There was a low hum of anticipation rolling through the ranks of the Fortis personnel.
After seeing what Wolf had done, cutting through guard after guard with impossible speed and precision, most of them were still stunned, but that shock was gradually giving way to curiosity.
If the red-haired representative from the Billion Bloodline Group could bring in someone like that, then who else could he possibly know?
Some even wondered if he would call Na again, the silent, towering man who had dismantled half the front reception team the last time he was here.
Instead, what they saw was... unexpected.
First came the jacket, black, with the signature crimson insignia of the Bloodline Group stitched across the back. Then came the rest of the person wearing it, a figure who seemed almost painfully ordinary. Clean-cut, slim, and younger-looking than even Wolf.
And when he adjusted his jacket, they caught a flash of the inside lining, a soft green, vibrant against the black.
"This is kinda nerve-wracking," Joe muttered under his breath. He could feel a hundred eyes boring into him from the stands.
He shot Max a look. "When you called me, I thought it was going to be for something important. You haven’t even contacted me in weeks!"
"This is important," Max replied casually. "If I’m paying you to sit at home ninety percent of the time and you complain the moment I call you out, then maybe I should start giving you a pay cut."
Joe straightened instantly, back snapping rigid like he’d been jolted by electricity. A pay cut? That was unthinkable. He’d grown addicted to his lavish, lazy lifestyle, and Max was right about one thing: he hadn’t done much to earn it lately.
So, swallowing his nerves, Joe climbed up onto the mat wearing the Bloodline jacket.
For the first time, he wasn’t just tagging along. He was fighting as part of the Bloodline Group.
Max smirked faintly as he watched. This was part of his plan, to plant small seeds of the Bloodline brand into this private security company. Piece by piece, they would start seeing his people as their people.
"This kid looks even younger than the last one," someone muttered from the sidelines.
But this time, no one dared to say it too loudly. They’d already made the mistake of underestimating Wolf, and the memory of his lightning-fast knockouts still hung in the air like static.
Even so, they couldn’t quite help themselves when they saw Joe’s baby-faced expression. He looked like he’d barely graduated high school.
A guard stepped up onto the stage, cracking his knuckles as the digital timer beeped to signal the start.
The man lunged forward immediately, unleashing tight, close-range combinations that showed real experience.
Joe’s body flowed like water, dipping, weaving, sliding under the punches with sharp, instinctive movement.
Then, with a snap, he let his fist shoot out, a crisp jab that caught his opponent on the cheek.
The guard recoiled in surprise, spinning into a kick, but Joe sprang back lightly on his toes.
In an instant, he lunged back in, pummeling two rapid jabs that cracked against the guard’s chin and temple. The man’s legs folded, and he slumped to the mat.
"C-Rank," Wolf called out calmly from the side.
A ripple of murmurs passed through the watching guards. They had just realized something, Wolf was still doing the ranking. Joe might be the one fighting, but Wolf’s judgement was final.
Darno’s eyes narrowed.
That kid... he’s not as sharp as the last one, but he’s still really good for his age. I mean, he looks like he’s barely stepped out of school. Who are these people? And who the hell are you, red-haired brat?*
His gaze slid to Max, who stood with arms folded, unreadable as ever.
Darno couldn’t stop thinking about it, would they ever see Max fight? Was there any way to coax him into the ring?
On the mats, Joe kept going.
Opponent after opponent came at him, and Joe slipped through their offense like smoke. Unlike Wolf, whose fights were brutal and surgical, Joe’s matches were longer.
He didn’t smash through opponents. He wore them down.
He danced just outside their range, peppering them with sharp jabs, chest, stomach, jaw, temple, never stopping, never slowing. When they swung heavy, he wasn’t there. When they backed off to breathe, he surged in with relentless flurries.
His rhythm never broke.
Gradually, the Fortis guards started to understand.
They had thought he was just a one-trick pony, all jabs and footwork. But the longer they watched, the more they realized the brilliance of it.
A perfect, precise jab. A bottomless well of stamina. A sixth sense for incoming blows.
He wasn’t just dodging. He was calculating. He had learned how to hop back from low kicks and dive back in before his opponent could reset. When they went for his legs to cut off his mobility, he punished them with counters that stung like hornets.
It was beautiful in its simplicity, and terrifying in its effectiveness.
By the time Joe had taken down his sixth opponent, some of the guards were even clapping lightly from the sidelines.
"Your friend," Wolf said quietly to Max, "he’s been improving a lot, and rather quickly. It makes me a little jealous that you have someone so talented."
Max chuckled. It had been pure coincidence how Joe had ended up in the Bloodline’s orbit, but watching him shine like this was undeniably satisfying.
Joe might complain constantly, but when he focused, he was relentless.
"Alright!" Nesa called suddenly from the side. She tapped her tablet and raised her voice over the crowd. "Next up, Chief Nonto! Step onto the stage."
A wave of whispers ran through the gathered personnel.
This was it. This was where the real test would begin.
Joe’s jabs had chewed through the rank-and-file guards, but Nonto was something else entirely.
He wasn’t just one of the highest-ranking Chiefs. He was their strategist, their commander in the field, and by all accounts, a monster in a fight.
As Nonto rolled his neck and strode toward the mat, even Joe’s confident rhythm faltered for a moment.
His green jacket lining flared as he raised his guard, and he muttered under his breath, "No pressure..."