I am the creator of New Life on the Earth

Victor sat alone, reflecting on his fate.

He was no ordinary thug—cunning, strong, and trained to survive the worst.

Yet here he was, trapped in a dark corner of his life. He had been serving time in prison when a mysterious figure approached him with a deal: freedom, in exchange for his services.

Without hesitation, Victor agreed. The promise of liberation was too tempting to refuse. Soon, he found himself free, but the shadows of his benefactors loomed over him.

Little did he know how dangerous these people truly were.

Victor arrived in a desolate part of G Town, following the directions his new "boss" had sent him.

The instructions led him to a quiet alley beside a shop called "Mark's cafe." Victor examined the map, confirming he was in the right place.

But as he stood there, a nagging feeling crept over him—something was off.

Ignoring the unease, he brushed it aside, relying on his combat skills and unshakable confidence. He steeled himself and ventured deeper into the alley.

The alley was grim. Greasy puddles of oil stained the ground, and trash bags were piled haphazardly, the black plastic slick with grime.

Victor's senses heightened as he absorbed the setting, his instincts alert to any potential threats.

Then, in the dim light, he saw a figure standing a few meters ahead—a young man, probably still in high school, with jet-black hair and striking purple eyes. The boy wore a pink shirt, paired with a green tie and matching green pants.

Victor took a step back, bewildered. He hadn't expected this. Was this boy connected to his employer somehow? And more importantly—where was the girl he was supposed to find?

Just then, the boy's voice echoed in the silence, calm yet piercing. "Looking for Ani, aren't you?"

Victor's ears perked up at the mention of her name. The boy had his attention now.

He clenched his fists, eyeing the young man with suspicion. "This can't be," he thought. "Did this kid lead me here?"

Victor's thoughts raced, but before he could react, the boy spoke again, his tone steady and almost mocking. "Relax. It's just us here—no one else."

A smirk crept onto Victor's face as he let out a low, mocking laugh.

Covering his mouth with his hand, he leaned forward, his voice dripping with condescension. "You think you can lure me here and take me down, kid? What next, hand me over to the cops?"

The boy, whom we know as Adam, remained unfazed. He walked forward calmly, weaving through the scattered garbage and slick spots, his movements calculated and deliberate.

Inside, Adam's mind buzzed with thoughts, his heart beating fast yet steady. "No," he thought to himself, feeling a thrill course through him. "I didn't bring you here to turn you over to the police, Victor. I brought you here to kill you."

Victor blinked, momentarily caught off-guard by the boy's cold declaration.

He sized Adam up, noticing the calm in his purple eyes. A sudden rage surged within Victor. "You've got guts, kid," he snarled. "But you've made a mistake—a big one. You should have checked my background before deciding to play hero."

And with that, Victor started to advance, his fists clenched tightly, preparing to crush this insolent boy.

As he approached, Adam locked eyes with him, his expression unwavering. "Oh, I did check your background, Victor. That's why you're here," Adam said, his voice level and unflinching.

Victor's temper flared. No kid would make a fool of him.

With a swift motion, Victor lunged, swinging a powerful fist straight toward Adam's face.

But Adam anticipated the move, sidestepping gracefully, his footwork swift and precise.

Victor's punch missed, his body thrown off balance from the force of his own swing.

Taking advantage of the opening, Adam tightened his left hand into a fist and drove it into Victor's chest with controlled power.

The blow sent Victor stumbling backward, his feet slipping on the oily ground.

Victor landed heavily on his back, his shirt soaked in the slick grime. He glared up at Adam, pure fury in his eyes.

But before he could recover, Adam grabbed a bottle from the trash nearby and hurled its contents at him, the liquid splashing over Victor's face and clothes.

The pungent smell of oil filled the air, and Victor, wiping his face, realized what Adam had thrown at him.

Enraged, Victor forced himself to his feet, though the oil made it difficult to stand firm.

He sneered, his voice thick with anger. "That's it, kid. You're dead! No one messes with Victor and lives to tell the tale." Victor swung again, harder this time, aiming to overpower his opponent. But Adam was ready.

With precision, Adam blocked the punch with his forearm, using the momentum to counter with a sharp left jab, followed by a right cross. Then, he drove his foot into Victor's side, delivering a kick to his liver.

The impact knocked the wind out of Victor, sending him crashing onto the ground, gasping for air.

The realization dawned on Victor, painful and humiliating: a high school kid was getting the better of him.

His anger burned hotter, blinding him to any caution or strategy.

All he wanted now was to destroy Adam. Staggering to his feet, he lunged forward again, his mind clouded with rage.

In his reckless charge, Victor failed to notice the slick, trash-strewn ground beneath him.

His foot caught on a black plastic bag stuffed with bottles, and with a loud thud, he lost his balance, skidding forward.

His head struck the pavement with a sickening crack, and his body fell limp.

Adam remained poised in a fighting stance, his eyes fixed on Victor, watching for any sign of movement. Seconds passed in silence.

Finally, he turned to Pratham, his closest ally and companion in this operation.

"Pratham," Adam said quietly, "can you check if he's still conscious or faking it?"

Pratham's voice, usually steady, was filled with uncertainty. "Sir, I have limited control here. I can't tell if he's faking or unconscious."

Cautiously, Adam approached Victor, wary of any last-minute trick. Leaning down, he delivered a quick jab to Victor's shoulder, causing the man's body to shift slightly.

Adam noted the blood slowly pooling beneath Victor's head, and the sight made his stomach twist.

Yet, he steeled himself and checked for a pulse along Victor's neck. There was nothing—no trace of life.

Adam stood. "He's dead."

Pratham's say "Sir, you should go now,"

Adam acknowledged, glancing back one last time at the scene before turning away.

He gave Pratham a nod. "Handle the rest. I'll leave it to you."

Pratham waited until Adam disappeared from sight, then quickly went to work. This was the first time they had confronted death so directly, and the gravity of it weighed on him.

As Adam gathered his composure, he heard pratham's voice echo in his ear, calm and reassuring: "Remember, lord adam. He brought this upon himself."

Adam exhaled deeply, nodding to himself as he left the scene, his mind already racing ahead to what lay in store for him.