Walk-By Sucker Kick
“Hey, Raymond!”
Michael’s voice rang out loud and clear as he walked through the ruins of the shopping district, calling out like he was greeting an old friend.
But Raymond didn’t even flinch.
He had just finished smashing through the glass wall of a retail store. Bare-chested, bruised, and bleeding from his ribs, he kept his back turned as he moved toward the next storefront. Another wall of reinforced glass in front of him. Another target.
Michael kept pace, calm and collected, his hands in his pockets like they were just out on a casual stroll.
“Hey,” he said again, louder this time, walking beside him now. “Raymond. Our boss—the Humble Organization—wants to recruit you.”
Still no response.
“Position’s called Higher-Up Executioner. Kinda fancy, huh? Comes with perks. You interested?”
Raymond didn’t even glance his way.
Instead, he clenched his fist… and without a word, drove it straight through the glass wall in front of him.
Shards exploded across the floor like a burst of frozen rain. The sound echoed through the mall.
Michael sighed, almost like he’d expected it.
“…Yeah. That’s what I figured,” he said, nodding to himself. “I respect your choice, Raymond.”
And then, just like that, Michael began to walk past him—slowly, casually, like this was all just part of his afternoon.
But right as he stepped in front of Raymond…
WHAM.
Out of nowhere, Michael launched a full-powered straight kick to Raymond’s gut. No wind-up. No warning.
Raymond’s body lifted off the ground and flew horizontally like a ragdoll, slamming into a concrete wall ten meters away. The impact cracked the surface and sent vibrations through the building. Bits of the wall began to crumble. Raymond’s body bounced off the wall and hit the ground hard—dust and blood spraying across the marble tiles.
The damaged wall groaned… and slowly began to collapse.
Michael stood still, watching.
If it weren’t for Colin’s orders—strict orders—to bring Raymond back alive, that kick might’ve been something else entirely. A hand chop to the neck. A heart-piercing punch. A death blow, clean and precise.
But dead bodies don’t sign contracts.
And Michael’s mission wasn’t to kill—it was to recruit.
So he held back. That kick? That was only half his power. Still enough to break a wall. Still enough to make a statement.
Across the mall, Raymond began to stir.
He pushed himself off the ground slowly. Blood trickled from his mouth… and then burst out in a heavy splash, splattering the floor in front of him. Deep red dots soaked the white tiles beneath his feet.
He stood. Wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.
His eyes… still clouded with that strange, stormy fog. That darkness.
He had finally felt it—Michael’s hostility. Michael’s strength.
Now the real confrontation could begin.
Thrill of the Equal Fight
Raymond suddenly dashed forward.
No warning. No hesitation.
He surged right up to Michael, throwing his entire weight and power into a punch aimed straight at his chest. His right arm pulled back, vibrating slightly—energy coiling up inside it.
The Concussion Punch.
Michael’s eyes widened for a split second—then he twisted his body just in time.
He dodged.
He had to dodge.
That wasn’t a punch you could afford to take. One clean hit from that would send shockwaves through his body—maybe even crack his bones from the inside.
But there was a tradeoff.
That kind of punch took time to build up. Raymond couldn’t just throw them endlessly. Each blow required a charge. A buildup of energy.
That was his weakness.
The cooldown between attacks.
Michael had noticed it. That pause. That delay. The moment between one concussion punch and the next.
It’s why Robinson—of all people—had managed to fend him off before.
And now, Michael was doing the same—just faster, more fluidly.
Raymond threw punch after punch—ten, maybe fifteen—but Michael slipped through all of them like water, his body tilting, weaving, stepping. His footwork was clean. His head barely moved more than it needed to.
Then came the switch.
Michael struck.
A sudden jab—Raymond blocked it.
A sweeping kick—Raymond caught it with his shin.
Another quick combo—parried, deflected, absorbed.
He wasn’t fast when attacking—but when defending?
Raymond was a wall.
A sharp, reactive wall. Every blow from Michael was intercepted with arms or legs, his body flowing just enough to neutralize the damage.
The fight pressed on.
In a blink, they had exchanged fifty, maybe sixty blows.
Neither could land a decisive hit.
Their chests were rising and falling now. Not heavy, not gasping—but breathing with effort. The kind of breath that says: Okay. This is real now.
And for a brief moment—just a second—they both felt it.
