Malthus trained too.

Apparently.

Which was adorable.

Like watching a tiger do push-ups.

Sure, he was already strong — but strength without struggle is like a protein shake without water. All powder, no purpose.

He was born strong.

I built mine from scratch — one pain, one scar, one bad decision at a time.

That's the difference between us.

He was a monster by birth.

I was a monster by choice.

So yeah — I was confident.

Because nothing's scarier than a man who's already been humiliated by life and still decides to come back swinging.

I gripped my katana lightly, knees bent, heartbeat steady.

Around me, my allies mirrored my movements.

Behind Malthus, his army of red-skinned copy-paste demons did the same.

Two sides.

Two kings.

Two species.

And one sky about to witness the dumbest yet deadliest clash in cosmic history.

The master's voice sliced through the silence.

"Pick one opponent and kill them. Then move to the next."

Translation: "No team fights. No hero speeches. No filler arcs."

Efficient. Ruthless. Just how she liked it.

Everyone nodded.

Even the Nano Bites stood still, their metal frames humming like restrained violence.

I locked eyes with Malthus.

He glared at me like I was a bad tax return.

I studied every muscle twitch, every breath, every vein.

If his toe twitched — I'd end him.

He was strong, but I was calm.

Calm like a psychopath meditating before a massacre.

He didn't have that kind of control. He probably never even tried yoga.

So when his toe finally moved — barely, like a guilty fart —

I smiled.

"KILLLLL!!"

I launched myself forward with the scream of an extinct dinosaur that just got Wi-Fi back.

Malthus flinched, late by one second — and in battle, one second is a whole lifetime.

Before his sword even came up, I was already there.

Behind me, my allies mirrored my charge — thousands of warriors, prisoners, and robots exploding forward like a tsunami made of bad intentions.

The ground cracked.

The air screamed.

The sky glitched.

The war began.

"Kill!!" Malthus shouted too, because apparently originality was never his strong suit.

But his army was already getting punched into red mist, so nobody cared.

Now it was just me and him.

King vs. King.

Red Bitch vs. Righteous Bastard.

Our blades met — my katana against his demonic sword.

The collision shook the earth like it had PTSD.

My strike went for the head, as Master had taught me.

Always aim high.

Decapitation over decoration.

But Malthus blocked it — fast, efficient, and annoyingly smug.

Of course he did. He was still Malthus.

He countered by raising his leg and slamming it into my chest.

Old memories flashed.

The first time he kicked me, I'd flown half a kilometer and reconsidered my existence midair.

But that was then.

This was now.

I didn't dodge.

The kick landed — full force, full arrogance—And I only stepped back one inch.

Just one.

Malthus froze.

He looked at me the way people look at math problems that start with "If a train leaves at—"

I smiled, brushing the dust off my chest.

"Those robots hit harder than you, Malthus. Try again."

His eyes twitched.

Beautiful.

I swung my katana.

The sound it made wasn't a slash — it was a shriek.

A whistle so sharp it could've shaved a god.

He still had his leg pressed against me — and honestly, that was just disrespectful.

So I sliced.

One clean arc.

THWIP.

THUD.

His foot hit the ground before his brain could process the pain.

Blood poured from his ankle like a crimson waterfall of karma.

For the first time, I saw fear flicker in those demonic eyes.

And oh, it looked good on him.

The crowd behind me erupted.

Cheering. Screaming. Laughing.

Every soul — human, alien, and robot — felt it. The shift.

If I could make Malthus bleed, they could make his army burn.

This wasn't war anymore.

This was a revolution with better choreography.

I glanced around.

Erect and Sexis were each fighting a Malthus clone.

Twin demons, same ugly face, same daddy issues.

Stronges was fighting Malthus' mom — a muscular, terrifying woman with the aura of a gym instructor who'd kill you for not finishing your squats.

She was smiling.

Stronges was smiling.

Both of them were smiling while punching each other hard enough to cause earthquakes.

And Stronges still had Jack's dead body hanging off her shoulder like it was a fashion accessory.

I swear to God, that woman could make murder look elegant.

Meanwhile, Malthus was glaring at his missing foot like it betrayed him.

"You… you cut me."

"Yeah," I said, tilting my head. "You didn't read the fine print on 'Mortal Combat'?" I paused, tapping a finger on my chin as I considered the pathetic, one-legged figure before me. "You know, this is awkward for both of us. You're bleeding everywhere, and frankly, I spent a lot of time shining these boots. I'm going to need you to move that severed foot to the side. Maybe use it as a makeshift tripod so you don't fall over? We're trying to keep a level of professional decorum here, Malthus. This is a cosmic war, not a pig roast."

His mouth twisted. "You'll pay for that."

I pointed at his ankle stub. "You already did."

The crowd's laughter spiked again, a chorus of alien and robot amusement that only fueled my confidence.

"I'm telling you, invest in better socks. Or a prosthetic. You've got options."

His eyes glowed, his aura exploding outward in red waves of fury. He stopped listening to the banter. The sheer power of his tantrum was enough to rip the earth open.

The ground split open under his rage — but I stood there, smiling, ready.

Because I wasn't afraid anymore.

Not of him.

Not of death.

Not of the chaos behind us.

I was the chaos now.

The Masturbation of Chaos wasn't just the title of this fight —

It was our anthem.

Every heartbeat was a drumbeat.

Every scream, a note in the symphony of destruction.

And as the storm of war raged across the battlefield—

I whispered, almost lovingly:

"Welcome back, Malthus. Let's finish what you started."

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