Malthus had brought his family to the fight.

Because why settle a grudge like a man when you can turn it into a full-blown family picnic? A grudge match is so pedestrian. A family brawl? That's a limited-time engagement. That's premium content.

They weren't weak, of course. They were his bloodline — basically the deluxe edition of disappointment with extra stats, like a poorly designed video game character with one maxed-out skill: Grudge-Holding (Passive).

Malthus' mother was fighting Sexis' mother — a clash so fierce it looked less like combat and more like two Wi-Fi routers trying to connect to the same device, occasionally emitting high-pitched screams that were definitely not part of the standard protocol. Every move was less about damage and more about establishing dominance in the suburban battlefield of emotional trauma.

His two brothers, both built like overcooked sausages, were relentlessly punching my boys, Erect and Sexis. Erect, bless his heart, was taking hits like a government website handles traffic, while Sexis was trying to debate the proper mechanics of a jab mid-fight.

Family reunion goals.

Then there was Malthus' father — a man whose face permanently looked like he'd just stepped on a Lego brick — and he was fighting with…

"Buy this punch from me, old man!"

Who the fuck is that?

I turned and saw some random dude with a mohawk fighting Malthus' dad. Yeah, a literal mohawk. Not a "cool mohawk" like a rock star. More like a "I lost a bet in prison" mohawk. It was a defiant, gravity-defying tower of red gel, a crimson monument to poor life choices.

He wore the same, white karate costume as the rest of us, so clearly he was one of the prisoners who'd joined the training. But I didn't remember anyone looking like a rooster who failed barber school. I figured he must have been one of the background extras I hadn't bothered to learn the name of, like an NPC whose only line is "A fight, eh?"

The mohawk dude swung his fist, missed by a geographical mile, and Malthus Senior smacked him right in the chest — a clean hit, like an unpaid electricity bill arriving in the mail: sudden, impactful, and financially devastating to his internal organs.

The guy skidded across the ground and somehow stopped right next to me. I was impressed — he didn't fall. He just… wobbled like a washing machine on its final spin cycle.

"Who are you?" I asked, because priorities.

He turned his head toward me so fast I swear his neck made the Windows error sound.

His mohawk flapped in the wind like it was trying to get a Wi-Fi signal. Red color. The rest of his head? Bald as a philosophical egg.

This was the kind of man you could roast for charity. But somehow, he looked sad. Sad and angry. Which, honestly, was an upgrade — the rest of the prisoners usually looked at me like I was a walking OnlyFans account.

"You don't remember me?" he asked, trembling like a teenager on their first illegal download.

I frowned. "To remember someone, I first have to know them."

His eyes widened like I'd just told him Santa was dead.

"You don't know me?"

"Motherfucker, stop acting like I'm your ex who ghosted you. Yes, I don't know you. Tell me who you are and let's end this rom-com subplot. Just because I don't know you doesn't mean you're worthless — it just means you're forgettable."

The man closed his eyes, pinched his brow, and kicked the dirt like a rejected Bollywood villain.

I sighed. "Alright, I don't care. Go fuck yourself."

I turned back to Malthus — but nope, drama queen wasn't done yet.

"I'm the one who sold you the underwear. For free. Five years ago. I'm a merchant. Ring any bells?"

I blinked. Then my brain restarted like an old PC.

"Wait… the edible underwear guy?!"

His face lit up like a corrupt politician at election time.

"Yes!"

Oh. My. God.

The edible underwear guy. He'd gone from "sweet-toothed salesman" to "punk apocalypse prophet."

"What the hell happened to you? Why are you built like a rejected Street Fighter character?"

He puffed his chest like a motivational poster that failed QA. "After joining training, I decided to change myself. I wanted to be confident — confident enough to sell anything. So I asked the master to make me a wig with this hairstyle. She agreed. I wore it, talked to people, got bullied, didn't care. Over time, I became strong, unshakable. People stopped laughing. Eventually, I didn't even need the wig anymore. I made my real hair like this. Because confidence comes from within!"

He said it like he just invented gravity.

I stared at him.

That was, without question, the dumbest self-help arc I'd ever heard.

To become confident, he made himself look like the final boss of regret.

What was next? Gain humility by tripping in public? Build discipline by sleeping on a cactus?

Still, he looked proud. Genuinely proud.

I didn't have the heart to call him stupid — man had enough delusion to power a crypto startup.

"Good luck with your dream," I said, patting his shoulder. "Now go fight before your confidence gets killed. You can't sell shit if you're six feet under. Be confident, not a corpse."

He saluted, nodded, and ran back into battle like a motivational YouTube ad on legs.

I exhaled hard. That entire encounter felt like a filler episode written by someone on drugs and optimism.

I was just recovering from all that useless lore of the mohawk guy when I heard some things that made me forget about the mohawk guy altogether.

"Is that a fight?"

"This looks exactly like the last time?"

"It's been five years since then?"

"There are too many soldiers this time."

"That red bastard is also there."

"Who are those people in white uniforms though?"

"Wait… the man standing in front of Malthus. With a black sword.. Isn't that.."

"Hmm? Which one?"

"Wait. Yes. No way! That's.. That's…"

"THE HERO KING RETURNED!"

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