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The taste of blood choked Bronco Knight awake.
Not his blood—at least not yet. On the metal floor, bloodstains spread, the air thick with the scent of rust and death. This was a sealed room, surrounded by smooth metal walls with no windows, only a fluorescent light buzzing overhead.
"Finally awake."
That voice sent a chill down Bronco's spine. Simeon Saint stood three meters away, his red bangs damp with sweat, plastered to his pale forehead. The military knife in his hand was still dripping blood.
"Simeon?" Bronco's voice trembled. "This is—"
"Don't rush to ask questions." Simeon tilted his head, revealing a twisted smile. "Look at the display screen behind you, then we can have some fun."
Blue light stung Bronco's eyes.
1/100
Below it, several lines of explanation:
Rules:
Both must kill each other 100 times to leave
The dead will immediately resurrect after death
Necessary tools provided in the room
"1/100?" Bronco's brain refused to comprehend what this number meant. "You've already—"
"Killed you once." Simeon licked the corner of his mouth, where a bit of crimson blood clung—no need to guess whose it was.
In the corner of the room, on a metal tray, various blades gleamed coldly under the fluorescent light—scalpels, daggers, military knives, each carefully sharpened, waiting to taste flesh and blood.
"No, this must be a nightmare," Bronco stepped back. "Or some kind of sick joke—"
"Nightmare?" Simeon suddenly burst into laughter, the sharp sound echoing in the confined space. "Bronco, do you think you still deserve to dream?"
Like lightning, he remembered Rook, the presidential assassination, and everything he had done for his own ambition. Perhaps this was the retribution he deserved.
"Pick up a weapon." Simeon's voice suddenly became very soft. "Or are you going to keep pretending to be an innocent good man even now?"
Bronco's hands trembled, but he still walked toward the tray. The scalpel was light, the handle ice-cold, yet it felt heavy as a thousand pounds in his grip. He turned toward Simeon, who was waiting quietly, unguarded, even slightly spreading his arms.
"Come on," Simeon said. "Or shall I go first?"
Before the words finished, the world collapsed before Bronco's eyes.
The pain wasn't immediate—first came a strange numbness, then burning agony exploded outward from the wound's center, consuming all his senses.
He tried to speak but could only cough up blood mixed with foam. His lung was punctured; every attempt to breathe only let more blood flood his windpipe. The edges of his vision began to darken, and the last thing he saw was Simeon's face—
A face bearing terrible satisfaction.
2/100
Resurrection was like being violently yanked from the depths of the ocean. Bronco gasped desperately, hands frantically feeling his chest—intact, not even a scar. But the memory of pain remained, and the terror of death poured over him like ice water.
"How does it feel?" Simeon leaned against the wall, wiping the military knife with a cloth, though no blood remained. "Death and resurrection—not everyone gets to experience that."
"Simeon, listen to me—"
"No." Simeon cut him off, his eyes suddenly becoming ferocious. "Eighteen years, Bronco. For eighteen years I've been listening to you talk, listening to your excuses, your boasting, your muttering to yourself. Now it's my turn."
The military knife struck again, this time aimed at his throat. Bronco didn't even have time to raise his own blade before feeling cold metal tear through his windpipe. Blood fountained from the wound as he fell to his knees, hands futilely covering his neck, but life was flowing away through his fingers.
The process of dying was longer than he'd imagined. Suffocation, convulsions, dilated pupils—every second was agony.
3/100
"Simeon! Please listen to me!"
"Say what?" Simeon's movements showed no hesitation. "That you're a victim too? That you had no choice?"
Another strike, this time to the heart. Precise, lethal, merciless.
4/100
5/100
6/100
Each death taught Bronco new fears. So many vital weaknesses in the human body, so many ways to die. Simeon was like a cruel artist, experimenting with various killing techniques on him.
"Why?" After his tenth resurrection, Bronco finally broke down. "You hate me, don't you? Tell me why!"
"Yes, I hate you. That's why you can't do it, but I can."
With blood still not wiped clean from his face—Bronco's blood—Simeon stared at him and smiled beautifully. "Isn't this nice?"
