Author's Note
Hey everyone! Sorry for not updating for a while — life got a bit busy on my side.To make up for it, I'm planning to upload three chapters today.Thanks for your patience and for sticking with the story. I really appreciate all of you!
See you soon in the next chapters!
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Serik woke to the sound of his own heartbeat.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The ceiling above him was familiar—the cracks, the faint discoloration in one corner—but his body felt heavy and distant, like it wasn't fully his. He blinked slowly. Bandages tugged against his skin when he tried to move.
His chest throbbed in a dull, deep rhythm, no longer the sharp agony he remembered. His throat was dry. His tongue felt thick. And then his stomach growled so loudly it almost startled him.
"…I'm hungry," he croaked.
He pushed himself up on his elbows. The room swayed for a second, but it held. Someone had changed his bandages recently; the linen was clean, wrapped tightly around his torso. The faint smell of herbal salve hung in the air.
Jons wasn't in the chair beside the bed.
But something else was.
A smell.
Warm, rich, overwhelming.
Food.
Serik's feet hit the floor before he'd consciously decided to stand. His muscles protested, but not enough to stop him. He moved slowly at first, testing his balance, then more steadily as his legs remembered their job. Each inhale pulled that smell deeper into his chest—meat, broth, something fried, something sweet.
His stomach growled again, louder.
He followed the scent into the hallway, hand brushing the wall just in case his knees betrayed him. By the time he reached the kitchen doorway, his mouth was already watering.
The table was full.
Plates of steaming rice. Bowls of thick, fragrant soup with chunks of meat and vegetables. Grilled fish glazed in something glossy and dark. Skewers of roasted meat, slightly charred at the edges. Fresh bread rolls piled high. A platter of noodles with egg and green onions. A bowl of sliced fruit—some he recognized, some he didn't. There was even a small plate of sweets—sticky rice balls dusted with something powdery, a tiny cake glazed with syrup.
Serik stared, stunned.
His stomach made a desperate noise.
"Good morning, young master."
Serik turned.
Jons stepped into the room carrying another tray—a teapot, cups, and two more dishes: one with pan-fried dumplings, the other with something that smelled like spiced stew. He set them down with practiced grace.
"You're awake earlier than I expected," Jons said.
Serik dragged his eyes away from the food long enough to answer, "Good morning," and then they went right back.
Jons' mouth twitched very slightly. "Please, sit."
Serik didn't need to be told twice. He dropped onto the chair and started eating before the chair even stopped creaking. Rice, meat, soup—anything his hands could grab, he devoured. He barely chewed the first few bites, nearly choking in his hurry.
Jons wordlessly adjusted the plates so the lighter food was closer to him, refilled his cup whenever it emptied, slid empty dishes away and replaced them with full ones. He moved like water—there, gone, always one step ahead of what Serik needed.
At some point, Serik slowed down.
The edge of that wild hunger dulled. He chewed more. Tasted more. The soup was salty and comforting. The grilled fish melted on his tongue. The fruit was cold and sharp and sweet.
When he finally leaned back, his belly felt heavy and round under the bandages. A small, satisfied burp escaped him before he could stop it.
"Ah—sorry," he muttered.
"It is a natural response," Jons said. "You have not eaten properly in a week. Your body is simply relieved."
Serik blinked. "…A week?"
"Seven days," Jons confirmed. "You woke briefly once, but you do not remember it."
Serik let his head fall back against the chair. The ceiling looked different from here.
He stared at nothing for a while.
His body felt warm and tired and full.
His mind began to move again.
He thought of Garron's eyes as they went still. The way his neck had twisted under Serik's hands. The way the laughter had cut off mid-breath. The silence afterward. The weight of the body as it fell.
He waited for something to rise up in his chest. Guilt. Horror. Regret. Something.
Nothing came.
"Jons," he said quietly.
"Yes, young master."
Serik stared down at his bandaged hands. "I don't… feel anything. About killing him."
Jons didn't answer immediately. He finished pouring tea into Serik's cup, set the pot down carefully, and then took the chair opposite him.
"What is it you expected to feel?" he asked.
Serik frowned. "I don't know. Bad? Sick? Like throwing up? People in books… when they kill someone, they change. They can't sleep. They see the person's face. They break. But me… I feel hungry. Tired. Sore. That's it. I don't… feel wrong."
He hesitated.
"Does that mean something's wrong with me?"
Jons studied him. His eyes, as always, were calm. But there was a depth in them now, a kind of quiet calculation mixed with something more human.
"There are many ways people respond to killing," Jons said. "Some vomit. Some shake. Some cry. Some feel nothing for days, and then it crashes over them like a wave. Some never feel anything at all."