That thing. That rhythm.
That rare sensation only fighters at the highest level understand.
The thrill of the equal fight.
Michael smiled—genuinely. A smirk of satisfaction.
And Raymond… though his face showed nothing, Michael could feel it.
There was something in the way Raymond moved now—less brute, more rhythm. He was into it.
But Michael knew this couldn’t go on forever.
We’re too evenly matched, he thought. We could go on like this for days. Days and nights. No winner, just sweat and shattered tiles.
And then—Raymond made the first move to break the deadlock.
He suddenly charged up both legs, grounding his feet deep into the floor… and focused his energy into one tightly wound punch.
This wasn’t aimed at Michael.
This one went straight into the ground.
BOOM.
A deep tremor roared out like an underground explosion.
Michael’s eyes widened.
“Shit,” he thought. That’s a big one.
He recognized the move. Raymond’s ground-shatter punch. A large-area attack that spreads destructive vibrations through every surface. No blocking. No absorbing. The only way to survive… was to not be touching the ground at all.
But Michael had already planned for this.
A half-beat later, his feet left the floor in a sharp vertical leap.
With perfect timing, he reached up and grabbed a metal support bar—part of a loose ceiling advertisement frame that had been swaying since their last clash.
He hung there effortlessly, suspended just above the chaos.
Beneath him, the mall floor split open in jagged cracks, rumbling like a quake. The force blasted outward in every direction—ripping up tiles, shattering glass, throwing furniture across the plaza.
Everyone’s Watching
Michael hung from the swinging advertisement board like a street acrobat, his body gently swaying above the chaos.
Below him, the floor was splitting apart—like a domino chain reaction, cracks tearing through the marble tile in every direction. Bits of stone and debris flew upward like shrapnel, crashing into walls, storefronts, signs.
A few unlucky bystanders—caught too close—got swept into the blast radius, tossed like rag dolls. Some lay sprawled across the fractured floor, unmoving. Blood. Dust. Screams.
Across the shopping mall, dozens of customers and store owners had already bolted for the exits. The smarter ones were long gone.
But not everyone left.
At least a dozen people had taken cover—tucked behind pillars, furniture, or half-destroyed kiosks. Some crouched low, watching wide-eyed. Some shouted. Some couldn’t help but cheer.
It had become a kind of street arena.
A live show.
A few people were even shouting names, betting under their breath, arguing over who would win.
And then there was that one guy—
A loudmouth teenage fanboy screaming louder than anyone, mouth wide open like a possessed mascot. His energy was unmatched.
Next to him, a woman kept pulling at his arm, frantic.
“Your mom’s up there!” she hissed. “She’s not moving! She got hit by the shockwave!”
The boy didn’t even blink. Eyes still locked on the fight.
“She’s probably dead already! Let’s go!”
Nothing. He was completely locked in.
Further back, a middle-aged man sipped slowly from a hot cup of coffee, seated calmly on a bench like he’d come for a weekend exhibition match. He commented softly as he watched:
“Mmm. Good balance on that kick. The rhythm’s clean… yeah, that one’s trained.”
Like it was a sports broadcast. Like blood wasn’t pooling down the hall.
But none of that mattered now.
Up above, Michael had finished gathering momentum.
He swung hard—once, twice, three times—then let go and launched himself through the air like a human missile.
He spun mid-flight and extended his leg into a sharp, flying kick—aimed directly at Raymond.
Raymond, who had just started charging up another concussion punch, felt the air shift.
Michael’s attack was fast, but Raymond’s instinct was faster.
Mid-charge, he twisted his body and redirected the punch, just barely missing Michael.
And Michael? Midair, he adjusted.
In one smooth motion, he pulled back from the failed kick and spun halfway again—landing a curved kick on Raymond’s opposite side.
Raymond raised his arm just in time and blocked it cleanly. The force still made him skid back.
The two landed on their feet, both of them sliding slightly across the fractured floor. Dust hung in the air around them like a curtain.
They said nothing.
But their bodies dropped back into stance.
Round Two was about to begin.
Uninvited Big Shot
The second round had already begun.
Once again, Raymond and Michael were locked in a brutal exchange of fists, kicks, blocks, and dodges. Blow after blow. Movement after movement. Precise. Sharp. Relentless.
Minutes passed.
Dozens of new rounds.
Still no breakthrough.
