Following Owen's strike, both Old Gun and Kate lost their will to fight.
The once deadly adversaries set aside the hatred born from their struggle for dominance.
What was the point?
It was nothing more than a petty squabble, akin to ants fighting.
For people like them, the greatest tragedy was to spend half a lifetime striving, achieving a modicum of success and confidence, only to have it effortlessly shattered by a true powerhouse.
The next day, as Owen walked past Old Gun and Kate, they still dared not look at him.
Their expressions seemed to lament how much better things would be without him.
Without him, they could have contentedly observed their small patch of sky from the bottom of the well, blissfully unaware of the broader world.
An unlikely friendship formed between the two men, akin to wild beasts licking each other's wounds.
Owen was disdainful of this.
He was the strongest and he had the right to be so.
