of humanity together. But it's… inefficient. It waits. It doubts."
He looked around. Morhat's architecture once echoed brilliance. Now its buildings leaned with scars, its windows stared like tired eyes. People walked without speaking. No one smiled for free anymore.
"I used to believe," he whispered, "that if people saw kindness, they'd replicate it. Like a virus—except divine. But they don't. They fear it. They crush it."
Albert touched the fountain's surface. The ripples spread like neurons firing, like timelines breaking.
"You know what Chaos does?" His voice darkened. "It doesn't need to convince. It ignites. One cruel act spreads faster than a thousand soft ones."
A child nearby slapped another over a stolen toy. No one intervened.
Albert flinched.
"Is this entropy by design?" he asked the air. "Did the universe build a system where destruction is more efficient than creation? Where compassion is a glitch in the physics of power?"
He stood, brushing dust from his knees like scraping the thoughts off. "Still… mercy is the anomaly that gives us meaning. We must cherish anomalies."
The midday sun was merciless now, baking cobblestones, drawing sweat down spines. Albert's gaze drifted upward—clouds melting like forgotten dreams. He thought of Einstein, of relativity, of how time could stretch and warp. Perhaps mercy, too, was relative. A kindness here meant nothing there.
"But I'll still believe in it," he said finally. "Even if the world proves me wrong. Even if Chaos is faster, louder, hungrier."
He turned from the fountain, eyes sharp.
"Because if there's one equation worth solving—it's the one where we choose mercy, again and again, even when we know it won't be returned. Even if the world hates me, I will never forget to Have Mercy. Cause, I have nothing left to lose."
Albert walked.
That was all he did. A quiet rhythm of steps against the sunbaked stone of Morhat's outer district. No destination. Just motion. Until he saw them.
Three matte trucks rumbled down the slope, their engines purring like predators. Black, unmarked, out of place in a city where even milk carts bore family crests. They moved too quietly, too deliberately, and something about them disrupted the air.
Albert narrowed his eyes, slowing his pace. He stepped behind a ruined lamppost, watching as the second truck's curtain briefly lifted in the wind—just enough to flash metallic glint. No military seal. No trade license. Just barrels.
Something was wrong.
When the last truck halted near a crumbling depot, Albert moved. Like a ghost, he pressed his back against the vehicle, reached up, and gently flicked the curtain aside.
Inside, shadows devoured most of the space but the barrels gleamed.
He climbed in swiftly, his breath caught between nerves and curiosity. The scent was cold and sterile—unnatural for cargo supposedly crossing a sun-drenched island. He crouched beside one of the barrels and loosened its seal.
Gold.
Not coins alone, but thick ingots stamped with a faded crest, a serpent coiled around a sun, mouth open in eternal hunger.
Albert's lips parted, speechless. He examined another barrel which looked identical. All of them. Hundreds of thousands in value. More than any legal transaction in Esteem's trade records. This wasn't wealth being transported. This was history being rewritten.
Minted gold. Impossibly new. And ancient.
"This isn't transport," he whispered. "It's replication."
He blinked. A thousand implications flooded his mind: counterfeit currency designed to crash regional economies, funding for a shadow faction, or worse—currency control before a societal reset.
A whistle shrieked outside.
Albert flinched.
"Get them moving. We're late," barked a deep voice, gruff and annoyed.
Albert ducked back toward the curtain, heart hammering. He stood there for a moment, frozen in thought.
Someone was injecting chaos into the veins of Morhat and they were using gold as the needle.