Everything was fine. Everything went just as how it was supposed to be. Everything culminated in Camille going back to her apartment. Unlocking her door, Camille quickly stepped inside and switched on the light. Now that she had finished with the quest, Camille could finally focus on reaping the rewards. Speaking of, what was the skill again? Armoured blow, armoured initiative? Ah, who cares. Regardless of what it was, Camille was glad all the same she got a skill.

"Quests."

Main Quests: Objectives: None Defeat one opponent by 20/01/2050. Side Quests: First Venture Rewards: Socialization (Completed)

Armored Initiative (Passive Skill)

Doing her usual routine, of then selecting the quest, and accepting the notification from it, everything went well.

Armored Initiative: When user triggers the first blow in combat, grant a shield equivalent to 20% of their max health.

Lovely, just as she had expected, she had finally acquired a new skill. One that encourages aggression nonetheless, how exquisite.

Rinse and repeat, this rhythm of constantly fulfilling missions and getting rewards had begun to ingrain itself into her being. There wasn't any getting old of it either. I mean, combining her younger love of domination and fighting with the escapism and systems of video games?

What more could she ask for?

Well, now that she thought about it. Obviously, there was plenty more she could ask for. More quests and more rewards, there wasn't really any limit to the extent she could progress, was there? Maybe, she'll even get to kill god, have her own harem, or take over the whole continent of Europe, who knows?

Ah, stop it. Camille told herself. All that speculation and hopes can wait until later, for now, she could have some time to rest and stare into the ceiling. Right, wait and stare into the ceiling. Just what she had planned for the evening, and definitely not just a way to get her mind off things.

Try as she might, there was no denying it. After that event, she needed some time to think to herself.

They say that you don't really feel the pain after you get shot. That your body enters into a state of shock where it disassociates from the pain. And that you'll only feel after some time has passed. Camille, using her logic, supposed the same symptoms of disassociation could have been attributed to what she had just done. That after some time had passed, that it would all fall on top of her, and make her realize what she has done.

But now that she was in her room, lying peacefully for the better half of an hour, nothing had changed. Camille still didn't feel any lick of shame or self-loathing. None at all. So, unable to understand if this should be the case, Camille locked herself within the prison that was her own mind.

Was it just a matter of desensitization? Had the years of fighting and sadistic intent caught up to her? Or was she just sick in the head? Those were the questions Camille currently struggled with and were unable to find answers to.

Trying to rationalize everything, Camille thought over the events that transpired earlier.

In the first place, that young man had it coming. He broke the rules of the establishment, cheated and possibly damaged an older man's arm beyond repair. So, that means that what he got coming was ok. The moment he had committed such an act invalidated him as a regular human being.

That was the rationale she came up with. Though, even with it, she felt dissatisfied. And the worse part was that she didn't know why either. There was just a flaw in its logic. A hole so insignificant and yet so potent, that it made her feel as if it was wrong.

"Man, this sucks." Holding her bloodied palm to the sky, she then tilted her head to the side. She didn't want to at first, but she couldn't just stay away from it either. Now that she finally turned on the lights, there was no escaping the view of her former trophies.

Reflective colours of bronze, silver and gold, each rewarded for her accomplishments in sports and, namely, martial arts, Camille wondered how long it had been since her last one.

When she was younger, acquiring them had become a yearly occurrence. Always the winner, always the best, and always the one everyone hated but envied, Camille missed it. Those pure days of nonchalant victory, those days before she understood just how talentless she actually was.

The dense weight of that day of realization suffocated her soul.

And it's made all the worse by knowing she was once better. That those trophies were once a reflection of her skill. And yet now? Just seeing it alone made it feel like a knife was twisted inside her gut. Destroying her from the inside, it was like an infectious plague—one exponentially spreading by the second, with each passing second adding more hate and more loathing, she hated it.

Her wistful face, hidden beneath her hand, lingered. Taking in all the pain, she tried her best to let it wash over her. And with enough time it did. No longer a great pain, it instead transformed into that of a medium pain, before turning into minor regret.

Breathing a sigh of relief, her eyes were fixated onto the ceiling, until, she suddenly had an idea. A subtle enlightenment brought upon the acceptance of a small fact, Camille knew what she had to do next. When she tucked her arm into her coat, her hand came out with a cellphone. With a few taps of her finger, Camille decided to call Morgan.

"Hello?" A familiar voice rang from her phone.

"It's me, your bestest best friend. Do you mind if we talk?"

"I do mind, yes, and I will be hanging the phone up now." Morgan joked, finishing with a light sniffle at the end of her sentence.

"Heh, alright then. Well, you'll find this one interesting, I promise."

"You know I always find conversations with you interesting."

"Yeah, but this one is more interesting than usual, trust me."

Just then, when it seemed like a period of silence would ensue, Camille began her explanation.

"Do you think it's evil to beat someone who beat someone else up?" Morgan didn't reply. Having nothing to say without more context, Camille chose to offer just that.

"Just so you know, the guy who got beat up also broke some guy's arm really badly, like maybe permanently damaged or something."

"Was this in one of your underground fight rings again?"

"Yeah, it was."

A quiet but powerful 'hmm' came through Camille's phone. A indication of some deep thought, Camille gave Morgan a few seconds to formulate what it was she wanted to say.

"Well, I would say it isn't evil. I mean, it's just karma, right? Someone who beats someone else up, much less break the rules, should also expect to be beaten up."

That was the answer Camille needed.

"Thanks, Morgan. You're a good person and my best friend."

Now that their conversation was over, Camille could finally hang up. But, just as she was about to, Morgan's voice stopped her. This time, softer and slightly bashful by being called a good person.

"W-well, thanks, but I forgot to add one thing. While the act itself may be good, it doesn't necessarily mean that the person who did it had good intentions, you know?"

Probably because she didn't quite understand, Camille asked what she meant.

"If a serial killer kills another serial killer for pleasure, it's an overall net positive because there's one less of them, right? But that doesn't mean the original serial killer's right, so to speak."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, you have to ask yourself. Did you really beat up that person because it was right, or did you just do it to feel better?"