From Bullets To Billions Chapter 648: A New Fighting Style

Waking up in the university dorm room, Max felt a heavy, persistent grogginess clinging to his mind. It wasn’t the lingering aftereffects of the alcohol; most of what he had consud during the previous night’s festivities had been unceremoniously purged from his system anyway.

The real culprit was the environnt. The bed was narrow and unforgivably uncomfortable, a far cry from the high-end orthopedic mattresses he had grown accustod to. Throughout the night, the thin walls had offered no sanctuary; he had been subjected to the muffled sounds of heated argunts in the hallway and the relentless thumping of bass from parties that refused to end.

’Damn it, I thought I could hack this, but have I really gotten that used to sleeping in luxury?’ Max thought to himself, rubbing his sore neck.

His lifestyle had shifted so drastically since the takeover of the Fortis building. That facility was vastly expensive, and the private quarters he had designed for himself were among the best money could buy. He had to remind himself that the "real" Max hadn’t grown up in a palace; he had lived in a cramped, single-bed apartnt for the longest ti before the Vow changed everything.

’I guess if I got used to the good stuff that quickly, I can get used to this again. It’s just a matter of perspective,’ Max thought, splashing cold water on his face and staring out the small, smudged window at the campus below.

"Each ti I look out there, I’m half expecting to see Aron standing by a black sedan," Max mumbled to himself. "But I think even he would have a hard ti blending into a place like this. He sticks out way too much with that professional soldier vibe."

While staring out at the courtyard, he could see swarms of students excitedly getting ready to head toward the main campus buildings. A rare thought crossed his mind: maybe he should actually try to make the most of this ti at the university. In his previous life, he had been a creature of survival and corporate warfare; he had never been allowed to enjoy the simple, carefree pleasures of being a student.

The first week of university was famously known as "Freshers Week." It was a week characterized by nonstop partying on the outskirts of the campus, where every pub and club in the city offered student discounts and cheap drinks. At the university itself, there weren’t many official classes yet, just introductory sessions designed to help students get to know the professors who would be handling their various subjects.

Walking through the large, open plaza that connected the various faculty buildings, Max noticed several colorful stalls that had been set up on the grass. The stalls were advertising a dizzying array of clubs and societies. It was quite interesting to see that many of these clubs were actually extensions of major subjects. There were cooking classes, advanced sports clinics, and specialized hobby groups. Apparently, it was a way for the older, upperclassn to gain experience teaching others for academic credit as part of their senior studies.

"There’s a lot of sports clubs here," Max noted as he walked past a row of athletic recruiters.

A lot of them were for sports and activities he was intimately familiar with. A part of him wondered how he would be perceived if he joined a rugby or boxing club with his Vow-activated physical stats. He would likely be considered a generational talent, a prodigy among mortals. But he quickly dismissed the idea; it was a useless waste of his ti and would only draw the kind of attention he was trying to avoid while hunting Donto.

That was when he saw a sign for a martial arts club that didn’t usually appear in the standard curriculum.

"Wushu?" Max said, stopping in his tracks. "Isn’t that the umbrella term for Chinese martial arts? There are so many different forms of it, right? Sanda, Taolu... I wonder."

He looked at his hands, thinking about his recent battles. He had beco exceptionally good at copying the fighting styles of his opponents, and he had managed to survive by using his raw power to overco skill gaps.

’Should I learn as many different formal styles as possible?’ Max considered. ’If I build a foundation in traditional forms, I would be able to adapt to any situation. I could use different skill sets depending on the opponent.’

As Max walked ahead, lost in his tactical analysis, his shoulder suddenly bashed into sothing solid. A small, muffled shriek followed imdiately. Looking down, Max saw a woman with short brown hair that made her head look a bit like a mushroom. She was sitting on the pavent, looking slightly dazed.

"Sorry," Max said, reaching out with a steady hand to help her up. Even in his relaxed state, his reflexes were sharp.

"It’s okay. A lot of people have trouble seeing ," the woman said, dusting off her skirt. She looked at him with a puzzled expression. "But wow... your body felt like a solid rock. Anyway, I have to hurry!"

Before Max could offer a further apology, she had already turned and rushed off into the crowd of students. However, looking down at the ground, Max realized she had left sothing behind in her haste. He knelt down and picked up a small plastic card. It was her student ID.

"Talia... that’s a unique na," Max noted, looking at the photo on the card. "I guess I better find a way to give this back to her, but not before I find out more about this Wushu club."

While Max was navigating the social waters of the university, he was blissfully unaware that his enrollnt had already caught the eyes of two very different, very dangerous individuals.

Across the city, sitting at a cluttered desk and leaning back in a squeaky chair, Detective Marvin Morgan was in deep thought. He stared at a report on his computer screen, his brow furrowed.

"After everything that’s happened, what are you doing heading to a university, Max Stern?" Marvin thought, tapping a pen against his chin. "Is this a hideout, or a new playground? Maybe it’s ti I paid the campus a visit."

In another part of the city, inside a dimly lit room that slled of stale smoke and old paper, a man was pulling a pair of black gloves onto his hands. He reached for a heavy brown envelope on a mahogany desk. Opening it, he pulled out several surveillance photos, all of them featuring Max Stern.

"Max, Max, Max," the man whispered, his voice smooth and cold. "It looks like you’ve been incredibly busy since the day you left the Rejected Corps. But did you really think you could just walk away from us?"