Chapter 12: Of Trash Cans, Flying Knees, and Tactical Nut Punches
(Or, "Just Another Day in the Life of a Totally Normal High Schooler... with a Dragon in His Soul")
Okay, so here's a rule of thumb I live by: If ten dudes with spiked brass knuckles corner you in an alley, you do not stick around to ask questions.
Unless you're me, Naruto Uzumaki.
...Which, actually, I guess is the opposite of what I did.
I was on my way back from the dojo, tired, sore, and carrying a bag of steamed buns I'd been fantasizing about for three hours. I was already halfway into a dream where the buns were doing a victory dance in my mouth—when I heard it:
"It took us a long time, but finally, we have you."
Now, I don't know about you, but that's not the kind of thing you want to hear in a dark alley.
I turned around and blinked.
There were ten of them. Maybe eleven. Honestly, I was too busy counting brass knuckles and piercings to focus. One guy had blue hair that looked like he lost a bet with a hair dye demon. And the leader? He had the aura of someone who watched too many gangster movies and thought "yup, that's me."
"I think you've got the wrong guy," I said carefully, eyes scanning the alley. Trash cans? Check. Narrow walls? Check. A steel staircase that could double as a launch pad? Double check.
"Shadow Gang!" Blue Hair roared like he was in an anime opening. "Punish the bastard for the disrespect!"
The others roared back. I think one guy even cracked his neck for dramatic effect.
Great. I was too tired to deal with cosplay thugs today.
So I did the logical thing.
I kicked over the trash cans and ran.
"BASTARD! Where did you drop your BALLS?" someone shouted.
I laughed. Loudly.
Because tactical retreat wasn't cowardice. It was strategy. And more importantly, I didn't want to crush any bones accidentally. Humans here broke like glass dolls if you so much as sneezed too hard in their direction.
But I was also Naruto Uzumaki.
And if you chase me long enough, I will turn around.
I juked left, faked right, and pulled a full U-turn mid-sprint.
"Surprise, punk," I muttered and hit the lead guy with a double-palm strike right in the chest.
My foot planted like a tree trunk. My palms slapped like thunder.
The poor dude flew backward like Team Rocket getting launched out of Konoha, crashing into his buddy like a stack of bad decisions.
"Whoa, two for one," I said, blinking.
I didn't wait.
As the second guy stumbled, I planted my foot and spun into a rising roundhouse—right into his jaw. His feet left the ground like he was auditioning for the Rockettes.
The third guy lunged, and I welcomed him with a flying knee to the face.
We crashed to the ground, and I rolled on top, only for another dude to kick at me.
Missed by an inch.
His reward?
The Ancient and Sacred Nut Punch of Konoha.
He screamed.
I grabbed his hair mid-scream and swung him backward, adding a boot to the spine for good measure. He flopped like a fish and didn't get back up.
Four down. Six to go.
They circled me now. Classic formation. Small opening left in the back—an obvious bait trap.
"Okay," I muttered, cracking my knuckles. "You guys want the buns? Come take them."
Spoiler alert: they didn't want the buns.
They wanted pain.
Unfortunately for them, they got both.
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You know that feeling when you win a fight and your body's still buzzing, your blood's pumping, and your brain thinks you've turned into some sort of martial arts demigod?
Yeah. That's what we call Victory Drunk.
It's not real alcohol, but it hits you just as hard. And trust me—the hangover sucks.
So there I was, surrounded by the remnants of the oh-so-edgy Shadow Gang, feeling like I just unlocked Super Saiyan mode. They circled me, but none of them stepped forward.
I smirked.
Big mistake.
"Screw this," I said out loud and took a bold step forward, fists raised.
One of them panicked and lashed out with a straight kick—good instincts, bad aim. I caught his leg and yoinked him forward, sending him crashing into two of his teammates like an awkward game of human bowling pins.
"Strike!" I grinned—right before I turned just in time to see a punch coming from my left.
I parried it (thanks, Master Gonzui), and returned the favor with a left jab to his jaw. The guy staggered. I followed up with a kick to his gut and used the momentum to bounce myself backward, not to retreat, but to avoid the guy creeping up behind me.
Smart move.
Mostly.
Except the guy I collided with had spiked brass knuckles on his back. Who does that?! Who makes armor for muggers!?
Pain exploded through my spine. I bit down hard, swallowing the scream as blood ran down my shirt. My vision flared red. The taste of iron hit my tongue.
"That's it," I muttered through clenched teeth. "You wanna play rough?"
I let the anger boil. I could feel my strength slipping past the leash I kept on it—like trying to hold back a wild beast with a ribbon.
I let one punch fly.
Right cheek. Full strength.
The guy's body twisted midair before he crashed into a pile of crates. Probably lost a few teeth on the way.
But no time to admire my handiwork. Another one got cocky and kicked me in the chest.
Bad move.
I grabbed his leg mid-kick and twisted.
He howled like a banshee.
"Freakin' scum," I hissed as the blood continued to trickle down my back. "Don't test my limits."
