(Jack, Axel and Ken's Perspective)
The west wing hallway of Northwood High had transformed into a pressure cooker of hate. The air was thick with the scent of stale sweat and cheap cologne, a suffocating miasma that clung to the concrete walls. On one side stood a veritable army, nearly two hundred thugs from the Ruthless Animals, a tide of sneering faces and cheap weaponry. On the other, a tiny island of defiance: three boys.
At the head of the mob, Charles Patrick stood like a mad king, his massive frame radiating a furious, unstable energy. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, scanned past the two figures flanking Jack Mullar until they locked onto him, the true target of his festering grudge.
Jack stood ready, the solid weight of a titanium rod held in a low, two-handed Kendo stance. He was the calm at the center of the storm, his breathing even, his mind a cold, calculating machine.
"Ken, Axel," Jack said, his voice a low, steady command that cut through the rising tension. "Both of you handle the men. I'll charge Charles."
"Yes, Commander," Ken Pots replied, a manic grin already plastered on his face as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet.
Axel Russel just gave a curt, respectful nod. "Okay, Senior Jack."
Charles cracked his knuckles, the sound a sharp, ugly counterpoint to the nervous murmurs of his own men. "You know what, Jack?" he snarled, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "The first time we fought, you attacked me from behind while Adam finished everything. The second time, you hit me when I was already choked out. You've never faced me head-on. How do you think you'll defeat me this time? Hmm? I promise you, I will personally break every bone in your body."
Jack's grip tightened on the rod. The memory of his past self, the scared, chubby kid who would have wet his pants at a threat like that, felt like a ghost from another life.
"Yes," Jack said, his voice ringing with a new, hard-won confidence that was utterly his own. "I also don't want to be some sidekick anymore. I promised Adam I would protect my comrades. I'm going to prove to you that I am not a pushover."
The stats told a story of a near-even match, a brutal clash of titans waiting to happen. But the numbers on a screen could never capture the truth of the battlefield.
Status: Jack Mullar
Strength: 325
Agility: 267
Endurance: 298
Potential: S+
Skills: [Kendo], [Swordsman V], [Blade's Resolve]
Passive Skills: [Courage], [One Last Push], [Heart of Blade]
Status: Charles Patrick
Strength: 298
Agility: 244
Endurance: 335
Mentality: 30 (-70%)
Skill: [Proficient in Kick-boxing]
Passive Skill: [Rage]
On paper, they were close. But war wasn't fought on paper.
While Jack and Charles faced off in their silent, deadly standoff, the real battle began. The first wave of thugs charged with a guttural roar, a chaotic crash of bodies and raised weapons. Ken and Axel met them head-on, a perfect, deadly duo of chaos and control.
Status: Ken Pots
Strength: 315
Agility: 276
Endurance: 296
Potential: S
Skills: [Gymnast], [Judo Expert], [Capoeira II (Veteran)], [Capoeira's Rhythm]
Passive Skills: [Extrovert], [Powerhouse], [Acrobatic Opportunist]
Status: Axel Russel
Strength: 330
Agility: 329
Endurance: 315
Potential: B+
Skill: [Muay Thai (Novice)]
Passive Skills: [Unyielding Spirit], [Lion's Roar]
The hallway exploded into a whirlwind of motion. Ken was a phantom, a blur of joyous, chaotic violence. He flowed through the crowd, his movements a mesmerizing, deadly dance. A thug with a lead pipe swung at his head, and Ken dropped into a fluid Capoeira movement, a spinning, dance-like kick that swept the man's legs out from under him. He used the momentum to cartwheel over a second attacker, his other foot lashing out to catch the man squarely on the temple. The third lunged with a rusty knife, and Ken seamlessly transitioned into a Judo throw, using the man's own forward momentum to send him crashing into a row of metal lockers with a deafening clang.
"Too slow!" Ken sang, landing lightly on his feet. "His Majesty's Royal Guard requires a bit more of a challenge than this!"
Axel was the hammer. He was a wall of muscle and resolve, his movements direct and brutally efficient. A thug swung a baseball bat, and Axel met it with his forearm, the impact echoing like a gunshot in the enclosed space. He didn't even flinch. He just grabbed the bat, yanked it from the man's grasp with a grunt of effort, and drove his knee into the man's sternum. The thug went down, gasping for air, the bat now in Axel's hand.
"Axel, on your left!" Ken shouted, his voice cutting through the din as he ducked under a wild punch. "The big one looks rather slow, don't you think?"
Axel turned just in time to see a massive brute charging him, a roar of pure rage on his face. Instead of retreating, Axel met the charge, driving a sharp, powerful kick into the man's thigh—a classic, unrefined Muay Thai leg kick. The man roared in pain, his leg buckling under him, his charge turning into a clumsy stumble.
"He's slower now," Axel grunted back, before bringing the captured baseball bat down on the man's head with a sickening thud.
But the numbers were relentless. For every man they took down, two more seemed to take his place. A lucky punch caught Axel on the side of the head, and he staggered, a trickle of blood running from his temple. A pipe connected with Ken's back, and he let out a sharp grunt of pain, his playful smile finally faltering for a fraction of a second.
They were being swarmed, their small island of defiance shrinking with every passing moment.
"You see that, Axel?" Ken panted, his back now pressed firmly against Axel's, their shoulders bumping as they fought. "They hit me. The Leader wouldn't approve of them damaging his property." His voice had lost its playful edge, replaced by a cold, dangerous focus that was far more terrifying than any shout.
Axel just spat a gob of blood onto the floor. The fire of his [Unyielding Spirit] was burning in his chest, turning the pain into fuel. "Then we make them pay."
