Darno could feel the sweat running down the back of his neck. He was trying his best to keep a straight face, but he no longer looked relaxed. The smile had gone. He kept blocking Jett’s blows and kept punching the man’s arm again and again until his knuckles ached with the effort.
"Come on! Come on!" Darno screamed in his head. I’ve hit his damned arm until my knuckles feel like they’re going to fall off , it has to be out of commission, right? The thought was almost a prayer. He had been driving that same rhythm into Jett for so long that he’d lost track of how many strikes he’d thrown.
Because of how long he’d been fighting, he wasn’t even sure if he’d passed his fifteen-minute limit or not. His body felt heavy; his breathing felt ragged and irregular, as if someone else had taken the timing over. Still he pushed himself. He’d never had to use his full strength like this for so long. The tide of fatigue crept up his limbs, but he kept swinging.
He blocked another hit and then smashed Jett’s arm again. He followed up with a blow and hit Jett right on the shoulder. For a second Darno held that position , knuckles pressed to Jett’s skin , head bowed, body angled wrong from the strain. Sweat ran from his nose and dropped onto the floor like steady, small betrayals.
"That punch," Jett said casually as he lifted the hand that had just been hit. "That was the weakest of the lot, incredibly weak. I have to say, you’re probably the second person who has ever managed to cause me pain. My shoulder feels a bit numb."
Danro , Darno , looked up and finally pulled his arm away, gulping a deep breath. His vision nearly faded to black for a moment; every inhale felt like it had to be earned. The world wobbed and steadied around the edges.
My teacher was right, he thought, the memory a sharp, cold voice in his head. I should have kept pushing myself, otherwise one day I would live to regret it , and it looks like today is going to be the day.
He tried to move his body back, to find a new footing, to reset his stance, but before he could shift out of the way Jett grabbed his wrist with an incredibly tight grip. It was like iron closing around bone.
"Now I have a hold of you. Your days of ever fighting are going to be over!"
Jett yanked Darno forward, setting him up for a finishing blow. His fist rose, cocked to drive into Darno’s face with brutal, decisive force. The motion was clean and ugly; it felt like the end might be immediate.
Then, at the last possible second, something jumped onto Jett’s back.
"Did you forget that there are some wild cards here?" Wolf shouted. He drove both of his elbows down deep into the side of Jett’s neck. The hits weren’t graceful; they were savage, necessary. Wolf slammed them not just once but again and again, each impact driving a rasping cough from Jett.
Jett tried to pull back his arm, but he was still holding Darno, dragging him like a rag across the dock. Darno’s body slid with the motion. For half a breath he felt the world tilt sideways, then the relief of someone else’s hands on the fight.
What the, that’s that Wolf guy, the crazy one who was evaluating everyone, right? Why is he helping me? Darno wondered. Is it because we’re part of the same company?
But it wasn’t just Wolf. As Jett reached to grab Wolf, who had climbed onto his back, a man in a red jacket dropped into the small space between them. Stephen moved with the kind of instinct that came from ring time and street time folded into one. Most people cramped into that tight gap couldn’t build enough momentum for a damaging strike, but Stephen did. He knew how to compact his movement, coil the body like a spring, and snap it out with intent.
From the base of his toes Stephen twisted perfectly, generating momentum that ran up his legs and into his torso. He kept his body compact as he swung like a whip and aimed properly , knuckles hard and trained from practice. A move like that would be illegal in a ring, he thought, but his ring days were over; tonight damage was the point and he was not playing by rules anymore.
Stephen’s fist slammed right into Jett’s throat. The hit landed with a wet, choking sound. Jett flinched. He coughed and his grip on Darno loosened.
Darno sagged forward and slumped free. He drew ragged breaths, the fight leaving him as muscle spasms and ringing nerves. Wolf knew he had overstayed his welcome on Jett’s back, so he dropped down and landed with a roll, keeping his balance and sliding into a ready position.
Now there were three standing around Jett: Darno, Wolf and Stephen. The three of them formed a loose triangle that kept Jett between their angles of attack. Each of them breathed hard and tasted battle in the back of his throat, but none of them moved away. They stayed in place, waiting to see which move would come next.
They both helped me , and both of them are incredibly strong, Darno thought, still taking deep breaths to steady himself. He wasn’t thinking about surprise or gratitude in the ordinary way; he was cataloguing strengths, understanding limits. He had pushed himself too hard, and the cost sat like a hot stone in his chest, but those two had bought him the moment he needed.
The cost of his own technique left him breathing heavy, not because he was startled or seriously hurt by Jett, but because he had overused his own methods. The strain felt like a debt: every technique had a price and he’d paid more than he usually allowed.
He scanned the ground. Multiple Black Hound members lay strewn across the dock , some groaning, some still moving, but all reduced in number by the focused fury of the rangers. Joe and Na seemed to be taking care of several that tried to regroup; their figures were flashing between opponents with practical violence.
Jett stood, hands splayed and catching breath. He examined the scene with a slow, unhappy smile.
"I never thought there would be so many strong people in one place," he said, shaking his head as if surprised by his own miscalculation. "I guess it’s needed , all of you to take me down. I’m going to enjoy taking you all out!"