Chapter 154: Hands Off My Neck, Pretty Boy
Falling into the darkness, Finn’s body slammed against another hard wooden floor. The impact rattled his bones, but—miraculously—he was still alive.
Groaning, he shifted and winced, half-surprised to still be breathing.
He blinked around at his surroundings. A cramped wooden room, cluttered with tools and half-broken tables. It looked like a smithing shop—or at least something pretending to be one. Given how Moistvile looked from the outside, this was... shockingly professional.
He pushed himself up, every muscle screaming in protest. Finn felt like one of those poor wrestlers tossed out of the ring for crowd entertainment—except no cheering audience, no folding chair justice, just pain.
On shaky legs, he muttered, "Ughhh. I’m too young for this stuff." He paused, frowning. "That’s the saying, right?"
Shaking his head, he glanced up at the hole he’d fallen through. It wasn’t that deep, which only made him wonder: why hadn’t Ardin jumped down to finish the job?
"...That would be bad if he did," he muttered, rubbing blood from his nose.
And as if summoned by sheer irony, a heavy silhouette dropped straight through the hole, slamming into the floorboards with enough force to rattle the room.
Finn’s eyes bulged. "Me and my damn big mouth!"
But before the figure could rise, the floor groaned, splintered, and gave way—sending it crashing down to yet another level below.
Finn froze, blinking at the new hole. He leaned forward cautiously, peering down to see what happened.
A hand suddenly shot out from the gap, clawing at the edges.
Finn yelped and stumbled back. "Oh, hell no!"
But the hand lunged again, seizing his ankle with the weight of an anchor—and yanking him down with it.
"DAMN IT!" Finn roared as he disappeared into the hole.
Dragged into the hole, Finn screamed, flailing the whole way down, unsure of what fresh hell awaited him.
His body slammed against another floor, knocking the wind out of him. Groaning, he rolled onto his back—and froze.
Ardin was there.
He looked worse than before, battered and filthy, his once-pristine armor broken into scraps hanging off his body. His hair was wild and matted with sweat, his face smeared with dirt.
The room itself was a disaster. Dim light seeped in from the ragged hole above and through shattered walls that opened to the foggy sky outside. Thick wooden pillars jutted through the room at odd angles, as if Moistvile itself was collapsing and twisting inward. Floorboards were torn up, jagged planks jutting out like teeth, while broken furniture lay scattered everywhere.
Ardin stood over Finn, panting heavily, his chest heaving with each breath.
"You... aren’t getting away," he growled, his voice raw with exhaustion.
Finn’s throat went dry. This guy wasn’t bluffing—he’d follow him to the ends of the earth just to finish this. Finn glanced at his hands and noticed something: Ardin’s sword was gone.
Bare fists. That was all he had now.
And yet, somehow, Ardin looked even more drained than Finn, as if the chaos outside had beaten him down too.
Ardin lifted his boot and slammed it down to crush him. Finn quickly rolled with desperation of a man dodging rent collectors. Ardin’s foot cracked against the boards, throwing him off balance. He stumbled and went down hard, the floor groaning under his weight.
Scrambling to his feet, Finn staggered back, trying to put some distance between them.
The building creaked again, shuddering like a dying beast. The whole foundation seemed to be moving upward, carrying them higher into the unknown.
Ardin slowly pushed himself up, coughing, his glare burning holes through Finn. "Stop running... you aren’t going to win this. Accept your fate."
Finn let out a shaky laugh, backing away. "Then why are you the one on the ground right now?"
That struck a nerve. Ardin’s face twisted, his jaw tightening, eyes dark with fury.
"You... will pay."
Ardin pushed himself up and stalked toward Finn, his fist clenched tight, murder burning in his eyes.
Finn stretched his arm out, ready to trip him—his one trick, his one shot—
"No!" Ardin snapped, his voice cold as steel. "You will not be tripping. Fight me like a man."
The words cut like a blade.
Finn smirked. For once, he wasn’t against the idea. He wanted to rearrange that annoyingly perfect face until it was unrecognizable.
"Alright then!"
He raised his fists, shifting into a fighting stance he’d only ever used in front of a mirror. His heart pounded, but for the first time in a while, he was ready to throw hands.
Ardin lunged first, his left hook slicing through the air. Finn swayed back—dodging it.
He blinked in disbelief. ’Wait... I dodged?!’
