Shuren stepped forward, brushing off the dust from her sleeve as the dim light of the lantern threw sharp shadows across her face.
"Shō," she said, her voice steady but laced with an icy undertone. "It's been a while. How've you been, old man?"
Shō let out a breath that was neither a sigh nor a laugh. "Of course those are the first words you choose to say to me after five years." His gaze shifted toward her, as unreadable as ever. "But yes… it has been a while."
Shuren crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering. "If you're here… then what about my master? Is he still alright?"
Shō raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised that she even cared. "You're asking about Shi?" he replied softly, his hands still clasped behind his back. "Hmph. Don't worry about him. He's doing just fine."
Shuren nodded once, a subtle shift in her demeanor, a flicker of relief passing through her eyes before her expression hardened again. "That's good to hear."
Shō's smile was slow and cold, the kind that belonged to men who had swallowed too much history and never learned to spit it out.
"Let's cut all the bullshit." he echoed, his voice smooth like river stones. "Tell me why you're here. Don't tell me you've sold out to Zheng Yan."
Shuren's jaw tightened. For a moment, she looked like she might slip back into her usual sarcasm, but something tougher took over.
She stepped forward, the lantern light carving her profile into a sharp silhouette.
"As expected," she said, dry as a snapped twig. "No wonder I disliked you the moment you showed up. You've always been a walking excuse for a bad decision. But you're mistaken this time, old man. So do us both a favor and stay out of my business and get the hell out of my face."
Shō's laugh was soft but had an edge of iron. "Oh? Is that so?" He tilted his head, intrigued now, like a hunter amused by a twitching prey. "Then watch me do something I've wanted to do for five years."
Shuren's eyes narrowed. "And what's that?"
Shō's grin stretched wider, taking on a nearly cruel edge. "I'll rip you to shreds," he stated matter-of-factly, "and drag whatever's left of your smoking, pathetic, lesbian student of my older brother to Shi. Think of it as a birthday gift."
The hall absorbed his words like a sponge. Mya's cry got stuck in her throat. Assad forgot how to breathe.
Shuren's cigarette slipped from her lips. For the first time that night, a flicker of amusement—or maybe hunger crossed her face.
"You sure have a big mouth for an old man who reeks of damp tatami," she said slowly. Then, almost lazily, she shrugged. "But if you're looking for a gift for Shi… who am I to break tradition?"
Shō's smile faded into something resembling bored resignation. "I'll deal with you later," he said deliberately, "but Shi doesn't want you torn to pieces tonight. Consider it mercy and business."
Shuren snorted, the ash from her cigarette quivering on her lip. "Alright. You can save your sermon for another day," she replied. "So, what brings you here, old man?"
Shō clasped his hands behind his back and nodded once at Shuren. "Same reason as you," he said flatly.
"Zheng Yan," they both said in unison.
Shuren let out a short laugh that held no humor. "At least we agree on something."
She flicked the ash away and stepped back, her movement sharp as a knife. "Okay then. Let's get to work."
Mya, who had been teetering on shaky legs, suddenly lunged forward and clung to Shuren like a lifeline. "Sister Shuren" she sobbed into the older woman's coat.
Shuren's jaw clenched. She placed a hand on the girl's back, stiff as a board, and snapped, "I'm not your sister."
Mya didn't release her grip. Between sobs, she whispered, "I know… I know you're not. Please… just be one today."
Shuren let out a long, exasperated breath and allowed her hand to linger. "Fine." Her voice was sharp, but there was a hint of softness that made it almost bearable.
Shuren's eyes drift over to the unconscious Assad, and her mind is racing with questions.
I know I can't stand that old man. But I also recognize his incredible strength—he's really powerful.
Honestly, I never thought he would unleash the fist of death technique on Assad, and it's bizarre that Assad managed to survive it at all.
That technique is lethal; it could take me out, a Special Kirmin Sionel, in just two hits. So how on earth did Assad endure that after taking a brutal 49 hits? Shō is also a Special Kirmin Sionel.
Shō finally broke the silence, casting a glance down at Assad, his face caught between curiosity and annoyance.
"You're thinking the same thing I am," he said, his tone steady. "How on earth did this kid survive the fist of death technique that should've turned his insides to mush?"
Shuren stayed quiet. She didn't need to say a word; her silence spoke volumes.
Crouching next to Assad, Shō lightly brushed his knuckles against the blood-smeared floor.
"Forty-nine strikes," he murmured. "Not one. Not two. Forty-nine." His gaze shot up to meet Shuren's, a flicker of something much darker than mere irritation in his eyes. "Your boy is anything but ordinary."
Shuren scoffed. "Tell me something I don't already know."
"No," Shō countered, shaking his head. "You're missing the point. Even among all Sionel... not even the Special Kirmin can take more than four consecutive hits from this technique."
"Forty-nine hits suggest one of three possibilities," he continued. "He's either possessed… blessed… or cursed."
As he spoke, Shuren recalled Pixia's reaction when she first scanned Assad after bringing him to the agency.
Shuren clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Great. Just what I needed another headache."
Mya sniffled, her voice shaky. "W-Will Assad wake up?"
"I'm not sure, but I think he will. Just give him some time, okay, Mya?"
Mya nodded, a flicker of hope in her eyes.
Inside what seemed like Assad's dream or maybe something entirely different he felt weightless. No pain, no sound, no breath. Just an endless, blinding white stretching out in every direction.
He looked at his hands—no wounds, no blood, no bruises.
Am I… dead?
His voice didn't echo; it simply faded away.
He began to walk, as there was nothing else to do. Each step felt empty, as if the ground beneath him wasn't really there.
Heaven or Hell?
The silence started to twist. The white fog quivered… then began to bleed.
With one more step, the ground cracked open beneath him, spilling deep crimson as if the world itself was bleeding.
The sky above morphed into a violent, stormy red, churning like living flesh. In the distance, a thunderous heartbeat echoed—too slow, too heavy, too ancient.
Assad froze in place.
A colossal hand hung suspended in the sky, large enough to crush entire cities.
In its palm rested a single, unblinking eye, larger than the moon, its pupil swirling like a black hole.
It locked onto him. His breath caught in his throat.
What the hell—
A voice sliced through the silence, casual yet dripping with malice:
"How pathetic."
The tone was all too familiar.
"Getting beaten by some ancient relic? What a joke. He couldn't even lay a finger on me."
Assad turned sharply, his heart plummeting.
Perched atop a throne made of twisted, broken corpses, stacked like grotesque offerings, was a figure that looked just like him. Same face, same eyes, same scars but colder, sharper. His voice was Assad's, but deeper, twisted with something ancient and vicious lurking beneath.
He lounged with a relaxed confidence, one hand resting on his cheek, legs crossed in a way that felt even more chilling a stillness that hung in the air like the calm before the end of the world.
His presence wasn't just energy; it was a suffocating pressure, primal and overwhelming.
The crimson sky shattered behind him, as if the very fabric of reality couldn't handle his presence.
He flashed a smirk.
"Took you long enough."
Assad found it hard to breathe.
His other self leaned in, elbows casually resting on his knees, while the enormous eye in the sky grew wider.
"I'm the soul of the fuckin' body your weak little imposter stole from."