The heavy wooden table had been hurled directly at Darno’s head, and in that split second, he had to make a choice. He really had no idea whether his Vow would allow him to dodge it or not. The rules were strict: he was a shield, a defender. But because Jett was the one who had thrown it at him, wasn’t this considered a direct attack from an opponent?
In the end, he figured it was better to be safe than sorry. If he tried to dodge and the Vow considered it a violation, the backlash could be far worse than the table. He decided to meet it head-on.
At the very last second, Darno threw his fist forward to try and shatter the table, but the object spun at an odd angle mid-air. Instead of a clean break, the edge of the table clipped his shoulder and chest. It sent a jolt of white-hot pain through his body as he managed to shove the heavy thing off to the side.
Damn it, that hurt, Darno thought, rubbing his shoulder. The surface area is too large—based on where you hit it, the damned thing just flips all over the place.
When he looked back up, things seemed to be getting worse. Jett wasn’t slowing down. Darno saw a large, single white armchair being hoisted up and thrown his way. Instead of trying to punch through the padding, Darno reached out to catch it, hoping to kill the momentum. But even though he had a dense, conditioned body, he didn’t have superhuman strength. The weight of the chair crashed into him, bruising his ribs before he could finally swing it away into the crowd.
It’s like he found out my weakness without even realizing what he was doing, Darno realized.
What was actually happening was that Jett was acting out of pure, unadulterated frustration. He was a man used to crushing people in seconds, but Darno wouldn’t fall. In the back of Jett’s mind, he was also worried about Stephen coming in and interrupting their fight with another bone-breaking blow. In a close-range scrap, Jett could feel it—he was actually losing his edge against Darno’s relentless defense.
That was why he was staying far away, using the environment as ammunition. In a sudden fit of rage, Jett knelt down and dug his thick fingers into the dance flooring. With a roar, he ripped out a heavy tile and hurled it—not towards Darno, but directly towards the injured Stephen.
"No!" Darno shouted. He rushed over, putting his body in the line of fire. He threw a punch, smashing the tile into a spray of ceramic shards, but the jagged pieces peppered his own chest and arms, drawing thin lines of blood.
"I have a feeling that’s not going to be the last tile he throws," Darno groaned, standing protectively in front of Stephen.
Not too far from the main stage, Max had been holding his own against a small army of Black Hound members. Although he was landing solid hits and hadn’t taken any serious damage himself, a problem was starting to emerge: these people were elite, and they were incredibly resilient. Every time he knocked one down, they would eventually claw their way back up.
There were too many of them for him to focus on a finishing blow. Still, with the way things were going, Max knew it was just a matter of time. If he kept the pressure up, he would eventually wear them down until they stayed on the floor permanently.
Max wasn’t the only person who felt that the tide was turning.
As Max moved to throw a final punch at a member he had just floored, ready to put him out for good, he suddenly felt a chill. He saw a fist coming out of nowhere, reaching toward his face with incredible speed. Max instinctively guarded, leaping back to create distance, but he felt no impact. There was no weight, no pain—nothing had actually touched him.
When he looked up, wondering who had managed to sneak into his blind spot, he saw Darius standing there. The leader of the Black Hounds hadn’t moved; his arms were still tucked casually by his side. He wore his signature black trench coat with the fur trim, the scar over his eye twitching as he smirked.
"Oh, I thought you were fearless. Or maybe I thought you wouldn’t react at all with that mask on, but it seems I was wrong," Darius commented, his voice smooth and dangerous. "It’s been a long time since I’ve been directly involved in a fight myself, and I’m going to make you pay for making me move."
Max went into a low, cautious stance. He noticed the other Black Hound members had stopped their assault, stepping back as if they had complete, terrifying faith in their boss.
Was he the one who threw that punch earlier? But how? Max thought, his mind racing. It looked like his arms were still by his side. Does he fight like Wolf? Is it a phantom style?
One question was answered: Darius wasn’t just a figurehead. Judging by the way he was stepping forward, he was a combat leader through and through.
"Come on then," Darius challenged, his eyes glinting. "You were so confident before. What’s got you so afraid now?"
Usually, Max liked to play it safe and see what his opponents were made of, but the adrenaline from his recent victories was surging. He felt like he was on top of the world, stronger than he had ever been. He rushed in, spinning his body to perform one of his favorite mid-range kicks, aiming right for Darius’s stomach.
In the middle of the rotation, Max saw it again—a fist coming right for his temple. He abandoned the kick halfway, pulling his arms up to block the incoming strike. He was confused; how could someone get close enough to hit his head before his leg reached their midsection? He had the reach advantage.
But once again, no punch landed. There was no impact. Instead, Darius’s hand moved in a blur, reaching down and snatching Max’s foot right out of the air.
Darius’s grip was like an iron vice. He looked up at Max, the smirk turning into a cold, predatory grin.
"This is where you learn that this fight you have chosen... is way out of your league," Darius said.