Neither of them could gain the upper hand.
Meanwhile—up on the second floor, by the railing—Brian watched silently, arms crossed, posture casual, but his mind razor sharp.
He had followed them here. And now he was watching closely.
Analyzing.
“They really are perfectly matched,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Perfectly equal in strength. I’ve been calculating for a few minutes to figure this out…”
He exhaled softly.
“…And our boss Colin? He figured it out in under thirty seconds. Just standing there. On the rooftop.”
Brian shook his head with a strange mix of admiration and resignation.
That’s when he heard footsteps behind him.
He turned—and froze for half a second.
Someone familiar was approaching.
Someone he hadn’t seen in months.
It was summer now.
And this man?
He only came out in winter.
People used to joke he hibernated through the warm seasons, disappearing like some underground myth. No one had seen him since the last frost.
So what the hell was he doing here?
Brian squinted. He’d never seen the man up close before.
But he recognized him immediately.
Jason.
A legend.
Despite being only in his thirties, Jason held the status of an elder—a figure so rarely seen that some thought he was part myth, part emergency measure. In the underworld, his presence usually meant one thing:
Crisis.
He looked… strange.
His hair was wild, spiky and unkempt—almost like a Super Saiyan, but black. His shirt was half-buttoned, just like Sean’s. White cotton, flapping slightly in the breeze. His chest was broad, hairy, and unapologetically manly. He wore a pair of simple denim jeans—and in his hand…
…he held a black steel staff. Thick, long, and brutal-looking. Not for show. Not for elegance. Pure, heavy force.
As he walked forward, Jason lightly stomped the tip of the staff against the tile floor.
Crack.
A spiderweb of fractures spread outward—a full meter in every direction.
Brian didn’t say a word.
But in his head?
What the fuck is he doing here?
This was the first time he’d ever seen Jason in person.
And something felt… off.
Brian’s instincts kicked in. He activated his Golden Eyes, letting his vision sharpen and focus on Jason’s body.
He zoomed in.
Strange…
The man’s skin was too smooth.
Almost too perfect.
The pores were abnormally small.
No sweat. No oil. No normal body texture.
Brian zoomed in further.
Jason’s face looked calm—serious, even.
And then…
His tongue slowly slipped out of his mouth.
Not to talk.
Not to lick.
Just… to cool off.
Like a dog.
He panted gently, mouth open, tongue out, letting heat dissipate.
Brian stared.
It was stupid.
And somehow terrifying.
Part of him wanted to laugh.
Part of him wanted to leave.
He didn’t know if Jason was friend or enemy. He wasn’t going to assume anything.
So he did what he always did in uncertain moments:
He stayed alert.
And then, quietly, Brian turned his head and looked back down at the main hall below.
Michael and Raymond were still fighting.
Another twenty… maybe thirty exchanges had passed.
Still dead even.
Still no winner.
The Defensive Calculation
They had been fighting for more than twenty minutes now.
Hundreds of exchanges.
Michael and Raymond were still locked in what had now become an exhausting, endless loop—punches, kicks, blocks, dodges, and more dodges.
Neither could break through.
Both were breathing harder now.
Michael, especially, could feel the creeping fatigue building in his arms, his shoulders, his core.
This isn’t going anywhere, he thought. If we keep going like this, it’ll never end.
So he stopped attacking.
He switched to full defense—parrying, ducking, side-stepping, doing everything he could to avoid Raymond’s concussion punches without giving up too much ground.
He needed time.
Time to think.
Time to remember.
He dug deep into his memory—thinking back to earlier that day, just a few hours ago, when Colin and Brian had sat with him at the top of that fifty-story building.
There had been something Colin said—something subtle.
He just had to find it again.
While he dodged blow after blow, his mind worked, searching through the fragments of that rooftop conversation like pieces of a puzzle.
Meanwhile, back on the second floor—
Near the glass railing, a young man had been watching the scene quietly.
But now, he suddenly burst out laughing.
He pointed at Jason.
“Hey! You middle-aged uncle or whatever—what’s with the tongue, huh? You look like a freakin’ dog out here!”
He started cracking up.
Loud. Annoying. Stupid.
Jason didn’t move at first.
He just stood there—tongue still out, cooling off, as if the insult never landed.
Brian turned to glance at the boy.
Goofy. That was the word.
The kid looked like a total clown.
