Jason’s Speech
The moment Jason landed, Raymond could already feel it.
The hostility.
It was sharp. Immediate. Heavy.
Raymond didn’t waste a single word.
He charged forward and threw a concussion punch—full force.
But Jason was already sliding back, his feet gliding effortlessly along the marble floor.
He moved just far enough—one meter—to let the shockwave miss.
Then his iron staff spun around his back like a helicopter rotor.
And in that single rotation—WHACK—
He brought it around and swept it low, cracking straight into Raymond’s waist.
Raymond blocked with his arm, but it wasn’t enough.
He was launched.
His body flew back through the air like a broken plank.
He smashed directly into a bystander behind him, sending both men crashing to the ground.
The onlooker spat out blood instantly, unconscious from the impact.
Jason stood still.
His staff lowered. His voice calm.
“There are a few forces maintaining the world’s dynamic balance,” he began.
“The police.
The military.
The criminal underworld.
The Kungfu Association.
The Humble Organization.
The Frugal Organization.
And other lesser forces.”
His tone was steady, like a teacher reviewing a curriculum.
“And I…
I am one of the top-tier leaders in the criminal world.
I command many subordinates, who themselves have subordinates.
Robinson and Canelo—two of my most beloved men.
Sean… used to be.
But Sean… disappointed me.”
His eyes shifted slightly.
“And then came you.
You’ve turned our reputation to dust.
You’ve flipped our hierarchy upside down.
So today, I’m here…
To restore our power.”
Up on the second floor, Brian was unimpressed.
“Hot air,” he muttered inwardly.
“All that talk, no nutrients. Just say you came here to beat up Raymond. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
But Jason’s long speech wasn’t useless.
It gave Brian time to act.
He didn’t hesitate.
One second.
He leapt over the second floor walkway’s railing, dropped straight down into the mall, and sprinted toward Michael—still unconscious, still limp in the middle of the battlefield.
Without a word, Brian knelt and scooped Michael up in a full-on princess carry.
Then, just as smoothly, he turned and dashed back out of the central zone.
The Spot That Guy Pooped
Brian reached the edge of the arena, near the public restroom.
He gently lowered Michael’s limp body to the floor.
There was a soft, wet squeeze.
Brian paused for half a second.
Something didn’t sound right.
But he wasn’t the one touching it. So… whatever.
He moved on.
What he didn’t realize was—
this exact spot was where some guy had panic-pooped earlier.
Right in the open.
In full view of the chaos.
Now Michael—Captain Lam—was lying directly on it.
Back flat. Shirt soaking.
A perfect landing.
No one deserved it.
But here we were.
Brian looked down again.
Michael’s mouth was still stuffed with that same sock.
Even from here, he could smell it.
“No wonder he passed out,” Brian muttered.
“That thing could drop our boss in under two seconds.”
He crouched and pulled the sock out with a wet, reluctant sound.
Michael coughed twice.
A trail of pale foam dribbled out from his lips and chin.
Brian didn’t blink.
He glanced around and spotted a wad of toilet paper nearby.
Good enough.
He grabbed it without thinking and started wiping Michael’s face with it—fast.
Mouth, cheeks, chin. All of it.
Wiped clean in broad, frantic strokes.
When he was done, Michael’s face looked… worse.
Yellowish.
Sticky.
A few small white worms were already crawling across his cheek.
Brian finally looked down at the paper in his hand.
It wasn’t fresh.
“…Oh shit.”
It was used.
Someone else’s dirty toilet paper.
From the same guy. Probably.
Brian leaned in one more time, touched two fingers to Michael’s nose.
He was still breathing.
Heartbeat steady enough.
Brian stood back up.
He pulled out his phone and texted a code to the Humble Organization emergency team.
They’d pick Michael up in a few minutes.
Brian wasn’t leaving.
He wasn’t done watching.
Jason had just arrived.
And Brian wanted to see exactly what that man could do.
So he stayed where he was, leaned quietly against the restroom wall,
and watched the fight from a distance.
Silent. Still.
Completely unbothered by the fact that Michael was lying in literal shit.
He Never Leaves the Spot
Raymond raised his fist.
He took a breath.
Then slammed it into the ground with everything he had.
BOOM.
The floor split apart.
A violent concussion wave erupted from the point of impact, ripping out in all directions.
But Jason didn’t move.
He stood still, exactly where he had been since the fight began.
Then—casually, effortlessly—he raised his iron staff and brought it straight down onto the floor.
WHAM.
A shockwave of his own spread outward.
Smaller than Raymond’s. Less violent.
But precise.
It met Raymond’s wave head-on and absorbed most of the force.
Jason’s body shook for a moment—just a brief tremble.
His face didn’t flinch.
His cheeks wobbled for a few seconds, almost comically.
And then… nothing.
No damage. No step back.
