Chapter 109

“Mr. Horne, your water.” Wan Ji pushed the glass toward Horne.

“Thanks.”

It was called water, but it was actually Wan Ji’s special cocktail. The purple liquid had a few blueberries clinging to the rim of the glass, like a violet waterfall under the sunset. The drink slid coolly down his throat, and he slammed the glass down hard on the bar. The other glasses jumped, and the spoons rattled.

Horne looked out toward the Red Light District. There was no wind today, and the chirps of insects and birds seemed dragged into the clouds. The clouds hung low, right before his eyes, a vast expanse of gray-black that blocked the sunset.

The rain seemed to have been brewing for days. Besides the oppression, the only uncomfortable sensation for Horne was on his skin. Sweat wouldn’t flow, and the sticky dampness couldn’t dry. The entire space felt like thick liquid.

This didn’t affect the revelry inside the Red Light District, nor did it stop the people outside the door from wandering the gray-white streets like drifting souls, their shadows pressed into the road below.

Without rest, Horne stepped back onto the arena. Cheers erupted from below.

“This gentleman is back. Does anyone want to challenge him?”

“I will!”

A burly man covered in muscles stood before Horne and taunted him. “Everyone you’ve fought today was trash. You must be secretly thrilled.”

“Mm.” Horne’s response was indifferent.

Hot blood and sweat—every punch struck at the pain points. Horne was on the arena, but his mind wandered to what Jia Lan had just said about the Hermit and where he had heard that name before.

Hels: [Want some cheese ice cream? I made it according to Yan Yue’s recipe.]

Hels: [Training camp, come down? Have you trained today?]

“21 wins in a row! Anyone else?”

“I’ll try. I don’t believe it!”

Horne’s face grew a bit hot, perhaps from Wan Ji’s drink taking effect. The alcohol and his heartbeat made his thoughts more lively.

Hermit… Frequency Detector… Where had he heard those names before?

Hels: [Colonel, ignoring my messages?]

“22 wins in a row!! Anyone else? Come on!”

“Can two come at once?”

Horne nodded. The arena lights illuminated his flushed face.

“This is 2v1, an asymmetrical match! Get ready!”

Hels: [Colonel?]

Hels: [Horne.]

“23 wins in a row! Even two couldn’t stop this gentleman! Anyone else want to try?”

After the intense battle, the host scanned the crowd below. Many people had come to the arena area today, drawn to watch the matches, but after the long streak of victories, no one else stepped up.

“Anyone else willing to challenge?” The host’s voice carried far through the speakers. “What a shame. If not, that’s it for today.”

Horne leaned against the edge of the arena and tied his soaked hair up casually with a rubber band. He panted, his eyes holding their unchanging calm.

After thinking so long, he still had no clue. Horne nearly gave up. He planned to end the day’s fights, head to the training camp, or check on Ains.

Just as the host was about to announce the end of the arena matches, a familiar voice came from below.

“Me.”

At that voice, Horne’s hand froze mid-tying his hair. For a moment, the entire arena area fell silent for two seconds.

The host was stunned too. “Mr. Hels? How…”

He wore a lightweight long trench coat, a rare casual style. He strolled leisurely to the other side of the arena, his voice carrying a casual laugh. “I just heard there’s a tough guy in the arena today and wanted to check it out. Can’t I?” He turned to the host.

“Of course, of course.” The host jumped, then turned to Horne. “This gentleman?”

Horne slowly lowered his hand, his expression indifferent. His gaze met Hels’s for an instant before shifting away, but the man had no intention of letting him off.

He walked step by step toward Horne, from the opposite corner of the arena. In Horne’s slightly lowered field of vision, the footsteps approached steadily, pounding on his chest, and finally stopped just one step away.

Hels leaned down, eyes full of amusement, and said softly, “Can I? Colonel, or are you scared?”

Horne opened his mouth, then closed it, finally replying in an icy tone. “You’re asking to die.”

After nearly a full day on the arena, Horne finally focused entirely on it.

A sharp wind whistled as the fist pierced the heavy air in an instant.

Half the Red Light District’s attention gathered. Everyone held their breath, watching how this all-day winner dared accept Mr. Hels’s challenge and what fate awaited him.

“Place your bets! I say this streak guy’s gonna die miserably!”

“Not just miserable—he’ll kneel and kowtow to Hels. If Mr. Hels lets him keep winning, I’ll stand on my head and mop the bar with my hair!”

The lights twisted, the crowd below roared and jeered, neon lights wandering wildly like they were out of control.

Sweat splashed under the lights, gleaming coldly like blades. Hels swung a punch, and Horne dodged to the side. The two brushed past in an instant.

Horne remembered Hels’s close-quarters combat habits—powerful and ferocious, like a beast’s ambush. He never gave breathing room, tearing into prey the moment he caught up.

The fist had just landed when Hels’s figure flashed behind him with a sweeping kick. Horne reacted swiftly, retreating quickly. In the next second, he raised his knee to strike, but Hels grabbed and yanked him back.

Their shoulders collided, drawing them infinitely close. In that brief gap, a laughing whisper reached Horne’s ear. “You’ve been dodging me all day.”

Horne froze for an instant—just that instant. Hels pinned his wrist and twisted. Horne countered immediately, dropping his shoulder, using the momentum to flip and grab Hels’s wrist in turn, forcing him to release.

Hels’s goal was exactly that—to get Horne’s attention there. The second Horne realized, Hels used the grabbed wrist to lock his arm around Horne’s throat, pulling him into his embrace.

