Questioning Good and Evil

"What is my true purpose in this world?" Anton pondered all the circumstances and still couldn't fully understand what his objectives were in this world. It wasn't enough to just eliminate evil spirits, kill werewolves, and much more. It still wasn't sufficient; he knew he had to act more like the world does and at least feel that nothing had escaped him.

Anton also couldn't understand Old Smith's decision, but one thing he could be sure of was that something happened when they met, right after he stepped away to perform the exorcism. Judging by Old Smith's behavior, he would definitely say something to those kids, and going against troublesome minors might make his life unbearable.

Recalling those events, Old Smith's intentions became somewhat obvious. So, without opening the envelope, Anton immediately left the church. He lacked crucial information, but even though he respected Old Smith's decision, he couldn't let him commit a foolish action.

A few blocks away, Old Smith walked slowly through the quiet streets of these outskirts, his face remaining calm as he strolled. Due to his chronic illness, he couldn't make strenuous movements. Once he made too many physical movements, he would have difficulty breathing and feel chest tightness along with suffocation. In severe cases of this chronic illness, he would faint and die from respiratory failure.

"Cough. Lord, if this is your will, give me strength to do what I am thinking." Old Smith coughed again, starting to feel short of breath. However, his steps remained steady as he walked slowly with the same rhythm.

It didn't take long for Old Smith to reach his destination, an alley where the worst scum gathered to get drugs and commit evil deeds. A group of teenagers with their heads covered in balaclavas looked at Old Smith, and they all immediately began to see what he planned to do.

"Haha, look who's here."

"Haha haha, pathetic old man, go and pity someone else."

Old Smith stopped, looked up, and saw that some of the boys in this group seemed to recognize him. Many of them were society's trash; those damn dogs had been extorting an elderly couple passing by.

The dialect they used, the curses, and their voices contained so much garbage that one might as well confuse it with a trash container.

"Hey, princess, you better take the money from your pension and give it to me, then both of you get the hell out of this place."

"Please don't hurt us. Take whatever you want, but don't harm us."

"Just give me the damn money. What the hell do I want your money for?"

Old Smith watched as these scoundrels intimidated those elderly people, and his blood began to boil. Thinking of something, Old Smith's breath accelerated again; unconsciously, he covered his chest and walked towards them. Finally, he entered a house that was open.

This room had many sheets hanging on the walls; the floor could be seen with the naked eye, and it was a mess. Garbage had accumulated, and glass bottles, cans, and scattered junk food could be seen on the floor.

As Mr. Smith entered this unfamiliar house, he noticed that the furniture had been destroyed, and the smells of cigarette smoke and urine permeated the surroundings. All of this had happened in a day.

Old Smith, who saw this, furrowed his brows, stepped on the garbage, and stood in the middle of the room. Just by looking, he could see that this entire house was the same; there was all kinds of trash around.

Syringes, light bulbs, and many other things were scattered on the floor. All these things were tools for drug addicts. Everyone used these things to inject themselves, and upon discovering that this house had become the habitat of homeless bastards, Old Smith frowned.

The reason? The house he was in was, of course, not his own but that of an old friend.

Old Smith's eyes turned colder and colder as he walked towards the broken window, passed through the tattered curtains, and looked at many of those gang members right before his eyes.

In comparison to where he lived, the house where his old and lonely friend lived, that is, the house he was in right now, faced the sewers.

Looking outside, he remembered when he met that young priest and had a conversation with him for the first time. His whole life had changed since then; he lost his wife, his friend was killed, and the illness he suffered from became more severe.

Old Smith closed his eyes and remembered his friend's words, "Old Smith, I'm really scared."

"I shouldn't have told those kids anything; damn it, they filled the walls of my house with graffiti, beat me at night, broke my windows... You shouldn't mess with them; the police didn't do anything either."

The only words Old Smith could say to his friend were to call the police, but from what he knew, his friend had called the police numerous times, and they never did anything.

During that day before the encounter with Anton, Old Smith tried to persuade his friend not to do anything foolish after he took the shotgun with the intention of taking justice into his own hands.

After his persuasion that morning, his old friend promised that he wouldn't do anything. But after they separated that same morning, his friend died that night. His whole body was covered in beating wounds.

The cause of death?

The police told him that he had been stabbed multiple times in the chest. Since there were no witnesses, they categorized this death as an attempted armed robbery.

Because his friend lived near that gang, they were all detained that same night but were released the next morning; after all, there was no evidence.

Who would take revenge for an old and forgotten man? That's what many people might have thought, except for him, who hadn't done anything because he still had to take care of his wife. But now that she was gone, Old Smith knew he had to do justice for his old friend.

Thinking about this, Old Smith coughed and stared at the scum in front of him who still intimidated passersby, fixing his eyes on each of them.

As a former soldier who had participated in real wars and had lived in retirement, patience was what he had in abundance. After waiting for an unknown amount of time, Old Smith waited for the night to fall, waited patiently, and saw that many of the young gang members began to leave.

But there was a group that separated from the rest and walked towards the house where Old Smith was hidden among the sheets.

"Damn, luckily we managed to get the money from the merchandise we didn't sell today, so that will be our reward."

Old Smith silently pulled a gun from his arms and checked the silencer at the barrel's mouth. If Anton were here, he would know that Old Smith was holding a Glock 17 with a suppressor, an incredibly silent weapon. This pistol was modified so that someone of Old Smith's age could use it without any problems.

"Cough..."

Old Smith raised his pistol and aimed at the first man entering the door, and in that instant, when he walked inside, he pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The man who received the shot in the head fell to the ground, causing the people following behind him to freeze.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Old Smith, with his somewhat poor aim, hit the chest of one youth and shot the other in the shoulder, causing him to run away.

"Just two; I'm really getting old." Smith muttered with a smile on his old face.