Chapter 311: Blades in the Chaos
The Bloodline Group was already holding strong, their overwhelming numbers and unity giving them the edge over their opponents. They pushed the gangs back step by step, but then a new shift rippled through the battlefield like a breaking wave.
The Rejected Corps had turned on the Chalkline members.
The sudden betrayal spread like wildfire, a violent surge that split the battlefield further apart. The Bloodline fighters quickly realized that all they had to do was step back, letting their enemies tear into each other. For a moment, it seemed like the chaos might solve itself.
But there was one problem, something that could snap the gangs out of fighting one another and refocus their fury on the Bloodline. A rallying point.
A leader.
Normally, either Chrono or Montez would’ve been enough to pull their forces back together. But Chrono was still locked in combat against Max, and Montez was tied up as well, his fight with Wolf showing no signs of slowing.
Montez lashed out with a sudden strike, a flick of his hand aimed fast at Wolf’s face.
Wolf leaned back, arching so far he lost his balance and dropped toward the ground. But with a single palm against the pavement, he caught himself, twisting his body as his legs shot upward. His heels slammed into Montez’s chest, knocking him back.
In the same motion, Wolf flipped upright again, springing back to his feet as if he’d never lost balance at all.
"You’re an annoying one!" Montez snarled.
The two had been fighting for a while, and frustration etched deeper into Montez’s face with each passing second. Wolf wasn’t like other opponents. There was no clear fighting style, no steady rhythm to predict, no pattern to exploit. His movements were wild, improvisational, impossible to read. Every strike, every dodge felt unpredictable, and it left Montez on edge.
So finally, he decided to stop playing around.
Reaching behind him, Montez drew out two blades, sharp kitchen knives, worn but deadly, their edges gleaming as if they had been sharpened over and over until they could cut through anything.
They weren’t cleavers. They weren’t daggers forged for war. They were tools turned into weapons, and in Montez’s hands, they promised death all the same.
Wolf tilted his head, his eyes flicking between the knives. "I thought you guys were called the Chalkline Boys. But all I’ve seen you use are knives. Maybe it’s time you think about renaming your group."
Montez smirked darkly. He stepped in, both blades slashing in swift, practiced motions. Wolf turned his head, barely fast enough, but not fast enough to escape entirely. A thin red line appeared across his cheek where one knife had kissed his skin.
"You think it’s just about the knives?" Montez growled. "We use these tools to kill. The name, ’Chalkline’, comes after, when your body hits the ground. But you won’t be alive long enough to see that part."
Wolf’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he broke eye contact, glancing at a scuffle happening just nearby. His long leg whipped out with startling precision, kicking the handle of a weapon from another man’s grip.
He waited just a fraction of a second, timing it perfectly as the handle dropped through the air,
, and then snapped his leg out again, sending the falling weapon flying straight toward Montez.
He had no choice but to twist his body and avoid the knife, and the moment he did, Wolf’s heel came crashing into his face.
Montez staggered, his head snapping to the side. Wolf didn’t let up. He spun quickly, driving another strike at Montez’s temple, but the blow only rocked him, swaying him side to side rather than dropping him.
Then Wolf’s leg rose upward, a kick aimed dead-center. Montez saw it coming and lowered both of his blades, ready to stab into the exposed limb,
, but at the last instant, the kick bent awkwardly midair, changing direction. Instead of striking straight, it curved sharply and smashed into the side of Montez’s head.
The force was brutal. Montez’s vision flickered as if the world itself had blurred out for a moment.
It was the first time in this fight that Wolf had unleashed a move born from martial arts: a Brazilian kick. A strike designed to look like it was aimed one way, only to whip into another angle at the very last second while airborne.
For most of his life, Wolf had never trained seriously. He had always relied on his raw, natural talent, strength, and instinct. But after his last battle against the Rejected Corps, the first time he had truly felt his life hang in the balance, he realized something critical, his talent alone would no longer be enough.
He had to evolve.
The difference was that Wolf’s "natural talent" went far beyond what any ordinary person could achieve. Even he didn’t fully understand the scope of it.
The kick he had just performed? He hadn’t drilled it for years. He hadn’t even practiced it in sparring. He had only watched a handful of videos online. And now, in the middle of a life-or-death fight, he had absorbed that knowledge like a sponge and executed it flawlessly.
Where others would need years to master such a technique, Wolf’s body moved as if it already knew. Combined with his instinct, his fearless aggression, and his heightened senses, he was becoming something terrifying, perhaps even more of a fighting machine than Max himself.
That was Wolf’s gift: if something felt right, he committed without hesitation. Fear never factored in.
When he kicked the knife earlier, there had been every chance he could have struck the blade itself, every chance he could have been cut or stabbed. But in Wolf’s mind, there was no room for hesitation. His thoughts were consumed by one singular focus, winning.
And now, Montez was sprawled across the floor, no longer a threat.
Wolf lifted his head, scanning the restaurant. He could see it in the way the fights were breaking down, the battle was reaching its conclusion.
"Max," Wolf muttered under his breath, his voice carrying through the chaos. "We’re waiting on you to bring it home."