Chapter 9

Jimmy’s possession incident occurred, and the orphanage returned to its daily routine. Amon and Sonia took on the roles of big brother and big sister, caring for the younger siblings as the children eagerly awaited Christmas. They had already forgotten that they had received gifts during Black Friday and were now anticipating what presents would be placed by their pillows. Except for Jimmy’s inexplicable seizures whenever he saw a Bible, the orphanage was truly peaceful.

In this peaceful daily life, Amon and Sonia headed to the now-familiar swordsmanship dojo. It had been half a month since they started the lessons at the instructor’s suggestion. They were already fully recognized as students of the dojo. Of course, there were some murmurs. Some students were jealous that orphans were receiving free lessons directly from the instructor. But as is typical in martial arts dojos focused on duels, most grievances were resolved in the ring. After being beaten to rags by Amon and Sonia, they had no choice but to acknowledge them. Before they knew it, they had become the talented and beloved youngest members of the dojo.

It took them an hour to reach the dojo from the orphanage. “Hello,” they greeted. “Oh, you’re here. Go change your clothes,” the instructor replied. As usual, the swordsmanship lesson began. According to the instructor’s analysis on the first day, Amon and Sonia needed different types of training. Sonia relied too much on intuition and reflexes, a common phenomenon among sensory geniuses, and needed to compensate with psychological tactics and basics. Amon, on the other hand, was clearly unusual in the instructor’s eyes. “Why are your techniques so patchy?” the instructor asked. Some techniques were present, but the foundational ones were missing, and unrelated styles would suddenly appear. Amon’s swordsmanship was like a sword pieced together from various styles without any harmony. In other words, it was as if he had learned bits and pieces from books or the internet and was now perfectly executing them. Despite this, he had partially mastered counter-techniques for various styles, making it hard to define his skills. It was as if his techniques were patched together like a quilt.

Most instructors would consider this a bad habit and erase it all, instilling their own style instead. But this instructor was different. He saw it as Amon’s individuality and strength and didn’t try to correct it. “The reason you’re patchy is because you haven’t systematically learned the techniques. If you memorize them in a systematic order, you’ll become an all-rounder,” he said. Accordingly, Amon’s training involved the instructor teaching him all the moves of any swordsmanship he demonstrated, systematically memorizing them. At the same time, he was taught variations through sparring to increase his adaptability. Amon liked the instructor’s approach. “I thought he would impose a specific style,” Amon mused. The instructor had studied various styles in Japan and even won a championship in China. Amon had expected to be taught a specific style, but that wasn’t the case. When Amon mentioned styles, the instructor reacted with disgust, “What? Styles? That kills your individuality. I won’t teach that.” He didn’t just avoid teaching styles; he actively discouraged them. He believed that styles, which didn’t suit geniuses, were poison and didn’t teach standardized swordsmanship to the two. This was due to his educational philosophy: “Flaws are things to be fixed. Weaknesses are things you have to live with.” According to him, weaknesses were side effects that inevitably accompanied strengths. If they could be compensated for, that was great, but forcing fixes could ruin the strengths. “The world can’t do everything alone. A swordsman should be satisfied within their own capacity and leave weaknesses to their comrades. Trying to cover all weaknesses leads to mediocrity.” He preferred overwhelmingly maximizing strengths over compensating for weaknesses. His educational philosophy aligned perfectly with Amon’s playstyle. As a result, Amon genuinely trusted and followed the instructor. The instructor, seeing Amon grow day by day, poured everything he had into him. The synergy between the mentor and the mentee was incredible.

“Winner! Amon!” Amon’s sword stopped at the assistant instructor’s vital point. It was an achievement made just a month after picking up the sword. In pure technical sparring, where high-lethality techniques and physical enhancements were prohibited, Amon had no opponents he couldn’t beat except the instructor. This remarkable achievement was accomplished in just a month. By now, even Amon had to admit it. He had talent in swordsmanship. He finally added a checkmark to the swordsmanship section of his talent list and reviewed his skill tree again. Swords and disguise. To anyone, it was an assassination-focused skill tree. As he pondered his future, someone approached from behind. “Congratulations!” Sonia hugged him from behind. Amon, almost falling forward, reflexively caught her weight. Tapping her arm around his neck, Sonia’s arm loosened. Amon smiled wryly, “I’m sweaty.” “It’s okay. I’m sweaty too,” Sonia replied. That wasn’t much of an answer, but Amon, acting more maturely, accepted her nonsense without comment.

Soon, they washed off their sweat in the dojo’s shower room and left. As always, they headed back to the orphanage. The city was bustling with the approaching Christmas. In the crowd, they could easily get separated. Although they were teenagers who could find their way back to the orphanage, sticking together was safer to avoid any unfortunate accidents. Amon and Sonia’s hands naturally intertwined. Looking at the crowd, Sonia exclaimed, “There are so many people.” “Don’t let go of my hand and stay close,” Amon said. “Okay…” Sonia shyly clung to him. They made their way through the crowd to the bus stop. The path to the bus stop was so familiar that they didn’t get lost even in the massive crowd. But when they were just one corner away from the stop, something unexpected happened.

