The smell of dust.
This was Yasuo's second impression of this land.
My first impression was that damned, cheap alcohol taste with absolutely no aftertaste.
This is San Ricardo Town 60 kilometers south of Tijuana, a place so small it barely qualifies as a dot on a map.
The wind whipped up dry tumbleweeds, which bumped against the door of a pickup truck that had broken down about thirty years ago, making a soft "clunk".
Yasuo stopped in front of a dilapidated wooden house with a sign that read " El Repair Shop ".
It wasn't because there was anything special about this place, but because he heard the sound of water and smelled the scent that only those who truly live buried in the earth would have.
If I were you, I wouldn't go any further.
A voice came from the Shadow of the repair shop.
Yasuo's fingers instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it.
He raised his head, his eyes, hidden by his disheveled hair, narrowed slightly.
Emerging from the Shadow was a Latino man wearing oil-stained overalls.
He looked to be around thirty years old, with a stubble beard, tired eyes, and a large wrench for wrenching tires in his hand.
"I just wanted a glass of water."
The man did not lower his guard because of this reasonable request.
"There's a water tap on the left ahead. San Ricardo doesn't welcome outsiders."
Yasuo smiled.
He picked up the empty gourd at his waist and shook it.
"Look, even my gourd is mocking your hospitality."
"Your gourd talks a lot, but here, talkative people usually don't live past sunset."
He didn't put down the wrench.
This man is somewhat dangerous.
This was Yasuo's first assessment.
But he had seen too many dangerous things— the Noxus War Machine, the undead of the Shadow Isles, and his brother who cried in the wind.
In comparison, a repairman with a wrench?
It's not even as harmful as a glass of spoiled ale.
Yasuo shrugged and plopped down on the pile of discarded tires, his longsword resting on his knees.
"The sunset is beautiful, but most people are so focused on looking down at the sixpence on the ground that they forget to look up at the clouds that are dyed red."
What exactly do you want?
His patience was rapidly running out.
"I already said, I just wanted a glass of water. Or... do you have something even stronger than what's in this gourd?"
The repairman did not answer.
His eyes were fixed on Yasuo, scrutinizing him from head to toe.
After a few seconds of silence, the wariness in the repairman's eyes dissipated, replaced by a strange expression.
It was a mixture of surprise and disdain.
There was also a hint of schadenfreude and mockery.
"Ha."
The repairman let out a short laugh.
He lowered the heavy wrench in his hand, which was powerful enough to smash a skull, and tilted his head to look Yasuo up and down.
"I knew it looked familiar."
The repairman casually grabbed a filthy rag, its original color indistinguishable, and wiped the grease from his hands. His tone was full of mockery. "Isn't this the rising star of Vought International? What's his name again...? That guy with the samurai sword, always on TV posing for so-called 'glory' and 'wind'."
He pointed at Yasuo, his grin widening even further.
" Yasuo, the Unforgiven, right?"
Yasuo did not deny it.
The Vought International packaged him very well; posters covered New York subway stations, and figurines were sold to every power-hungry otaku.
But he never expected that he would be recognized at a glance in this desolate Mexico border town.
"Looks like Vought's marketing department needs a raise." Yasuo shrugged self-deprecatingly. "Even the sand here recognizes me."
Come on, you look much more glamorous on TV than you do now. What's wrong with you?
The mechanic took a step forward, and the smell of engine oil hit Yasuo's nostrils.
"Was you kicked out by Vought? Or was it because you slept with some vice president's wife that you were exiled to this godforsaken place to experience life? Look at you, where is your 'superhero' demeanor? You're more like a stray dog scavenging for bones in a garbage dump."
Those were harsh words.
"Stray dogs are fine," Yasuo, picking up his empty flask and looking at it in the setting sun. "At least they don't have to wag their tails."
The repairman paused for a moment.
He hadn't expected this reaction from the "big star" who had once stood in the spotlight.
