King 2

The air was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and rage. The streets of central Seoul had turned into a battlefield, the once bustling roads now flowing with rivers of crimson. Bodies lay strewn about like discarded dolls, some groaning in agony, others completely still. In the midst of this chaos, King stood, his chest rising and falling with heavy, labored breaths. His shirt had long since been torn off, revealing the hard, rippling muscles beneath. His entire body was a canvas of violence, smeared with blood—some of it his, most of it not.

But it didn't matter. He was still standing. His wounds, deep and jagged, were healing rapidly, his flesh stitching itself back together in a grotesque display of his unnatural regeneration.

His eyes, which had once glowed with a dangerous, primal energy, were now returning to their normal state as his consciousness reasserted itself. The wild fury that had overtaken him in the heat of battle slowly receded, and he took stock of the carnage surrounding him.

At his feet, the fallen warriors of Seoul's underground lay in heaps. They had come to challenge him, to reclaim their dominance over the streets. They had come for blood, and they had gotten it. But not in the way they had imagined.

Gun Park, the infamous Shiro Oni, lay crumpled on the pavement. His black eyes, once so full of menace and calculated cruelty, were now half-lidded, barely able to focus. The distinctive X-shaped scar on his chest was now torn open, a gruesome splash of blood staining the ground beneath him. His arms and legs, once powerful weapons in his arsenal, were nothing more than shattered limbs, twisted grotesquely at unnatural angles. The street around him was slick with his blood.

Nearby, Good Kim, the heir to the legendary Sword of Seoul, lay motionless in a massive crater in the center of the road. His once-manic laughter had been silenced, his body reduced to a bruised and battered shell of what it once was. His sword, which had been rumored to turn anything he touched into a lethal weapon, was now nothing more than a shattered hunk of steel, its pieces scattered across the street. The crater he lay in was a testament to the brutal force that had been unleashed upon him.

James Lee, the red-haired monster with hands that once moved like lightning, was now a bloody wreck. His once-strong arms and legs were mangled, bent in horrific angles that turned his skin blue and red with deep bruises. The sharp cracks of his bones breaking echoed in the minds of those still conscious. His hands, the tools of his brutality, twitched involuntarily, as if even in unconsciousness, they couldn't forget the violence they had inflicted.

And finally, Kitae Kim—the former king of Seoul, the man who had once ruled these streets with an iron fist—hung limp in King's grasp. His once-proud frame, muscular and imposing, was now nothing more than dead weight in King's bloody hand. His signature pickaxe, a weapon that had struck fear into the hearts of countless foes, was buried deep in his own chest, the wooden handle jutting out grotesquely from his body. His blood stained the ground in thick pools, yet his chest still rose and fell faintly. He was alive, barely, but broken in every sense of the word.

King's mind raced as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He had blacked out in the middle of the fight, his body moving on its own, driven by pure survival instinct. Now, looking down at the destruction around him, it felt like a nightmare. The carnage was unimaginable.

The streets of Seoul were silent, save for the distant wail of sirens. King's gaze flickered toward the approaching police cars, their lights flashing ominously in the distance. "Shit," he muttered under his breath. This was it. The authorities were here. They'd seen everything, and now he was done for. There was no way out of this.

As the police cruisers skidded to a halt, a squad of heavily armed officers emerged, forming a line as they cautiously approached. But it wasn't them that caught King's attention—it was the man at the center of the group. The police chief. A grizzled veteran of the Seoul force, his face was lined with years of experience and exhaustion, but his eyes... His eyes were wide with something that looked a lot like fear.

King, still clutching Kitae Kim's body in one hand, began walking slowly toward them. His body screamed in protest with each step, his muscles aching, his bones feeling like they might snap under the strain. Despite his regeneration, he wasn't invincible, and he felt every ounce of the damage he had taken in this fight. His legs trembled, but he forced himself forward, his face a mask of indifference.

As he approached, the police chief visibly swallowed. Sweat beaded on the man's brow, and his hand, resting on the grip of his holstered pistol, shook slightly. When King finally stopped in front of him, towering over the officer with an imposing presence, the chief's breath hitched. King's eyes met his, and for a brief moment, the entire world seemed to stand still.

The chief looked away almost immediately, his gaze dropping to the bloodstained ground beneath them. He cleared his throat, his voice trembling slightly as he spoke.

"I… I didn't see anything," he stammered, his words coming out in a rush.

King's eyes narrowed in confusion. He had expected the chief to arrest him, to try and subdue him, or at least bark some orders. But this? The chief, the highest-ranking officer on the scene, was so terrified that he was willing to turn a blind eye to the massacre?

King didn't say a word. He simply stood there, blood dripping from his body, his muscles tense, waiting for something to happen. But the police didn't move. They just stood there, frozen in place, as if the very sight of him had paralyzed them with fear.

The chief, still sweating profusely, gestured with a shaky hand for his officers to step back. "Make way," he ordered quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. The officers, exchanging uneasy glances, complied immediately, forming a path through the blockade of police cars.

King's body screamed for him to stop, to rest, but he forced himself to keep moving. Each step was agony, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on, walking down the path the police had cleared for him. His vision blurred from the exhaustion, but he couldn't stop now. He had to get away.

As he passed by the police chief, the man called out once more, his voice hesitant. "C-Can I… Can I know your name, sir?"

King didn't turn. He couldn't, not with the pain coursing through his body. But he did answer, his voice low and rough. "King," he muttered, his tone filled with exhaustion and finality.

And with that, he walked away, leaving behind the wreckage of Seoul's most powerful fighters and the trembling officers who dared not stop him. The streets were stained red with blood, the aftermath of a battle that would go down in history.

This night would be remembered as the night everything changed.

The streets of Seoul had never seen such violence, such destruction. And the man who had brought it all to an end, the one who had crushed the former king of Seoul and laid waste to the first generation, had earned himself a new title.

King. The man, the myth, the legend. The one who had turned against the entire tide and brought about the fall of Seoul's most feared fighters.

And as he disappeared into the night, leaving the broken bodies behind, everyone knew one thing for certain: this was just the beginning of King's reign.