His back hit Hels’s chest, lips brushing his ear. Hels’s eyes darkened, his breath hot enough to burn through skin. “Not replying to messages either.”

Horne didn’t answer. He exerted his full strength to counter and suppress, pressing Hels’s shoulder inch by inch, knuckles tightening until he broke free completely.

The next second after breaking free was a counter-grapple. Horne forced Hels toward the arena edge. Sweat slid down his back, clothes stretched taut. Their chests nearly pressed together, sticky and inescapable. Breaths collided on each other’s faces, short and scorching.

Echoing in his ears was Hels’s trailing tone. “So I had to come find you myself.”

He was no longer just a beast that charged wildly. Now he attacked and defended, schemed, and… casually made breaths quicken.

Horne panted and smiled—a smile both fierce and dangerous.

So what?

Horne wiped the trickle of blood from his mouth. “We’ll see if you’re worth replying to.”

Sweat and the scent of blood filled the humid, stifling air. Gasps, shouts, and breaths from stage and audience wove into a net. The excited chatter below was crystal clear.

“It’s over. I feel like he can’t beat Mr. Hels. Hope no one actually dies.”

Horne changed his usual passive defense against Hels to active offense. His moves were ruthless, precise to the millimeter amid the ferocity. Hels handled it with ease, blocking but not fully evading. The instant they closed in again, Horne asked coldly, “Going easy?”

Hels replied softly. “Afraid you’d hurt.”

“Hurt?” Horne laughed in anger, then his smile vanished. “I’m afraid you’ll cry.”

The entire arena felt like a fuse on the brink of explosion, igniting at a touch.

Whistling punches, each slamming into the air with muffled blasts. Close-quarters entanglement—knee strikes, elbow strikes—with no moment to breathe.

Hels pressed forward, seizing Horne’s wrist and pinning him to the arena edge. Their breaths and pulses mingled.

Hels leaned down. “I won’t get the chance to cry. You, on the other hand…”

“Shut up!” Horne kicked his abdomen and flipped up.

Hels inhaled sharply in pain. His face already lacked much color. Horne paused, wondering if he’d gone too hard, but then saw Hels smile through pursed lips, not looking hurt at all. Horne’s guilt vanished instantly.

Over the years, in close-quarters training fights with Horne, Hels had never won, and Horne had never gone all out against him. But now, Horne was deadly serious.

The crowd below gradually fell silent, passersby stopping to watch.

A clash of extreme power and skill—every contact grinding sparks from bone. The arena shook in a silent, scorching struggle for survival, a piercing of identities and positions.

Finally, both leaned against the arena edge, panting. The host didn’t dare call it, nor did the crowd shout. Tension hung as they watched the two.

Hels turned his head, coughed twice, then looked back at Horne with laughing provocation in his eyes.

Horne straightened, sweat dripping slowly from his hair and temples, tracing his sharp, icy profile from jawline. His chest heaved dramatically.

The exhilarating fight was more satisfying than any training session, even more thrilling than sparring with Han Ya. No distinction between them, no winner or loser. For a few seconds, it wasn’t sparring—it was a dance under a requiem.

Time exceeded, and they didn’t continue. The host hemmed and hawed, unsure how to announce. Horne spoke first. “He wins.” He grabbed a towel from nearby, draped it over his shoulder, and stepped down, leaving only his back.

The audience didn’t know, but Horne did—continuing held no meaning. Hels would force a draw.

Twelve years to reach this level went beyond mere talent.

But Horne was in a good mood. He knew now that, at least in his absence, no one could hurt Hels.

The clamor faded instantly, leaving muffled bass and the quiet glow of white lights.

Horne waited for the elevator in the lobby. Hels followed right behind.

His heated aura hadn’t dissipated. Horne glanced at him but didn’t speak first. Hels said nothing, standing two meters behind.

Ding. The elevator arrived.

Horne stepped in, but Hels’s arm blocked the door, barring his path.

Hels sighed. “Enough, Colonel. One fight didn’t vent it? You’ve really dodged me for 24 hours.”

“Mm, move.” Horne eyed the arm between him and the elevator, merciless.

The doors closed, then opened again. Hels didn’t budge.

Horne suddenly remembered something. He tilted his head slightly and nodded toward the still-lively hall outside with his chin.

“Just now, by the bar, there was a guy in a gray athletic T-shirt.”

“Mm?” Hels followed his gaze. “What’s up? Problem with him?”

“Mm.” Horne nodded lightly. “Go over now. Make him do a handstand at the bar and mop it clean with his hair.”

Hels: “…?”

Hels: “Okay.”

The doors opened again. Horne moved to enter, blocked once more by Hels.

He was a bit helpless. “Colonel, you can’t change topics like that. How long are you planning to dodge me?”

Before Horne could speak, he saw Hels looking troubled, sighing. “It was just a kiss. You didn’t even reach my lips—missed by a bit, you know?”

！！！！！

Horne’s fist clenched suddenly, breath catching in his throat. He forced his facial muscles to relax completely, but his earlobes still flushed red gradually.

Hels did it on purpose. He could have not mentioned it, but he deliberately said it so cuttingly.

Yet Hels ignored Horne’s state entirely. He just glanced at Horne’s blood-red ears and smiled, piling on. “Don’t blame yourself. Though you missed, I can give you another chance.”

A merciless punch whistled past his ear.