I got a katana for myself.

Finally, a weapon that looked like it wanted to commit tax fraud with me. Sleek, sharp, black—like depression in blade form. Stronges handed it to me, and I swear, if I wasn't already straight, I would've proposed to that sword right there and then.

The edge gleamed so beautifully it could cut through both flesh and emotional attachment. Aura farming with this baby? Oh, I was about to become the Elon Musk of murder energy.

"Thank you, master," I said, pretending to be humble but vibrating with main-character energy. "I don't even want to know why you chose this for me because I am glad for it. I shall use it to behead Malthus and place his ugly head at your feet like a dog bringing back its owner's stolen slipper."

I bowed. Deeply. Like an anime protagonist begging for a season renewal.

Stronges walked toward me—slow, deliberate, the kind of walk that says, I've killed people for less.

She stopped right in front of me, placed her hand on my head, and said, "You are the Hero King. You shouldn't bow like this. You will defeat that red mass. We will defeat that bastard. Raise your head."

Her hand felt heavy with authority. Or maybe I just had weak neck muscles. Either way, I raised my head like a man reborn. No shame, no ego. Because a true man never forgets who helped him go from worthless idiot to slightly less worthless idiot with a sword.

Stronges stepped back to her place, her expression unreadable—as if she was deciding whether to praise me or commit a war crime.

"Racis," she said, "you were the one who showed the most potential among everyone. If we had trained for a few more years, you might've been strong enough to kill me."

Ma'am, don't tempt me with a good time.

"You defeated ten Nano Bites in their impossible mode. You can stand your ground against me. I've taught all of you everything I know. There's nothing left to teach—only to kill."

Everyone nodded. Because when Stronges talks, you nod. Even if she says, "We're jumping into a volcano."

Then her tone darkened—like thunderclouds before a massacre.

"Right now, it's night. Everyone's asleep. The guards are drunk. Your training is complete. So tonight... is the night."

The temperature dropped five emotional degrees.

"It's time to start the war," she said, her voice dripping with conviction and caffeine. "It's time for the red mass to leave our home. And if he refuses—then he'll stay here forever. Inside the ground. As ashes."

The crowd went feral.

"YEAHHHH!"

"We'll kill him and his entire family tree!"

"YEEEESSSS!!"

"We'll make his bloodline extinct! His planet, his ashes, his everything—DEAD!"

Someone screamed "BLOOD!" like they were auditioning for a death metal band.

The energy was unhinged.

Weapons slammed against the floor in rhythm, like thunder powered by pure testosterone.

I joined them, of course, because peer pressure works wonders. But as the Hero King, I had to show restraint.

Can't look like a maniac when I'm supposed to be the poster boy for righteous murder.

Malthus was my problem anyway.

The final boss. The red mass of misery.

Our armies would clash, but it'd come down to him and me—king versus king, ego versus ego, testosterone versus red goo.

This time, I wasn't scared.

I was built different.

Because Stronges said I was strong, and when your emotionally unavailable mentor tells you you're strong—you believe it like gospel.

Of course, Malthus wouldn't fight alone. He'd bring his whole circus of death with him. His army, his generals, maybe even his emotional baggage. But that was fine. We all had our assigned trauma.

The adrenaline in the air was so thick you could cut it with Erect's hammer. Everyone was ready to paint the continent with villain blood. Luckily for us, Malthus lived on the same continent—convenience matters in war.

Stronges nodded at our bloodlust, eyes sharp, satisfied. But no one dared move until she gave the signal. If she said "Go," we'd sprint to hell. If she said "Sit," we'd meditate on murder.

Finally, she smirked. "I like your fire. But before we start, there's something else. Another person will help you in this fight, Racis. I've fulfilled his condition. He's no longer angry with you."

…Huh?

Everyone went silent.

I blinked, confused.

Even Sexis's scythes stopped twitching.

Stronges looked at our puzzled faces and walked off toward Room Number Five.

Now, for context, that's the vomit room. The medical bay. The pit stop for people who failed training so hard they threw up their souls.

I never puked. I fainted like a real man.

Anyway, she vanished into that cursed room. Ten seconds passed. The tension was unbearable. Then—she returned.

And in her hands...

Was something.

Something disturbingly familiar.

And the moment our eyes fell on it—our brains clicked like bad light switches.

We all forgot this one small detail.

We forgot about that one guy.

Jack.

Our dead friend. Our long-forgotten corpse buddy.

And boy… he did not look how I remembered him.

Last time I saw Jack, he was a mess—a bald, dented meatball with a forehead shaped like a padlock. I had literally used his skull to bash open prison doors. He died doing what he loved—being useful furniture.

But now?

Now the body looked… brand new. Like it just respawned after a five-year nap. No dents. No baldness. No "doorstop" forehead

First of all, the corpse was cleaner than my search history after a police knock.

Not a speck of dirt. No dents. Not even that crusty "I died screaming" vibe.

Then, somehow, man had hair again.

Like, bro went from Mr. Clean to L'Oréal commercial while being clinically dead.

The disrespect.

He was dressed in fresh brown clothes, too.

Not the tattered rags he died in—no, this was "just got resurrected for a job interview in heaven" level of formal.

If corpses had LinkedIn profiles, this one would've gotten hired immediately.

Jack's dead body didn't look tragic anymore.

It looked like a premium corpse—Hollywood edition.

You know, the kind of dead body that dies aesthetically. The kind that makes detectives go, "Damn, who murdered him? And what's their skincare routine?"

All in all, what I'm trying to say is…

This man's corpse had more rizz than half the living population.

His posthumous drip was immaculate.

He died once, but somehow came back cleaner, fresher, and sexier than most people after a shower.

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