Although Max had dismantled the seniors in his immediate vicinity with terrifying speed, the remaining athletes across the hall hadn’t yet lost their nerve. A strange psychological phenomenon was at play—a mix of herd mentality and the stubborn confidence of numbers. They had watched Max endure a brutal, one-sided beatdown for a significant amount of time, and their logic dictated that he had to be weakened. Surely, a man who had been a literal punching bag ten minutes ago was running on fumes, his muscles torn and his stamina depleted.
Furthermore, these were not ordinary students. These were the elite of the sports department—men who had spent their entire lives being the fastest, the strongest, and the most dominant in any room they entered. Many of them had never lost a real fight, though that was likely because they had only ever picked fights with people who couldn’t fight back. Blinded by their own arrogance, the remaining thirty seniors let out a collective roar and charged ahead as one.
Max didn’t wait for them to reach him. He moved with an explosive grace that shattered any hope they had of him being "weakened." He leapt from his position, his body a blur of motion. As a fist whistled toward his head, he parried it with a casual flick and drove his feet into another attacker’s face, using the man’s skull as a stepping stone to vault higher. He landed with his weight crushing down on the first senior’s chest, immediately pivoting to meet the next wave.
Before another could close the gap, Max spun in a low, sweeping circle. His lead leg caught a rugby player in the temple, and he used that momentum to continue the spin, his other leg connecting squarely with a soccer player’s midsection. The force was so immense it sent the man flying backward, his body becoming a projectile that crashed into two other approaching athletes.
Two fists came at him simultaneously from left and right. Max ducked, the air from the punches ruffling his blood-matted hair. He grabbed the wrist of a third attacker, a large man who towered over him, and twisted it with a sharp, sickening snap. Without pausing to hear the scream, Max grabbed the center of the man’s heavy frame and executed a perfect suplex, slamming him into the hardwood floor with enough force to make the basketball hoop overhead rattle.
A kick landed on Max’s back, but his body barely nudged forward. He didn’t even look back as he sensed another kick coming from the front. Max swung his fist with the precision of a piston, hitting the incoming shin. The impact forced the attacker’s leg to swing back with such violence that it flipped the person entirely over in the air.
The freshmen watching from the sidelines were paralyzed. They didn’t even know what they were looking at anymore. There wasn’t a single break in the rhythm of the fight, no pause for breath, no hesitation. It was as if they were watching a high-budget action movie, but even that comparison felt inadequate. Some of the things Max was doing—the speed of his transitions and the sheer power of his strikes—didn’t seem possible within the laws of physics they understood.
"How could one person be so strong?" Eric whispered, his voice trembling as he watched his "student" dismantle a small army. "When he said he wanted to learn martial arts... he mentioned he had some experience, but I never imagined it was anything like this. I was a fool. I don’t think there is a single thing in this world I can teach a man like that."
"Haha, look at all of you!" Rick shouted, a smug, triumphant smile plastered on his face. "We told you from the very beginning. That is Max Stern, and he is our boss. He is the one person in this world that no one—and I mean absolutely no one—should ever mess with. You’re seeing the legend in the flesh."
"Well, when he’s finally done," Jono added, wiping a tear of relief from his eye, "I hope this university actually becomes a place worth coming to. He’s clearing out the rot."
The carnage continued until the final senior fell to the ground, clutching his broken body. The court was littered with the "elite" of the sports department, none of whom could find the will to stand back up. Whether they were physically incapacitated or their spirits had simply been crushed by the realization of the power gap, the result was the same.
Now, there was only one person left standing: Donto Stern.
"I’m surprised you haven’t gone running off," Max said, his voice cold and steady despite the blood dripping down his face. "Every other member of the Stern family I’ve met so far seems to have a real talent for running when things get difficult."
A look of pure, concentrated frustration twisted Donto’s face. This was clearly an outcome his pampered mind had never even considered possible. He stepped forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt and ripping it away in one violent motion, exposing a perfectly toned, naturally gifted physique. He was a specimen of peak human athleticism, a body honed by the best trainers money could buy.
"Max, I don’t know what happened to you in those years you were gone," Donto snarled, his eyes dark with hate. "Did you use your money to alter your body? Did you buy some experimental enhancement to turn yourself into this confident hot shot? It doesn’t matter. Things have always gone my way because I am the best, and they will go the same way today."
Donto sprinted forward with a speed that would have been impressive to anyone else. He was fast, lean, and precise—the absolute pinnacle of what a normal human could achieve through sport. Unfortunately for Donto, Max had long since transcended the limits of "normal."
As Donto swung a desperate lead hook, Max slammed his foot into the floor, anchoring himself. He unleashed a counter-hook that caught Donto squarely in the jaw. The sound of the impact was like a gunshot. It shattered the side of Donto’s jaw and sent him tumbling across the floor like a ragdoll until he crashed into the far wall.
Slowly, Max began to walk over. Donto was coughing violently, the metallic taste of iron filling his mouth. He didn’t know if his jaw was broken, but the agonizing pain suggested he’d never eat solid food the same way again. As Max drew close, Donto tried to scramble to his feet, but Max’s boot was faster, kicking him squarely in the chest and pinning him back to the floor.
"Again," Max said, his voice a flat, emotionless command.
Donto tried to roll away, his pride refusing to let him stay down, but Max’s leg lifted and he kicked again, stopping the movement before it could even begin.
"Again."
Trying a different tactic, Donto attempted to lunge forward from a crawl, but Max used the flat side of his foot to stomp him back down, the impact stealing the breath from Donto’s lungs.
"Again."
This grim cycle continued for nearly ten minutes. Every time Donto even twitched an arm to push himself up, Max was there to put him back down. It was a systematic stripping away of Donto’s dignity. Finally, Donto was out of energy. He lay there, gasping for air on the cold hardwood, unable to even lift his head. Max placed his foot firmly on top of Donto’s chest, exerting just enough pressure to make every breath a struggle.
"This is the true position between you and me," Max said, looking down at his cousin with eyes like ice. "All the money, all the fame, all the followers—everything you have done is worth absolutely nothing. You are a small man playing a small game. And now... I have some questions to ask about your father. And you’re going to answer every single one."