Sunset Rebellion

I’m finally here. Het's west side. The stench of decay fills the air, a suffocating mix of uncollected trash and rotting wood. This place is a dump. The cracked streets are lined with crumbling buildings, their windows shattered or boarded up with rusted nails and splintered planks. Stray dogs scavenge through piles of garbage, while the few people I see shuffle through the streets like ghosts, their faces hollow and gaunt. The east side wasn’t the best place either, but it had a pulse—there was life there, a sense of pride. It was fairly clean, despite its struggles. Here, there’s nothing but despair. As I walk through this wreck of a district, the citizens cast wary glances at me, eyes sunken with fear and hunger. Their ragged clothes barely cling to their skeletal frames. They don’t recognize me, but it’s the way they look at me—cautious, almost as if they’re afraid of what might happen if they do. Are they not allowed to leave? I wonder if this is some kind of prison, the residents trapped in this desolation.

A young man bursted out of the shadows, his movements frantic. He’s wearing a red cape—a symbol I know all too well. Not again... Bloody Knuckle’s pawns are everywhere, it seems. His eyes burn with a wild fury as he yells, "For Blood!" He charges at me with reckless abandon, winding up for a right punch. His fist connects with my cheek, the force enough to indent my skin. But that’s all it does—no pain, no damage. I meet his eyes, unimpressed. "Are you that weak?" I ask, my voice calm, cutting through the tension. Without giving him a chance to recover, I drive my fist into his gut. The impact is brutal, and he doubles over, spitting out a mixture of saliva and blood, his body convulsing from the force. Before he can fall, I seize him by the hair, my fingers gripping tightly into the greasy strands. His breath comes in ragged gasps as I drop low, using my weight and leverage to slam his face into the cracked pavement with a sickening thud.

He’s done. His body goes limp, unconscious or worse—I don’t care. I release my grip, his head bouncing slightly as it hits the ground again. The crowd that had been watching from the shadows, tense and silent, suddenly seems to come to life. Their faces, once filled with fear, now twist into something resembling relief—maybe even satisfaction. They start to smile, a grim acknowledgment of what I’ve just done. As I look around, I understand why. If they’re living in this kind of hell, it’s no surprise they’d hate Bloody Knuckle as much as I do.

More men came at me as I ventured deeper into their territory. Their attacks were relentless but sloppy, their movements wild and undisciplined. Each one fell with just a single blow, crumpling to the ground. None of them could withstand even a moment’s challenge. They fought like they’d never learned a real martial art in their lives—just brawlers with cheap, self-taught moves that were easy to counter. It was almost disappointing, how easily they crumbled. As I moved further in, the surroundings shifted slightly, though the improvement was minimal. The streets became marginally cleaner, the buildings less damaged, but the town hung heavy with decay. How could Bloody Knuckle allow their own people to live like this? These were their citizens, their so-called loyalists. In any other place, a happy citizen means higher taxes or a better reputation for the ruling faction. But these guys—they didn’t care about any of that. Scumbags, the lot of them. I felt nothing but satisfaction as I dropped each one, like I was doing the world a favor.

Up ahead, I spotted two men sitting lazily in a dingy restaurant, their eyes locking onto me the moment I came into view. They didn’t bother to hide their aggression, glaring at me with unmistakable menace. The first one leaned over and whispered something to his friend, who nodded in agreement. Then, as if he couldn’t wait for trouble to find him, the second man yelled out, "Hey, who are you? We’ve never seen you before." I didn’t waste time on pleasantries. I raised my hand, flipping them off with a smirk. "Someone who’s going to kick your ass." The moment the words left my mouth, the first man snapped into action. His eyes narrowed, and without hesitation, he launched his fork at me like a dart. I deflected it with a simple motion, my forearm knocking it away effortlessly. Before I could react further, he leaped into the air, attempting a flying kick, his foot aimed at my chest.

I sidestepped smoothly, catching his leg mid-flight and yanking him down with force. His face met the ground in a brutal slam, the impact resonating through the dirt. Just then, the second man was finally closing in, his footfalls heavy and rushed. I grabbed his fallen friend’s body and hurled him toward the oncoming attacker. The two collided with a loud crash, the thrown body knocking the wind out of the second man as he tumbled backward onto the hard ground. I moved in before he could recover, stepping onto his exposed shoulder, grinding my foot into him as he gasped in pain. Both men were at my feet, defeated in mere seconds. I looked down at them, disgust evident in my voice. "How could you call yourself a fighter after this humiliation?" I leaned down, looking the man directly in the eye. "Hey, I’ve been trying to find Bloody Knuckle’s main base of operations. Can you tell me where it’s at?" My voice was calm.

