Chapter 6: I Suddenly Have a Father.

The private Dragon network was once again assembled in its entirety.

“Parrot, do you think the church will side with us?” someone nicknamed Owl asked, his voice laced with anxiety.

A dry, rasping chuckle came from “Parrot.”
“Ha, they don’t need to side with us. They just need to side with their own interests. And our job is to ensure that their interests and ours are, on the surface, one and the same. Just tie them to this ship, and they’ll have to row with us, whether they like it or not.”

“A clever move,” Owl conceded. “Rope in the church, and Sol Dawn will have to pull his punches.”

“Precisely. He may be a monster, but he can’t fight the faith of millions. The wrath of the faithful is more fearsome than Ki.”

Another voice, younger-sounding, chimed in.
“But Mr. Minister, your performance… was a bit fake. And that Carisma fellow, should we really be investing in him?”

Parrot laughed again.
“Fake? My young friend, there is no such thing as fake or real. There is only the version of the truth that is widely accepted. Don’t forget who I am. My job is to create that truth. Repeat a lie often enough, with enough confidence, through enough media channels, and it becomes truth in the minds of the masses.”

He paused, as if savouring his own philosophy.
“As for Carisma… ah, with the nose of a communications man, I smell something very familiar on him.”

“Oh? What smell is that, sir?”

“The smell of ambition, my friend. A pungent, undeniable odour. And ambitious men are the most useful tools.”

Back with Sabata

“Hey friend, could I have a moment of your time?”

The Bloodghar, who had been in a meditative state that an outsider might mistake for a system crash, slowly returned to reality. He gave the girls a polite nod before turning to Sabata, tilting his head down to look at the small creature standing chest-high to him.
“My friend, feel free to ask whatever’s on your mind.”

“I want to ask for the secret to getting strong, reliably,” Sabata replied, trying to ignore the glares from the girls, who seemed displeased that their “idol” was being disturbed.

“Ah,” Rex said, an “ah” that contained an entire library of personal sorrows. “I don’t know much about humans. But in my opinion, true strength comes from intelligence, not from fists.”

A girl in the crowd interjected, her voice full of admiration:
“Rex is so right! Intelligence is the ultimate strength!”

Rex just smiled faintly, a somewhat forced smile, then continued speaking to Sabata.
“I have some cousins,” he said, his voice lowering, a shadow passing over his once-cheerful eyes. “Very strong, by the very definition of ‘strong’ that my people are so noisily proud of. They ate alloys like people eat biscuits, and as a result, their muscles are ripped, and their brains… have a similar texture to biscuits. And now they’ve all become decorative pieces in some rich guy’s living room. I told them to eat more vegetables, but they wouldn’t listen. They even looked down on me… said I’d betrayed my ancestral heritage just because I prefer a salad over a steel bar.”

At this, two tears the size of grapes rolled down his black fur. The girls around him immediately buzzed with concern, one quickly offering a silk handkerchief.
“Rex, don’t be sad…”
“That’s right, they don’t understand your greatness!”

Rex took the handkerchief, clumsily wiping his tears.
“Thank you, ladies.”

“Lean and sickly, my foot,” Sabata thought, looking at Rex’s bicep, which could be used as a pestle. This species’ definition of “lean” must be seriously skewed. But Rex’s sadness was real, and the girls’ adoration was also real.

“Eating healthy and using your head, not a bad idea,” Sabata said, trying to be empathetic. “But… it would take a lot of resources to compensate for the physical side of things.”

“If it’s about the physical, then use Dengell styling gel,” Rex said, handing Sabata a shimmering vial of gel. “Apply it to your fur, makes it harder, makes you more handsome, more confident. In a one-on-one fight, sometimes, the one who looks more confident makes the opponent hesitate. And a second of hesitation is all you need.”

