Serik was already awake before the sun touched the horizon.
His eyes opened to silence, the kind that buzzed with anticipation. Muscles sore but responsive, breath steady, heartbeat calm. He stood in the center of the courtyard, barefoot as always, arms crossed as he looked toward the rising sun.
He didn't know what today would bring.
But he was ready.
The house door creaked open.
Jons stepped out without a word and walked toward him—not alone.
Three figures followed silently.
They moved like smoke, like something that didn't quite belong in the daylight. Each had a different shape, different gait, but they all shared one thing:
Stillness.
Predator stillness.
Serik straightened, his eyes narrowing as he studied them.
The first was short and squat, with a square torso that didn't match his twig-like arms. His head was shaved, but he wore a pair of thick-rimmed circular glasses that magnified his eyes like saucers. His shirt was two sizes too small, stretched comically over his belly, but his feet were bare and caked in dirt.
The second was rail-thin, tall as a lamppost, with shoulders that curved inward like he was always trying to fold himself smaller. His hair was bright pink and stood up in thick, gelled spikes, sharp as knives. He wore a bright orange fur coat and tight silver pants that rustled when he walked. His mouth was fixed in a twitching smirk—but his eyes were empty.
The third was the most unsettling.
A woman—or maybe not?—dressed in a full chef's uniform, complete with a tall, white hat. Her face was painted like a porcelain doll—pale skin, red lips, black-lined eyes. She carried a rolling pin in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other.
Serik blinked.
"…What."
Jons, as calm as ever, folded his hands behind his back.
"These are your opponents.''
Serik didn't speak. His instincts had already begun screaming. Despite the absurdity of their appearances, each of them exuded danger. Not a theatrical kind. Not like Garron.
Real danger.
They stared at him.
No words. No introductions.
Just… silence. And eyes like broken glass.
Jons stepped to the side of the yard. He raised a single hand, eyes locked on Serik.
"Ready."
Serik bent his knees, heart beginning to pound.
"Start."
They moved as one.
Just a blur of limbs and killing intent.
Serik barely reacted in time.
The short one launched first, faster than his size should allow, coming in low and wide with a sweeping hook. Serik jumped back, only to catch a spinning heel kick from the pink-haired one grazing past his cheek.
He ducked. Pivoted. Jade Pulse fired upward—missed.
The chef was already behind him.
He barely brought his arm up in time to block the cleaver's handle as it rammed toward his temple. It struck like a hammer.
Serik staggered.
The short one rushed again, this time sweeping at his legs. Serik jumped, midair, twisted—Moon Hollow!—and caught the rail-thin man's momentum, spinning him off course.
A small victory.
But they didn't stop.
They adjusted instantly.
One came high.
One came low.
One from behind.
Serik moved on instinct. Root. Kōdan. Pulse.
Again and again, shifting, redirecting, striking. He managed to land two clean blows—but neither slowed them down. They fought like a unit. A single organism with three heads and six limbs. When he blocked one, the other struck. When he dodged one, the third was already there.
Minutes passed like seconds.
His breath came faster.
His vision narrowed.
He aimed a Moon Hollow redirect at the pink-haired one—only for the short one to grab his arm mid-motion and yank him into a knee to the ribs. Serik choked, spit flying. The chef caught him mid-fall, driving the blunt end of the rolling pin into his shoulder.
Pain exploded down his arm.
He dropped into Root, grounded the next blow, pushed outward—but the cleaver was already swinging for his side.
He ducked—too slow.
A gash opened along his ribs.
He rolled away, gasping, and forced himself to stand.
They didn't chase.
They waited, while breathing in sync.
Serik wiped blood from his mouth and narrowed his eyes. "You guys… aren't playing around."
No answer.
The pink-haired one tilted his head like a curious bird.
Jons said nothing from the sideline.
Serik charged.
Kōdan to close the gap.
Fake left—strike right.
Pulse to the throat—caught!
The short one blocked with his elbow and used the momentum to swing Serik into the chef. The rolling pin cracked against his spine.
He dropped to one knee.
And then a foot smashed into his chest.
He flew backwards, coughing blood, landing hard.
The sky blurred above him.
Footsteps surrounded him.
One grabbed his collar.
Another lifted his arm.
Another took his leg.
They hoisted him—together—and then slammed him into the dirt.
The breath left his body in a violent gasp.
He couldn't move.
Could barely think.
They didn't need to speak. They were instinctual. Trained in synchronization, in shared rhythm. He wasn't fighting three people.
He was fighting a machine.
And he was losing.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the courtyard, the three assassins stepped back and stood in formation again.
Waiting.
Serik lay on the ground, coughing, pain radiating from half a dozen new wounds. Blood soaked through his shirt. His vision flickered. But he was still awake.
Still conscious.
Jons stepped forward finally, his hands still behind his back.
He looked down at Serik, then at the assassins.
"That's enough for today."
Without a word, the three figures turned and walked silently back toward the house.
Jons knelt beside Serik, his voice as calm as ever.
"Well done."
Serik wheezed a half-laugh. "You… have a messed up idea of praise…"
"You were never meant to win today."
"Figured…" Serik muttered.
He turned onto his back, his arms spread in the grass, sweat and blood mingling on his skin. He stared up at the orange-pink sky, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven breaths.
Everything hurt.
But something inside him—some small, stubborn ember—still burned.
Jons stood, hands folding once more behind his back.
''So how do I defeat a group?'' is what Serik thought while looking into the sky.
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ps? I want to be number one.