From the dim recesses of the back room, Rosa, Melati, Cherlyn, Rasya, and Wina emerged in haste, driven by mounting dread.
Each footstep carried the weight of worry, their thoughts consumed by Felzein facing peril alone.
The door creaked open, and in an instant, the sight that met them turned their anxiety into stunned silence.
There, upon the cold, unyielding floor, lay Welly and Gaga. Unconscious, battered, defeated.
Felzein stood before them, a solitary figure of composure amidst the wreckage.
His posture was resolute, his eyes sharp as tempered glass, fixed unflinchingly on the trio before him, Abdi, Aryo, and Diga.
Melati stepped forward, the colour draining from her cheeks, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and horror.
“Welly…!” she gasped, eyes darting to the second motionless form. “And... Gaga?!”
Her gaze lifted once more, settling upon the three figures who stood rigidly before Felzein.
“Aryo… Abdi… Diga…?” she called out, the names falling from her lips like shattered glass.
Each syllable laden with disbelief and a dawning realisation.
She knew them. All of them. Once, in another chapter of her life, Welly had introduced them as brothers not of blood, but of bond, his closest companions.
The men stiffened, as though struck.
Recognition flickered across their faces, dismay shadowing their features.
“Melati?!!” they echoed, voices overlapping in a stunned chorus. Startled, uneasy, and not entirely free of guilt.
The air hung thick with revelation. And in that charged silence, the past reared its head with an unforgiving stare.
Now the final veil was torn asunder. Every disguise unravelled, every illusion laid bare.
There was no turning back. Only one grim resolution remained, to eliminate every soul who had borne witness.
"Strike!" Abdi roared, his voice ringing like a war drum in the stillness.
Diga and Aryo sprang forth with feral urgency, their bodies propelled by violence long festering beneath the surface.
They descended upon Felzein like twin hounds loosed from a chain, relentless, unforgiving.
“No!” came the collective cry of Rosa, Melati, Cherlyn, Rasya, and Wina, a chorus of fear and desperation.
Their eyes widened with horror, powerless as they beheld Felzein now outnumbered, facing not one adversary, but two.
Yet Felzein did not falter. He held his stance like an immovable pillar, his breath calm, his gaze unshaken.
Aryo and Diga lunged, swift as shadows, while Abdi lingered at the fringes, silent and watchful.
He did not move, but like a vulture circling above the battlefield, he waited for weakness, for hesitation, for the faintest falter that might tip the balance.
And so the duel was drawn, three against one, though only two had struck.
The third was the blade not yet unsheathed, the danger not yet realised.
The air itself seemed to tighten, as though holding its breath.
Felzein now stood alone between his two adversaries, Aryo and Diga, his body poised in a low, balanced stance like a seasoned duellist awaiting the first strike.
His breath was calm, deliberate. His gaze, sharp as a blade, never wavered from the men before him.
It was Diga who made the first move, hurling himself forward with reckless speed. His right fist carved a vicious arc through the air, aimed squarely at Felzein’s face.
But Felzein moved like smoke, slipping left in a blur, avoiding the blow with uncanny ease.
In a single fluid motion, he twisted his torso and drove a savage elbow into Diga’s midsection.
“Ughk!!” Diga gasped, his breath torn from his lungs.
He crumpled forward, arms clutching his abdomen as though he’d been struck by a wrecking ball.
Felzein’s eyes remained cold and unyielding, “You’ve brought bloodlust to the wrong doorstep,” he said softly.
A cry rang out as Aryo lunged from the right, his body twisting mid-air, delivering a spinning kick towards Felzein’s ribs.
Felzein met the strike with a solid block of his left forearm.
“Nggh!!” Aryo winced.
The impact reverberated down his leg. It was like kicking a slab of marble.
Felzein responded with a sharp shove to the chest.
Aryo staggered backwards, heels skidding across the floor, narrowly avoiding a fall as he collided with the edge of a table.
Diga was still on his knees, face pale, sweat trickling down his temples. He attempted to rise, but Felzein offered no reprieve.
With two swift steps, Felzein launched himself forward, and with surgical precision, brought his heel crashing down upon Diga’s temple.
“ARGHH!!”
The scream tore from Diga’s lips as the blow landed.
His head snapped sideways, and he collapsed in a heap, moaning faintly, both hands pressed to the side of his head.
Felzein’s voice came low, almost disdainful, “Did you think rage would tip the scale in your favour?”
His attention shifted once more to Aryo, whose expression had contorted into a mask of fury.
“You smug bastard!” Aryo spat. “Let’s see you dodge this!”
He charged, fists flying in a storm of wild jabs and hooks. Each strike came with brute force, but no finesse, no control.