Just one goofy facial jiggle—and complete neutralization.
Jason tilted his head slightly.
“You like AOE?”
“Alright. Here’s mine.”
He shifted his stance.
Then he swung his iron staff in a wide horizontal arc, slicing the air with a low hum.
The sweep unleashed a violent gust of compressed wind, roaring forward like a blunt shockwave.
Raymond’s eyes widened.
He dropped to the floor and rolled sideways, dodging just in time.
The wind pressure continued past him—
and smashed into a group of onlookers standing far behind.
Clothes shredded.
Skin turned red and swollen from impact.
A man and two women shrieked and bolted, covering their bodies as they fled the mall.
Jason didn’t even look at them.
Raymond sprang to his feet and charged again.
Fists tight. Focused. Yelling something wordless.
He threw another punch—same as always.
Jason?
Same reaction.
A clean one-meter glide backward.
Then, a vertical swing of the staff.
CRACK.
Raymond was launched backward like a ragdoll, his feet kicking air.
He flew ten meters—maybe more—before hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
He rolled twice, then coughed out blood.
His arm twitched once. Then stopped moving.
Up near the restroom wall, Brian watched silently.
“This isn’t looking good for Raymond.”
He squinted.
Thought harder.
Something felt off.
Jason…
hadn’t moved from his spot since the fight began.
No chases. No evasions. No sprints.
Just small slides and staff swings.
It was efficient. Too efficient.
Brian muttered to himself.
“No… this isn’t sloppiness.”
“This is discipline.”
“He’s not doing more… not because he can’t.”
“Because he’s not allowed to.”
Something was restraining Jason.
A Real Exchange
Raymond could tell something was off.
Jason had barely moved since the start of the fight.
His steps were minimal. His swings, deliberate.
Why?
Raymond didn’t bother figuring it out.
He wasn’t a thinker. He was a breaker.
So he decided to force the issue.
To knock Jason out of that neat little circle he seemed so committed to standing in.
He rushed in—fast. Faster than before.
His fists came out in a storm, a blur of punches way quicker than anything he’d thrown earlier.
This time, they weren’t all Concussion Punches.
Some were normal. Some were deadly.
They were mixed together—perfectly—so that Jason couldn’t tell which was which.
The rhythm was broken. The pattern, erased.
Jason didn’t have time to swing wide like he used to.
He stayed in place, trying to defend, but cracks started showing.
And then—it hit.
Raymond slipped in a clean, hard punch—just a regular one—right into Jason’s side.
BAM.
Jason recoiled, just slightly.
That was the moment.
Raymond followed up instantly—a straight-leg kick right to Jason’s chest.
CRACK.
Jason’s body flew backward, thrown several meters through the air before crashing into the ground.
He rolled once, twice, and stopped flat on his back.
Raymond didn’t celebrate.
He exhaled through his nose, still focused.
“He’s lucky,” he thought.
“That punch wasn’t a Concussion Punch. If it was… he’d be done.”
But there was no time to pause.
Raymond charged in again, using the same high-speed pattern—disguised punches, unpredictable angles.
This time, Jason didn’t stay in place.
He backstepped.
Then dipped low.
Then burst forward.
“I’ll regret this… too much movement heats me up fast,” Jason muttered under his breath.
He moved.
Fast.
Ridiculously fast.
For the first time, he abandoned his usual tactic.
He had been keeping still on purpose—minimizing motion, conserving every step—just to avoid overheating.
But now?
He had no choice.
Raymond blinked.
He’d thought Jason couldn’t move at all.
Now he was dashing, reacting, weaving—like a different fighter entirely.
Within seconds, they were fighting across the entire mall.
East wall. West wall.
The sound of fists and feet and steel bouncing from floor to ceiling.
They exchanged twenty, thirty blows before Raymond even realized they’d crossed the room.
Then—Jason spun his staff around his back, letting the momentum build.
It whirled once.
Twice.
Then—WHAM.
A wide, brutal sweep straight into Raymond’s stomach.
The impact was devastating.
Raymond’s body shot straight into the air, ten meters high—
like a puppet yanked on invisible strings.
And then—he snapped downward.
WHUMP.
His body crashed into the ground like a broken sack of bricks.
He groaned.
And then vomited three thick sprays of blood across the floor.
The Turning Point
Brian watched in disbelief.
He could clearly see the damage: over a dozen fractures, muscle tears, joints misaligned.
Raymond’s body was collapsing from the inside.
And yet—
He was still standing.
Still walking.
Still fighting like nothing happened.
Brian narrowed his eyes.
“How?”
Then he looked into Raymond’s eyes.
That swirling black mist behind them—dense, twitching, almost alive.
“No. It’s not adrenaline.”
“It’s not rage.”
“He’s cursed.”
Raymond was muttering now.
