Deep trauma still clung to the edges of Joe’s mind, a lingering ghost of the day Dud had invaded his gym and systematically dismantled his life. Truth be told, Joe had replayed that sequence of events a thousand times. In the immediate aftermath, as he lay recovering from injuries that should have been fatal, he had genuinely felt that this life, the life of the underworld and the Bloodline, wasn’t for him.
He had wanted to quit. He had wanted to pack whatever belongings he had and run as far away from the city as possible. The only reason he had stayed, the only reason he had forced his broken body back into the ring, was a heavy sense of responsibility. He was the protector of the gym. If he hadn’t stood his ground against Dud that day, what would have happened to the students? What would have happened to the people who looked up to him?
But as Joe stared at the man in the car, a flicker-reaction occurred. His muscles tensed, ready to recoil, but then something else surged forward to meet it: his Vow. The ironclad determination he had forged through blood and sweat rose up, alongside the memories of every grueling trial he had endured since that day.
’If there’s one person I truly need to thank for this,’ Joe thought, his gaze hardening, ’I guess it has to be Aron. After that man nearly killed me more times than I can count with those damn throwing knives during our training sessions, it feels like no one in the world is as scary anymore.’
Instead of paralyzing fear, a white-hot anger began to fill Joe’s veins. How could this person be so shameless? How could Dud be so arrogant and cocky as to come back to this specific neighborhood while Joe was still breathing?
He was not the same person he had been before. Dashing forward with an explosive burst of speed, Joe formed a fist and threw it out with everything he had. Reacting to the sudden movement, Dud scrambled for the controls, frantically winding the window up with the button. He thought the idiot was going to break his hand against the rising glass, but to his absolute shock, the fist was fast, faster than the motor could lift the pane.
Joe’s fist smashed right through the glass. The entire pane disintegrated into a thousand jagged shards that showered the interior of the car. Dud leaned back instinctively just before the impact, his own reflexes kicking in as he swiped at Joe’s forearm, pushing the strike to the side. Instead of connecting with Dud’s jaw, the fist slammed into the passenger seat, the force of the strike causing the interior frame to buckle and crumble.
"Drive! Get us out of here!" Dud shouted, his voice cracking with sudden panic.
The driver slammed his foot onto the pedal, the tires screeching against the asphalt. If Joe’s hand had remained lodged inside the cabin, there was a high probability the sheer force of the car’s acceleration would have snapped his arm like a dry twig. But Joe had already retracted.
It was a habit born of thousands of hours of training. Everything he had learned was centered on the philosophy of the jab: throw the hit and snap it back instantly to the face for defense. With the hydraulic assist of the exoskeleton, his arm retreated into a defensive posture before the car could even clear the curb.
The vehicle roared off into the distance, but Joe remained unharmed. He stood on the sidewalk, his chest heaving, watching the red taillights vanish into the night.
"What the heck?" Joe muttered, a deep, angry frown etched onto his face. "He comes all the way here, acts like he’s the king of the world, and then he just turns tail and runs? Damn it. I really wanted to get a clean hit in."
As the adrenaline began to subside, Joe started to calm down, though his mind remained sharp.
"If that guy is back and pulling stupid stunts like this, he’s going to be a massive pain in the neck," Joe realized. "I need to let Max and the others know immediately. The past isn’t staying buried."
Looking down at his fist, Joe realized something else. He had thrown that punch incredibly fast, a strike that would have been nearly impossible for even a high-level fighter to track. And yet, Dud had reacted. Dud had not only dodged the primary impact but had been skilled enough to deflect the trajectory of the strike. It was a sobering thought: Dud was no ordinary thug, and he had clearly been training just as hard as they had. He had returned stronger.
Inside the speeding car, Dud sat in stunned silence, glass shards littering his lap and the floor mats. He brushed a piece of tempered glass from his shoulder, his heart still racing.
"What the heck happened to them? How did that loser get that fast?" Dud thought, his mind reeling from the power of the strike.
"I told you already," the man in the driving seat said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "The Bloodline group isn’t some street gang anymore; they are a syndicate-level organization. Maybe you could argue they only took out the Chalkline Boys and the Rejected Corps because they were lucky or took advantage of a messy situation. But for them to dismantle the Black Hounds and the Gilt Rats? That isn’t luck. And Max couldn’t have done that by himself."
Dud had logically known that to be the case, but seeing it in person was a different reality entirely. He never expected the "loser" he had beaten half to death to actually become someone formidable.
He looked at the passenger seat beside him. The heavy metal and foam of the headrest and back support had been completely crushed inward where the punch had landed. That wasn’t the strength of a normal human.
"It looks like I might need to find some serious help if I want to do this properly," Dud muttered, his eyes narrowing. "The Bloodline group has grown much bigger, and much more dangerous, than I realized."