Bronco swore he only froze because he hadn't seen Simeon's genuine smile in so long. That moment earned him his eleventh resurrection.
12/100
"Stop! Stop!" Bronco shouted, trying to buy himself even ten seconds of survival. He fled like a panicked antelope, Simeon's blade barely missing his spine.
"I can die, hey! But I don't want to die for nothing! You bastard, let me know why you hate me!"
"Why I hate you?"
Simeon's steps slowed. He seemed genuinely tired.
"You want to know why? Eighteen years ago, in that car. Snow kept falling, I thought I would die in there. Do you remember, Bronco?"
"Huh?" Car? What car? Bronco was caught off guard. Eighteen years ago... when was that... It was when Carmelo Gusto murdered Artie Frost, when he and Simeon were sent to the orphanage. He seemed about to touch some incredible truth, but thinking carefully, he had no memory of it. Damn!
No time left—he saw clearly in Simeon's eyes: his time was up.
"Then let me tell you, even killing you 100 times cannot repay the harm you did to me."
This time, Bronco watched as Simeon leaped forward, the spike in his hand pinning him to the wall behind.
"Face reality, Bronco. You wronged me, and you can never make it right."
13/100
14/100
15/100
The numbers jumped coldly. Bronco no longer resisted, because he knew this was what he deserved. But his atonement never seemed enough.
By the twentieth time, Simeon's movements began showing subtle changes. No longer pure anger, but something deeper. He would pause for a few seconds before striking, a hint of weariness flashing in his eyes.
"You know what's most ridiculous?" Simeon suddenly said, the knife in his hand trembling. "Even like this, I still..."
He didn't finish the sentence; the blade had already pierced Bronco's chest.
Bronco finally understood that hatred was an emotion requiring careful cultivation—it needed more patience and focus than love.
25/100
30/100
35/100
The mechanical repetition made time meaningless. Bronco could no longer remember how many times he'd died, only knowing each resurrection brought greater exhaustion. Not physical exhaustion—resurrection healed all wounds—but the wearing away of the soul.
Simeon was changing too. His movements became more skilled, but his eyes grew increasingly hollow. As if with each killing, he too was losing something important.
40/100
When Bronco resurrected again, he was amazed to find that the cold, perfect killer had suddenly vanished, leaving only an exhausted, vulnerable young man—kneeling on the ground, trembling, clutching his hair, fingers digging into his scalp, revealing black roots beneath the red hair.
When Bronco carefully approached him, Simeon only gazed at him silently, still saying nothing.
"Enough," Bronco said. "Simeon, enough."
"Enough?" Simeon laughed coldly. "We're not even halfway there, and you can't take it anymore?"
Bronco knelt beside Simeon. The metal floor was ice-cold and piercing, but he seemed not to feel it. "I'm sorry," he said.
Simeon's body instantly stiffened.
"Sorry for what? I'm the one killing you, I'm the one doing bad things. What are you apologizing for? What right do you have to apologize!"
"I'm saying sorry... because I escaped my responsibilities and pushed all the difficult things onto you."
He remembered something, those deliberately forgotten details—the teenage Simeon, who would pale at dissecting frogs in biology class, who would quietly look away at the sight of blood. What had turned that Simeon into what he was now?
"You, who would vomit even dissecting frogs..."
"Shut up!" Simeon roared. "What do you understand?!"
"I understand." Bronco picked up a dagger from the floor. "Because I hate myself too. So this time, it's my turn. I'll take responsibility and kill you properly."
"Bronco, you idiot!" Simeon's voice suddenly became shrill, his fake coldness completely crumbling, revealing raw panic. "Don't come here! Don't come at me with that knife! I—"
"It's okay, Simeon."
Simeon wanted to run, but he was curled up there, back against the wall, nowhere to escape. Bronco walked back to him, suddenly reaching out with his other hand, pulling the collapsed Simeon into his arms.
"I love you," Bronco whispered in his ear.