“Don’t block my way… don’t block me from smashing the next glass wall…”
His voice was low, mechanical, like he was speaking to someone else—someone no one else could hear.
Something inside his head… was commanding him.
That’s how he was still upright.
That’s how he could move with a hundred shattered bones.
He wasn’t just injured—he was possessed.
He surged forward again.
Faster than before.
Even with a twisted spine, cracked femur, and fractured skull—Raymond charged, fists flying.
The punches came in a blur—still that same chaotic mixture of normal hits and deadly Concussion Punches.
Jason was forced to retreat.
He didn’t have time to counter.
Now the entire mall became a battlefield.
Over a hundred exchanges in less than a minute.
But something had changed.
Jason’s skin was no longer yellow.
It had turned deep red—almost glowing.
His body heat was rising.
Steam poured from his shoulders.
Then, it happened.
Jason thrust his iron staff forward—not to strike, but to open a path.
And he opened his mouth.
FWOOSH.
A stream of fire exploded outward.
Raymond’s beard instantly disintegrated.
His messy, long, tangled hair was gone—burned away in a flash.
What was left?
A clean, short, tidy hairstyle—sunny-looking, almost charming.
For the first time, Raymond looked… well, kinda fine.
He blinked, confused.
“You breathe fire?”
Jason didn’t answer.
He just kept attacking.
And now?
Every single swing was landing.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty blows.
Raymond took every single hit.
One full minute of continuous destruction.
By the end, his body looked like a ruined sculpture—twisted, bent, and broken in over a hundred places.
And still—
He stood.
He exhaled once.
Then launched forward and slammed a diving punch into Jason’s chest.
Jason stumbled back several meters, sliding across the floor.
Raymond muttered again.
“Don’t block me… I have to break the next glass wall…”
His eyes weren’t focused.
His voice wasn’t aimed at Jason.
He wasn’t even in this world anymore.
Jason slowly got back up.
His red skin steamed harder.
His tongue lolled out—his body trying to cool down, but failing.
His breathing was shallow.
He could still fight.
He knew it.
All it would take was twenty more swings.
Just twenty more.
And Raymond would be gone—turned to pulp.
But then—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
His wristwatch began to ring.
A warning.
Core temperature exceeded.
Risk of organ failure. Strongly advise immediate rest.
Jason stood there.
Silent.
Still burning red.
And knew—
He had reached his limit.
The Exit
From outside the shopping mall, a familiar sound grew louder.
A cheerful jingle.
The kind that only came from one thing:
An ice cream truck.
A child’s song playing in warped loops, echoing through the heat of the summer.
And then—
Jason was gone.
No one saw him move.
No footsteps. No jump.
Just a sudden BOOM—
An iron staff punched clean through the wall, blasting open a man-sized hole.
Jason had already slipped through it.
Outside.
And in the next second, he was gone again—hopping into the back of the passing ice cream truck.
Inside the truck, the air was frostbitten.
Everything inside—metal walls, shelves, water bottles—was coated with a thin layer of white frost.
Two workers were already waiting for him.
One handed him a bottle of icy water.
The other began fanning him rapidly with a folded paper fan, their hands moving like propellers.
Jason sat down silently, eyes glowing faintly red, skin still steaming from the fight.
One of the workers wiped sweat from his own forehead and muttered,
“Boss, no offense, but your pores are getting way too small.
You can’t even sweat properly anymore.
And how’d a guy like that push you into overheat? He was clearly a low-tier.”
Jason took a slow sip from the water bottle.
Then replied, calm and deadpan:
“He’s not strong.
But it’s like he was possessed… like something took over.
If he were just a normal guy, he would’ve been dead ten times over.”
He leaned his head back, still breathing shallow.
“He has over a hundred broken bones.
Muscles torn beyond repair.
His face is unrecognizable.
And somehow… he’s still fighting.”
“I honestly don’t know if he’s a man, or a demon.”
The other worker spoke up, half-joking, half-serious:
“Sorry again, boss.
Really sucks we had to call you out during the peak of summer.
If this had been the deep icy winter…
do you think you’d have won?”
Jason opened his eyes slowly.
“In the deep icy winter? I would’ve destroyed him.”
“But even now… even with all that damage—”
He glanced toward the crack in the wall, where the mall still echoed with chaos and blood.
“I doubt he’ll survive tonight.”
“Tomorrow morning, he’ll be dead in his bed.
No way a body like that keeps going.”
And with that—
The ice cream truck rolled onward.
Driving away from the wrecked shopping mall.
Heading toward the deep mountains.
Inside, the cold air kept swirling, heavy with mist.
Jason sat in silence, eyes dimming.
The fan still moved. The frost still clung.
Outside, a few children chased the truck, shouting, waving money, hoping for a cone.
But the truck never stopped.
It had never stopped.
It had never sold a single scoop of ice cream.