After Benson stepped out of the car, the assistant in the passenger seat turned to Richie.
"Boss, given Benson's personality, that kid doesn't stand a chance. So why did you come here personally? If you're planning to let him die anyway, couldn't you have just called Benson over and let him handle it?"
Richie gently rolled down the car window, lighting a cigar with a soft click.
"Some people think they can win just by relying on momentum. That kind of person might have some strength, but what they're willing to pay isn't enough to get what they want."
"Boss, what are you trying to say?"
Richie took a long drag of his cigar, eyes fixed through the smoke-stained glass on the lone figure in the distance—Yoren.
"Then there's another kind of person, whose arrogance is completely unreasonable. It's because what they're willing to give up far outweighs what they want to obtain. Only those who aren't afraid of death deserve to live. I'm just... curious. What kind of person is he?"
Through the crowd, Benson approached Yoren.
As the long-haired man appeared, the relief on Yoren's face slowly faded. They were about the same height, and Benson wasn't particularly muscular, but the animal ears and tail marked him as a member of the Luper tribe. What caught Yoren's attention most was his eyes.
Unlike the bloodlust that usually came from experience in battle, Benson's gaze held something colder—indifference toward life itself, laced with a deep, twisted hatred. It was a look Yoren had seen before.
Benson came to a stop less than ten meters away.
"Don't move. I'm enough."
The crowd behind him didn't budge, clearly out of respect—or fear.
Yoren slowly clenched his fists and asked sideways, "Are you the best fighter here?"
Benson stepped closer, his reply low and confident.
"Name's Benson. Maybe not the best, but I can kill you."
Seeing him approach, Yoren tensed up. His instincts screamed that this was no pushover.
"If I beat you, Boss Rich will let me join the Frido Chamber of Commerce."
"You really believe that?"
"Of course. I knew he was in that car. Why else would he be here himself?"
"Maybe. Or maybe you disturbed Mr. Rich's rest, and he just wants to watch me kill you."
Benson stopped just a meter in front of Yoren and stretched out his hand.
"I know you're strong. Out of respect—let's shake before we start."
Too close. Dangerously close. Benson stood confidently within striking range.
Yoren's instincts screamed to act now—he could use the explosive strength of the black and white twins to shatter Benson's sternum, snap a defending arm, or slam his head into the dirt.
But this wasn't just about fighting. He was here to prove himself. Richie was watching. If he struck now, would it even count as a win?
So Yoren slowly extended his hand.
Under the watchful eyes of the crowd, their hands met in mid-air.
"My name is Yoren."
"Goodbye."
A jolt of pressure exploded from Benson's palm.
In that instant, Yoren realized what was happening—an Origin Stone reaction. There was no time to think.
He lashed out with a kick to Benson's gut just as a shockwave erupted between them.
BOOM!
Blood mist burst in the air as both fighters were flung backward.
Benson skidded but landed on his feet, rubbing his abdomen with a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Yoren rolled hard, ears ringing from the blast. He forced himself up, only to feel a sharp, tearing pain shoot through his hands.
Looking down, the skin from his fingers to wrists was laced with spiderweb-like bloodshot veins. He'd barely redirected the black power to his arm in time to mitigate the blast. If he hadn't, his whole arm would've shattered.
Damn it... That was a sneak attack!
And worse—Yoren now knew this was no ordinary skill. Benson was infected.
Benson casually shrugged off his coat, revealing arms covered in Originium crystals—he was heavily infected.
Yoren narrowed his eyes. That blast... air compressed in the palm, released at point blank. A kind of air cannon, applied directly to the body.
Benson smirked as Yoren stood tall again.
"Shame your arm didn't break."
Yoren's tone darkened. "You're infected?"
"That's right. My Origin Stone skill—"
"Cut the crap. You came to kill me, right? So why am I still breathing?"
Benson's expression twisted as the crowd stared, the tension palpable.
"You little—interrupt me again and I'll make sure you beg for death."
"Try me."
No more words. The two shot forward.
Yoren's punch sliced through the air, the force blasting sand and gravel in all directions. Benson, nimble and experienced, weaved through every strike. Still, a burst from his palm managed to slash Yoren's side.
This was no ordinary opponent.
Yoren realized it—the raw strength of the black and white twins wasn't enough against a veteran like Benson. When power alone couldn't win, skill became everything.
Explosions of air echoed with every clash. Dust and debris swirled in the parking lot like a miniature storm.
The watching gang members shielded their faces, unable to intervene in a fight at this level.
Inside the car, Richie rolled the window back up, eyes dark and glinting with growing interest.
Something about Yoren had caught his attention.
Although Hapi City isn't the headquarters of the Frido Chamber of Commerce, with its abundance of light manganese ore and thriving industries, Yoren knew this place was far from being a haven for weaklings. There had to be real masters hidden among the noise and smoke.
Benson was strong—not just in combat skills or the mastery of his Origin Stone abilities, but in his ruthless intent. His aim wasn't to win a fight; it was to kill.