Sabata memorized this in his brain: In a fight, use your head. And eat lots of vegetables. And use hair gel. What a complex strategy.
“Thanks. I’ll pay you back when I get the chance. I’m Sabata.”
“I’m Rex. It’s just a small gift. It’s what beastfolk do.”
“Exchange is necessary and fair,” Sabata affirmed. “I have no intention of behaving like a corporation that only extracts resources without reinvesting in the community.”

This statement, if heard by an economist, might have sparked a lengthy debate. But to Rex, it was simply a kind word.

And so, with the determination of someone who had just received valuable advice (and a bottle of gel), Sabata rushed off to buy about ten kilograms of fresh meat and a mountain of vegetables. A return gift, in accordance with the principle of fair exchange he had just so eloquently declared.

But when he returned, with two heavy bags in hand, both Rex and his choir of adoring fans had vanished. He hadn’t even had a chance to ask for a phone number. Sabata looked down at the ten kilos of food. Eating it all by himself would be a chore.

Just as he was pondering the absurdity of kindness and life’s choices, a gentle breeze blew past.

The wind carried a figure with it. A she-wolf, her long, coarse brown tunic fluttering. Long black hair, past her shoulders, fell loose, hiding part of her face but not her deep, hovering red eyes. She walked as if weightless, without a sound, as if the ground itself had volunteered to be silent beneath her feet.

She stopped in front of Sabata.
“Hello. You seem a little… overloaded. Care for a ride on my old rickshaw?”

Her voice was soothing, but with a sharp edge hidden within. Those red eyes looked straight at him, holding only a quiet curiosity.
Sabata froze. In one day, he’d met a crying bear and now a wolf offering him a ride. But amidst his confusion, he felt an inexplicable sense of trust from this girl. Perhaps it was because in her eyes, there was no pity.

“Hey handsome, my ride, only 100 pims per kilometre!”

A lilting voice, sweet as cotton candy, cut in. Sabata turned. It was another beastfolk, as if she’d stepped right out of an anime. She was petite, with large, round ears flopped down on either side of her head. She wore a stylized pink kimono, so short it might be considered illegal in some jurisdictions, revealing long, slender legs in alluring black stockings. A Divinelandian, no doubt about it.

Behind her was a three-wheeled cart decorated even more flamboyantly than its owner, laden with strange goods: snack packages with unnaturally large-eyed animals printed on them, exquisite porcelain bottles of sake. A cloying, sweet, and fragrant aroma emanated from this mobile warehouse.
The girl smiled, her eyes sparkling as if they held stars.

Laya frowned, her red eyes narrowing. The she-wolf’s voice dropped, its earlier gentleness gone, replaced by the sharp edge of a business owner.

“A stranger from another land comes to my country to interfere with my business. My price is cheaper, only 50 pims per kilometre.”

“So, handsome, will you choose boredom, or a journey full of excitement?”

Sabata felt like he was at an awkward crossroads. His choice was no longer just about transportation; it had been elevated to a philosophical decision: Economy or Experience? Reliable safety or a colourful, and possibly expensive, adventure?
He didn’t know what to do. So he did what all wise men do when faced with a difficult decision: he let fate decide. He pulled out a coin, flipped it into the air, and caught it.
Heads.
“I’ll go with the she-wolf,” Sabata replied, breathing a sigh of relief. At least now he could blame the coin if something went wrong.

Laya smiled with satisfaction. The other girl sighed, shaking her head.