There was no outburst of anger, no rebuttal, only a nonchalant indifference, like a dead pig not afraid of boiling water.
That look in your eyes can't be faked.
That's the look in someone's eyes who has truly experienced heartbreak.
The sarcasm in the repairman's eyes gradually subsided.
"Snort."
He snorted coldly and turned to walk towards the dark, dingy repair shop.
"If you don't want to die out there, get in here. The gangs around here recently got a new batch of guns, specifically for shooting rich people."
Yasuo didn't hesitate and followed.
The repair shop is larger inside than it appears from the outside.
The light was dim, with only a few dim yellow light bulbs swaying precariously overhead.
"Please sit wherever you like. If you don't mind your pants getting dirty."
The repairman walked up to an old, dusty the Fridge, kicked the Fridge door hard, and with a bang, the door opened. He took out two bottles of ice-cold beer and tossed one to Yasuo.
"No expensive whiskey, just this. Take it or leave it."
The repairman bit open the bottle cap himself, tilted his head back and took a big gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing violently as he swallowed with a satisfying sound.
Then he leaned against a workbench, his somewhat cloudy but still sharp eyes fixed on Yasuo.
" Vought's men wouldn't come to a place like this for no reason."
The repairman wiped away the foam from his drink. "While I don't know if you escaped or are here on some shady secret mission, in San Ricardo, drop your superhero act."
"There are no fans here, and no cameras."
He pointed to the ground beneath his feet.
"This place is only for poor wretches who want to survive and scoundrels who want to get rich."
Yasuo flicked the bottle cap open with his thumb—a finger strength only a true swordsman possesses.
"I'm not here to cause trouble." Yasuo took a sip of beer, the bitter taste spreading on his tongue, much smoother than the tequila from the bar he'd just been to. "I'm just passing by."
"Just passing by?"
The repairman scoffed, "Everyone who comes here says they're just passing through, and then they die on the sticky mouse trap like flies."
He put down the bottle, his gaze becoming somewhat distant.
" Vought International is a meat grinder; people go in, and minced meat comes out. The fact that you walked out unscathed, whatever the reason, is a stroke of luck."
Yasuo keenly picked up on the emotions in the other person's words.
That wasn't just ordinary citizens' resentment towards large corporations; it was a deep-seated understanding and aversion.
"You seem to know Vought very well."
Yasuo said softly, his longsword casually resting against his leg.
"I've seen more news than you've eaten rice."
The repairman avoided the topic and didn't want to discuss it further.
He turned around and rummaged through a pile of parts on the workbench, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one out and put it in his mouth, but after searching for a while, he couldn't find a lighter.
"Can I borrow a light? Oh, I forgot, you can only blow wind, not breathe fire."
Yasuo flicked his finger lightly.
A blade of wind swept past, grazing the Spark shield of the nearby grinding machine.
"Zzz--!"
A shower of sparks flew, just enough to ignite the cigarette in the repairman's mouth.
The repairman took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of bluish-gray smoke. Through the smoke, his face appeared even more weathered and mysterious.
Save your showmanship, big star.
Although he said that, his muscles visibly relaxed. This was a sign of acceptance.
Yasuo leaned against a pile of old tires, watching the wasteland outside the door gradually being swallowed by the night.
"The wine is good," Yasuo said. "Better than the one at the last bar."
"That's for sure. Those guys mixed horse urine into their liquor, mine is pure."
The repairman took another swig of his drink, hesitating whether to kick the man out, but ultimately didn't say anything.
In this damned world, two equally wounded Beast can sometimes find solace even in simply sitting together and drinking in silence.
"Now that I've drunk your wine, I'm no longer an outsider."
Yasuo looked at this rather ordinary-looking man.
"I haven't asked yet, what's your name?"
The repairman remained silent for a moment.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the dim light shining on his stubble-covered face.
He subconsciously touched his chest—beneath the oil-stained work clothes, it seemed, lay something very important to him.
Hector.
The man raised his head, his eyes calm.
Hector Ayala.