Chapter 122: A Gang War
There was a beat of silence. Everyone stood still, processing what Max had just said.
Then, like someone hit play on a laugh track, the group burst into laughter, all of them except Rain.
"You... you think you’re clever, huh?" Rain snapped. "Think you’re funny? I’ve made up my mind already. We don’t need someone like you backing us up!"
He lunged, fist swinging again.
But this time, Max was ready. He watched closely, tracking every movement. Rain was pissed, but even angry, the punch came out smooth, fast, clean. Not quite a jab, not quite a hook. Something in between.
Still, it didn’t land.
A blur of motion, and suddenly Rain’s fist was frozen in mid-air, caught in Dud’s grip, completely engulfed by his hand. Dud held it steady, his strength pushing back with ease, like Rain was just a kid throwing a tantrum.
"You think I dragged him all the way here just so you could beat him down?" Dud growled. "If I wanted that, I’d have done it myself. I’m this close to finishing this job, and I want the bonus. So chill. Now."
With a casual flick, Dud shoved Rain’s arm aside.
The rest of the group straightened up, the air getting heavier. Max climbed back to his feet, brushing dirt off his pants.
Gangs don’t work like they do in movies, Max thought. The truth is, they’re just people. Some respect strength, someone who doesn’t just fold at the first hit. Others? They want obedience, someone who listens and follows orders without blinking.
To survive, you’ve got to read people. Like a salesperson adjusting for every customer that walks through the door. That’s the game. And with a group like this, and a guy like Dud, it was a judgment call. And I figured Dud’s the kind who respects a little crazy.
The group marched up to the restaurant doors, no hesitation in their steps. Dud didn’t bother reaching for the handle, he raised his leg and kicked the door open with a loud crash.
The rest of the Rejected Corps stormed in right behind him, spreading out along the walls like they’d done this a hundred times before.
"Alright, Chalkline boys," Dud shouted, voice booming across the dining room. "You’ve been real busy lately, huh? Beating up one of our guys and thinking we wouldn’t find out? Real smart move."
Without warning, Dud took off running and leapt straight over a table. Plates, bowls, silverware, all of it crashed to the floor like glass rain.
He didn’t miss a beat. One solid kick caught a man square in the face, knocking him backward. Then Dud landed, grabbed the guy by the back of the head, and slammed it straight down into his half-eaten meal. The plate shattered under the impact, food flying everywhere.
The whole room erupted.
Guests screamed and bolted from their seats, chairs toppling in every direction. A stampede headed for the exits as chaos took hold. And just like that, it became obvious who was involved and who was collateral.
The waiters, a few of the so-called guests, and several more men pouring down from the second floor were not civilians. Some were in shorts, others dressed casual, but every one of them came armed, brandishing machetes and meat cleavers like it was their version of a welcome mat.
Then the real fight broke out.
One of the Chalkline boys hurled a cleaver straight at Dud. He ducked without flinching, then spun and slammed his forearm into the attacker coming at him next.
The Rejected Corps were already in motion, each member locking into their own brutal rhythm. They weren’t tactical, they were raw, relentless. And they were going head-to-head with the Chalkline crew, a gang that took pride in what they did to their enemies.
Chalkline. The name wasn’t for show. These were the guys who liked to leave a chalk outline around anyone they put down, whether it was just a savage beating or something way worse.
And tonight, they were ready to draw a whole new set of outlines.
A double-edged sword. That’s what the Chalkline name was meant to be. It wasn’t just about fear, it was a calling card. A warning. A signature. We did this. And this? This chaos? This was their message.
Knives flew across the room like shrapnel. The Rejected Corps didn’t dodge all of them, they didn’t even try. Some of them took the hits on purpose, letting the blades sink into arms or shoulders. Non-lethal spots. They’d been through worse. They pushed forward through the pain, answering every wound with a brutal counterattack.
From what I can tell, Max thought, eyes scanning the brawl, the Rejected Corps are winning for two big reasons.
One, they’re not scared of getting hit. The pain doesn’t faze them. If anything, it fuels them. And two, Dud.
Dud was tearing through enemies like a wrecking ball. He used everything around him, chairs, silverware, plates. At one point, he launched himself across the room, tackled a guy mid-run, and rolled with him on the floor. By the time they stopped moving, Dud had disarmed him and pinned him down.
He didn’t stop there.
Fist after fist slammed into the guy’s face until he was out cold. Then, like he had a sixth sense, Dud turned just in time to avoid another sneak attack, ducking, countering, striking back.
Nothing was off-limits. Dud hurled plates like frisbees, catching his attackers off guard. While they flinched, he followed up with a crushing blow to the jaw. Precise. Vicious. Fast.
They’re all stronger than Dipter’s crew, Max thought, heart pounding. And Dud... he’s on a whole different level. Stronger than Dipter by miles. The Billion Bloodline wouldn’t stand a chance against these guys. No wonder Joe got taken out the way he did.
Coming with them today, it was the right call. Now I’ve seen what they’re really capable of. And I’ve got information I didn’t have before.
Max stood near the back of the restaurant, close to the entrance, watching the chaos unfold. He thought he was out of the way, until one of the Chalkline boys spotted him.
The guy staggered up from behind a flipped table, a machete clutched in his hand, eyes locking onto Max like prey.
"Damn it! I thought that guy was already down!" one of the Rejected Corps shouted. "Rain, do something!"
Rain was the closest. Everyone could see it.
"You think I’m gonna lift a finger for that kid?" Rain scoffed. "Let him get his head chopped off. He’s not one of us."
Max didn’t flinch.
He kept his eyes on the machete-wielding man rushing toward him. Fast. Wild. Sloppy.
Something like this, right? Max thought, bracing himself, replaying movements he’d just seen.
As the man swung, Max sidestepped fast. Clean. He caught the attacker’s wrist mid-swing and turned with it, using the man’s own momentum against him. The twist came hard and sudden, enough force to make the machete clatter to the floor.
Before the man could react, Max’s leg snapped upward, catching him square in the jaw.
The man’s head whipped back. He collapsed, out cold.
Silence cracked through the noise for a second as several heads turned.
Rain froze.
The Rejected Corps stared.
Dud, mid-punch, blinked and lowered his fist just a little.
"...Did he just... copy that from me?" Dud asked, almost impressed.