“How boring.”
With that, she twisted the throttle and sped off, her cart clanking with bottles, carrying the scent of sugar and adventure away with it.
“Thanks for choosing the more economical solution,” Laya said, “but I should warn you, this cart is out of mana. It’s running on human power now.”
She pointed to her own sturdy legs.
“It’s good training, anyway. Top speed is probably around 70 km/h. Sorry if you’re in a hurry.”
“Faster than me walking is more than fine,” Sabata replied, thinking to himself that this was probably faster than some of the older self-driving cars.
Suddenly, he looked down at the pile of food in his hands. Meat and vegetables. They would spoil.
“Wait,” Sabata said, “I need to buy a fridge.”
The thought came naturally, but it was a luxury that, just yesterday, he wouldn’t have dared to dream of. After a bit of searching, they found a used appliance store and hauled back a mid-sized refrigerator, its body having a few scratches but its motor still running smoothly.
Once the meat and vegetables were stored, Sabata took out half, wrapped it carefully, and gave it to Laya.
“For you. As a thank you.”
Laya hesitated, but then accepted it. Her red eyes looked at Sabata, a deeper look, no longer just the curiosity of a business owner towards a customer.
“Are you new to Sector F?” she asked.
“How did you know?”
“The smell of new paint on your clothes, and the way you look at everything. Like you’re seeing it for the first time. I’ve lived here since I was a child.”
Sabata looked around. He had only been here a week, but he could already feel its oppressive atmosphere. How could anyone live here since childhood?
“Life must be hard.”
Laya didn’t answer right away. She looked at her own hands, calloused from pulling this cart day after day. Her black hair was somewhat coarse from lack of care. Her roughspun clothes were old and worn. All were undeniable evidence of a hard life.
“Hardship is a part of life here. This cart is the only thing my father left me. It’s both a burden and my livelihood. Every day I pull it, hoping to earn enough for dinner, and hoping it doesn’t break down on the road.”
Her deep red eyes stared into space, a hint of sadness in them, but no self-pity.

Hearing this, Sabata felt something tighten in his chest. He didn’t know if it was sympathy or some other feeling. He just knew he couldn’t stay silent.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little hesitant. “Can I… have your phone number? If you need any help… just call.”
Laya looked up, her red eyes showing a hint of surprise. She looked at Sabata for a long moment, as if trying to read him, then gave a slight nod.
After they exchanged numbers, an awkward silence fell. Sabata, in an effort to break it, said:
“You’re… really strong.”
Laya laughed, a clear but tired laugh.
“Strong, or just out of options?” she said, but then smiled. “Thank you. It’s been a long time since anyone said that to me.”
Sabata scratched his head, feeling a bit flustered. He blurted out:
“Your eyes… are beautiful too.”
This time, Laya actually blushed. She turned away, trying to hide her smile.
“You really are a strange customer. Alright then, where to next, Mr. Talkative?”

Hearing this, Sabata remembered his original purpose.
“Could you take me to a famous martial arts dojo nearby?”
The cart started moving again. Laya was in front, her bare feet pushing against the pavement in a steady rhythm, pulling the cart and its two passengers along. Sabata sat in the back, trying to ignore the strange feeling of being pulled by a girl like this, and focused on observing.
They had left the Dockside District. The streets were wider, much cleaner. Rows of ginkgo trees were planted in straight lines, their yellow leaves glowing like golden coins he couldn’t touch. They rustled in the wind, a refined, steady melody.
Colourful self-driving cars glided along light-marked lanes. They moved in a disciplined order, but it wasn’t absolute. Occasionally, a delivery vehicle would abruptly change lanes, causing a small ripple in the flow.
Sometimes, a large motorcycle, driven by an Orc in leather, would roar past. Its engine screamed like a cry of protest, a dissonant note, and for a moment, Sabata felt a strange kinship with it.
He looked at the tall buildings, their glass facades reflecting the sky and his own confused face. This place was beautiful, orderly, but it was also cold.
Sabata didn’t know if he belonged here. He only knew that, for the first time, he felt his poverty wasn’t just in his wallet.
On the sidewalks, people bustled about. Office workers in neat suits, students with backpacks, and small delivery robots skillfully weaving through the crowd.
The air smelled different too. The smell of rotting fish and metal was replaced by the rich, bitter aroma of coffee from roadside cafes, the scent of hot bread, and the mouth-watering smell of grilled meat from a Dwarf’s stall. Sabata took a deep breath, his empty stomach rumbling. This is probably what it feels like to be rich, he thought. A constant feeling of hunger because there are too many delicious options.
As the cart continued, the scenery gradually changed, tall buildings giving way to quieter neighbourhoods. A traffic light ahead turned red.
Laya braked hard. The cart stopped just centimetres from the line. Sabata leaned forward slightly from the inertia.
They waited. Around them, the self-driving cars also stopped in sync. A strange silence fell, broken only by the wind and the sizzle from the nearby grill.
The silence was shattered by a sputtering cough from ahead. Sabata peeked out and saw the source of the noise and air pollution: two youths on a large, custom-looking motorcycle, a mechanical monstrosity assembled in a plumber’s nightmare.
Its frame might have once belonged to a racing bike, but was now carelessly painted matte black, with shoddy welds visible in places. The massive V-twin engine was exposed, its gleaming chrome cylinders contrasting ridiculously with the rest of the bike. Two exhaust pipes were bent to point straight up, like anti-aircraft guns, and they were relentlessly spewing thick black smoke that smelled like burning tires.
The fuel tank was hammered into the shape of a distorted skull, and the single headlight was a blood-red LED that blinked continuously from within the skull’s eye socket. The handlebars were absurdly high, forcing the rider into a posture that was part prayer, part torture.

