Pain.

A sensation impossible to describe in words, existing only within the mind.

From birth, humans endure it—inescapable, irreducible. Past, present, future: as long as one exists in this world, pain is an ever-present burden.

Logically, one should grow accustomed to it.

But Atak lacked this instinct. He refused to accept pain as inherent. Time erased all sensations, wiping them clean from memory. This was why his race had survived millennia: superior physiology, rapid regeneration, and infinite lifespans made the erasure of pain inevitable.

An undeniable truth. An irrefutable fact.

Yet this world did not bow to them.

Unlike the Triassic age of dinosaurs—where the strong devoured the weak—the world’s trajectory had clearly gone awry.

"*Ghh… ahhh… why… won’t it… won’t it heal…*"

True pain was lethal. The black-clad man had fought countless battles, yet never felt agony like this.

His abdomen was a festering ruin, blood oozing from blurred flesh—a horror-movie scene made real. His face twisted, muscles knotting uselessly. His body felt like a waterlogged sponge, utterly limp.

"Just think simply. No need to overcomplicate it." Bai Ming’s expression was blank as paper as he stared down at the convulsing man. His fist tightened. "Imagine your only living relative was taken hostage by snarling thugs spewing nonsense. What would you do?"

"*Gurgle… impossible… my healing should’ve activated…*"

Even now, the black-clad man clung to faith in his own power—the ability that had always saved him from hell.

Ah… the despair of watching your proudest gift become a fraying lifeline.

"*Why… won’t it close… ah…*"

Touching his wound answered him: it *was* healing. But inexplicably, it was also rupturing at the same speed.

"You…!"

He wasn’t mistaken. This was real. The cause? The human before him had struck his abdomen dozens of times in an instant—no, *hundreds*.

But… how? His body had been shrouded in dark mist. It should have—

"*Ugh…*"

His vision blurred. When it refocused on Bai Ming’s bloodstained right hand, he suddenly laughed.

"*Ha ha ha… ha ha ha…*"

Not a scratch. Not even dust on those knuckles.

The punches had outpaced the mist’s defensive reaction.

"Do werewolves always laugh at moments like this?" Bai Ming sighed, the furrow in his brow smoothing out as he looked at the fallen man.

"*Ha ha ha… why… not kill me?*"

"Huh? Too much bother."

Bai Ming turned away, never glancing back.

"*Heh heh heh… you… with power like this… why’s your name unknown…*"

The fight had ended in a heartbeat. Atak accepted defeat. He relaxed, abandoning any thought of rising again. Lying flat on his back, blood seeped from his lips, staining his shirt crimson-black. Still, he had to ask:

He knew Bai Ming’s earlier words held truth. Compared to those so-called "Heroes" in the Association? He pitied them. Cowards huddled together remained cowards. Their "justice" was just a lie fed to hopeful fools. In real battles, they scattered like rats.

Witnessing humanity’s true ugliness had birthed Atak’s desire to rule this world.

Following his leader? That was the reason.

Pity his first step toward that dream had been crushed by this inexplicable man.

"Fame and infamy are two different things. I don’t want others judging me. Don’t want to live under their expectations." Bai Ming’s voice grew distant. "Besides, drawing this much attention nowadays? That’d make me no different from those self-proclaimed ‘Heroes’."

He unclenched his fist and walked forward without looking back.

Atak—the black-clad man who never even shared his name—lost consciousness where he lay.

His healing continued. But full recovery would take time.