Imdiately, everyone sprang into action at Max’s command. The delinquents, buzzing with restless energy, had been waiting for this very mont. This was their stage, their fight, their chance to prove themselves, and now it was ti to act.
They surged forward without a mont’s hesitation, carried by the electric charge in the air around them. Shouts and footsteps blended into a single roar as they crashed into the opposing forces, on one side, the rough-faced boys of Chalkline, and on the other, the hardened mbers of the Rejected Corps.
The first blows were swift and brutal. Bats swung through the air, colliding with skulls and cheeks with sickening cracks. Gang mbers flinched and staggered back, their surprise evident. Outnumbered and caught off-guard, they scrambled to retaliate.
Fists flew, kicks lashed out, bike chains whipped through the air, and the gleam of knives flashed in the chaos. The brawl was a storm of violence, bodies shoving and twisting, every movent desperate.
"What even is this Bloodline Group?!" one of the Rejected Corps mbers yelled over the noise, wiping blood from his mouth. "I’ve never even heard of them!"
"Can’t you tell just by looking at their faces?" a Chalkline fighter sneered, pulling a knife from his pocket. "They’re just a bunch of damn high school brats!" He lunged forward, blade raised, ready to stab one of the younger fighters.
But before the steel could et flesh, a blur ca from the side. Joe slamd into the man, landing several rapid punches in quick succession. Each strike was a thunderclap, the final blow snapping the man’s head back and dropping him instantly. The knife clattered to the ground beside his unconscious body.
"Be careful with the more dangerous ones!" Joe barked, glancing at the students around him. "You can recover from a punch or even a broken bone, but this, " he jerked his chin toward the fallen knife, "this can end you. Leave it to us when it cos to guys like this, and rember what we taught you!"
The students nodded in unison, gripping their weapons tighter. This was exactly why most of them had co ard with longer-reaching tools, bats, sticks, anything that would keep an enemy at bay.
Steven had anticipated this from the very beginning. Knowing what was coming, he had altered the training regin for every student who attended the Bloodline gyms. Even though his own expertise was in boxing, like most dedicated martial artists, his interests spanned far beyond a single discipline. He had friends in various fields, fighters who specialized in knife defense, baton work, and survival tactics.
Steven had invited those friends to teach classes, supplenting his own skills and brushing up on techniques he hadn’t practiced in years. The sessions were never about fancy disarms or flashy moves, they were about survival. He knew that in a real fight, panic could strip away everything you thought you knew. The short ti they had to prepare ant drilling only the essentials from day one: maintaining distance, reading the subtle shifts in an opponent’s posture, and spotting the telltale signs of whether they were about to stab, slash, or swing.
For Joe, this wasn’t unfamiliar territory. He had fought gang mbers before, had stared down the madness and violence that ca with the streets. Compared to the others, he was far more accustod to pushing past the fear, and right now he was doing everything he could to shield the students from the worst of the fight.
"Hey, what the hell, looks like they’re not all high school kids! This one’s a grandpa!" one of the Chalkline boys sneered mid-brawl.
A heavy hook ca swinging through the air before he could laugh again. The punch smashed into the gangster’s jaw, cracking against bone and sending a tooth spinning out of his mouth. The man crumpled instantly, landing in a heap on the ground.
"Say that again... go on, any of you!" Steven shouted, standing over the fallen man.
Like Joe, Steven was taking a more watchful role in the chaos, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd for the most dangerous threats. He darted through the shifting ss of bodies, weaving in and out of scuffles, striking decisively to put down anyone who could cause serious harm before they got the chance.
But as he continued to assess the fight, Steven began to realize sothing unexpected, he didn’t need to worry as much as he thought he would.
Across the street, Rick was in the thick of it, his massive fists delivering punishnt with every swing. One particularly devastating blow slamd into a gangster’s gut so hard it lifted the man clean off his feet. Rick withdrew his fist, and the man collapsed forward onto his knees before tipping over sideways, gasping for air.
Nearby, Print and Erik fought back-to-back, covering each other with precise coordination. Their movents were almost instinctive, reacting to attacks from every angle. Even though the Bloodline Group had the advantage in numbers, these two had chosen to push deeper into enemy lines, fighting head-on against as many gang mbers as possible.
"Who would’ve thought?" Print grunted between swings. "All this ti, we were fighting against each other... and for what?"
"Right? Right?" Erik laughed breathlessly, his knuckles raw. "This is so pretty crazy stuff. My heart, it won’t stop pounding!"
The Bloodline Group wasn’t just a mob of street kids with numbers. They had highly capable fighters, people who could hold their own against seasoned gang mbers.
When Chrono had first seen them rush in, he’d dismissed them imdiately, assuming they would fall apart under the weight of real violence. But as he watched them now, batting away attacks, fighting with precision and control, he couldn’t help but reassess.
What is this madness? Chrono thought, his eyes narrowing. How... how was Max able to gather this many people? Why are so many following him, and agreeing to fight like this? This doesn’t make sense. Who even is that kid?
As those questions swirled in his head, his gaze caught on soone at the back of the chaos. Another person seed to be thinking the sa thing, and in that mont, their eyes t.
Chrono recognized him instantly, Chad. He was standing off to the side, restrained by one of the opponents, the sharp glint of handcuffs catching the light.
Chrono’s confusion deepened. Chad owed money to the Black Hounds, so what was he doing here? Why was he cuffed? None of this lined up.
For the first ti, Chrono felt like the situation was slipping away from him, everything unraveling and spinning out of his control.
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