Instinct took over. Finn countered with a right hook, slamming his fist across Ardin’s jaw. Ardin’s head jerked slightly to the side from the impact.
Pulling his hand back, Finn yelped. "Ow, ow, ow!" He shook his fist like an idiot, his knuckles screaming in pain.
Which was the worst part. It made him look weak.
Looking up through gritted teeth, his stomach dropped. Ardin stood there, completely unfazed. Finn’s punch hadn’t even left a mark.
’Fuck me!’
Ardin’s response was brutal. He drove a fist deep into Finn’s stomach, knocking the air from his lungs, then smashed another into Finn’s cheek, sending him stumbling sideways.
Ardin’s boot then crashed into Finn’s back, launching him into the wooden wall with a painful thud.
"What’s with people and kicking me?!" Finn groaned, peeling himself off the boards. "That’s like... four today. My body’s basically a doormat at this point."
Before he could breathe, another yell erupted behind him. Finn sidestepped on instinct, and Ardin’s foot slammed into the wall where he had been, shaking the whole structure.
Finn stumbled back, panic rising. A straight-up fist fight was suicide—Ardin was basically a walking tank while Finn was, at best, a squeaky shopping cart. A baby boxing a nuclear warhead.
If Finn wanted a shot, he’d need to wait for the right moment to trip him. Ardin had already proven he could resist it, so Finn needed him off guard, unprepared.
Easier said than done.
Ardin turned back toward him, somehow looking even angrier than before. Finn couldn’t tell if the guy had the world’s worst temper or if he just really, really hated his face.
The hero charged, arms wide open for a crushing tackle.
Finn stood his ground. He waited.
Waited.
Waited...
And at the very last second, he ducked aside.
Ardin’s arms closed around empty air. He spun immediately, but Finn was still standing right there, only a few inches away, staring like an idiot.
Then—whack!
A stool flew across the room and smacked Ardin clean in the head, staggering him for half a second.
He didn’t groan. He didn’t even blink. He just ignored it and barreled forward again like nothing had happened.
The building rattled harder. Right before Ardin could grab him, a wooden pillar burst through the floor, splitting boards and ripping into the ceiling like a spike.
Finn yelped, heart hammering. "Oh my god—I hate this town!"
But his relief was short-lived. Another brutal punch crashed into his face, sending him reeling. Then Ardin grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the pillar.
The hero didn’t speak this time. He just stared at Finn with ice-cold, murderous eyes as his grip tightened around his neck.
Finn’s lungs burned as Ardin’s grip crushed tighter around his throat. He kicked, thrashed, wiggled—anything to pry free—but it was useless. The hero’s hand was like iron.
His head grew lighter, his thoughts fuzzier. The edges of his vision blurred. It reminded him, disturbingly, of the time Majestria had suffocated him with her thighs.
’Why the hell am I thinking of that now?!’
Every time Finn’s legs flailed, Ardin only squeezed harder, as if his resistance was a personal insult. Finn’s arms grew heavier, his kicks slowed, until even lifting a finger felt impossible. His body was shutting down.
This was it. This was how it ended.
Until—
BAM!
Something struck Ardin hard, ripping him off Finn and sending him stumbling. Finn collapsed to the floor, gasping desperately, clutching at his throat like it was about to vanish.
Air. Beautiful, sweet, holy air. He was alive. He wasn’t going to die—not yet.
"Thank the heavens," he wheezed, coughing between breaths.
Shakily, Finn pushed himself up, his chest rising and falling with ragged gulps of air. His vision steadied—and then he froze.
Standing before him was someone he never expected to see here of all places.
Standing before him was someone he never expected to see here of all places.
Especially under these cursed, collapsing, Moistvile-ass circumstances.
Finn’s jaw dropped, his brain refusing to process what his eyes were telling him. His throat still burned from Ardin’s grip, his body still trembling from the near-death chokehold, but none of that compared to the icy shock flooding his veins now.
For a split second, he wondered if the lack of oxygen had finally fried his brain. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe this was the afterlife playing another cruel prank, dangling familiar faces in front of him before tossing him back into the meat grinder.
But no. The figure was real. The heavy footsteps, the shadow cast against the collapsing room, the expression etched into their face—it was all too solid, too undeniable.
Finn swallowed hard, voice cracking as he whispered:
"...There’s no way."