When Sand Man stood frozen not far past the finish line, his chest heaved violently, not from exhaustion, but from the chaotic storm raging within him.
He watched the naked monster —Hashimoto Yoma—performing exaggerated stretches near the finish line as if nobody else existed, looking as though the bloody slaughter of the entire race had merely been a warm-up.
Originally, he hadn't paid much attention to what the monster was doing along the way, but only when this terrifying fellow spat a mouthful of sand, killing a large group of people, did he suddenly realize what kind of monster this guy truly was.
Although they, the Native American people, also had some relatively bloody and cruel traditions, none were this ruthless... Was this guy even human?
He had actually wanted to stop, but seeing the monster's satisfied and expectant look directed at him, he didn't dare, and could only continue running desperately, somehow inexplicably ending up in second place... Because only he and the monster were advancing toward the finish line; a proper equestrian competition had been turned directly into a running race, and a two-person one at that... Could you believe the absurdity?
The waiting crowd and the few staff members who had arrived early at the finish line were pale-faced, hiding far away.
No one dared to step forward to present the so-called "First Place in Phase One" honor, or the precious one hour of time, to this murderer. The air was thick with the smell of blood and terror.
Originally, to commemorate this grand competition, a large crowd had gathered here, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the racehorses, ready to record this glorious moment and watch the contestants struggle... Instead, they witnessed a massacre. Instantly, newspaper vendors, food sellers, and waiting service staff all fled along with the waiting spectators, worried they might be killed as an afterthought... But Yoma didn't care at all. He merely sniffed, his nose twitching, before locating the food in the waiting area. After looking around, he happily picked up an entire roasted chicken and took a huge bite.
"Not bad, a big chicken. The breast meat has very little fat, perfect for me after running... Ah, phooey! What is this?! Hmm, this isn't chicken? This is turkey... Why would they have this here?"
After taking a bite of the poultry, Hashimoto Yoma resolutely discarded the food, instead picking up a skewer of meat and starting to chew, all while turning his head to look at the stunned Sand Man.
Looking at the strange Native American, he chuckled and twisted his neck, producing a cracking sound, then grinned at the pale-faced Sand Man.
"See? The runner, first place! I told you it was just a stroll. Those useless horse riders don't even qualify to eat our dust; they're all a bunch of guys who look like they have muscle atrophy."
Sand Man remained silent.
His gaze swept over Yoma, then over the distant riders who were still shaken and dared not approach the finish line, and finally toward the officials and white guards hiding behind cover, furious but silent.
Finally, he chose to focus his gaze on the food on the table. After nodding, he also grabbed a handful of food and started chewing, but he remained silent, his thoughts a chaotic mess even amidst his fear.
Yoma's words echoed in his ears like a vicious curse. His mind hadn't yet recovered, and even his look toward the guns held by the white guards had changed.
'In the future, the gun-wielding white men will resolve all of you, 'bang!' 'bang!' just like I am stepping on these ants now!'
Could it be... that the worries of the tribal elders, their fear of the white men, and their belief that white men were their natural enemies, were actually correct?
Was the idea of exchanging money for peace truly so naive and foolish?
The power displayed by this lunatic, though savage and brutal, was undeniably effective. Look at how terrified those gun-wielding white men were?
In the face of overwhelming strength, those white men seemed just as vulnerable... just as they themselves were when facing the white men... Perhaps what they needed was never money?
Chewing his food quickly, he couldn't help but ponder this. Hashimoto Yoma, meanwhile, didn't care about the time; he was quite interested in this Native American. It seemed the other party didn't know about the saint's corpse, and that made things interesting.
After finishing his meal with great gulps, this naked muscle maniac began a session of calisthenics for digestion.
Just as Sand Man was engaged in this internal struggle, a rapid and uniform sound of hoofbeats approached from afar.
A team of about twenty well-equipped mounted police, led by an officer with a stern expression, galloped up and quickly formed a semi-circle around the finish line area. Each of them had vigilant eyes and large beards, looking somewhat like cowboys.
The rifles in their hands were simultaneously raised, aimed at Hashimoto Yoma, who was still stretching.
"You bare-assed HP monkey up front! Stop immediately and lie down on the ground right now! Don't move! Did you hear me? Get down, you idiot! If you don't want a hole blown through your head, do as I say!"
The leading officer shouted sternly, his voice slightly strained from tension, yet displaying extreme viciousness. His gaze was like one reserved for two repulsive, man-eating vermin. This gaze wasn't directed only at Yoma; he also aimed his gun at Sand Man.
"And you! Lie down immediately, you dead Native American, hands behind your head! You are both under arrest for the suspected malicious murder of multiple contestants and their mounts across several sections of the track! Resist and you will be shot on sight!"
The atmosphere instantly tightened to the breaking point. Riders and staff in the distance held their breath. Sand Man subconsciously took half a step back, looking at Yoma with complicated, bewildered eyes.
Meanwhile, in the shadows, Steel gently but hastily covered Lucy's eyes. "A woman shouldn't have to see something like this."
Yoma finally stopped his bizarre calisthenics. He slowly turned around, facing the twenty dark gun muzzles. Far from showing any fear, his face broke into an even more excited and ferocious grin.
He licked his lips, his eyes glinting with bloodlust. If he wasn't afraid of modern armies, let alone the antique weapons of this era, these guys had no idea what they were up against.
"Arrest? Shot on sight?"
His shoulders shrugged, and the distorted wings formed by his muscles slowly unfurled, emitting a low, suppressed sound of friction and vibration. His expression grew increasingly sinister and terrifying.
"Hahaha... You useless trash holding mere kindling sticks?"
He lowered his body slightly, his bronze muscles swelling, resembling a ferocious beast preparing to strike. The wing-like muscles all over his body began to vibrate, and the excitement made him involuntarily lick his lips.
The moment he finished speaking—
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Gunshots rang out like popping beans! The mounted police pulled their triggers without hesitation, and bullets poured toward Yoma like rain!