Conqueror of the Lost World

IF THERE'S EMPTY SPACES IN YOUR HEART, THEY'LL MAKE YOUTHINK IT'S WRONG. LIKE HAVING EMPTY SPACES, MEANS YOU CAN NEVER BE STRONG. BUT I'VE LEARNT THAT ALL THESE SPACES, MEANS THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH TO GROW. AND THE PEOPLE THAT ONCE FILLED THEM, WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE LET GO. AND ALL THESE EMPTY SPACES, CREATE A STRANGE SORT OF PULL. THAT ATTRACT SO MANY PEOPLE, YOU WOULDN' T MEET IF THEY WERE FULL. SO IF YOU'RE MADE OF EMPTY SPACES, DON'T EVER THINK IT' S WRONG. BECAUSE MAYBE THEY'RE JUST EMPTY, UNTIL THE RIGHT PERSON COMES ALONG.

Erin Hanson:

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Fucker She clenched her fists, her face tinged with a furious shade of pink. "I am average," she declared, her voice faltering slightly, betraying a mix of anger and embarrassment.

But even that declaration wasn't safe. He burst into laughter, his voice echoing across the fiery landscape. "Hahaha… You bitch, they're not even mosquito bites!"

The words hit like a slap, her fury rising to a crescendo. And yet, deep down, she couldn't decide what was more infuriating—the sheer nerve of this boy or the fact that she felt the need to defend herself.

Was she angry? Oh, absolutely. She was furious, but when she realized why she was angry, it only made her rage escalate further.

The only thing echoing in her mind was one phrase: Mosquito Bites.

Without a second thought, she stood up from her fiery crystal throne, her movements deliberate and charged with emotion. Marching straight toward the boy, she grabbed his hand and, with a defiant glare, placed it firmly on her chest.

"Tell me now—is it not average?" she demanded, a smug look plastered across her face.

The boy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I admit, they're firm," he began, applying a deliberate squeeze, "but they're not even average." As if to emphasize his point, he placed his other hand on her second breast and gave it a thorough squeeze as well.

Her smug expression faltered, replaced by wide-eyed shock. The sensation was foreign, sending an uninvited rush of heat to her cheeks, which now glowed as pink as her hair. "Y-You pervert!" she stammered, quickly swatting his hands away and attempting to cover her chest.

"Hey! You were the one who put my hand there in the first place!" he shot back, crossing his arms defensively.

"And who told you to squeeze them?!" she retorted, her voice a mix of indignation and embarrassment as she backed away.

"Listen," he said, straightening up with a look of mock seriousness, "if a man doesn't squeeze something like that when it's right in front of him, he should be ashamed of himself."

"You're shameless!"

"Yes, I am," he replied, utterly unapologetic, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

The pink-haired woman was at a loss for words, her emotions spiraling between fury, embarrassment, and a hint of bewilderment. Wasn't this her fault to begin with? She had been the one to initiate. But of course, admitting fault. It was not her fault, Alright!

When words failed her, she resorted to action, that next best thing. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she threw a fire ball at him.

The boy, instead of dodging the fireball, stood his ground and faced it head-on. The blast sent debris flying in every direction, and given the already scorching heat of the area, the impact of the fireball should have made it unbearable.

But… he emerged unscathed, brushing off the attack like it was nothing more than a warm breeze on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

"What's this? You should be ashamed!" he began, shaking his head in exaggerated disapproval. "You can't win an argument, so you resort to violence? Shameless."

"I am not shameless—you are shameless!" she shot back, glaring at him, her fiery eyes blazing brighter.

"You are shameless," he declared proudly, crossing his arms with a smirk.

"You are shameless," the pink-haired woman retorted, her frustration evident in her voice.

But the boy, unfazed, shrugged dismissively. "I said it first, so obviously you're the shameless one."

Tick marks metaphorically appeared on her forehead, her anger building like a volcano ready to erupt. She clenched her fists, furious even—so angry that she couldn't hold it in any longer. "YyyyyAAAAAA!" she screamed, the raw sound of her frustration ripping through the air.

After some time, the tension in her body began to ease, her shoulders relaxing as the storm of some emotions subsided. She took a deep breath, regaining a semblance of composure, and looked at the boy.

"Thank you," she said softly, her voice genuine, though tinged with something deeper—perhaps resignation.

Then, without warning, she shifted her stance, her body radiating intent as she took a pose ready for battle.

You might wonder why she would choose to fight now, especially after expressing gratitude. The answer lay in the turmoil within her.

Emotions, long thought buried and irretrievable, had resurfaced. She had believed herself beyond feeling—an empty shell incapable of anger, frustration, or gratitude. Yet the events moments ago proved her wrong.

Still, she wasn't fighting out of anger or hatred. It wasn't about vengeance or pride. She simply wanted Death.

Her existence had stretched endlessly, each moment heavier than the last. Trapped for so long, her life had been a tapestry of suffering even before her imprisonment here. She wanted to end it—not for pity, not for remembrance, but simply for peace.

She didn't care if the world mourned her or not. It wouldn't. She didn't want pity. She was far too old for such trivial concerns. All she desired now was an end to this endless, hollow existence. And if this boy could provide it, so be it.

The boy observed her carefully, his expression unreadable as he raised his fist. The chilling blue flames that danced across his knuckles illuminated the tension between them. Yet, before the fight began, he tilted his head slightly and asked,

"Tell me… I can see it in your eyes—you want to die. But why? Are you angry at the world, or are you angry at yourself?"

The question hung in the air, a stark contrast to the crackling tension of their impending clash.

The woman, calming her breath and steadying her resolve, studied him for a moment. She noted his demeanor—this wasn't a hero trying to save her, nor was he someone who sought to lecture her about life or morality. He wasn't even judging her. He was just curious.

And, in an odd way, she appreciated that.

"My past…" she began, her voice quiet but firm, "is not something I'm proud of. But it's not something you have asked me about."

Her gaze held his for a moment longer, unwavering.

"Probably myself," she admitted finally, the words heavier than the fiery atmosphere around them.

As if the admission marked the beginning, the battle erupted.

Their powers clashed violently, space itself fracturing under the force of their attacks.

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