Yoren knew he had to be more cautious after entering Bula City.
He, Snowsant, and Ifrit were all Infected—people forbidden from moving freely within the city.
Saileach had explained that in Colombia's large cities, the Infected could only reside in designated areas, usually the outskirts or near Originium processing plants. To enter the city center, they needed approval and official documentation, with strict curfews in place. Unauthorized Infected found in public areas would be arrested by the military police and imprisoned.
Even with laws in place, discrimination thrived. Many businesses openly posted signs barring Infected from entry.
In daily life, it was difficult to distinguish an Infected person from an ordinary one. The most obvious sign was the Originium crystals embedded in their skin. The Infected often appeared frail due to organ failure, but this wasn't definitive—some were simply born weak. If someone spotted an Infected with visible crystals, they had the legal right to demand identification. Without proper documentation, the authorities could be called to detain them.
Even worse, suspicion alone was enough to bring trouble. If someone merely looked ill and lacked identification, they could be taken for medical screening—sometimes never returning.
Yoren, Snowsant, and Ifrit couldn't afford to be caught. Their entire escape plan relied on leaving Colombia within three days. Any delay could prove disastrous.
Saileach had anticipated this issue, providing Ifrit with a long trench coat to conceal herself. Snowsant had no visible signs of infection. Yoren pulled a scarf from Snowsant's bag and wrapped it tightly around his neck.
Perhaps his new appearance would stand out in his old world, but here, in the vast and diverse cities of Terra, it was a minor detail. A man in a red scarf was hardly unusual—he had seen creatures with dog heads and human bodies walking the streets.
As they wandered through Bula City, Yoren formulated a concrete plan.
He had two choices for reaching Victoria: by air or by sea.
However, air travel was difficult. In Terra, airplanes used valuable Originium fuel, making them rare and expensive. Only major cities had international flights, and security checks were rigorous. Passenger identities, belongings, and health status were all inspected, with Infected strictly forbidden from boarding.
That left traveling by sea.
According to Saileach, reaching Victoria by boat was much easier. Bula City was a port town, and beyond government-operated passenger ships, many smugglers ran illicit routes. Infected fugitives frequently paid to escape across borders. The price was steep, but money wasn't Yoren's problem—finding a smuggler within two days was.
The night had fully settled. Snowsant trailed behind him, head drooping. Ifrit kicked an empty bottle along the sidewalk.
"Hey, I'm hungry."
Yoren checked the time. It was nearly 8 PM. Aside from the hotel owner's lunch earlier, they hadn't eaten all day.
"Alright, let's find some food."
To avoid attention, Yoren had guided them through backstreets and industrial zones. His reasoning was simple—places like these attracted people with secrets. Here, no one trusted each other enough to ask questions.
Turning down a dimly lit street, Yoren spotted a sign that resembled a bar or a small restaurant.
It didn't matter what kind of place it was—so long as they had food.
Inside, most tables were occupied. Yoren hadn't expected so many people in such a hidden spot.
He found an empty table and sat down. There were no waiters, no greetings—just a fat man behind the bar. It was likely a self-service place.
"Sit tight," he told Snowsant and Ifrit. "I'll see what they've got."
He approached the bar. A few men sat along it, nursing drinks. Yoren leaned in and asked, "Boss, I don't drink. Got any food?"
The bartender handed a fresh cocktail to a customer before replying. "Sure, we've got sandwiches, fried noodles, vegetable salad, roast goose—"
"Great. One of everything." Yoren pointed to his table. "Bring it over when it's ready."
The bartender nodded. "The roast goose is done—take it now. The rest will take a few minutes."
"Alright."
The man disappeared into the back to fetch the dish. Yoren drummed his fingers on the counter, casually observing the room. The patrons were mostly men. The atmosphere was subdued—comfortable. It was the kind of place where everyone knew each other and few asked questions.
The bartender soon returned with a plate of sliced roast goose.
Just as Yoren reached for it, a man beside him pushed an empty glass forward.
"Another," the man said.
Yoren froze.
That voice—
It was familiar.
He turned, his gaze locking onto the man at the bar.
The stranger was thin, dressed in a black hooded jacket. The hood was up, casting a shadow over his gaunt face. But what stood out most was the red scarf around his neck—short, frayed, just long enough to conceal his mouth when needed.
Recognition struck like a lightning bolt.
Yoren's grip tightened on the plate. His pupils shrank.
He knew this man.
The hooded figure turned, sensing Yoren's stare. Their eyes met. The air between them tensed, thick with unspoken history.
Yoren's voice was low, dangerous. "Red Knife. What the hell are you doing here?"
The man at the bar—the same Red Knife Yoren had fought in Mandel City—looked just as surprised.
"It's you."
The atmosphere shifted. The easy murmur of the restaurant faded beneath a weighty silence.
Yoren didn't know why Red Knife was here, but one thing was certain—he wasn't an ally. He was an enemy. And now, the enemy was right in front of him.
His fingers twitched toward his scarf. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.
Behind him, Snowsant and Ifrit sat five meters away—too far to act fast.
A quick glance revealed Red Knife's signature long sword at his waist. Yoren had no idea if his men were nearby.
What now? Attack first?
His cycle of black and white twin rotations had only reached the eighth day.
Could he strike before Red Knife could draw his blade?
Looking at Brother Hongdao, who was less than a meter away, Yoren couldn't decide whether to sigh about fate's twisted sense of humor or curse the sheer absurdity of it all.
