Ron finally felt like himself again. His voice was calm, steady.
"Thank you, Brian, for coming."
Brian forced a smile. "No, no—don't thank me. We're old friends. That's what we do."
Ron narrowed his eyes a little, noticing Brian's hesitance.
"So… what was it you wanted to congratulate me for?"
Brian paused. A drop of sweat slid down his temple.
"Well… it's about your recovery," he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
He stood up abruptly. "Ron, my man—I'll have to leave."
"You're going back to China?" Ron asked.
"No. I'm in a hotel here," Brian said quickly.
"Alright. Then drop by anytime."
Ron walked him to the door. Just as Brian stepped out, Ron pressed something into his hand—keys.
Keys to a Bugatti Chiron.
"Ron, I can't take thi—"
"You're taking it," Ron said firmly. His tone left no room for argument.
Brian sighed, defeated, and walked away with the keys.
Ron turned toward his house… and froze.
He felt something was wrong.
He didn't step inside. Instead, he locked the door from the outside and walked into the empty street. The night was deep—3 AM, silent, eerie.
"Ron."
The voice made Ron stop.
He turned and saw Locki approaching. But something was wrong—his eyes weren't Locki's.
Maybe it's because he was tortured, Ron thought.
But no. This was more than trauma. Something was off.
"Ron, can we ta—"
"Who are you?" Ron cut in sharply.
Locki blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"The Locki I know doesn't talk like that," Ron said coldly. "He doesn't ask for help. He helps himself."
Ron stepped forward.
"And you… you're not him. And you'll never be."
Before the fake Locki could respond, Ron's fist crashed into his cheek. The impact pushed his face sideways as Ron slammed him into the ground.
The body burst into orange mist—then reformed several meters away into another version of Locki.
"How did you know?" the fake Locki growled. "I wasn't him."
"I told you already," Ron said, expression unreadable. "Now tell me—who are you?"
"I am a Demon. But I'm only here partially. My full Ki will return once I get a bod—"
He didn't finish.
Ron's punch landed faster than sound, sending the demon flying across the street and into the distant hills.
Ron lunged after him.
The demon, stopped in himself using his feet and burst into orange mist, and Ron's punch sliced through empty air. He dug his heels into the ground, stopping himself, then spun around.
The mist twisted—forming dozens of fists that shot toward him like bullets.
But ever since waking up from being knocked out by the Red Wolf… Ron felt stronger. Sharper. Almost reborn.
He slipped between the attacks effortlessly.
The mist reshaped into swords, knives, spears, even a roaring chainsaw—yet Ron dodged every strike as if his body moved on its own.
It kept shifting, attacking from every angle, but nothing could touch him.
Ron lifted his hand. Fire spiraled up his arm.
The mist flew at him in the shape of a flaming sword.
Ron stepped forward and punched straight through it—turning it to drifting ash.
"What? What is that?" Demon's voice echoed from the mist.
"I've gotten stronger," Ron whispered, staring at his fist. "I… don't know how."
The flames around his hand shifted from red to blue—then to a deep, unnatural purple.
Ron whispered a Black Sorcery incantation.
The world warped.
In an instant, Ron and Fake Locki were sealed inside a pocket dimension—dark, silent, and filled with swirling purple fog.
The mist reformed into Fake Locki's body.
Then—snap—violet chains shot up from the ground, wrapping around him, binding every inch of his body. He tried to change back into mist, but nothing happened.
"What… what is this power?" he choked.
Before Ron answered, the air behind Fake Locki began to distort.
A massive skeleton floated forward—its empty lower body fading into fog.
Its eyes glowed a violent red.
One bony hand held a long surgical needle.
The other—a scalpel.
Demon's eyes widened.
"What are you doing to me?"
Ron's voice was calm. Too calm.
"This is the Skeleton's Ward," Ron said. "Ward means hospital ward… and Skeleton means that thing is the doctor here. You're now in his ward. The Skeleton's Ward."
The skeletal doctor drifted closer, tools gleaming, eager to operate.
Ron began walking toward the helpless Demon.
"I'm not in the right state of mind," Ron murmured. "So allow me to vent these feelings upon you."
The skeleton extended its arms, holding the needle and scalpel like divine instruments of torture.
Ron's voice echoed coldly:
"After casting this spell… in this world, I control everything. That's why you can't turn into mist."
For a split second, Ron's eyes flashed red.
Night passed.
The sun rose.
A man with blood-soaked hands and a faint smear of dried red across his face walked silently through the morning streets.
Ron.
He reached his home—Ron's House—let out a long breath, opened the door, and stepped inside. He dropped onto the sofa, deep in thought.
Exhaustion swallowed him, and he drifted into sleep.
Ron had killed the Fake Mist Locki—brutally.