But Brian didn’t smile.
He just stared and thought one thing:
He’s already a goner.
Jason shifted the steel staff from his right hand to his left.
Then, with no warning, he casually swung it sideways in the direction of the boy.
They were at least twenty meters apart.
The staff didn’t touch him.
But the air did.
A violent burst of wind tore across the space—howling through the corridor like a rogue storm.
It slammed into the boy’s body, ripping his clothes to absolute pieces.
Shirt—gone.
Pants—obliterated.
He stood there for a split second, fully naked, stunned, bruised all over from sheer wind pressure.
And then—
PSSHHH.
He pissed himself.
Fully exposed, terrified beyond reason, he turned and ran—screaming, zigzagging like a broken puppet, his body jolting like he was holding a broken hose, spraying a long, glistening trail of yellow all over the pristine mall tiles.
He vanished around the corner in a panic, never looking back.
Brian blinked.
What…?
Jason let him go?
He let him go.
That didn’t feel right.
Jason was supposed to be ruthless—one of the top dogs in the underworld.
He wasn’t known for mercy.
Was he… losing his edge?
Or was he simply playing with people?
Brian didn’t have an answer.
But he wasn’t about to lower his guard.
He turned back toward the central hall, refocusing on the fight below.
Michael was still dodging, backstepping, gliding around every concussive strike from Raymond like a shadow refusing to be caught.
And then Brian noticed something.
Michael’s mouth… was smiling.
Just a little. Just a curl of confidence.
Like he had remembered something.
Like he had finally figured it out.
Brian watched quietly, then muttered under his breath:
“Nice.”
Just a Split Second Opening
Michael kept dodging.
His body moved like a whisper—just fast enough, just low enough, just right. He gave Raymond nothing to hit.
But his mind?
His mind was elsewhere.
What did Colin say again?
He forced himself to remember. To rewind.
And then, like a puzzle piece finally clicking into place, the words came back:
“If you want to beat Raymond…
you’ll need a split-second opening.
A distraction.
One moment is all it takes to gain the upper hand.”
Michael’s eyes sharpened.
His chest tightened with clarity and awe.
“Boss… You are truly the wisest of all, a magnificent lighthouse shining across the darkness, forever illuminating my journey.”
He smiled slightly as another punch zipped past his cheek.
Alright then.
He continued his evasive rhythm, letting Raymond chase him down across the floor.
Each time Raymond threw a concussion punch, Michael would shift just enough to avoid it—delaying, retreating, realigning.
But now he started scanning.
Looking around.
Where’s the opening? Where’s the distraction? Where’s the one thing I can use?
He glanced up at the second floor.
There was Brian. Still standing there, arms crossed, doing absolutely nothing.
Right next to him… a man with his head tilted out, tongue hanging out like a dog.
Michael blinked.
“…Shit. These two are useless.”
He looked elsewhere.
Down on the ground floor, there was chaos in the crowd.
Some people were hiding behind shattered glass panels. Others ducked behind fallen shelves or busted signage.
One guy—dead center—had his mouth open wide, shouting “LET’S GO! YEAHHH! YOU GOT THIS!” over and over.
His throat was already hoarse.
His voice cracked like a rusty pipe.
He was basically barking now, but he wouldn’t stop.
Michael glanced past him—and froze.
In the far corner of the mall, right by the restroom entrance, someone was crouching.
Not hiding.
Pooping.
Right there.
Out in the open. Behind a potted plant, pants fully off, squatting with focus—mid-dump.
Michael’s eyes twitched.
The restroom is literally right next to you, man.
A concussion punch whizzed past his head.
He snapped back to focus.
And then—
He saw it.
A man sitting calmly on a bench.
Completely still.
Holding a cup of coffee.
Steam curled gently from the rim. A soft white cloud dancing upward into the chaos.
It was hot.
It was fresh.
It was… perfect.
That’s it.
That’s my opening.
Michael’s heart skipped.
He began subtly adjusting his footwork—angling himself slightly, leading Raymond step by step, inch by inch, toward the man with the coffee.
Raymond, unaware, kept following.
Michael’s eyes stayed focused.
Five meters.
Keep going.
Four meters.
Almost there.
Three meters.
This is it. Just a split second. That’s all I need.
Michael’s heart was racing.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t breathe.
This was it.
The opening he had waited for.