They were a perfect pair in terms of street aesthetics. One had a mullet that looked like it was styled by a stray cat with a pair of clippers. The other had a long, sad face like a horse that had just received bad news about its taxes. Both were demonstrating a very basic form of lawlessness: not wearing helmets and trying to convince the traffic light to turn green by revving their engine.
The one with the mullet took a long drag from his cigarette, the kind of drag that seemed to be trying to suck his lung’s entire future into it, then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. He saw Sabata looking and immediately performed an ancient communication ritual of the brain-deficient.
“What are you looking at? You want me to poke your eyes out?” he yelled, his voice hoarse.
The smell of cigarette smoke, a mixture of despair and unnamed chemicals, assaulted Sabata’s senses. Beside him, Laya, with the preparedness of someone used to such situations, calmly put on a gas mask. She offered one to Sabata, but he shook his head.
And then, the chorus of impatient citizens began.
“You uncivilized thugs!” a self-driving car driver shouted through his external speaker.
“Come over here and poke my eyes out, you little punk!” an old lady on the sidewalk shot back, her voice even sharper.
“Don’t make me get mad!” an office worker in a neat suit roared, loosening his tie.
“Give me your address, I guarantee your house will be the brightest on the street tonight!” a delivery robot said, its electronic voice menacing.
The light turned green. The two hooligans, having completed their performance, revved their engine and sped off, not forgetting to leave a symbolic parting gift: a proudly raised middle finger.
Sabata watched them go. After reading their emotions, a strange thought popped into his head.
“Those two,” he said to Laya, “they’re probably M.”

Laya giggled at Sabata’s comment. The other passersby, having finished their own performances, also continued on their way, though everyone seemed to carry a little bit of annoyance with them.
The cart started moving again. They passed through increasingly quiet neighbourhoods. After about fifteen kilometres in silence, Laya stopped the cart at a gentle tap on her shoulder from Sabata.
Before him, a massive gate appeared, like a brilliant red scar against the blue sky. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. The gate was painted vermilion, and on it, a dragon was exquisitely carved, its body coiling, its scales shimmering, like a mythical beast guarding a treasure within.
On either side of the gate stood two tall stone pillars, carved with images of war gods with three heads and six arms, each hand holding a different weapon. And at the very top, three ancient characters were written with a powerful brushstroke: GONG-JI-TANG (Muscle Flex Hall).
The dojo behind the gate was built in a traditional style, with curved tile roofs and sturdy stone walls.
From within came the sounds of power. The rhythmic thud, thud of fists hitting a sandbag echoed like a war drum. Occasionally, there was the whoosh of a powerful burst of air, rolling like an undercurrent. The light from lanterns hanging on the eaves danced on the walls, creating shadows of sparring martial artists.
Sabata swallowed. He had a feeling he’d found the right place.

