Utterly satisfied.
Like chugging an entire jug of the strongest, honey-cut rotgut in one go—burning from throat to gut—then transforming into a scalding, sated fullness surging through every limb and bone.
Scar lay sprawled on the wrecked blankets, chest rising and falling.He felt that no other day in this life could ever be happier than now.
Power.Awe.Women.And this body's unprecedented sense of fullness, swelling to the brink…
It all felt like an absurd yet beautiful dream, and he wished he would never wake.
The shack was thick with the smells of sweat, cheap powder, and another rank, animal scent.The light was dim.
"Have mercy… g-great hero…"
A weak plea, trembling with suppressed sobs, drifted from the shadows near his feet.Along with ragged breathing—and the sound of liquid drip… drip… falling to the ground.
Soft.But unnervingly clear in the silence.
The sound was like a fine needle, piercing the bubble of satisfaction Scar was immersed in.
A thread of irritation—of being disturbed—rose up.He frowned. Didn't even look.
Almost reflexively, he lifted a foot and kicked toward the source of the sound.
"Ugh!"A muffled grunt.
"Ohh… don't, don't do that… great hero…"The plea immediately changed tone—more fearful, laced with a pained intake of breath, yet strangely more submissive, even carrying a hint of ingratiation.
Scar froze.
Not because of the plea.But because of the reaction.
No angry resistance.No venomous curses.
Only greater humility, deeper submission, and clumsy appeasement.
The irritation in Scar's chest vanished instantly, replaced by an unfamiliar, electric satisfaction that shot straight up his spine.
Usually…He was the one getting kicked.
On the streets—for blocking someone's way.In the work sheds—for being half a beat slow.At food stalls—for glancing at someone else's meal…
Those fists, those boots, those shouted insults landing on his body and face brought only deeper humiliation, swallowed groans.
So this is how it feels?
The feeling of holding someone's dignity, fear, and survival in your hands—where a careless movement could make another tremble in terror and bend themselves into obedience.
Exhilarating.
A dark pleasure, mixed with revenge and conquest, sank deeper than the earlier physical satisfaction.Scar slowly sat up, gaze dropping toward the cowering shadow at his feet.
Then—
He leaned forward.
His arm extended.His fingers clutched a handful of sweat-soaked, greasy hair in the darkness—rough to the touch.
Without hesitation, he yanked upward.
"Ah—!"A short, sharp cry.
A face twisted with pain and terror, streaked with grime and tears, was forced up into the dim light leaking through the doorframe.Eyes squeezed shut.Lips trembling.
Scar leaned close.
He could smell blood.Sweat.The salty sting of tears.
Staring at those quivering eyelids, his voice dropped low—dangerously calm, almost playful.
"Hm?"
A single questioning sound slipped through his nose as his hand tightened again, pulling higher, veins standing out on the other's neck from pain.
"What did you call me?"
He asked slowly, word by word.
Warm breath brushed against the other's death-pale face.His tone was flat—almost gentle—
—but the grip in his hand, the downward, amused scrutiny, made the air snap taut.
Those tightly shut eyes flew open, filled with near-hysterical terror and confusion, unable to comprehend the sudden question.
Scar waited.
For that title.For that name that would confirm his current identity—and let him taste that shuddering thrill again.
Whether it was sincere worship, fearful flattery, or something else entirely…The current Scar didn't care.
He just wanted to hear it again.
The other was clearly completely broken—only sobbing now, body shaking like a leaf in the wind, fractured sounds leaking from between clenched teeth:
"Mercy… don't… hero…"
Not even capable of forming a complete plea.
This total, object-like terror initially satisfied Scar.
But quickly, a strange irritation surfaced again.
Too dull.
Like kicking a lump of rotten mud that refused to fight back.
"Damn it, bitch."
He muttered, unclear whether he was cursing the other—or his own fading interest.
Then he abruptly released his grip.
Thud.
The unsupported body collapsed limply, like a sack of filth, then curled in on itself—arms clamped over its head, sobs breaking free, muffled and hopeless.
Scar frowned in disgust.
His throat itched.
He spat.
The saliva landed on the tangled hair—and the dirt beside it.
What happened next stunned him completely.
The other women—who had remained silent, huddled in corners or tangled in blankets—suddenly seemed yanked by invisible strings.
They lunged forward in a frenzy, scrambling toward the spit on the ground.
They crowded around it, heedless of the filth, the dust, the grime—dropping to their knees, tongues extended, lapping greedily at the damp patch, throats making animalistic hah-hah sounds.
Their faces bore a twisted mix of reverence, hunger, and diseased longing.
Scar stood frozen, staring at the scene.
His mind stalled.
Saliva?
They were… licking his spit?
His stomach churned.
But beneath that was a cold tremor—and an emptiness that felt like sudden understanding.
His earlier kicks, the hair-pulling bravado—
Compared to this spine-chilling, utterly dehumanizing worship—
were child's play.
He felt like he'd wasted his life.
So this was what true power could do to people.
So he, Scar, could do this too.
The exertion drained what little strength he had left.
Hunger, like an awakened claw, tightened around his stomach.
The suffocating atmosphere and madness in the shack became unbearable.
Forget it.
Might as well go out and see.
See what Darenz—ignited by his "drop dead" shout—had truly become.
Scar ignored the incomprehensible figures still scrabbling at the ground.
Lowering his head, he rummaged through the scattered pile of clothes, pulling out a robe that looked relatively intact and less filthy.
The fabric felt rough in his hand, carrying a stranger's body heat and scent.
He fumbled awkwardly, trying to find the sleeves amid the tangled folds.
After all, he had little experience wearing others' clothes—especially women's.
Eventually, he managed and pulled it on.
The robe was too tight.
The shoulders didn't sit right.The waist pinched.The hem was short.
He stretched his arms slightly; the fabric gave a faint, protesting sound.
Scar frowned—uncomfortable—but couldn't be bothered to change.
Once dressed, he carefully stepped around the scattered objects at his feet—whether personal belongings or remnants of last night's chaos—avoiding stepping on anything, avoiding drawing attention.
At the door, his hand rested on the rough, cold wooden panel.
He looked back one last time.
Dim light.Ruined blankets.Crumpled, sobbing forms.And women still fighting over a patch of spit.
An image that was absurd, filthy—yet made him feel impossibly "full."
Then he opened the door and stepped outside.
Outside was another world.
Morning light was far brighter than inside the shack, though still veiled in Darenz's signature gray decay.
The air carried a complex stench:
Lingering smoke.Blood.Burnt rot.And something restless, unsettled.
The streets were sparsely populated.
But walls and door panels bore striking dark-red handprints, varying in size—some clear, some smeared—like a malevolent totem.
Silent proof that last night and this morning were no longer the same world.
From afar came scattered shouts.The crash of breaking objects.
Scar narrowed his eyes, adjusting to the light—and to this ill-fitting new attire, and new identity.
He licked his cracked lips.
The wound at his temple throbbed faintly in the morning breeze.
A new day had begun.
And he—this so-called "Big Red Hand"—
was about to see what kind of Darenz he had truly "saved."