The man winced in pain, blood dribbling from his mouth as he spat a crimson glob to the side. "Will... you let me go if I tell?" His voice was weak, the desperation starting to creep in. I stomped the dirt next to his head, hard enough to send a small shockwave through the ground. A crater formed under my boot, the force rattling the man’s body. Slowly, I cracked my neck, letting the sound echo through the tense air. "That’ll be your head if you don’t tell me. Hurry up." His eyes widened in fear, and he nodded quickly. "Okay, it’s at—" Before he could finish, a sharp whistling sound sliced through the air. His body jerked suddenly, and a knife embedded itself squarely in his skull. His eyes rolled back as his body slumped to the ground, lifeless. I immediately traced the trajectory, my eyes snapping upward to the café’s roof.

There, crouched like a predator ready to strike, was another man, draped in a flowing white cape that contrasted sharply with the grimy surroundings. His fingers were still extended, as if savoring the moment after throwing the knife. His cold, calculating gaze met mine as he stood up, a smirk forming on his lips. "We have no room for traitors in our clan." he said casually, like it was an everyday task to silence those who defied Bloody Knuckle. "My name is Jack 'the Ripper.' I’m No. 3 of Bloody Knuckle." Jack leaped from the roof, arms spread wide like an eagle in mid-dive. He landed effortlessly, bending into a crouch to absorb the impact. There was a grace in his movements—controlled, precise. Without wasting a second, he dashed toward me in a blur, his knife glinting in the dim light as he slashed with lethal intent.

Unlike the others, he was skilled—he didn’t trip over the bodies scattered around us, navigating the battlefield like a trained killer. His blade came at me in a horizontal arc, faster than most could react to, but I met his strike with my palm, deflecting it just in time. The force of the impact vibrated slightly through my arm, and I could tell instantly—he was much better than Tom. Faster, stronger, and his strikes carried the intent to kill. He wasted no time, switching to a reverse grip with fluid ease, and his blade flashed toward my neck, aiming for a quick finish. I reacted instinctively, planting my hands behind me and flipping into a handstand. Using the momentum, I shot my foot upward, connecting squarely with his chin. The blow landed hard, snapping his head back and leaving an immediate bruise across his jawline.

He paused, retreating a few steps as his breathing steadied. His eyes remained locked on me. In one swift motion, he hurled his knife directly at me. "How are you so fast?!" he yelled, frustration creeping into his voice. With barely a flicker of movement, I caught the blade between my thumb and index finger, holding it as if it weighed nothing. "Intense training." I said, before twisting the knife and flinging it back toward him. The blade sliced through the air and embedded itself deep into his thigh.

He grimaced in pain, letting out a small grunt as he yanked the knife free. Blood seeped through the fresh wound, staining his clothes. Without hesitation, he tore a piece of his shirt and tied it around his leg to stem the bleeding. The wound wasn’t deep, but it clearly slowed him down. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the bloody knife upward into the sky, the blade disappearing into the clouds above. I kept my eyes on him, aware of every movement, but suddenly, he lunged at me again, this time with a renewed fury. His slashes came fast and unpredictable, his knife switching hands and grips in rapid succession, each cut intended to slice through my defenses. But I dodged them all, my body moving with ease, avoiding every strike. His frustration deepened, but so did his smile. "You idiot," he sneered between attacks. "you fell for it."

The moment he said those words, I sharpened my focus. Something wasn’t right. My instincts screamed at me. I shifted my gaze upwards, and in that split second, I saw it—the knife he had thrown into the sky was barreling down towards me, like an arrow fired from above. It was only a heartbeat away from striking me, descending at terrifying speed, breaking through the air like it was nearing the sound barrier. Jack had played me, leading me into the exact spot where the knife would fall, all while distracting me with his barrage of attacks. The setup was brilliant, and I had to give the man credit—if anyone else were in my place, they’d be dead.

But it’s me.

I pushed off my left foot with everything I had, my body blurring from the force of my movement. The knife plunged into the ground just behind me, slicing through five feet of dirt and rock like a meteor. Jack stood there, bewildered, scanning the area. From his point of view, I had vanished in an instant, completely slipping out of his sight. I snapped my fingers casually. "Over here, man." He whipped around, eyes wide with disbelief. "How did you dodge that?! That knife was going over three hundred meters per second! I’ve trained my whole life for that one technique!" He was frustrated.

I clapped slowly, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. "No, really—you should be proud of it. That was dangerous, I’ll give you that. I had to use nearly all of my speed to dodge it." My tone shifted as I looked at him, my gaze sharp. "I hope you understand now just how outclassed you are." I paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, enough compliments." I tapped into my full speed once again, blurring forward so fast it must have looked like I teleported. In an instant, I was standing right in front of him. His eyes barely had time to widen before I fired a right straight, the punch landing square on his nose with a sickening crack. The force of the impact sent him flying backward, his knives clattering uselessly to the ground as his body raddled across the dirt. He tumbled for a good thirty feet, leaving a blood trail in his wake as the friction tore at his skin. I watched him come to a stop, motionless, his body sprawled in the dust. With a sigh, I rubbed the back of my head, feeling a mix of satisfaction and regret. "I really should’ve asked where their HQ was." I muttered to myself, glancing down at the unconscious, or dead, Jack. I let out another sigh, turning away from the scene, hoping my next encounter would offer more luck.