“I’ll contact you later. Have a good day,” he said, giving a thumbs up.

Laya made an OK sign in return and left. Sabata stepped inside, took a deep breath, and walked to the reception desk. As he could see, there were quite a few students. Some were meditating, others were practicing punches and kicks. Each blow made a faint whistling sound. The large training ground was paved with natural stone, giving it a raw, connected-to-nature feel. Lanterns hung high on the eaves cast a warm glow everywhere. The place was fully equipped with necessary martial arts tools like punching posts, sandbags, wooden dummies, drums, and spinning tops.

He was then guided to an interview room. As he opened the door, a massive figure like a stone mountain blocked his view. The man was twice the size of a normal person, his shoulders as broad as two boulders. A curly beard, like the roots of an old tree, covered most of his face, revealing only sharp eyes under thick eyebrows.

The master looked down at Sabata, his eyes scrutinizing every inch. Sabata swallowed, feeling as small as a mouse before a giant cat.

“Why do you want to learn martial arts? For self-defense or to beat people up?” the master’s voice was deep and raspy, like a landslide.
“To… not die a stupid death,” Sabata stammered, a surprisingly honest answer.
The master said nothing, just tilted his chin. A wordless command. Show me.
Sabata nodded, trying to regain his composure. He took a stance, one he’d copied from old action movies. He started punching and kicking the air. At first, there was some rhythm, but it quickly devolved into chaos. He sped up, trying to throw what he thought were dangerous-looking moves. Finally, he stopped, exhausted, panting like a hunting dog after a failed chase.
The master frowned, his large nose wrinkling as if he’d smelled something foul.
“You look like a wriggling maggot having a seizure. It’s an eyesore.”
His voice was full of contempt, a blatant provocation.
Sabata clenched his fists, his face flushing with anger. He looked up, straight into the master’s eyes:
“If I were already good, why would I be here?”
Silence.
Then the master burst out laughing, a hearty, booming laugh that filled the room. His eyes lit up with satisfaction. He clapped Sabata on the shoulder, a clap that nearly sent him sprawling.
“Well said! That’s the spirit! Alright, kid. First, forget all that monkey business you just did. We’re starting from scratch.”

With that, he led Sabata to a sparring room. Below, students were warming up. They were all children, ten years old at most, performing their movements with a seriousness that only people who don’t have to pay taxes can possess.
Sabata stopped. He rubbed his eyes. Among the children, a familiar figure stood out like a shark in a goldfish tank. Wil. Wearing his police uniform.
“I don’t know why Daddy… I mean, why he’s here,” Sabata thought, his brain starting to make the grinding noises of an overloaded machine.
Wil stood on the fighting floor, arms crossed, a posture that, in the “Handbook for Troublemakers,” would be classified as “Level 1 Provocation.” He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk that could curdle milk.
“Hold on. I need to test if you’re qualified to be my son’s master.”
“Your son?” Sabata’s eyes widened. This was the second time in two days he felt that logic had decided to take a vacation without telling him.
Wil nodded, looking straight at Sabata with a self-satisfied smile.
“Yes. The paperwork is done. Legally, you are now my son. Congratulations.”
With that, Wil leaped onto the sparring floor, as light as a leaf. The master gritted his teeth, his face turning red. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he understood one thing very clearly: someone was deliberately trying to ruin his business, right in front of his students. And in the “Code of Conduct for Martial Arts Masters,” this was classified as unacceptable. He too leaped onto the floor.
“Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re a cop!”
The master slammed his fists together. A wave of force, what physicists would call a shockwave, rolled out, knocking all the students and Sabata to the ground like bowling pins.
The children, after rearranging their limbs, immediately started buzzing.
“Whoa! Master is so strong!”
“But will he go to jail for hitting a cop?”
“What’s jail?”
“It’s a place where adults go to reflect on their poor life choices, usually for a very long time.”
“Oh.”

