If someone asked you what weapons you would choose in a fight, you'd probably say guns, knives, or bombs—catastrophic tools that spell death everywhere they go.

But on that day, everyone was surprised that coffee, the very coffee we drink, could turn into a dangerous weapon.

Zabi was caught in a web of strings—frozen strings structured like thorns—that nailed him up like a prize you'd find in a competition, displayed for anyone to see.

Armstrong won. Somehow, a guy with coffee as a weapon had won a fight against one of the strongest individuals in the Turtle Company. That thought alone brought the soldiers down to their feet as Armstrong turned his attention to the fallen Ross.

That was until—

"Don't… be… so quick thinking that you won!"

Zabi interjected, speaking in broken gaps caused by the lack of air in his lungs. His braided hair had fallen over his face, making him look like a psychopath.

"Don't be an idiot. I stabbed you with enough thorns to kill an elephant. Talking will only increase the pain," Armstrong advised. It was his attack, and it was safe to assume he knew what he was talking about. The coffee strings were just too many for a person to handle.

"My body has endured a lot of things none of you have ever thought were possible!"

Somehow, Zabi began raising his feet, standing on his toes, increasing his height like he was trying to grab something off the top of a fridge—only this time, he was using it creatively to get out of a tough situation.

"What's he trying to do?" Ross was puzzled. None of the process was making zabi's condition easier. His best choice was to stay still and avoid provoking injuries he wouldn't want.

"You've got to be kidding me. Are you out of your mind?" Armstrong figured it out—the brutal plan Zabi had. Even a madman wouldn't have the strength to even think about it.

Zabi smirked. He was enjoying every piece of it, like the laws of feeling pain never applied to him. He was gliding up the frozen horns of coffee, the push of his toes doing most of the work.

*****Every thorn had the same shape and design: a larger base connected to its source—in this case, the ground—and a tiny end at the top. By pushing himself upward, he increased his height, inching closer with each centimeter to the thinner end, the part that was less strong.****

"But he can't reach the end. He's not tall enough!"

A voice came from the door. Zabi had a good plan, but it didn't seem fully thought out.

"Hmh!"

He grinned, all his teeth exposed like a painting in a museum, put on display for everyone to see.

"Mmmhm!"

He started moving his body through the thorns, letting them cut through him like meat.

****Take a piece of paper, for example. If you put a pencil through the middle of it, there are only two ways to remove it—pull or push. But in this scenario, instead of pulling or pushing, you drive the pencil along the paper, cutting it until you reach the end.*****

And in that very second—

Pwa!!! Pwah!!! Pwah!!!

Zabi cut through at once, escaping the grasp of the thorns, which remained as still as ever. His body dripped, pouring little drops of blood. The cuts shone inconsistently, some so deep that if you looked closely, you could see his skeleton.

"So that was his plan all along. By moving toward the smaller side, he reduced the size of the wounds the cuts would produce. It's pretty genius—and horrific as well. I can't believe I fought this guy!"

Ross's thoughts unraveled without grip on reality. A barbaric act had been demonstrated in front of him like it was nothing. Not cutting him into pieces was a huge relief.

Thud!!!!

Zabi landed on the ground, eyes fixed on an annoyed Armstrong.

"He got out? Tell me how he got out!"

Roy screamed with curiosity, startling the soldier beside him. Regret weighed heavily in his voice for not coming to the house himself.

The soldier moved inside, straight toward a broken window.

"Trust me… you don't want to know, sir."

There was subtle disgust on his face, like he'd seen a dead, rotten dog drowning in a pool of maggots and bugs. Perhaps that was why he chose a spot where Zabi couldn't overhear and crush his morale.

"Fuck… but does he look like he can still fight?"

"Honestly… he can't. Maybe for a few minutes, but he wouldn't survive another attack—not even a punch."

"Shit. If only they weren't upgrading the alien eliminators… hold on. I'll call Veteran for backup."

The line ended abruptly, like the first time. A curse on the mission, I suppose—though this call at least ended with hope.

...

"I have to say, you're a smart one," Armstrong commended.

Zabi never answered. He breathed heavily, his face like a lion in the jungle staring down stubborn prey. His heart hammered in his throat, gathering every bit of energy he might need.

Thud!!!

He stepped his right foot back, the left forward, taking a balanced stance like before. The only difference—he had no gun in his hand. This was something new.

"Aaaaaah!"

Zabi screamed, like a man in the gym trying to lift weights his body wasn't used to. He pulled his punch back, gathering all the strength he could. A ringing echoed in his head.

"It's the technique!"

Memories flooded his mind—the ringing sound, the cracks, all the damage and pain the punch once caused him.

"But at this distance… what's he thinking?"

Armstrong stood still, showing no movement, no hint of his next attack.

Circles appeared around Zabi's fist, spinning like a launch sequence for a rocket. As he spoke, his voice grew confident, almost as if he had already won.

"I have to admit, you are a strong opponent, Armstrong. But I'm sorry—your luck ends with me. I am the Enforcer of Axis Industries, the embodiment of the end itself!!"

Wuuuuuuu!!!!

The sound came from his fist. It began to vibrate, like a trigger waiting to be pulled. His eyes dropped to the ground.

That was his target. His plan to turn the battleground upside down.

"Shit… he's going to bury us!" Ross realized. Still stuck on the ground, he was in the worst possible position for what was coming.

"This… is… it!"

Suddenly—

Boom.

Zabi's head exploded like a balloon, bursting into pieces. Blood sprayed across the area, leaving a headless body frozen mid-motion, its glowing fist still faintly lit as it fell toward the ground.

"Fuck!!!!"

Everyone in the residence—including Armstrong—screamed at once, stunned by what had just happened.

"What the fuck is happening!"

"Is Zabi gone?!"

The questions came fast, thrown completely off the rails.

"You didn't do that?"

Ross shouted at Armstrong, louder than he'd spoken since being stabbed.

"No. No way. I didn't do that—I wanted him alive!" Armstrong denied, the same way a person denies a suspension.

"You mean… you really didn't do that?" a soldier asked. Armstrong was the only one who could've done it.

"I'm telling you, I didn't! I don't have that kind of brutal power!"

Ross couldn't believe it. His mind slipped into a trance, filled with questions that had no answers.

"If you didn't do it…" he muttered from the ground.

"Then who did?"

Everyone froze, fear locking them in place. The battle had shifted into something unknown—friend or enemy, no one could tell.

"If you didn't… then who did?!"

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