"Although I don't like introductions," the giant said with a malicious grin, "you should at least know the name of your killer. I am Kyojin Kuzuryuu. And don't worry, boy—this will be over soon. I intend to cause as much pain as I can."

[Fwoosh]

With blinding speed, Kyojin appeared in front of Felix and launched a punch, but Felix blocked it by crossing his arms. The attack didn't even move Felix an inch.

"You need to stop now!" Felix exclaimed, his voice filled with determination.

Kyojin leaned closer, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Why would I stop when I'm starting to have so much fun?" he retorted, his expression darkening. "I want to see despair in your eyes."

Kyojin's fists began barraging Felix, the air crackling with tension. Felix found himself on the defensive, dodging and redirecting Kyojin's fists, barely able to block the relentless assaults due to his long absence from combat all these years. The rainy ground beneath him felt unforgiving as he searched for an opening against Kyojin's ferocity.

"HAHAHAHA!" Kyojin burst into laughter, the sound echoing against the distant wooden cabin ruins around them. "I haven't had this much fun in a long time. You would make a nice training dummy, kid."

[WHACK!]

Kyojin tried to kick Felix with his right leg, but Felix stopped it with just one arm, halting the blow mid-strike. Then Felix looked up, anger blazing in his eyes.

His father's words resonated again in his head: "Face dangers with unyielding strength."

[BAMM!]

In that moment, Kyojin discovered an opening at Felix's abdomen and delivered a devastating punch, sending Felix crashing to the ground.

[Step-Step]

Kyojin slowly walked toward Felix, standing over him as he sneered, "Is that all? How pathetic."

Kyojin stood near the body of Felix, who lay on the ground. "Let's finish this," he said, his voice dripping with contempt.

As Kyojin raised his foot to crush Felix, the air seemed to shimmer. In a blur of motion almost too fast to follow, Felix vanished, reappearing behind his colossal foe with breathtaking speed and a wild, cold expression.

[Ssshkk!]

Before Kyojin could react, Felix struck. His fist, wreathed in crackling crimson-red energy, plunged through Kyojin's broad back and erupted from his chest.

"How?" A look of shock and disbelief crossed Kyojin's face. "Wait—his Zor aura, it's so immense, even more than mine. I made a fool of myself for not sensing it first." Terror gripped him.

He wrenched himself free, turning his face toward Felix. Felix, still standing in the same spot, lowered his arm. Meanwhile, Kyojin jumped backward, facing Felix.

Roots and fallen branches snapped under his weight as he jumped again, trying to put distance between himself and his unexpectedly lethal opponent. But Felix was relentless. In another burst of impossible speed, he materialized at Kyojin's side in mid-air.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the scene in stark relief as Felix raised his hand toward Kyojin's face. Dark red energy coalesced in his palm, pulsing with unfathomable power.

[KRA-SHOOOOM]

With a deafening roar that drowned out even the thunder, the energy exploded outward, obliterating Kyojin's face and upper chest.

[BOOM-SPLAT]

As the echoes faded and the rain slowed a little, Felix stood over the fallen giant. Rain streamed down his face. His voice, when he spoke, was low and filled with grim finality.

"May you find despair in hell."

The rain finally ceased, and moonlight bathed the forest clearing in an ethereal glow. Silvery beams filled the ground. In the center of the clearing lay the lifeless body of Kyojin, his once-imposing form now still and silent.

Felix's eyes were drawn to a symbol on the back of Kyojin's haori—similar to one worn by Miku Yotsuba but with a different pattern of an intricate red lily woven into its design. Felix realized this must be the emblem of another noble clan. He somehow felt that this would not be the last time he encountered these symbols.

The scent of damp earth and crushed vegetation filled his nostrils while nocturnal sounds of the forest gradually returned as if nature itself was recovering from recent violence. He glanced down at his tattered shirt—now little more than bloodied rags clinging to his battered frame.

"I guess I'll need to mend my shirt again," he said with a weary sigh, "I will do that later, first I need to get out of this forest." A sudden urgency gripped Felix.

He now knew he had to leave this place as soon as possible. The weight of recent events and the looming threat of unknown enemies pressed heavily upon him as he turned to leave the clearing and head towards the ruins of his cabin, his footsteps barely audible on the soft forest floor.

The sun rises on a new morning as Felix steps out of El Verde, unsure which direction to take. Seven years have passed since he last saw the world outside, and he wonders what changes await him. 

The bright April sun bathes the landscape in a warm glow, illuminating puddles scattered across the ground from last night's rain. Lush green foliage surrounds him, a vibrant contrast to the sterile environment he has left behind. 

Felix picks up a stick, deciding to let fate guide his path. As it falls to the left, he chooses to head right, his footsteps crunching on the damp earth. The air is crisp and filled with the scent of fresh rain and blooming flowers.

After hours of walking through the verdant countryside, Felix spots a river. The sound of rushing water draws him closer, and he decides to stop and rest. As he approaches the riverbank, he notices an old lady sitting beneath a large oak tree. 

Her white hair is styled in a low bun, and her face is partially shaded by the tree's broad leaves. She gazes unseeing at the river as Felix moves toward the water to clean his face, hoping to avoid interaction.

Suddenly, the lady speaks, her voice surprisingly clear.

"Are you a mole?"

Confused, Felix replies, "No, I'm not."

The lady then says, "Please forgive my idiocy."

Felix notices the scars on both her eyes and realizes she is blind. He reassures her.

"There's no need to apologize. May I ask why you thought I was a mole?"

She responds, her unseeing eyes seeming to look right through him.

"Moles are people of mystery; they emerge unexpectedly from the ground and avoid human presence."

