"Quint!!"
"Help!!"
"He can't breathe!!"
"SHIT!! You killed him!!"
Chaos erupted in an instant.
The huge boy's face grew paler by the second, his chest rising in short, desperate gasps. His lungs were failing him, his body convulsing as he struggled for air.
Quint stood motionless, feet planted firmly, expression unreadable.
His posture was rigid, ready for an attack.
One of the boys—his face twisted in rage—sprang to his feet and lunged.
But before he could land a single blow—
A blurred motion.
A man appeared between them, pushing the boy back so hard that he crashed onto the ground. The man didn't waste a second, moving swiftly to check on the huge boy.
His face tensed.
His gaze snapped toward Quint, dark with warning.
"Stay right there," he hissed.
"Yes, Master," Quint replied obediently.
His master then turned to the little girl standing nearby. "His lung is crushed. Can you save him?"
She sighed, shrugging lazily. "I suppose so…"
Her tone was uninterested, as if it were an inconvenience rather than an emergency.
"Heal him. That's an order."
The sharpness in his master's voice left no room for argument.
At the same time, the remaining boys tried to flee.
They didn't get far.
His master reached out—grabbing them all at once.
A quick jab to their jaws.
One by one, the boys collapsed to the ground, their bodies instantly rendered unconscious.
The little girl sighed again, rolling her eyes as she opened her bag. She pulled out what looked like a red ginger root and shook her head.
"What a waste," she muttered under her breath.
With deliberate slowness, she sliced a small piece, crushed it into a fine paste, and carefully placed it in a handkerchief. Every movement was calm, unhurried—as if she were intentionally dragging time.
"Hurry up, Miss." His master's voice hardened.
She pouted but didn't argue. Approaching the huge boy, she squeezed the handkerchief over his mouth.
A thick red liquid dripped, falling onto his lips.
She let a few more drops land before stepping back. "Done," she said nonchalantly.
His master sighed in relief. No longer concerned about the boy's life, he pulled out his two-way radio and issued a command.
"We need Miss Mila here. Emergency."
Silence settled over them.
All eyes remained on the huge boy.
His body convulsed slightly, a painful moan escaping his lips. But—he was breathing again.
Color returned to his once-ashen face. His lungs—though struggling—worked. The medicine was taking effect.
Fifteen minutes later, footsteps approached.
A bodyguard from Quint's home arrived, followed closely by a preteen girl.
Quint recognized her instantly.
Mila.
She stepped into the clearing, eyes widening slightly as she took in the scene. But rather than shock, amusement flickered across her face.
She turned her gaze to Quint.
And winked.
Gave him a thumbs-up.
His master exhaled, shaking his head.
"Miss Mila, please erase this event from their memories," he requested, his tone careful, respectful.
Mila smirked. "Must I?" she teased.
His master inhaled deeply, steadying his patience. "Yes, Miss. You must."
She shrugged. "Okay, okay… Leave them to me."
His master let out a breath of relief. "Thank you, Miss."
Then, with a swift movement, he grabbed both Quint and the little girl—one in each hand—
And vanished.
-
What happened in the woods was not kept from Quint's mother.
Thanks to his master's inability to lie, she immediately discovered the reason for their late return.
She didn't explode in anger.
She remained calm.
But her expression carried clear disapproval.
"Why?"
Her voice was quiet. Sharp. Her gaze pierced into Quint's eyes.
"He threatened to harm my sister," Quint answered truthfully.
He had tolerated the mockery.
It had never bothered him.
But when the huge boy spoke of hurting his sister, everything changed.
At that moment, there was only one goal in his mind.
The boy had to die.
His mother's lips moved slightly. Just enough to almost form a smile.
She reached forward—gently patting his head.
Then, in a voice so soft, so measured, she said—
"You may not murder anyone… unless you are ordered to.
Understood?"
Quint stared at her.
His mind processed her words. Weighed them.
Then, finally—
He nodded. "Understood, Mom."
His mother straightened.
Without another glance, she turned to his master.
"Punish him."
-
For the umpteenth time, Quint woke up to the familiar sensation of being carried.
Without opening his eyes, he knew it was his master lifting him from the dojo and bringing him back to his room.
It was nearly 10 PM by the time his punishment ended—an entire month's worth of strength training condensed into one night.
