Stronges.

My master. Everyone's master. The woman whose abs probably have their own religion. She was going towards the front door of her house.

For five straight years, we'd always used the back door of her house.

The front door was practically a myth—like honest politicians or good customer service.

But today, after half a decade of sweat, screams, and trauma disguised as "training," we were finally leaving through the front door.

And we all knew exactly what that meant.

On the other side of that door were Malthus' guards.

And Stronges wasn't going out there to exchange pleasantries or borrow sugar—she was going out to commit violence with artistic flair.

Her left arm jingled as she loosened the metal chain, like death itself doing warm-up stretches.

Carnage was coming, and the chain knew it.

All of us took a deep breath, the kind you take right before doing something irreversible and profoundly stupid.

Weapons ready. Nerves on fire. Morality temporarily offline.

If it was going to be carnage, then carnage it be.

Stronges stopped right in front of the door.

She inhaled deeply, the kind of sigh you take when you've had enough of life's nonsense.

Then she turned around and looked at us.

That silent nod?

Yeah, it carried more weight than a motivational speech from God.

We nodded back.

Because what else do you do when your master's about to commit homicide with style?

She turned toward the door again.

One.

Two.

THAAM!

The door exploded open like it had been waiting years to quit this toxic household.

Wood shattered, dust rose, and out of that dust emerged—us.

Freedom fighters.

Warriors.

And a guy named Erect, who really needs to rebrand soon.

Stronges stepped out first, sunlight (and potential trauma) hitting her like divine spotlighting.

We followed, bursting through that door like the world's most confused boy band.

And there they were.

Ten guards.

They looked… awful.

Half of them were drunk enough to mistake us for pizza delivery.

The other half were sober but regretting it. Their collective stench was a powerful mix of cheap beer, disappointment, and expired life choices. Some swayed. Some blinked. One scratched his ass in confusion.

Some swayed. Some blinked.

One scratched his ass in confusion.

Ten guards. That's it.

I frowned.

Where the hell were the rest?

You'd think after a literal door explosion, there'd be alarms, soldiers, maybe even a guy shouting "INTRUDERS!" dramatically.

But no. Just ten half-awake sentries from the University of Poor Decisions.

Then it hit me.

The Gangbang Continent was massive and guards were divided per district.

Maybe these ten were just the regional idiots assigned to our coordinates.

Still, it felt off.

Even raccoons guard trash better than this.

Anyway—these guards weren't human.

Different skins, colors, textures—like someone forgot to install the right textures in a video game.

It didn't matter.

Malthus' minions, all the same.

Ugly. Loyal. About to die.

One guard shouted, "Who… who are you people!? This house was empty for years!"

Stronges didn't answer.

Her chain clinked once—just once—and that was enough to make our spines reconsider existing.

The guards raised their weapons.

The drunk ones, however, dropped theirs, sat down, and passed out.

Which, honestly, was probably the smartest thing they could've done.

Then came the sound—

PLUCK!

No one saw her move.

Her chain flashed, whistling through the air like an executioner's lullaby.

In a blink, five heads took flight, leaving their bodies behind to file for early retirement.

Five. In. One. Swing.

I don't even think gravity understood what just happened.

Stronges didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't even blink.

Meanwhile, I was standing there like, "Did we just unlock the 'Mass Decapitation' achievement?"

The remaining guard's legs wobbled like cheap jelly.

The sight of five of his buddies instantly un-alived had him questioning every career decision he'd ever made.

His weapon fell.

He dropped to his knees, trembling like a bad Wi-Fi signal.

Stronges, meanwhile, turned to the ones snoring on the ground.

She hated drunks.

She once said alcohol was "the coward's bandage for an untreated soul."

Translation: she was about to send them to Alcoholics Anonymous in heaven.

Her chain whipped again.

Whirrr–CRACK!

Four heads gone. No hesitation. No mercy. No refunds.

She didn't smile doing it either.

Her face twisted slightly—not in joy, but in disgust.

Killing enemies was one thing; killing the weak was a chore she despised.

But justice had no snooze button today.

The last remaining guard—still kneeling—looked up at her, face pale, teeth clicking like a faulty keyboard.

"You… you won't kill m-m-me?"

Stronges stared at him like a god might stare at a forgotten ant.

No pity. No hatred. Just purpose.

We all assumed she'd crush him next.

But then… she did something none of us expected.

She wrapped her chain around his left arm—gently, almost kindly—and leaned closer.

"I will kill you, yes," she said softly, "but not right now."

The guard blinked.

His brain crashed.

We all exchanged the universal "WTF?" look.

Stronges explained.

"I'm letting you live. Go and tell everyone—every guard, every soldier, every pathetic worm that serves Malthus. Tell them my students and I are coming for revenge."

Her tone was calm. But her eyes?

Those things could curdle milk from across the continent.

"Tell your lord…" she leaned forward until her voice was practically whispering inside the guard's skull,

"…that the Hero King has returned."

The poor bastard's orange eyes went wide.

He nodded so fast his neck made a clicking sound.

Stronges released him.

He stumbled away, tripping over corpses, leaving a trail of panic behind him.

I swear I saw his soul sprinting ahead of him like, "Nope, not today!"

And there she stood—our Master—bathed in daylight, surrounded by bodies, chain dripping blood like a cursed metronome.

She didn't smile.

She didn't gloat.

She just said, almost to herself—

"Let the world remember… who we are."

I looked at her, looked at the corpses, and thought:

Yup.

This woman could singlehandedly make the Grim Reaper feel underqualified.

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