For a moment the group truly believed they had a chance. Stephen and Wolf were able to fight together against Jett, allowing Darno time to recover. For a breath, for an instant, with just the three of them working in rhythm, they thought they might be able to take the man down , especially after everything they had already seen. The hope hung in the air like a thin, bright thread.
However, his iron-like body and his iron grip were too much. No matter how hard they struck, no matter where they struck, there was no sign of Jett slowing down. The way he moved felt less like the movements of a single man and more like a machine built to refuse defeat. Limbs met skin and bone and bounced; blows that would have stopped others barely caused him to flinch.
When he finally managed to grab them, this time he wasn’t letting go. They could hit him all they liked; they could swing and kick and scream; his grip held. Then, as if the floor itself had become a weapon, he flung them and smashed their bodies down onto the hard concrete. This wasn’t an official ring match with padded mats , every slam landed on cold, unforgiving floor, the impact traveling up through joints and into bones. Force delivered with that kind of intent could snap more than pride; it could snap limbs.
One by one he did it, and one by one they failed to get back up. They lay there, winded, crumpled, stunned into silence. Even with Na coming to aid and taking down the Black Hound members around him, the result was the same in the end. There were too few of them, and Jett’s strength was too concentrated, too precise.
Joe, having returned, was now the only one left standing and looking at the scene in front of him. His breath hitched as he scanned the bodies. Every muscle in his chest tightened. His mind tried to make a plan and kept stumbling over the same brutal fact: they had been outclassed. Not merely beaten , outclassed.
This guy... Wolf thought, each word a slow ache. His speed is great, his endurance is strong as well. He’s a person whose stats and abilities aren’t so easy to see from the outside. That’s why I was so wrong in my grading.
If they had any chance of beating him, they would have needed Aron here as well. The thought slipped through Joe’s head like a cold blade. Aron’s presence on the field would have changed the balance , but Aron was elsewhere, guarding Sheri, doing the thing Joe had been hoping would free them all.
Every single person on the floor felt it: that hot, sour sting of frustration. They had trained until their muscles memorized movement; they had disciplined their bodies and minds; they had fought hard to avoid ending up in a situation like this. Yet here they were, flattened by force they had underestimated.
Maybe, some of them thought bitterly, the difference was effort. Would the result have been different if Darno had trained harder? If he had pushed himself the way his teacher demanded? It’s easy in the middle of pain to trace backward through choices and look for the single turn that led you here. Darno felt that question like a wound: had he done more, would he have stood a chance? He had always taken the edge of training for granted in ways that now looked like indulgence.
"COME ON!" Jett shouted, his voice cruel and bright above the groans. "You’re the last one right, let’s get this over with."
"So far your friends have really been something. Honestly I never expected them to be so skilled."
He spat the words like tiny insults and then stepped closer, watching them writhe and attempt to rise.
"However," he continued, voice flat with the sort of patronizing calm that made the blood run chill, "your friends and all of you have to realise that I have seen plenty of those talented like you in our underground fighting rings. Those that were professionals, those that have never lost a fight. You are just like them, and I know that you wouldn’t even stand a chance in our top fighting rings."
Joe heard the contempt in Jett’s voice and felt it like a physical thing. Jett’s words echoed off containers and metal beams, shrinking the world to a painful point. The Black Hounds’ fighting rings , the larger events , were the places where Jett had cut his teeth. Joe and the others had seen smaller venues, had taken down Black Hound groups on the outskirts. They’d committed to a large-scale attack before and had succeeded in those skirmishes. But the rings Jett mentioned were different; they were central, dangerous, and close to the Black Hounds’ base.
To control those larger events, to run fighters and bettors and smooth everything so the right people walked away with the right pockets full , that required more than raw power. Someone needed authority, enforcement, the kind of presence that required others to bend. That was why Jett was called the Enforcer. He was the kind of person who could force respect through pain if needed, and he had the reputation to keep others in line.
"Come on, you’re the last one right!" Jett sneered. "Or are you going to run around and force me to chase after you? Because if you do that, "
He looked around, eyes cutting the mess of bodies, and then his gaze landed on Stephen in red, who was the closest to him. When he walked over he made the motion look casual, but Joe could see the calculation in each step.
Jett grabbed Stephen by the head, the hand like a vice. "I’ll test if my grip is strong enough to crush this skull. So you better not run and come right at me."
Joe’s heart started to beat rapidly. Stephen had done so much for him. Stephen had changed the way he trained, the way he ate, the way he thought about the fight. If Stephen fell here , if Stephen broke , Joe didn’t know what he would be left with. Panic flared hot and raw through his chest.
"PUT HIM DOWN!" a voice demanded from the side.
Everyone turned, breathless and aching, to see who’d shouted. For a moment Joe could only stare.
A red-headed figure was dragging Anton by his hair, hauling him forward like something half-dead. The raw image of Anton being pulled across the yard made something in Joe want to leap. But before he could move, the sight that accompanied Anton snagged at him harder: Max, face set and fierce, had returned to the field.
"Put him down." Max said, again. Calm, absolute. There was no tremor in his voice; it carried the kind of authority that didn’t ask.