Sabata, unable to read his emotions, started to panic. He tried to categorize Wil’s actions based on what he knew. Was this a joke or for real? He remembered the video about hack-surgery and its side effects. “Could he be insane?” A hypothesis that seemed increasingly plausible. I have to call the police! Oh wait, he is the police. Right… I have to call a mental hospital.
Meanwhile, on the floor, the master had taken his stance. He stood straight, hands behind his back.
“Students, pay attention!” his voice boomed. “Even if your opponent looks like a lost office worker, you must not be complacent. A lion uses its full strength even to catch a rabbit!”
Wil stepped forward, his right hand extended, a universal gesture of peace. He smiled friendly, the kind of smile of someone about to sell you a set of non-stick pots.
“Hold on. Civilized people should exchange pleasantries first.”
Ah, so he wants to shake hands, the master thought, somewhat relieved. Seems he’s a polite man after all, not the scoundrel I thought.
But as soon as their hands touched, a high-voltage current of energy coursed through the master’s body. He trembled violently, his beard and hair standing on end like a startled cat, and a small puff of smoke that smelled like burnt toast came out of his mouth. Wil let go. The master collapsed to the floor, his limbs twitching in a very undignified dance.
“The world is treacherous, and the human heart is hard to fathom,” Wil said calmly, turning to look at Sabata like a teacher who had just taught a practical lesson.
Sabata’s blood ran cold. Isn’t he talking about me? Then an even more terrifying thought struck him. “Hard to fathom… Oh god, can he read minds too?” This person was too dangerous. It was best to stay away. As far away as possible. Maybe to another continent.
The students below, after a moment of stunned silence, started to murmur.
“How despicable! No martial virtue!”
“My parents were right,” another added, in a sagely tone, “cops are all bad.”

A child pointed at Wil, his voice filled with indignation.
“Stay away from our teacher, you’re a bad man!”
Boos and jeers erupted from all around.
“Booo! Get down!”
The master shot to his feet, his eyes as red as fire. The rage of a man humiliated on his own turf had overwhelmed the physical pain. He took a deep breath, and his Ki surged, making the floor tremble. His feet left the ground, his body soaring like a pouncing tiger.
In mid-air, he executed his school’s ultimate technique: “Heavenly Ape’s Chaotic Dance.” Myriad phantoms of him appeared, punching and kicking wildly, the air around him roaring with thunderous hisses.
But just as he was about to hit Wil, he stopped. His whole body trembled. He saw his opponent’s back. A completely undefended back.
I can’t.
The martial code he had followed his entire life wouldn’t allow it. Sneak-attacking an enemy from behind was the act of a petty man. People could call him a fool, but his warrior spirit was something he could not abandon.
And that moment of hesitation, that moment of pride, sealed his fate.
A dry crack echoed through the room. The master doubled over, clutching his groin. His face contorted, his mouth gaping like a fish out of water, not from pain, but from disbelief.
Wil, who had never turned his back, had delivered the most despicable back-kick imaginable.
Then he gracefully leaped into the air, spinning once. His right leg, like an axe, came down on the master’s neck. His neck snapped to the side. A spurt of fresh red blood shot out.

Wil gave him no quarter. He continued to spin, his left foot kicking hard into the master’s back, a calculated blow designed to send him flying off the platform with a thud, without causing too much serious injury.
He landed on the floor, lightly and without a sound. Outwardly, he was completely calm. But in his head, a counter was running down.
Remaining energy: 30%. Maximum operating time before recharge: 10 hours. An unnecessary risk.
Wil glanced at the motionless master, then at Sabata, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile whose meaning only the boy could understand.
“You missed.”