Max was a realist, and right now, the reality of their situation was looking incredibly grim. He had mentally cycled through every skill, every secret technique, and every bit of combat experience stored in his arsenal, and the conclusion remained the same: he wouldn’t be able to win a sustained, head-on fight against Darius. When he shifted his gaze to look at Darno and Stephen, he saw the same exhaustion and mounting damage mirrored in their stances. They were hitting a wall, and that wall was made of iron.
Perhaps, he thought, there was a slim chance. Maybe by some incredible stroke of luck, if he played every card perfectly and pushed his body past its absolute limits, he could manage to pull out a miracle win. He had done it before, after all. Both in his current life as Max and in his past life as Max Stern, he had survived the roughest days imaginable by sheer grit. He had stood in the center of storms just like this one and come out the other side. But then, his mind drifted to the other variable in the equation: Jett.
Even if he somehow managed to suppress Darius, could he also take on Jett? And more importantly, could he wholeheartedly say he could do so without losing Stephen or Darno in the process? The risk was too high. Both of his companions had shown incredible talent and raw skill throughout this ordeal, the kind of potential that would eventually allow them to rise in strength and grow even further. They were the future pieces he needed to finally dismantle the White Tiger Group once and for all. To lose them here would be a strategic disaster. Everyone needed to live to fight another day; survival was the only objective that mattered now.
Decision made, Max didn’t hesitate. He turned his head sharply, scouting the immediate area, and then sprinted toward the raised platform. As he reached Darno, he didn’t stop to explain. He reached down, grabbing Darno off the floor with one hand, using his momentum to propel them both into the air. He launched himself straight at Jett, who was closing in.
While mid-air, Max lashed out with a powerful, driving kick. Jett barely had time to react, crossing his arms in a desperate block to absorb the impact. Jett had been moving in to finish off a downed Darno, but Max’s intervention sent the man stumbling back several feet, his heels skidding against the deck.
’What the heck?’ Jett thought, his eyes widening in genuine shock. He could feel a dull, throbbing numbness spreading through his forearms where the kick had connected. ’The boss of this organization... this young kid is actually this strong?’
Because Jett had been so focused on his own individual fights, he had been largely unaware of how easily Max had been tearing through the rank-and-file Black Hound members. He hadn’t realized that Max had even been holding his own in a direct exchange against his boss, Darius. The realization that he had underestimated the boy’s physical power sent a chill through him.
"Darno!" Max shouted the moment his feet touched the stage. "Grab Stephen, pick him up, and let’s get out of here right now!"
Darno was momentarily stunned by the sudden change in tactics, but he didn’t let his hesitation last long. He scrambled over to Stephen, who was currently limping and clutching his side, and hoisted the man off his feet. It was a relatively easy task for Darno; he had gained a significant amount of strength recently, and the weight reminded him of his grueling training days. He remembered his teacher forcing him to climb endless flights of stone steps with a grown man strapped to his back. This was nothing compared to those mountains.
As they began to move, something shifted in Darno’s perception of his leader. He had started to think of the Billion Bloodline leader as a true gangster, in the rawest sense of the word. He guessed that this pragmatism was probably Max’s true self, the personality hidden underneath the refined exterior of the Stern family name. But a small part of Darno was still surprised. If Max was truly a part of this underworld, didn’t they have some kind of rigid code? Weren’t they supposed to never run away from a fight? Weren’t they supposed to honor their word and fight to the death?
The reality, as Max clearly understood, was that gangs broke codes every single day just to survive. To Max, the idea of an unwritten rule or a "warrior’s code" among criminals was a ridiculous way to think about things. In the end, the only thing that mattered was who was still breathing. That was the cold truth, and that was exactly why Max was currently leading them away from a fight they couldn’t win.
"Follow me!" Max barked, sprinting away from the center of the deck.
He moved in a direction that kept Jett and Darius on opposite sides of them, preventing them from flanking the group easily. They ran toward the side of the ship instead. As they moved, Max became a whirlwind of destruction, clearing a path. He hurled and kicked heavy tables and chairs out of the way, tossing them aside like toys so that Darno had a clear, unobstructed path to carry the injured Stephen. Each impact jolted Max’s body; he didn’t have the same supernatural powers as some of the others, and every hit he took or delivered left a bruise. But in this situation, the pain was irrelevant.
As Darno followed closely behind, several Black Hound members tried to step in and intercept their escape. Max didn’t slow down. Using his forward momentum and every ounce of his remaining strength, he lunged into them. He cracked one member hard across the face, slipped a desperate counter-punch, and delivered a guttural kick into another man’s stomach. The force was so great that the grunt was sent flying backward, hitting the railing with a dull thud before flipping over the edge and disappearing into the dark, churning sea below.
They continued their desperate sprint, reaching the side of the deck and pushing through the terrified crowd of onlookers. Surprisingly, neither Darius nor Jett was running after them, at least not yet. The move had been so unexpected, so contrary to the "honor" they expected from someone of Max’s status, that they were momentarily paralyzed by the sheer audacity of it.
"What an idiot," Darius finally spat, his voice dripping with contempt as he watched them flee. "Is he really going to waste all of his remaining energy running instead of fighting like a man? Did he not listen to a word I said? We are on a ship in the middle of the ocean where everyone is his enemy. We are nowhere near land. There is nowhere to go and nothing he can do. All he is doing is wasting my time!"
However, seeing how furious Darius was becoming, the rest of the Black Hound members took the hint. More and more of them began to swarm, closing in on Max’s trail like a pack of wolves. Because Darno was occupied with carrying Stephen, he was unable to defend himself. This left Max alone to protect their rear, acting as a one-man vanguard against the encroaching mob.
Glass bottles began to fly through the air, shattered by the wind as they were hurled at the group. Max raised his arms, shielding Darno and Stephen from the shards as the bottles smashed against the deck and his own shoulders. He timed his movements perfectly, launching a snap-kick at a man who lunged from the crowd, striking him squarely in the solar plexus and sending him reeling.
They kept moving, their lungs burning and their muscles screaming, until they reached the very stern of the ship. There was nowhere left to run. As more and more Black Hound members gathered, brandishing weapons and snarling, Max’s group found themselves completely surrounded. Their backs were pressed against the cold metal railing, and behind that was nothing but the vast, pitch-black sea.
Darno looked at the wall of enemies and then at the drop behind them. He turned to Max, his voice tight with anxiety. "What now?"