Chapter Sixty-Three: The War of the Incompetent

Night had deepened, and as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, the lights of the city outside the manor gradually grew bright. Yuko stepped out from the convenience store, holding her freshly bought dinner in her hands.

All day, she had endured her history teacher’s incessant chatter about the rise and fall of the powerless people's rights movement thirty years ago. The endless stream of names involved in the events nearly drove her to despair.

“Why must there be guarantees for the powerless?” Yuko grumbled, not out of disdain for them—truthfully, these people always unsettled her.

They constantly reminded her of beggars from the outside world. Except for those who genuinely faced hardship, most simply expected something for nothing.

The powerless were no different. While complaining and harboring resentment toward the gifted, when it came time to strive, they merely lay in bed, fast asleep.

They failed to understand that superpowers were not gifts from heaven—they were earned through relentless effort.

Standing before the vending machine, Yuko bought a can of hot red bean soup. The northern climate was biting cold; the Hokkaido branch could not compare to the city’s main headquarters, unable to regulate the weather.

She exhaled a breath of white mist and noticed a few people brawling in the street nearby, shouting and cursing as they quickly vanished into an alley.

It was yet another group of powerless people. They always liked to band together. Yuko didn’t initially despise such groups; after all, the weak sought warmth in numbers. Yet, once these groups formed, they began retaliating against superpowered individuals, striking under the banner of equality, secretly ambushing those with abilities.

The fighters had disappeared. Such street fights were a daily occurrence. It was said that, thanks to the Black family’s management, the Hokkaido branch enjoyed relatively good security. In more remote divisions, powerless people had even begun to loot and pillage.

Yuko shook her head, unwilling to waste time on these powerless issues. She was already a level six ability user. Just one more advancement, and she would have the right to settle in the main city of the Dreamscape Metropolis. Rumor had it that the security there was excellent, and half the population possessed abilities above level three.

She disliked staying at school. After class, most students either went out to have fun or dreamed up club formations. The technological advancements of the Dreamscape Metropolis had brought its residents unparalleled comfort. But Yuko was different; she was the only one in her class whose ability could reach level seven superpower. Her dream, since childhood, was to earn the city’s recognition through her own efforts, and finally enter that place she had always yearned for.

For this, she had trained herself since elementary school. While others played, she calculated ability formulas; while others slept, she adjusted her body’s compatibility with her power. Day after day, year after year, she forged her current achievements.

She believed such dedication would bring her acknowledgment, admiration, and respect. But she was mistaken.

What awaited her was loneliness and cold stares.

Pulling open the tab, Yuko drank the hot red bean soup. She recalled a conversation with a slightly deranged fellow—the words and scene of that day were etched clearly in her mind.

“The first question: In a group of impoverished people, if one suddenly picks up a piece of gold, what happens next?” That eccentric person had posed the question. Yuko couldn’t answer, so he did it himself: “Ah, yes. He’s doomed by that gold—he’ll be killed for it.”

“The second question: In a group of ordinary people, what happens when a genius suddenly appears?” Yuko was even less able to answer; the man gave none, but she experienced it firsthand over time.

“That group of ordinary people will do everything they can to drag the genius back to their level. If they can’t, they’ll isolate them.” Yuko finished her soup and, with a slight squeeze, crushed the metal can in her hand.

She was the genius that appeared among the ordinary, and she understood it all. She had found information on that eccentric man—he was a true genius, twelfth among the ten-level ability users in the city, known as “Realization of Delusions”—Su Xiaobai.

“Time to go home.” Yuko tossed the crushed can into the trash. Tonight, she still had formulas to calculate and compatibility to coordinate, a task that often lasted until midnight.

She quickened her pace, heading home along the familiar street.

A cold wind blew in from the sea. Yuko tightened her scarf around her neck and continued for several steps, then stopped.

The wind had fallen silent, and Yuko sensed eyes upon her. She looked around and realized that the few scattered pedestrians had vanished, leaving only the uncertain glow of streetlights and the ceaseless dance of insects beneath them.

This wasn’t the first time she’d encountered such a situation. She set her bag down and walked forward slowly, removing the earbuds from her ears. “Come out. I know it’s you.”

She scanned the darkness; silhouettes shifted within.

Yuko sighed, “This is your third attack on me this month. Do you really think I’m that patient? I—” Her words were cut short by a sudden gunshot from the darkness. A cyclone burst forth in front of her temple, pushing her whole body aside. The bullet ricocheted away and struck the wall to her left.

Yuko staggered back several steps, her face grim. Had she not used her ability to create a gaseous shield around herself, that shot would have ended her.

“You dare use forbidden weapons!” she shouted angrily. Then she saw a dozen figures rushing in from all directions, surrounding her. “Who are you?” She was hemmed in, but did not panic, scrutinizing each attacker until she spotted the mark on the leader’s neck. Surprise flashed across her face: “People from Iron Fist?”