Felix lies, claiming he wasn't avoiding her but was merely surprised to see someone in this secluded area. He asks if she is lost, to which the old lady nods. Although he initially wanted to avoid her, Felix feels a mix of curiosity and concern. He offers his help, but she declines saying,

"Sometimes it's best to trust your own instincts and forge your own path to find your destiny." With that, she rises and leaves with an enigmatic smile on her face. Felix watches her go, feeling strangely unsettled.

As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Felix finds a cave to spend the night. He cautiously checks for any signs of hostile monster before entering. The cave is cool and damp, with rough stone walls that glisten in the fading light.

Feeling hungry after a day of eating only apples and berries, Felix prepares to make a fire. He lays a thin blanket on the rocky ground and retrieves wooden sticks, a base, and a spindle from his bag. 

As he assembles them, the familiar motions bring a sense of comfort. Felix starts the fire by rotating the wooden spindle against the softer wooden base, the friction eventually producing a small flame.

As the fire grows, casting flickering shadows on the rough, granite walls of the cave, Felix stares into the dancing flames. The cavern, a natural hollow carved into the side of a forested mountain, offers temporary shelter from the harsh wilderness outside. 

The air is thick with the scent of pine and smoke, and the distant sound of a rushing stream echoes faintly in the background.

The mesmerizing play of light triggers a memory, and Felix finds himself thinking of the city that once burned to ash. The warmth of the fire contrasts sharply with the chill that runs down his spine at the recollection. He can almost hear the distant screams and smell the acrid smoke of that fateful day.

Shaking his head to dispel the haunting thoughts, Felix focuses on the present. He rises from his seated position on a moss-covered rock and moves towards the cave entrance. The opening, framed by jagged stone edges, reveals a sliver of the star-studded night sky.

With practiced movements, Felix begins preparing a trap at the entrance of the cave. He secures a cord made from monster tendons and places wooden anchors into small crevices on each side of the rocky floor at the entrance. 

Carefully, he positions a large, flat stone above the trap, balancing it precariously so that the cord can support its weight. Taking a deep breath, he steps back to survey his work, ensuring everything is set just right. 

He knows that survival in this unforgiving wilderness depends on his ability to outsmart the monsters lurking in the shadows beyond the cave's protective embrace.

As the night deepens, Felix settles back near the fire, its warmth a comforting presence against the encroaching cold. He contemplates hunting tomorrow. Felix closes his eyes, but sleep eludes him. 

He can't shake the feeling of unease from his earlier encounter with the mysterious old lady in the forest clearing. Her weathered face and enigmatic words replay in his mind: 

"Trust your instincts, and forge your own path."

With that he drifts off into an uneasy slumber.

Miles away, in a dimly lit chamber of an opulent manor, a man kneels before a shadowy figure he addresses as his lord.

"M-My lord, I have some bad news," the informant stammers.

The flickering candlelight casts eerie shadows on the rich tapestries lining the walls, their intricate designs depicting ancient battles and mythical creatures. The air is thick with the scent of aged wood and burning wax, mingling with the faint aroma of polished leather from the informant's boots.

"Out with it," the mysterious figure replied.

He sat on a zabuton atop a pristine tatami mat on a slightly raised wooden platform, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. His bejeweled hands meticulously sliced an apple with a sharp, ornate knife, the blade glinting in the lamplight. The informant's voice carried a slight tremor as he delivered his message, his words echoing in the cavernous room.

"Kyojin has been slain, my lord," the informant announces, his eyes fixed on the matted floor.

A moment of tense silence fills the chamber.

"HAHAHAHAHA!" He erupts into laughter. The sound reverberates ominously off the tatami matted floors and the saobuchi-tenjo ceiling, its intricate wooden latticework barely visible in the shadows.

"That fool," he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt. 

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he continues, "He must have taken his opponent lightly."

The lord's eyes, glinting with malice in the candlelight, fix upon the informant.

"Such sad news, and I am laughing instead of crying. Isn't that right?"

"Y-Yes, my lord," the informant responds, his face a mask of fear, his body trembling.

Suddenly, the lord hurls the knife at the informant. The blade whistles through the air, embedding itself in the wooden doorframe mere inches from the man's head. A thin line of blood appears on the informant's cheek, trickling down his pale skin.

The lord's tone shifts to one of gravity.

"Bring me Kyojin's body and gather more information on the red-eyed men who killed him. Leave no stone unturned."

He pauses while eating the sliced apple.

"What a disastrous day. That foolish Yotsuba woman didn't die, and the teleportation ritual plan failed, and now Kyojin is dead."

"It's not a teleportation ritual! How many times do I have to tell you?" A loud voice interjects, cutting through the tension.

A short, old dwarf enters the room, his footsteps echoing on the matted floor. He wears a tweed flat cap and a pristine white coat over blue shorts, his hairy legs exposed above beach sandals. 

A cigar is clamped between his teeth, wisps of smoke curling around his head. His piercing blue eyes glimmer with frustration beneath tufts of short white hair.

"Mister Shelby, you're out of your room?" The lord inquires, his voice dangerously soft.

"I had to, because you won't respect my inventions," Shelby retorts, his voice sharp and unwavering.

"Please, does it make any difference?" The lord responds, his tone menacing and filled with barely contained rage.

The old man's eyes dart around the room, taking in the lord's men with their hands on their katanas. He recognizes that if he spoke one more word, he might lose his tongue and may never speak again, so he goes silent with a frustrated face, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. 

With a final, defiant puff of his cigar, Shelby turns and leaves the room, his departure marked by the soft shuffling of his feet and the lingering scent of tobacco smoke.