He gripped the knife tightly and without hesitation drove it into Simeon's back. His technique was far less refined than his opponent's, carrying a clumsy, emotional fierceness, but it was deadly enough.
Simeon died.
49/100
He felt his stomach churn, nearly vomiting.
Bronco released his grip; the dagger fell with a soft clatter.
—This feeling?
—Had to continue for 50 more times?
The resurrected Simeon walked forward and picked up the fallen dagger. He looked at the dagger, then at Bronco.
"It's fake anyway, come on, we have a long road ahead."
Bronco looked at Simeon's face, not knowing what expression he wore, so Simeon showed that meaningful smile again, slowly saying:
"Come on, don't dawdle."
These words seemed like permission. Bronco raised his hand, and blood splattered.
52/100
The subsequent killings were more torturous. Bronco had to learn how to efficiently take life, how to make the blade precisely find vital points. Simeon would guide him: "Here, yes, push hard." "Stab diagonally, or it'll get stuck on the ribs." "Don't hesitate, hesitation only makes it more painful for both of us."
55/100
60/100
70/100
80/100
...
—How many times had they repeated this?
—Was this what Simeon had just experienced?
93/100
Just as the knife tip was about to penetrate, a sudden chill struck Bronco. Not the room's cold, but a bone-deep freeze from the depths of memory.
Images flooded like a tide—
Snow. Overwhelming snowflakes. A car trapped by the roadside. The engine had died, ice flowers formed on the windows, cold gradually invading the cramped space.
He turned his head—beside him was young Simeon, shivering, crying, ice seeming to form on his eyelashes. That tender little face was filled with terror of death.
"Help me, Bronco... save me... so cold..."
What had he said then? He held Simeon tight, small hands patting Simeon's back.
"Don't be afraid, Simeon... hang on a little longer, I'll protect you..."
Then, even earlier—Dad pressing keys into his hand, the other hand heavy on his shoulder: "Grab that kid, go. You're his friend, you can do it."
The truth he'd been avoiding was so cruel—it wasn't an accident, not a prank, but a kidnapping he had personally orchestrated.
"Nooooooooo!"
The knife fell before Bronco's wail.
"It was me... I was the one who tied you into that car..." Tears blurred his vision. "My father made me do it... he said your father owed money... I promised I would protect you, but I..."
"Shut up! Don't say it!" Simeon retreated frantically until hitting the wall. "What's the use of remembering now!"
"I'm sorry, I just wanted to confess..."
"You selfish, irresponsible, cowardly bastard!" Simeon howled, these words—every one of them suppressed for 18 years. Bronco had never seen him so agitated. "You ruined me! Ruined my entire life!"
He didn't finish speaking; tears poured out like springs, his voice becoming silent.
His body slowly crouched down, becoming smaller, hands supporting his knees, trembling violently.
Bronco watched Simeon collapse, this pain more real than any death.
—He could no longer kill Simeon again.
93/100
Simeon finished crying.
He just quickly vented his anger, then submissively, quietly cried for a while. As Bronco knew of Simeon, he was never truly weak.
Bronco didn't dare touch him, instead sitting against the wall corner with him, both exhausted.
"I killed you, Bronco." Suddenly, Simeon said quietly.
He turned his head, voice distorted and hoarse: "Don't you realize you're already dead?"
Bronco looked down at his hands—warm, with a pulse, trembling hands. He made a fist, feeling the hard reality of muscle, then smiled bitterly:
"Of course."
Each death tore at some boundary. When losing consciousness, Bronco occasionally glimpsed scenes not belonging to this room. Prison cells. Sirens. Simeon being led to a police car.
"So you're also something from my dream? A hallucination?"
"No... I really exist." Simeon said. "Let me tell you something you don't know. How you died. That chisel, do you remember? I used that chisel to connect you with Kanis. You died in my carefully planned trap."
Simeon leaving beyond the fence, panicked Fifi Laguarde, Miles coming to investigate...
Memory fragments began piecing together. None of this was hallucination.
But by now, Bronco could calmly accept it all. Perhaps being killed by Simeon forty-some times was to thank for that.
"I know."