At that moment, only one guy was still standing—the leader.
Mr. Blue Hair. Mr. I-Watched-Tokyo-Gangs-once-and-decided-to-start-one.
He'd been hanging back the whole time, watching me like I was a bug under a magnifying glass.
He finally moved.
And pulled out a gun.
I blinked. "Wait—hold up, is that a—"
POP! POP! POP!
Rubber bullets slammed into my arms and chest. Each one felt like a slap from an angry gorilla.
"OW! OW! WHAT THE HELL—" I shouted, throwing up my arms and staggering back. "This is cheating!"
No more thinking. I lowered my head and charged.
I ran straight at him, arms raised to block my face, the way I saw Lee do during his warm-ups. The rubber bullets kept hitting, but I pushed through the pain until—
WHAM!
I crashed into him and tackled him to the ground. I didn't waste a second. Got my arm around his neck, locked in a chokehold, and started squeezing like my life depended on it.
Because, uh... it kinda did.
Then I felt it.
ZAP!
A jolt of electricity shot through my side, like someone shoved a lightning bolt into my ribs.
"Oh COME ON!" I shouted, as my limbs went jelly.
The stun gun had slipped out of his pocket. The dude was slick and dirty—classic combo.
My grip faltered. But just as he thought he was getting the upper hand—
BAM!
I kneed him in the face so hard his nose made a sound like a wet pretzel.
While he reeled, I scrambled up, kicked the stun gun out of reach, and followed it up with a solid boot to the stomach for good measure.
He doubled over.
I didn't stop.
"Next time I need to be careful," I muttered, breathing hard, pain screaming in every inch of my body. "These guys... they might've actually killed me."
That thought hit harder than any of the punches had.
I gave him one last kick for the road.
Then I ran.
Not limped. Not walked.
Ran.
Straight toward the nearest busy street, where there were cameras, crowds, and definitely fewer spiked knuckle psychos.
I didn't feel bad.
Not for a single one of them.
----------------------
"You were good."
The voice came right as I limped out of the alley, still high on adrenaline and pain, trying not to think about the blood sticking to my back like hot glue.
I turned.
It was Shogo Kitsukawa—brown belt, prodigy of the dojo, always calm, always watching. The guy had the sort of presence that made you feel like he was reading your soul like an open book.
"Thanks," I said, trying to sound like I wasn't half-broken. "You going to give me a hand?"
"Heh, why not?" he said with a grin, sliding beside me and wrapping my arm over his shoulder. "But next time, let's fight. I want to see how good you really are."
"You're on," I said, even though one of my legs was barely working, thanks to those damned spikes.
Every step was a reminder of how close I came to losing a kidney to a human cactus.
As we walked slowly toward the main road, he gave me a sideways glance.
"Not going to take pictures and call the police?"
That made me pause. I hadn't even thought of it. My first instinct had been to win and leave—not to escalate.
"Uh…"
Shogo chuckled. "Good. If you'd called the cops, this whole thing would've spiraled. Guys like Loki? They don't play by rules, but they have rules. You break the street code, and you don't just get beat—you get buried."
I blinked. "...You make this sound like some sort of mafia soap opera."
"It kinda is," he shrugged. "You want to keep your pride and stay alive? Don't involve weaklings. And don't play unless you're ready for consequences."
I nodded slowly. This was more than just a fight. It was... a world. And I'd walked into it with fists flying.
"Who was that persistent bug?" I asked, thinking of the cheating bastard with the rubber bullets and stun gun.
"That's Loki," Shogo said, lips curling. "Leader of a small gang. Rich punk. Doesn't like fair fights—likes to win. That's it. Guy's got resources, eyes on the street, and no shame."
"Didn't I already mess him up?"
Shogo raised an eyebrow. "You hurt him. That's different from beating him. Nobody dies in these games—usually. It's not about murder. It's about control. Territory. Power." He smirked. "A man's romance."
I couldn't help but chuckle at that one. "Man's romance, huh?"
"Dangerous game," he added, "but it's beautiful if you can keep up."
I looked around the street—people going about their day, unaware of the chaos hidden just beneath the surface. The idea of underground turf wars, of unspoken rules and invisible borders... it lit something in me.
"I like it," I said. "So, who's the boss around here?"
"No one I know of," Shogo replied.
That answer settled weirdly in my stomach.
Good. That meant there was room.
"Okay," I grinned. "Can you grab me some bandages?"
Shogo nodded and jogged to a nearby corner store. Meanwhile, I ducked into a public washroom, cleaned up as best I could, gritting my teeth through every sting of the cold water. When he returned, I wrapped myself up like a half-mummified martial artist.
The two of us walked a little further together until the road split.
"Next week in the dojo," Shogo said with a calm smile before turning off.
I watched him walk away, the weight of the street game starting to settle on my shoulders. This wasn't over. In fact, it felt like something was just beginning.
And I'd just taken my first real step into a world that didn't need heroes—
Just people who could stand their ground and take a hit.