And that was the difference.
Yoren's goal had been to gain Richie's recognition through battle and be accepted into the Frido Chamber of Commerce. Benson, on the other hand, fought with murderous purpose. That imbalance weighed heavily from the start.
As time passed, the fight grew more brutal. The power of the Black and White Twins placed a heavy toll on Yoren's body, far beyond the limit of what was sustainable. The Origin Stone bracelet served as a consumable, and the strain began to show.
Meanwhile, Benson seemed only to grow fiercer. With each exchange, he adapted. He saw through Yoren's brute strength and rigid techniques. Even Yoren's suicidal tendencies—his willingness to throw himself into mutually assured destruction—had been read and countered.
"Bang bang bang!"
A few muffled blasts shook the air. Yoren's entire body went numb from the shockwaves. When his senses returned, Benson had already pulled back. The tide was turning.
After so many battles, the energy stored in Yoren's Source Stone bracelet was nearly depleted. He had been limiting his output, preserving strength. But now, when he needed to go all out, the power just wasn't there. The once-mighty force of the Black and White Twins had faded.
But he had planned for this. He still had one final trump card.
What concerned him now was how this would end.
He didn't know what Benson meant to Richie. Was he a savior? An important figure? If Yoren killed him, would it destroy his own chances?
Wounds were multiplying across his body. But if he backed down now, he would never earn the recognition he sought. Everything would be for nothing.
"Boom!"
A crisp, piercing crack tore through the air. It wasn't Benson this time.
A gunshot.
Sudden. Distant.
Yoren reacted instinctively, cranking his perception to the maximum. He pinpointed the direction and tracked the bullet. It was aimed straight for his head.
Where the hell was the honor in this duel?
Tapping the Black and White Twins, he twisted mid-air. The bullet missed him by mere inches, skimming past his brow.
But that movement cost him his balance.
Before he could recover, Benson was on him. A hand clamped around Yoren's throat, lifting him effortlessly.
The fight was over.
Blood trickled from Yoren's lips, staining Benson's palm. The grip tightened.
"Pathetic."
Yoren gritted his teeth, squeezing out the word.
Benson sneered.
"You've got some strength, sure. But you're still clueless. You're an infected too, aren't you? And yet you don't understand the first thing about survival. You want to join the Frido Chamber of Commerce with that mindset?"
His voice lowered, bitter and cold.
"Fairness? Don't make me laugh. There is no fairness. You call that bullet despicable? I've seen worse. I've lived worse. People who don't know me, people who have nothing to gain—they'd still strip everything away the moment they could. Family, friends, money, everything. All because I'm infected."
Benson's eyes were filled with something that had once been hatred. Now, it was interest. Survival, profit—those had replaced vengeance.
He could end it now. The Origin Stone ability in his hand was enough to crush Yoren's skull.
He glanced at a car in the distance. As if waiting for approval.
Then his grip tightened.
"You and I don't have to be enemies. We're both infected. Say your last words."
Yoren let out a quiet breath.
Last words?
No. It wasn't time to die yet.
Because in that moment, he saw it—a clue. A detail he hadn't noticed before.
"Hessen."
Benson blinked.
"What?"
"You were with Hessen."
Recognition flashed in Benson's eyes.
"How do you know that name? Don't tell me… you too?"
Yes. Hessen—the infected organization Red Knife once belonged to. Yoren hadn't noticed at first, but now, hearing Benson speak with that venomous edge, everything clicked. The tattoo on his arm, too—familiar. He'd seen that mark before. On Dark Crow. On Red Knife.
Benson's expression shifted.
He had been a member of Hessen. But for reasons unknown, he'd left. Drifted. And eventually ended up with the Frido Chamber of Commerce.
A powerful infected like Yoren, with traces of Hessen's ideals? The connection wasn't hard to make.
"Did Dark Crow send you?"
That name.
Yoren's eyes flashed. Just hearing it cleared his mind like cold steel through fog.
But he didn't lose himself this time.
Instead, he laughed.
He thought back to Mandel City. To Dark Crow preaching about justice, about the oppression of infected people, about revenge.
And now? A former comrade had joined a criminal syndicate for power.
Infected or not, human nature remained the same. Greed. Survival. The desire to take.
That was what mattered.
Right and wrong weren't decided by infection. Only by action.
Still suspended in Benson's grip, Yoren smiled.
"Why are you laughing? Are you one of us?"
Yoren's eyes sharpened. His voice exploded like thunder.
"Screw you. We're nothing alike."
In that instant, Yoren twisted free.
A red scarf had been looped between Benson's hand and his neck, cushioning the hold. With a swift motion, it tore away.
Yoren's feet hadn't even hit the ground when his left hand emerged from his pocket.
In it was something crystal-clear and deadly.
An S-Class Source Stone.
Taken from the Liye family's chemical plant.
The trump card was finally in play.