Simeon showed an inscrutable expression. Bronco asked:
"What happened after I died?"
"I was imprisoned."
"Because of my death?"
"Because of many things. Your death was just one of them. I settled accounts with all the sinners from back then, and did too many unforgivable things—that's a me you never knew, Bronco."
Bronco gripped his own fingers.
"How long is the sentence?"
"Don't know. Doesn't matter anymore." Simeon hugged his legs, placing his head on his knees—a posture rejecting everything.
Hair fell down, covering his eyes, so Bronco reached out to brush it away. He didn't resist.
"I hope saying this makes you feel a little better."
"What?"
"Nothing." Bronco looked at Simeon's face, warmth rising in his heart. Simeon, burned out by revenge, was like incense burned to completion—only beautiful, pitiful ashes remained.
At this point, nothing mattered. Cut off from the future, distant from cause and effect, perhaps forgiveness was a privilege only the dead possessed.
"I don't hate you," Bronco said. "I never hated you, not now either."
"Liar. You should hate me."
"Why? Just because you killed me?" Bronco smiled bitterly. "You're right, what I owe you can never be repaid. I'm the one who pushed you into hell with my own hands. Everything you suffered after—being abandoned, betrayed, hunted, going astray—all because of me."
"Stop. This isn't—"
"You have the right to hate me, the right to revenge." Bronco continued. "If killing me can make you feel better, then that's the only... atonement I can make."
Simeon immediately grabbed his collar.
"This isn't because of you, it's because of Artie Frost, even because of Carmelo Gusto, not you. I took this path not because of you. You never took responsibility, and now saying nice words... don't think you're doing me a favor."
"Yes, never had responsibility... I only ever paid the price."
Bronco murmured, looking up at the display.
93/100
The number didn't move.
One person dwelling in the mortal world, one sunk in the underworld—without this room, they would never have the chance to reunite.
But precisely because of this, he had to send Simeon back.
"Simeon, go back."
Simeon said in an indifferent, even harsh tone:
"Why should I? What difference is there between staying here and staying in prison?"
"You're only 24, your life still has hope."
"Come off it, Bronco... don't talk nonsense. I don't want hope. I'd rather stay here—at least here I have you."
If this were before, these might have been words he dreamed of hearing. Bronco had many things to say, yet swallowed them all, asking:
"In prison... are you doing okay?"
When touching his sensitive spot, Simeon still became aggressive.
"What do you want to hear? Iron bars, prison uniforms, or food that tastes like shit?"
"I just... want to know how you're doing."
—After I left.
"Kanis treats me well in prison." Simeon finally said. "By the way, it was actually him playing chess with you."
More than shock and absurdity, what Bronco first felt was sourness. Peace was a privilege of the dead, while bonds were something only the living could possess.
"That's good, at least someone can take care of you... Sorry, I mean, I didn't think you could last long in prison."
"Sounds like you care." Simeon smiled bitterly. "I've already lasted 18 years."
Bronco placed his hand on Simeon's hand, then gripped his wrist. Simeon didn't object, so Bronco pulled him into his arms. This time, Simeon raised his arms to embrace back.
When arms encircled bodies, time seemed to return to certain dim evenings—those memories both blurred and clear, existing in the gap between reality and dreams.
Maybe it was a rainy night when they whispered in a dark room; maybe it was an evening when they sat side by side watching the distant sunset. Yet they both knew clearly these had never been allowed to happen.
As the moment of parting approached, purgatory truly began.
In the silence, Bronco suddenly realized something.
Borrowing the warmth of that embrace, he gathered courage to ask.
"What about Miles?"
Simeon's body tensed: "Why ask about him?"
"After all, he's the one who sent you in, isn't he?"
"He's a prosecutor, I'm a criminal—what connection could we have?"
But Bronco heard the tremor in his voice. He knew Simeon too well—that deliberate avoidance, that forced indifference, all revealed the truth.
In that instant, he felt real jealousy. Jealousy bit at Bronco like a venomous snake, more vivid than when facing Rook.
