Chapter 45: Answers Amidst a Fierce Battle

Edward's brow furrowed. "Job location? Where's that?"

"How should I know?" Bishop snapped. Frustration was evident in his voice. "Let's just grab one of Fixer's goons and make them talk."

"Uh... about that..." Edward trailed off, suddenly finding the floor incredibly interesting.

Bishop's eyes narrowed. "Edward. What did you do?"

"Well, you see..." Edward rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "I might have gotten a teensy bit carried away. Everyone's kind of... not breathing anymore?"

Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. "You're telling me you took out every single person in this place?"

"Hey, don't look so glum!" Edward perked up, his eyes sparkling with misplaced enthusiasm. "We've still got that muscle-bound guy Ave's fighting outside. He's bound to know something!"

"You could have left at least one person conscious for questioning," Bishop grumbled, fighting the urge to facepalm.

Edward's lower lip quivered, his eyes growing wide and watery. It was a look that could melt the coldest heart—or in this case, Bishop's irritation.

With a heavy sigh, Bishop felt his anger dissipate. "Alright, alright. I can't stay mad when you pull that face. Let's just focus on getting out of here."

Edward brightened instantly, but then his brow furrowed. "Hold on a sec. Ave said we need to get these people somewhere safe. Any ideas?"

Bishop glanced around at the frightened faces of the other captives. "Safe? In this place? Fat chance. First things first—we need to find our phones. The goons confiscated them when they brought us in."

Edward's eyes lit up with renewed purpose. "A treasure hunt! I'm great at those."

…

The earth trembled beneath their feet as Avery and Fixer traded blows. Clouds of dust billowed around them, turning the battlefield into a hazy arena. Sweat glistened on their skin, but Fixer's eyes blazed with pure, unrestrained excitement.

When was the last time he'd felt this alive? Since hanging up his Butcher's blade, he'd been reduced to running errands for the Night Gallery. But this? This was what he lived for.

With each punch thrown, each attack dodged, Fixer felt the rust falling away. His muscles sang with remembered glory, his instincts razor-sharp once more. It was like reuniting with an old friend—one made of battle-fury.

Fixer's strikes grew more powerful, each blow meant to shatter bone and break spirit. He was no longer just fighting; he was reclaiming a piece of himself long thought lost.

While Fixer reveled in rediscovered strength, Avery found himself swept up in a long-forgotten sensation. It whispered through his veins, a memory just out of reach. When had he last felt this way? The answer danced on the edge of his consciousness, maddeningly elusive.

Yet the feeling was unmistakable. His mind expanded, sharp and crystal clear. Something deep within him stirred, like a lock slowly turning. In another life, another world, they might have called it enlightenment. Here and now? Maybe it was just the purest form of adrenaline, pushing him beyond his limits.

CLANG! CLASH! BOOM!

Their weapons met again and again, a thunderous symphony of steel on steel. Neither warrior gave an inch, each strike met with unwavering determination.

As the battle raged on, Avery felt himself slipping into a state beyond mere combat. 

Fixer's smile never wavered as he spoke, his voice a distant echo in Avery's ears. "Do you really want to know why I decided to become a Butcher?"

But Avery couldn't respond. His mind, usually so quick to process information, was adrift in a sea of unfamiliar sensations. The world around him seemed to blur and sharpen simultaneously, colors more vivid, sounds more crisp.

Fixer continued, unaware of Avery's internal struggle. "It was so that I can find the opportunity to kill those Artists. After my wife was killed by one of their own, I vowed to myself that I would avenge her death."

The words washed over Avery, barely registering. A strange energy coursed through his veins, electric and intoxicating. His consciousness expanded, reaching out beyond the confines of his body. When had he last felt this way? The answer was just out of reach, teasing him with its familiarity.

"I was once an enemy of the Night Gallery," Fixer's voice faded in and out of Avery's perception.

But Avery was lost in the rush of clarity flooding his mind. Every nerve ending tingled with awareness. Something deep within him stirred, like a lock slowly turning. In another life, another world, they might have called it enlightenment. Here and now? It felt like pure, distilled potential.

Fixer's voice grew heavy with memory. "I dug deep, uncovered their secrets. Thought I was making real progress as one of their Butchers." His eyes clouded over. "Then I found him – the one who took my wife. I got my chance and I took it."

A bitter smile twisted his lips. "But there's always a bigger fish, kid. Someone – something – forced me into retirement. Let me tell you, if this is all you've got, you won't even scratch that mountain."

But Fixer's words fell on deaf ears. Avery's mind had drifted far beyond the woods, beyond even this world. He found himself back in Murim, the persona of Yeomra settling over him like a second skin.

A memory, sharp as a blade, cut through his consciousness. He was facing down a behemoth, a creature more monster than man. This abomination, pieced together by the Unorthodox sect, loomed before him. Stitches criss-crossed its massive form, a patchwork of twisted experimentation.

Yeomra – no, Avery – recalled his mission with crystal clarity. The poison master's life had been his target, and he'd succeeded. But escape? That was proving far more challenging. The chimera-like monstrosity blocked his path, a terrifying obstacle.

At this time, he was a novice assassin with more bravado than skill. The battle raged around him, fierce and unforgiving.

His movements were clumsy, unrefined. Against this monstrous chimera, he stood little chance. The creature before him was the pinnacle of Unorthodox sect's twisted experiments – a true killing machine.

Yeomra's dagger flashed, scoring hit after hit, but to little effect. The chimera's flesh seemed to mock his efforts, barely yielding to the blade's edge. Each strike felt like attacking a stone wall with a twig.

His muscles screamed in protest, every clash of steel and bone sending shockwaves through his arms. His wrists threatened to snap under the relentless assault. With each passing moment, Yeomra felt himself inching closer to defeat, to drinking from Old Lady Meng's memory-erasing soup in the afterlife.

Yet something nagged at the back of his mind. How had he survived this encounter? The answer was maddeningly close.

Yeomra struggled to piece together the fragments of memory. What crucial detail was he missing? What hidden strength had he tapped into to escape this seemingly inevitable fate?

In that frozen moment, Yeomra's life hung by a thread. The chimera's massive fist hurtled towards his skull, promising a swift and brutal end. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

His legs, pushed beyond their limits, finally buckled. Like a puppet with cut strings, Yeomra crumpled to the ground. The monster's devastating punch whistled harmlessly overhead, missing by a hair's breadth.

Reality snapped back into focus. Avery found himself once more in the present, facing down Fixer's attack. History repeated itself as his knees gave out, causing Fixer's killing blow to sail wide.

In that instant, understanding dawned. The lesson from his past life crystallized in his mind – brute strength could be overcome with precision, fluidity, and timing.

Avery's eyes blazed with newfound clarity. His hand found the familiar weight of a dagger, fingers curling around the hilt. With fluid grace, he moved.

The blade danced through the air, quick and deadly as a viper's strike. It found its mark, sinking deep into Fixer's leg.

A grim smile touched Avery's lips. The tables had turned. The hunter had become the prey, and the viper had tasted first blood.