They were cornered, a wall of snarling faces and raised weapons in front of them. It was the end of the line.
And then, Axel roared.
It wasn't just a shout. It was his [Lion's Roar], a concussive blast of pure, intimidating sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the school. The thugs closest to them stumbled back, their hands flying to their ears, their faces a mask of stunned, instinctual terror. The entire mob hesitated, their charge faltering for a single, precious heartbeat.
It was the only opening they needed.
"NOW!" Axel bellowed.
He and Ken exploded outwards from their back-to-back position. Axel was a battering ram, his Muay Thai a brutal symphony of knee and elbow strikes that shattered bones and broke wills. Ken was a phantom, his Capoeira a dizzying blur of motion that left a trail of groaning bodies in his wake. They didn't just fight; they carved a path of destruction through the stunned crowd, a perfect, deadly duo of brains and brawn, of chaos and control.
While his men carved a path of victory, the true duel began.
The chaos in the hallway had found its epicenter. The sea of thugs parted, a hushed, fearful reverence replacing their earlier aggression. In the center of the newly formed arena, Charles Patrick stood over the groaning form of a fallen goon, his chest heaving like a bellows.
"So, the little dog has some bite after all," Charles snarled, rolling his massive shoulders. His raw Endurance radiated from him, a promise of a long and painful fight. "You took down my men. But you're not Adam. You're just the pathetic, fat sidekick."
Jack's grip tightened on the rod. The insult didn't even register. His mind, sharpened by a hundred battles and Adam's unwavering trust, was a cold, calculating machine. He saw Charles not as a terrifying bully, but as a set of variables. Strength: high. Endurance: higher. Mentality: catastrophically low. The path to victory was clear.
"You talk too much, Charles," Jack said, his voice a low, steady calm that seemed to infuriate his opponent even more.
With a roar that was pure, unrestrained rage, Charles charged. He didn't run; he exploded forward, his kickboxing proficiency on full display. A powerful roundhouse kick whistled through the air, aimed at Jack's head.
Jack didn't retreat. He flowed. Using his superior Agility, he dropped into a lower stance, the kick sailing harmlessly over him. He brought the titanium rod up in a sharp, upward block to parry Charles's follow-up punch, the impact a deafening CLANG that vibrated up his arms. The force was immense, but Jack's own Strength held firm. His [Heart of Blade] passive skill activated, and through the vibrating metal, he felt it—the sloppy, telegraphed rhythm of Charles's pure rage.
"Is that all you've got?" Charles roared, unleashing a furious barrage of punches and kicks. He was a whirlwind of brute force, each blow powerful enough to shatter bone.
But Jack was a rock in the storm. He moved with a grace he hadn't possessed months ago, the principles of [Kendo] and his [Swordsman V] skill guiding his every action. The titanium rod became an extension of his will, a blur of motion that parried, blocked, and deflected. He wasn't just defending; he was dissecting Charles's assault, learning his patterns, waiting for the inevitable mistake born from his enemy's shattered Mentality.
The relentless assault, however, was taking its toll. Charles's monstrous Endurance meant he could keep this pace up all day. A heavy kick slipped past Jack's guard and slammed into his ribs. The pain was a white-hot flash, stealing the air from his lungs. Jack staggered back, and Charles seized the opening. A straight right connected with Jack's jaw, sending a spray of blood and sweat into the air.
"Getting tired, Mullar?" Charles taunted, his grin a bloody, triumphant slash. "I can do this all day. I'm going to beat you until you can't even crawl, and then I'm going to make Adam watch as I finish the job!"
Jack spat a wad of blood onto the floor, his vision swimming. The pain was immense. His body screamed at him to back down, to find an escape. But then he thought of Adam. He thought of his vow. His [Courage] was not the absence of fear; it was the will to fight in spite of it.
A new fire ignited in his eyes. He poured his spirit, his Mana, into his core. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of light enveloped the titanium rod. The pain in his ribs faded to a dull throb, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. The world snapped back into sharp focus. His movements became faster, cleaner, more precise.
Charles charged again, expecting the same defensive fighter. He was wrong.
Jack met his charge with an explosive offense. He parried a punch, and in the same fluid motion, used the rod to hook Charles's leg, pulling him off balance. As Charles stumbled, Jack was already moving, his footwork a blur. He brought the rod down in a vicious, two-handed strike against Charles's shoulder. A sickening crack echoed in the hallway.
Charles howled, a sound of pure agony, clutching his now-dislocated shoulder. His rage, already a wildfire, became an inferno. He abandoned all technique, swinging his good arm in a wild, desperate haymaker.
It was the mistake Jack had been waiting for.
He ducked under the wild swing with ease, his [Heart of Blade] skill screaming the attack's trajectory at him before it was even halfway complete. He stepped in close, inside Charles's guard, and brought the end of the titanium rod up in a brutal, powerful thrust, driving it deep into Charles's solar plexus.
The air rushed out of Charles's lungs in a pained, choked gasp. His eyes went wide with shock and disbelief.
Jack wasn't finished. He spun, the rod a blur, and brought it around in a final, horizontal slash that connected squarely with the side of Charles's head, just above the ear.
The sound was not a loud crack, but a dull, heavy, final THUD.
Charles's eyes rolled back into his head. The rage, the fury, the monstrous strength—it all vanished in an instant. He stood there for a single, frozen heartbeat, a look of pure, dumbfounded shock on his face, before his legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
Jack stood over him, his chest heaving, his body a canvas of bruises, blood trickling from his nose and the corner of his mouth. He leaned on the rod, the metal cool against his trembling hand. He was exhausted. He was in pain.
But he was victorious