"Which one am I?" Serik asked.
"For now?" Jons said. "You are exhausted. Your body is still in survival mode. You killed a man who was trying very seriously to kill you. Your mind may not classify that as murder… but as necessity."
"That doesn't sound… good," Serik muttered.
"It is not good or bad," Jons replied. "It is real."
Serik looked down. "So… I'm not a monster for feeling nothing?"
"Not yet," Jons said.
Serik looked up sharply.
Jons didn't flinch. "What you feel, or do not feel, is less important than what you choose. If, in time, you begin to enjoy it… if you seek killing for pleasure, for sport… if you forget that the people in front of you are living beings and not simply obstacles… then, yes. You will have become a monster."
Serik's fingers tightened around his teacup.
"But right now," Jons said, "you are a boy who fought to live and lived. You are allowed to feel relief before you feel anything else. Do not rush to condemn yourself."
Serik stared at the table.
"…I understand," he said eventually. "I get it."
He did. The words made sense.
But somewhere deep inside, a small, cold part of him whispered:
If I can kill someone with my bare hands and sleep after it… maybe I am already halfway there.
"Maybe I really am a monster," he murmured under his breath.
Jons' gaze flickered, but he didn't deny it. He simply said, "Rest more, young master. Your body and mind are still recovering. You do not need to decide what you are today."
Serik pushed back his chair slowly. "I'm… going back to bed."
"Of course."
The next day, he woke without unbearable pain. The wound ached, but the sharp edge was gone, replaced by a heavy, dull throb. His bandages were clean again. He could breathe more deeply without feeling like his chest would split open.
After breakfast, he looked at Jons and asked, "Can I go outside?"
Jons considered for a moment, then nodded. "For a short walk. No running. No training. If you feel dizzy, you should come back immediately."
"I know," Serik said.
Outside, the air felt different. Fresher. The sky looked wider than it had from his bed. He walked slowly at first, careful with each step, feeling his body readjust to movement. The world had continued while he'd been sleeping—children still ran down the streets, merchants still shouted about prices, carts still rattled over stone.
Nobody knew a man had died screaming in a yard not too far away.
On the second day out, he sat by a small fountain in a quiet square and watched pigeons fight over crumbs. A couple argued nearby about rent. An old man snored on a bench. Serik leaned back and realized, with a small jolt, that he felt… peaceful.
"This is nice," he admitted to himself.
On another day, he found a street vendor selling skewers of something spicy and unidentifiable. He bought one with the little money he had on him and stood under a shade tree to eat it, savoring the burn on his tongue. Two kids ran by, pretending to sword fight with sticks. He followed them with his eyes, imagining where he would stand, how he would move, if they were real opponents.
"I don't have to think all the time," he realized. "I can just… be."
On a different day, he climbed to the roof of the house again. Sitting on the edge with his legs dangling, he watched Swandani breathe—smoke rising from chimneys, people moving like lines of ants, the far-off shimmer of the Hunter HQ building cutting into the sky.
He remembered the first time he'd seen it. How far away it had seemed.
"Not so far now," he murmured.
On the sixth day, the air felt heavier.
He didn't know why. The sky was clear. The streets were as noisy as ever. But there was something—a strange tension under the sound.
He was walking down a narrower street, hands in his pockets, when he heard it.
Laughter.
Not the careless laughter of kids. Not the rough laughter of drunks.
A hard, sharp laugh that sliced through the air like metal.
It echoed off the walls.
Serik's feet stopped on their own.
He turned his head toward the sound.
Another burst of laughter came, louder this time, followed by a low, angry shout. Something in that sound made the hair on his arms rise.
He hesitated.
Then curiosity nudged him forward.
One step.Another.He followed the noise down a side alley, heartbeat picking up for reasons he couldn't name.
As he reached the corner, he heard someone say, "I told you, this is your last warning."
Another voice snorted. "You don't have enough warnings in this city to scare me."
Serik edged closer and slowly peeked around the corner.
Two men stood facing each other in the middle of a small, empty square. No crowds. No guards. No one else.
Just them.
Their stances weren't like bar brawlers. They weren't loose and sloppy. They were grounded. Centered. Their eyes locked like they were gripping each other with their gaze alone.
They looked like they were about to fight.
But the air around them felt… wrong.
Serik frowned, not understanding why his chest had suddenly tightened.
He watched as one of them shifted his foot a fraction of an inch.
The other lifted his hand, just slightly.
The space between them seemed to shrink without either of them moving forward.
"What… is this?" Serik whispered to himself.
He didn't know.
But something in him did.
And it was afraid.