The world is vast, yet somehow, the two of them—once locked in a fight to the death—had stumbled upon each other in a tiny restaurant in Colombia, at a moment when Yoren least expected it.
Fate was a cruel joke.
It felt like sneaking out of school with friends to hit an internet café, only for things to go south. The game was already on the verge of collapse, but the enemy overcommitted on the high ground, giving just enough room for a miraculous comeback. There was only one chance—rally the team, secure the Baron, and turn the tables. But just as you're typing out commands, you catch sight of the school dean stepping into the café from the corner of your eye.
A disaster that was both comical and unbearable.
Yoren's mind raced, his thoughts spiraling as he stared at Hongdao, who sat calmly, unmoving. The tension between them was suffocating.
Right now, Yoren was just an ordinary man. To summon the power of the Black and White Twins, he needed to wound himself first. The small fruit knife Hemer had given him was tucked away in his pocket.
It would take him at least three seconds to pull it out and cut his palm—assuming he didn't fumble in his panic. Hongdao, a seasoned warrior, needed less than half a second to unsheath his blade and strike.
If Yoren went down first, Snowsant and Ifrit would be left in chaos.
Snowsant knew Hongdao, but while her defense was remarkable, her reaction time wasn't. If Hongdao attacked, she wouldn't even have time to activate her absolute domain.
Ifrit was powerful, but her combat experience was a glaring weakness. In her world, sheer firepower and Originium arts overwhelmed any enemy. Against an ordinary foe, she was unstoppable—but Hongdao was anything but ordinary.
He was infected. A master of Originium arts and a grandmaster-level swordsman. Against a warrior like him, Ifrit was a child wielding a railgun.
Yoren's forehead was drenched in cold sweat.
Hongdao hadn't moved yet. But that only made things worse. It was the calm before the storm. Every second that passed was a torment.
Then, Ifrit's impatient voice cut through the tension.
"Hey, Yo-Yo, what are you standing there for? Hurry up and bring the food. I'm starving."
Hongdao's eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced toward Snowsant and Ifrit.
Yoren gritted his teeth. He wanted to kick Ifrit's ass.
His plan had been simple—lure Hongdao out and find the right moment to unleash the power of the Black and White Twins. But that was impossible now. If Hongdao had allies in the restaurant, they would have already realized Snowsant and Ifrit were with him.
Yoren clenched his fists. There was no choice. If he hesitated, he would lose any chance of survival. He had to act first.
Damn it, let's do this.
He took half a step back, his hand diving into his pocket, reaching for the fruit knife—
"Don't move."
Hongdao's low voice stopped him cold. His tone carried a sharp warning. He had already seen through Yoren's intentions.
The restaurant owner, oblivious to the tension, refilled Hongdao's empty glass with wine and placed it in front of him.
Hongdao glanced at Snowsant and Ifrit once more before shifting his gaze back to Yoren. Then, with a slight nod, he gestured to the empty chair beside him.
"Sit."
Yoren swallowed hard. He had no idea what Hongdao was planning, but at least it seemed he wasn't about to attack. Yet.
Moving slowly, Yoren sat in the chair next to him, his hand still gripping the fruit knife in his pocket.
Hongdao shifted his chair closer, casually throwing an arm around Yoren's shoulder.
To any outsider, it looked like two old friends catching up over drinks. But Yoren could feel the weight of the danger pressing down on him.
Hongdao's face was mere inches away. Just as Yoren considered elbowing him in the chin, Hongdao spoke again, his voice low and steady.
"Calm down, kid. Don't do anything stupid. This isn't Mandel City. This is Colombia. And don't forget—you're infected now, too."
Yoren was taken aback. Hongdao was more worried about keeping a low profile than he was. That realization eased his nerves, just a little.
He set the plate of roast goose down on the bar, his voice equally quiet.
"Do you even know why I'm infected?"
"You should be thankful you're still alive."
"I'm not alive because of anyone's blessing."
"You're alive. That's enough."
Yoren clenched his fists. "But someone died. You killed him."
Hongdao took a sip of his wine. "We had casualties, too."
"Not my problem. You brought it on yourselves. If Heisen hadn't carried out that bullshit terrorist attack, I'd be back in Victoria by now, celebrating with Vina."
The Mandel City incident still weighed heavily on Yoren. Every time it came up, anger surged through him. He knew arguing with Hongdao here was reckless, but he couldn't help it.
Hongdao's voice darkened. "What ordinary people have done to the infected is a thousand times worse. The laws, the torture, the deaths—do you even understand? You're infected now. Why don't you see it?"
"I don't give a damn. Right and wrong aren't divided by infected and ordinary people. People are just people. And I have my own principles."
"Not everyone thinks like you."
"I don't care. I only do what I believe is right. And what Heisen did was just pure insanity."
"Tch. I shouldn't have wasted my breath on you."
"Good."
Silence settled over them again, thick with unspoken tension.
After a long pause, Hongdao exhaled and spoke in a softer tone.
"Look, kid. Now isn't the time to argue about who's right and who's wrong. Whatever happens, don't start trouble here. Those two girls are your companions. I know you don't want to see them hurt. If you want revenge, we can take this outside—find a quiet place and settle it."
Yoren found himself laughing despite the situation.
He picked up a piece of roast goose and popped it into his mouth.
"Heh. Never thought I'd see the day Hongdao was afraid of making a scene. Now I'm really curious—why the hell are you here?"