The guests were stunned by what was unfolding before them, yet at the same time, an undeniable sense of excitement spread through the venue like a spark catching dry grass. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, voices overlapping as people struggled to comprehend what they were witnessing.
Nothing like this had ever happened here before.
This was not just any underground venue. It was one of the Black Hounds’ most prestigious locations, a place where power dictated law, and the strongest members of the organization frequently made appearances. Two of the most feared figures were present tonight, Darius himself, the leader of the Black Hounds, and Jett, the undefeated champion who rarely fought, but when he did, never lost.
Yet now, someone was openly defying them.
Not just in words, but in action.
The crowd leaned forward, eyes wide, breath held, wondering how this confrontation would end. Some were already placing side bets in their heads, others simply desperate to witness history unfold. If Darno or Stephen managed to walk out of this alive, the story alone would be worth more than any winnings.
Darno turned slightly, glancing back at Stephen, who was kneeling on the ground behind him.
"Do you mind doing me a favor?" Darno asked calmly, as if they weren’t standing in the middle of a storm. "I know both of your hands are busted, and you’re in bad shape... but can you protect me if anyone else jumps into the ring?"
Stephen didn’t hesitate. He nodded once.
Although every part of him screamed to finish the fight himself, his body simply wouldn’t allow it. His arms were shattered, pain pulsing through his nerves with every breath. Even standing felt like a battle against gravity.
As he leaned back, watching Darno step forward, a question gnawed at him.
Is there a way to fix this weakness? Stephen wondered. A way to strengthen my body enough to fully use my vow without destroying myself?
His gaze sharpened as he studied Darno.
Does everyone with a vow face something like this... or is it just me?
More importantly, Stephen realized something else.
What exactly is Darno’s vow?
"You did fairly well against me last time," Jett said, rolling his shoulders as he cracked his neck from side to side. His voice carried confidence, almost boredom. "But it hasn’t been that long. Things are just going to end the same way."
Jett stepped forward and reached out, aiming to grab Darno by the arm.
Darno immediately shifted into his stance.
His arms lifted into position, one high, one low, like the hands of a clock frozen at twelve and six. His posture was calm, balanced, his feet grounded firmly against the floor. This was not an aggressive stance. It was defensive, controlled, refined through years of repetition.
The moment Jett’s hand came within range, Darno moved.
His arm snapped outward, striking Jett’s wrist at the perfect angle, knocking it aside before the grip could form. At the same time, his other hand shot forward, fist tight, landing squarely against Jett’s chest.
The impact was clean. Solid.
Jett staggered back half a step, eyes widening as the force traveled through his body.
"That... freaking hurt," Jett muttered, instinctively rubbing his chest.
He frowned.
This wasn’t how he remembered Darno’s strikes.
They were faster before, but not like this. Not this precise. Not this heavy.
Still, the hit hadn’t truly injured him. More than anything, it had surprised him. His body absorbed the blow, and his irritation quickly replaced that moment of shock.
With a growl, Jett surged forward again, swinging his arms from side to side, throwing his full weight into each punch. Each strike carried the power of a man who believed that if he hit hard enough, nothing could stand in his way.
Darno adjusted his footing, stepping in and out with minimal movement.
His hands moved like flowing water.
Every strike that came toward him was redirected, knocked aside at the wrist, deflected just enough so it never reached his body. His forearms absorbed glancing blows, his elbows guided punches away, his stance never breaking.
He wasn’t retreating.
He wasn’t advancing recklessly.
He was controlling the space between them.
Darno inhaled slowly through his nose, then exhaled just as smoothly.
Remember the lessons, he told himself. Control your breathing, even when everything is trying to overwhelm you. As long as your breath is steady, your mind will follow.
With precise timing, Darno countered.
Two quick punches slipped through Jett’s guard, landing cleanly before Darno immediately pulled back into defense.
And with my vow... Darno thought, his eyes sharp. I can strike harder than ever, without losing myself.
The crowd watched in disbelief.
From their perspective, it almost looked as if Darno was untouchable.
Jett’s attacks, which had crushed countless opponents before, were being dismantled piece by piece. The champion was being forced to react rather than dominate, and that alone felt impossible to many watching.
Is this really happening? some wondered.
Are we about to see Jett lose?
Jett’s patience finally snapped.
Fueled by irritation and anger, he drove forward instead of stepping back after another hit to the chest. His foot slammed into the floor, pushing his body forward with raw force, and this time, instead of striking, he reached out.
His hand closed around Darno’s forearm.
A grin tugged at Jett’s lips.
This was all he needed.
In the past, Jett hadn’t always been this large. Before the underworld, before the Black Hounds, he had been a professional rock climber. Even then, his grip strength had been monstrous. Years of clinging to sheer cliff faces had carved that strength into his bones.
As his life changed, so did his body.
He bulked up, not to increase his grip, but to protect himself from damage. Still, the moment he grabbed someone, he believed the outcome was decided.
He tightened his grip, muscles bulging as he aimed to crush Darno’s forearm the same way he had broken Stephen’s.
But something was wrong.
The resistance was unreal.
It felt as if he were squeezing reinforced steel.
"What, ?" Jett’s expression twisted in confusion.
"Let go!" Darno shouted.
Instead of pulling back, Darno stepped in.
His fist shot forward and slammed directly into Jett’s forehead.
Stephen’s eyes widened.
That’s insane, he thought. Most people would shatter their fist doing that.
Yet Darno hadn’t hesitated, not even for a fraction of a second.
Jett’s head snapped back violently, as if struck by a cannon. The impact forced his grip to loosen, his body stumbling backward under the unexpected force.
Darno yanked his arm free and returned instantly to his defensive stance.
The crowd erupted.
"I think," Darno said calmly, meeting Jett’s gaze, "that right now... I might be the worst person for you to be fighting."