Felzein danced through them with grace and discipline, parrying, sidestepping, his every movement refined to an art.
Aryo’s breath grew ragged. His anger, unchecked, began to unravel him.
“Stand still, damn you! Stop running like a coward!” he roared, yet even he knew the futility in his own words.
Felzein moved with the grace of a shadow, slipping past Aryo’s guard with lethal efficiency.
In one swift, fluid motion, he drove his fist squarely into Aryo’s solar plexus.
“Ghhk!!!”
The breath burst from Aryo’s lungs in a strangled gasp. His body folded inwards as if struck by a thunderclap.
Eyes wide, mouth agape, he sank to his knees, both hands trembling violently as he fought to draw air.
“I never wished to harm you,” Felzein said, his tone quiet and detached, almost regretful.
His breathing remained unshaken, calm as ever, though two of his assailants now lay crumpled before him.
“But you leave me no choice.”
From the far end of the room, Abdi stood still, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched beneath his skin.
His eyes, narrowed to slits, burned with a quiet fury. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward.
Felzein’s eyes flicked toward him, cold and steady, “If you're next...” he said, voice low and unreadable, “...then stop posturing and make your move.”
That was all it took.
“You bloody bastard!” Abdi roared, his composure shattering as he sprang forward like a coiled viper let loose.
But Abdi was no ordinary brute. His movements bore the unmistakable sharpness of formal training, precise, deliberate.
He had studied kempo, and his form betrayed the discipline of someone who had honed their body into a weapon.
His first strike was swift, an open-palmed blow meant to crush Felzein’s face with sheer momentum.
The air split with the force of it. Yet Felzein did not flinch.
With an elegant tilt of his head, the blow swept past him harmlessly.
In the same seamless motion, he caught Abdi’s wrist, twisted it with clinical precision, and redirected the momentum away.
“Still too slow,” Felzein murmured, as if making a quiet observation rather than taunting.
Abdi, undeterred, spun on his heel, unleashing a side-kick with fierce intent, targeting Felzein’s ribs.
It was a textbook strike. Clean, powerful, decisive.
Felzein’s response was instantaneous. He raised his left leg in a fluid arc, intercepting the blow mid-air with a turning block that absorbed and diffused the impact.
Before Abdi could recover, Felzein stepped in, hooked him forward, and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest.
“Ngghh!!!” Abdi staggered backward, his footing faltering as the force of the collision knocked him off balance.
Yet Abdi did not remain idle. In a flash, he broke free, springing back several paces to adopt a defensive stance, his breath heavy but eyes burning with resolve.
Felzein’s gaze was sharp, measured, “You fight well,” he said coolly, “but it won’t be enough to defeat me.”
Now cautious, Abdi fully understood Felzein was no ordinary opponent.
He advanced again, deliberate and patient, unleashing a trained series of kempo strikes.
A precise right jab, a swift left kick, followed by a focused punch to Felzein’s chest.
Like a breeze, Felzein slipped aside, evading each blow with fluid grace.
When the last strike passed through empty air, he seized Abdi’s arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove his elbow hard into the back of Abdi’s neck.
A strangled sound escaped Abdi as the world spun. His body bent under the impact, yet he fought to stay upright.
Felzein pressed forward relentlessly, trapping Abdi against the cold wall.
“You’ve lost,” he said calmly, voice firm.
Despite exhaustion etched on his face, Abdi sneered defiantly, “Not yet, bastard.”
With a desperate surge, he spun and lashed out with both fists in a reckless, final assault.
Felzein slipped away easily and delivered a precise kick to the back of Abdi’s knee. The joint gave way instantly, and Abdi collapsed.
He groaned in pain but tried weakly to rise.
Felzein stood over him, expression unreadable, “Enough,” he declared, voice edged with authority. “You’ve caused more than enough chaos.”
Abdi wheezed, trembling, “You… bastard,” he spat through ragged breaths, knowing this was the end.
Rosa, Melati, Rasya, and Wina stood frozen, eyes wide with disbelief as they witnessed Felzein’s flawless precision dismantling his foes one by one.
Their breaths caught, hearts pounding in stunned silence, struggling to fathom that a single man could so effortlessly overcome five adversaries.
“W-Wow…” Wina’s whisper barely rose above a breath.
“He… defeated them all alone?!” Melati clutched her mouth, shock rendering her speechless.
“Felzein… who is he, truly?” Rasya murmured, still rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze away.
Yet Cherlyn remained composed, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.
Her countenance serene, almost unreadable, betraying no hint of astonishment.
“He’s always been this way,” she muttered softly, almost to herself. “Doctor Vradistza is no ordinary man. In combat, he is simply unmatched.”