A peddler approaches the murderer in the midst of the commotion. He does not seem to notice or care that the man had just torn limbs off the people around him. He does not seem to mind the puddle of blood staining the ground a deep dark red. He simply walks, leaning on his stick. His mouth agape, revealing rows of missing teeth. His eyes are a blank white haze. He is blind. He staggers towards the man, oblivious of his peril. Indeed, the people watching from the sidewalk, too frightened to call out a warning, watch morbidly as the macabre scene plays out in front of them. “He will be killed,” one whispers under his breathe. “Get away,” speaks another hiding behind a stall.

But the old man continues until he was close enough to touch killer with his hands. Perhaps, the hooded man will take pity on him and let him walk off. Or laugh in amusement as an old blind man was the only one brave enough to come close to him. But there was something peculiar about the way the old man turned towards the hooded murderer. Something about him that seems all too aware of what’s going on. It was as if he wasn’t an old man at all. His white eyes seem to burn with some sort of fury. His teeth crackling into a smile.

“How about me,” says the old man. But the voice that comes out is not old at all. It is young man speaking, hissing with venomous rage. The walking stick in the peddler's hand flashes a brilliant white light, transforming into a sword. He swings the blade with terrifying strength, aiming to cleave the head right off the iniquitous killer.