“Boss, it’s her—last time she injured seven of us.” A minion whispered in the leader’s ear. The leader sneered; in this bitter cold, he wore only a short-sleeved T-shirt. Beneath his messy hair was a face marred by a terrible scar—a once handsome visage now ruined.

“Still looking for trouble? Was last time’s lesson not enough?” Yuko’s voice was icy, and the wind began to stir around her. The leader stepped back, “Air pressure control? How far can you push it?” As he finished, a gunshot rang from a distant rooftop. Air exploded into a vortex beside Yuko, pushing her aside. She retreated three steps and laughed coldly, “Do you really think firearms can defeat me?”

“You just got lucky, awakening your ability. What’s so special?” The scarred leader cursed. “You people, born superior, of course you’ll never understand our ways.”

“We have our own methods. So what if you’re a superpowered? We can still beat you. Everyone, go!”

At his command, a dozen attackers charged. Yuko watched them with pity, shaking her head. “You simply refuse to admit your own failure and laziness, crediting others’ success to innate talent and luck. That’s precisely why you achieve nothing.”

The dozen men wielded various weapons, rushing at Yuko. But they were quickly thrown back by her invisible air shield. She stepped back, widening the gap between herself and the mob.

One man swung an axe at her. Yuko formed her right hand into the shape of a pistol and pointed lightly at him.

A sharp blast echoed in the air; the axe-wielder grunted and was blown backward, tumbling several times before landing, his axe discarded nearby. “Don’t come any closer! Whoever does, I won’t hesitate to make you end up just like him!” Yuko shouted.

“What the hell is that?” the scarred leader cursed, watching Yuko calmly walk out of their encirclement. Her right hand still formed the pistol shape as she explained, “I call it an air bullet. My ability is to compress gas and control the direction of the pressure. Just now, I compressed ten atmospheres of gas at my fingertip, set your direction as the only outlet, and the gas expanded and shot out, creating the air bullet effect.”

Yuko stepped clear of the circle, continuing, “That was just an air bullet. What if I use that pressure to propel objects?” She reached for her discarded plastic bag and, keeping her hand in pistol form, aimed at the attackers. “Some of you must have played with air guns—the principle is the same. But I can’t guarantee you’ll survive if you’re hit.”

“I said, don’t come closer!” she shouted, flicking her finger at a sneaking attacker. With a blast, the man screamed and was hurled several meters, crashing to the ground.

“Don’t be afraid! Her max compression is just a dozen atmospheres, can’t hit far!” someone shouted, clearly aware of her ability’s practical limits. Yuko shook her head. “Are you sure? Do you think a dozen atmospheres can’t stop a bullet?”

“You don’t directly block bullets,” said a bespectacled newcomer from behind the scarred leader. “You simply use air pressure to alter their trajectory. That doesn’t require much pressure. Yes, we’re powerless, but we’re not idiots.”

“From how you immediately retreated after deflecting the bullet, you can’t alter its path much—you can’t create a large enough angle, so you use retreat to dodge.” The bespectacled man analyzed; Yuko’s expression changed, cursing inwardly, “Knowing too much is never good.”

“Powerless people have their own ways of fighting, ones you’ll never understand.” The man called out, “Remember, my name is Snake Fang, a venomous serpent lurking in the dark. Don’t give me a chance—I’ll strike down you arrogant superpowered!”

No sooner had he spoken than gunshots echoed from both sides, high up in the buildings. Yuko’s face changed; just as she tried to dodge, explosions of air erupted simultaneously at her front and back. She screamed, blood spraying from her mouth, and collapsed to her knees, then to the ground. “Why…why?” She had no idea how she’d been wounded.

“Want me to explain?” Snake Fang stepped beside her. “You set an air shield around yourself. Whenever a high-speed object approaches, your power triggers, causing an air explosion to both alter its path and push you clear, so you’re unharmed, right?”

“But did you ever consider what happens if two fast objects come at you from exactly opposite directions?” Snake Fang sneered, crouching before Yuko, watching as blood seeped from her mouth and nose, quickly staining her clothes and favorite scarf.

Hearing his words, Yuko looked up in terror, her eyes wide.

“You figured it out, I see. You trust your power too much. Yes, two fast objects from opposite directions create simultaneous air explosions at your front and back—so you’re squeezed between two opposing pressures. How does it feel? Not much better than being hit by a car, right? You didn’t lose to us—you lost to your own ability.”

“You…” Blood trickled from Yuko’s eyes. She tried to speak, but her body no longer obeyed. The next moment, she fell into a pool of blood.

Snake Fang laughed, “You’re not the first, nor will you be the last. We’ll show those arrogant superpowereds that the powerless can bring them to ruin. This is our war—the war of the powerless!”