“Lynia!!! Lynia!!! Dad’s sorry!” A loud male voice came from the direction of the bus stop. Most people looked curiously toward the source of the voice, but not Amon. Based on his experience in Punk City, someone shouting in the middle of the street was bound to trigger a random event, and 99% of those events were bad. ‘Yikes!’ Sensing danger, Amon pulled Sonia into the corner for cover. Sure enough, a shooting spree began from beyond the corner. Rat-tat-tat! Screams, cries, and chaos erupted. Amon quickly assessed the situation. ‘This is insane.’ The word carried multiple meanings. The shooter, the situation, and this world—all were insane. Amon knew the terms and causes for such madness, but this wasn’t the time to dwell on them. While others were still processing the situation, Amon grabbed Sonia’s hand and pulled her away. ‘I remember this year was supposed to be a white Christmas.’ To Amon, at least this street seemed destined for a red Christmas. He didn’t go far, immediately diving into a nearby clothing store. Sonia, pulled by Amon’s hand, was sucked into the store. “Excuse me, sir!” An elderly man greeted them. He seemed to be of East Asian descent. If the situation were different, Amon might have asked about kimchi, but he had no time. The old man, perhaps hard of hearing or due to his age, hadn’t grasped the situation yet. Amon quickly explained and took refuge with him inside the store. To avoid stray bullets or ricochets, they headed to the attic, which served as a fabric storage, rather than staying in the store. As they moved inside, Amon asked the old man, “Is there a back door?” “Sorry, the building owner expanded with a container, blocking it.” “Great.” Amon could only click his tongue at the building owner’s disregard for construction laws. But going back outside now, in the middle of the shooting spree, was madness. They had no choice but to hide in the attic, surrounded by fabrics and clothes. Amidst the piles of fabric, Sonia asked, “Wouldn’t running be better?” “No. This is the best option right now.” Running through the crowd was a significant gamble. The risk of being trampled was high, and the speed wouldn’t be fast. Moreover, the insane shooter wouldn’t hesitate to shoot through people. Amon didn’t explain this in detail to Sonia, simply holding her head and comforting her. The store owner, watching them, awkwardly coughed and turned his gaze, muttering, “What a time to be young.”

***

Meanwhile, a few seconds after Amon fled into the store, people began to scatter in chaos. The disorderly escape inevitably led to accidents. Hell unfolded. Corpses piled up. It was unclear whether they died from trampling, gunshots, or traffic accidents. As Amon predicted, most who fled openly died. Those within a block of the bus stop when the shooting started were mostly dead, and half of those a corner away also died. Even those out of the shooter’s range died for various reasons. But was Amon’s method the right answer? Not necessarily. Those who sought refuge in nearby buildings but were slow or chose poor hiding spots also became silent corpses. Amon’s method was merely a higher survival rate option, not the definitive answer. The only true answer was to avoid encountering such madness in the first place.

“Lynia… why can’t you eat the pizza I bought you!!” The perpetrator of this chaos wailed. He was a man with a gorilla-like appearance, his body heavily modified with cyberware and magic tattoos. His right hand was connected to a machine gun, and he shed artificial tears as he fired. On his back, a baby doll swayed limply. The gorilla cycled through rage, depression, and calmness every five minutes. Meanwhile, the police, already on high alert due to the Christmas season, arrived. They surrounded the gorilla with patrol cars and opened fire. But the gorilla’s skin, as tough as it looked, didn’t flinch at the bullets. With a clear, refreshing ‘ting!’ sound, the bullets ricocheted. The problem was that the bullets were enough to irritate the gorilla’s nerves. “You came to kill Lynia! You pigs!” the gorilla roared, his speech slurred and spittle flying. His target shifted from innocent civilians to the police. Rat-tat-tat! A machine gun, unavailable on the civilian market, spewed fire. Several patrol cars were shredded like paper, and the police taking cover were shot down. Those lucky enough to benefit from the combined protection of the cars and bulletproof vests stood up. But those hit directly without cover, in non-bulletproof areas, or by ricochets to vital points, never got up again. “Damn it! That’s a military-grade machine gun! Where did he get that?!” a police officer shouted. But no one could answer. The police’s weak handguns and rifles couldn’t even scratch the gorilla, and they were swept away like extras in a movie. “When is the special forces arriving?!” “They’re on their way—” Thud! The answering officer’s head was blown off. “F***!” That was all his comrade could say. He wanted to run, but this world wasn’t kind to fleeing officers. Disgraceful discharge was the least of it; he and his family would be ridiculed on social media for life. Dying honorably here would at least grant his family national hero benefits and exemptions. A rookie officer, only a month into the job, cursed as he fired blindly from cover. Even if it hit, it was meaningless. But that choice wasn’t wise. In a formation, blind firing could lead to friendly fire or unintended targets. Like, for example, the doll on the gorilla’s back. Thud! The doll shattered. Simultaneously, the gorilla’s rampage stopped. The scene fell silent. “Is it over?” an officer muttered. Whether it was because of his words or fate, one thing was certain: the gorilla’s state was abnormal. He began to shed bloody tears. The red liquid flowing from his eyes was real blood, not artificial tears. And with the baby doll gone from his back, his back opened to reveal launchers and plasma cutters. The gorilla thumped his chest with his six arms. “$#^&%@#!!!!” Watching this, an officer muttered, “F***.” Phase two had begun.