His body ached to the bone. He didn't have the energy to move a single muscle, not even to open his eyes.
Yet, despite his exhaustion, he could still hear them.
His master's voice, low and firm: "His killing intent is almost bursting out."
His mother's response was measured. "Is it because he was angry?"
"No." His master's tone remained unreadable. "It's actually because he lacks emotion that his intent surfaces so quickly."
Quint felt the rhythmic steps of his master ascending the stairs.
"How is his progress?" his mother asked.
"Much better than expected. But still far from ready."
"He is also far below the accepted age," she noted.
His master nodded. "Yes. The youngest contestant the competition allows is twelve."
A pause. Then, for the first time, a flicker of hesitation entered her voice.
"Should he do the camping?"
A moment of silence.
Quint didn't know why, but that slight worry in her voice warmed him.
"Hmm… I think so," his master finally said. "But first, I must sharpen his senses."
His mother didn't respond.
A moment later, Quint felt himself lowered onto his bed. The soft mattress enveloped his battered body, pulling him toward unconsciousness. He sighed involuntarily at the comfort.
His mother remained silent as she draped a thin blanket over him. Then, she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before turning off the lights and closing the door.
Yet, despite his body screaming for rest, Quint couldn't sleep.
His master's words echoed in his mind.
His killing intent was bursting.
Was it because he had nearly killed that boy with one punch?
If his intent hadn't "burst," would he have been able to kill instantly?
Wouldn't that have been better?
Wouldn't having killing intent be a good thing?
Then why did they want him to control it?
His thoughts churned in circles.
Then—the doorknob turned.
Quint immediately closed his eyes, slowing his breathing, feigning sleep.
Soft footsteps approached.
A warm hand gently brushed through his hair.
A whisper, right by his ear.
"Hi, little brother."
His eldest sister.
Her voice carried warmth—something rare in his world.
"Thank you for protecting me today."
A soft kiss was planted on his forehead. Then—
A pinch on his nose.
"I'm so proud to have you as my brother."
Quint remained still, but his mind absorbed every word.
"You don't have to worry about me, Brother. I assure you—no one can harm me."
Another kiss on his forehead.
"Now, get some sleep. Don't think too much. Everything's gonna be fine."
Quint opened his eyes just in time to see her smile before she turned and walked out of the room.
He stared at the closed door for a long moment.
Then, finally—his body surrendered to sleep.
-
The next day, it began.
The sharpening of his senses.
The goal was simple but inhuman—to refine his senses to the point where they could replace each other.
To see with hearing or touch.
To hear with sight or smell.
To taste with scent, sight, or touch.
In short—seven and a half months of hell.
Step One: Hearing with Sight
This step was harmless—but it was also the most frustrating.
Quint was trained to read lips, interpret body language, and recognize scents to understand conversations without sound.
It required precise observation.
For the first time since training under his master, Quint almost felt frustrated.
Trying to "hear" a conversation through body language alone was maddening.
Step Two: Seeing with Hearing and Touch
The method was simple.
The execution was brutal.
Quint was placed in the center of the dojo, completely blindfolded.
His task?
Dodge.
His master launched **attacks from all angles—**pain bullets, arrows, throwing knives.
For nearly two months, blood stained the dojo floors.
Every mistake came with pain.
But eventually—his body adapted.
Not only could he detect incoming attacks, but he could describe objects and people based on the sounds they made.
Step Three: Tasting with Smell and Touch
This was the most dangerous step.
And he had only one month to master it.
The training was ruthless.
First, he was introduced to numerous poisons—taught to memorize their smells, their textures, their symptoms.
Then, his master blindfolded him.
Several food and drink options were placed before him.
He had one task.
Choose the one that wouldn't kill him.
If he chose wrong?
He would experience the effects of the poison.
Every. Single. Time.
The antidote was given only after he had felt the full range of symptoms—
From itching and red skin to nerve paralysis and respiratory failure.
But the worst—
The second method.
Poison was absorbed through inhalation.
Quint lost count of how many times he chose wrong.
Lost count of how many times his body convulsed, how many times his vision darkened, how many times his breath failed.
The only reason he survived was because his master had antidotes prepared.
But even so—
The antidote was always administered too late.
It was never given until he had felt the effects of death.
By the end of his training—
At only seven and a half years old—
Quint Rauss had already experienced countless ways to die.