Not just jealousy, but long-standing cold treatment, resentment he'd ignored and suppressed for so long, and a too-late awakening—he'd known in his heart that Simeon was never content to stay by his side.
Even in this twisted space-time, even in this purgatory belonging only to them, he still couldn't become the most important person to Simeon.
"I understand." Bronco said quietly, suddenly standing, hand already reaching for the knife on the ground.
Simeon sensed danger, but it was too late. The blade precisely entered his heart.
Bronco was too familiar with this position.
The killing resumed.
94/100
When Simeon revived, his eyes burned with anger: "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
"I'm jealous." Bronco admitted frankly, his face showing sick calm. "I'm still that me—even dead people get jealous. How ridiculous."
"This is just your guess, you can't—kill me based on guesswork!"
Simeon lunged to grab the knife, the two wrestling together. But this time, Bronco was serious. He used all his strength to pin Simeon to the ground, knife tip at his throat.
"I can. And I want to."
95/100
Things seemed to return to the beginning, just with roles reversed.
Simeon became the one defending futilely, while Bronco became the angry knife-wielder.
"Use your brain!" Simeon struggled. "What if this is just a joke? What if after 100 times, we both disappear? Have you thought about that?"
Bronco paused, almost wanting to laugh uncontrollably: "So what? I really do want to kill you anyway."
96/100
Too much resentment, too much pain, too much hate, too much love.
Forget 50 times, 100 times—even countless times driving weapons into each other's flesh, he could never understand Simeon's pain, and Simeon could never understand his.
"Bronco, you've really gone crazy." Simeon kicked desperately. "Do you want to die that badly? Want to disappear that much?"
"How come you never considered this when you were murdering me?" Bronco shook his head. "I'm already dead."
97/100
Simeon tried to push away the blade. Both their hands were cut, blood mixing together, indistinguishable.
"Stop! What were we doing before? We killed each other so many times—for what?"
"You really think after all that, you and I can reconcile?" Bronco's face showed almost gentle sadness.
98/100
The number approached the end. The room's walls began showing hairline cracks.
"Bronco." Simeon lay in the pool of blood, eyes beginning to glaze, "Do you know? Actually Miles, he..."
"Don't say it." Bronco closed his eyes. "Please."
"He's just the kind of person I wished I could become." Simeon continued, each word seeming to exhaust his strength. "Upright, kind, always standing on the side of light. And you... you are my hell."
Bronco's hand stopped mid-air.
"We're the same kind." Simeon's voice grew weaker. "Cursed, fallen, never able to go back. So—"
He coughed up blood: "So I said I hate you. Because hate is the only thing I have."
99/100
The final resurrection.
They both looked at the display. The last number hung like a sword over their heads, reminding them this purgatory was about to end.
"Don't kill me, listen to me, Bronco—"
"No." Bronco interrupted. "I want to kill you."
Simeon suddenly embraced him.
"I want... to say goodbye properly." Simeon's voice trembled terribly. "Eighteen years, we never said goodbye properly."
Bronco put down the knife, holding Simeon in his arms. This embrace no longer held testing, calculation, or concealment.
"I'm sorry," Bronco said.
"I know," Simeon answered.
"I love you."
"...Me too."
"Next life..."
"See you in the next life."
They maintained the embrace until Bronco gently broke Simeon's neck. This was the gentlest death he could think of.
100/100
The number jumped. The room began to collapse.
Cracks in the walls grew larger, light seeping through the gaps—not the cold fluorescent light, but something warmer, more distant.
Simeon didn't resurrect.
Bronco held his body, waiting for everything to end. The room was collapsing, the floor disappearing, but he just quietly held Simeon, like holding his lost other half.
"Next life," Bronco whispered in the light, "let's not do this anymore."
But he knew it was impossible. They were prisoners chained together, destined to repeat this war with no victors.
Light engulfed everything.
Somewhere, sirens sounded far away.
Somewhere, rain washed the iron bars of a prison.
Somewhere, two children clasped hands, not knowing fate had already written their script.
And here, purgatory finally ended.
Only eternal, merciful silence remained.