"Ah! I'll fight you!!"
Jim roared as the full power of a martial artist burst forth from his body. Even the hairs on his arms stood upright, as if struck by lightning, trembling with energy and rage.
The raw force of his fury was visible to everyone.
And yet—
John remained indifferent.
He calmly released his grip on Jim's head and stepped back a few paces. Not out of fear. Far from it.
"Do you know what despair truly is?" John asked, his voice low and deliberate.
He waited silently as Jim summoned every ounce of strength he had left, drawing on the deepest wells of his body. Then John struck.
Boom!
One punch.
Jim crumpled to the ground, coughing up blood.
What is despair?
It is allowing your enemy to summon their ultimate strength—and then casually shattering it with a light blow, crumbling all they believed in.
John's punch had not only broken Jim's palm—it had crushed his self-confidence.
That's the difference.
Jim's breath faltered, his aura collapsing. And just as it seemed he was spent, a burst of colorful light exploded from within his body.
The Colorful Centipede.
Jim's ultimate killing move had arrived.
John narrowed his eyes. As the multicolored centipede shot toward him with terrifying speed, he calmly spat out an ancient, glowing blue rune. The rune collided with the creature midair—snap!
The centipede let out a chilling scream and was flung back into Jim's body.
Jim froze in disbelief, his pupils shrinking. "You… you're not a martial artist. You're… a monk!!"
There was horror in his voice.
Martial artists focused on refining internal strength, especially in the early stages. They tempered their bodies to gain raw physical power. Only when one ascended to the rank of Heaven Master could they unleash internal energy to strike from a distance.
But monks were different.
From the beginning, monks practiced arcane spells and divine techniques, giving them capabilities comparable to martial masters even before reaching such heights.
They followed entirely different paths of cultivation.
In the early stages, martial artists were far weaker than monks. A monk's variety of magical skills kept opponents at bay. Martial artists, reliant on close-range combat, couldn't even get near them.
However, once they reached Heaven Master level, martial artists were usually stronger—physically superior, and capable of combining both internal and external power in devastating attacks.
Jim had assumed John was a martial artist. He now realized how mistaken he was.
No wonder he was so domineering.
The Russell Family had kicked a hornet's nest.
As Jim reeled from the revelation, pain suddenly contorted his face. He let out a terrible scream as his entire body convulsed. His skin tightened, his muscles shrank, and his flesh withered visibly, as if something were draining the blood from his veins.
John looked on, his face solemn. "You thought the Colorful Centipede was your ultimate weapon. But in truth, you were nothing more than a vessel—a human container used to raise that beast."
A human-shaped vessel.
The centipede had never truly been under Jim's control. It had only acted obedient because it fed on him—his body, his blood, his soul.
Ordinarily, it would have remained dormant until it laid eggs in him. Only then would it consume him entirely.
Jim had been clueless.
But John's rune had severely injured the centipede. In desperation, it had turned on its host, feeding on him to recover.
"No… it's not possible…!" Jim cried out. His voice trembled with denial. "My master… he gave me this… he wouldn't… he wouldn't hurt me!"
But reality was a cruel teacher.
If what John said was true, then his master had never regarded him as a true disciple. He was nothing more than a host body, a farm for the centipede to grow stronger.
Jim refused to believe it.
But belief changed nothing.
His skin stretched tight over brittle bones. His body caved in like a collapsing tent.
As his life flickered like a candle in the wind, John leaned close and whispered in his ear:
"Since you're dying, I might as well tell you a final secret. I'm not a martial artist. I'm not a monk either."
"I'm a cultivator."
Jim's mind went blank.
A cultivator—the rarest of paths. One who trained both body and arcane arts, walking the line between monk and martial artist, mastering both realms.
Becoming a cultivator required more than strength. It demanded talent, tenacity, and unyielding will.
That was why the old master had sent John to the border war for five years. To hone his resolve. To forge him in fire.
"Cul…tivator…" Jim murmured, his eyes wide. Whether it was the pain, or the crushing truth, no one knew—but in the next instant, life left his body.
Bang!
As Jim collapsed, a sickening squelch echoed through the air. His chest burst open, revealing a gaping, bloody hole. From within, the Colorful Centipede emerged.
Now ten times larger than before, it slithered out like a serpent covered in centipede legs. Its eyes glowed red. Its fangs dripped with venom. A nightmare given flesh.
The creature flared its blood-red wings, preparing to escape the Russell Family's yard.
But John was faster.
Two more runes whistled through the air, embedding into its grotesque body.
The centipede shrieked, then fell—dead.
"Jim!!"
A heart-wrenching cry echoed through the night.
An old man, around sixty, rushed to Jim's body and collapsed beside it, sobbing uncontrollably.
It was Mason, the patriarch of the Russell Family.
When the coffin had smashed into the courtyard, he'd heard the commotion and hurried to investigate. But when he arrived, all he saw was the monstrous insect emerging from his son's chest.
He hadn't even been able to see Jim in his final moments.
Mason had been missing for ten years. In that time, Jim had mastered all kinds of deadly arts.
Now, barely days after their reunion, they were separated again—by death.
Mason clutched his son's lifeless body, his grief inconsolable.
But John simply watched in silence, his gaze cold and indifferent.
He felt no sympathy.
Like father, like son.
A man like Mason, who had managed to swallow up such a large territory in northern New York, was no innocent soul.
Rumors spoke of bloodshed in the battle for the north side of Zingle River decades ago. Many had died in that chaos—but Mason alone had profited.
Now, the debts of the past had come due.
This was karma.