No Appetite for Victory
Originally, Robinson’s gang had planned to celebrate their victory by going to an all-you-can-eat hotpot buffet.
It was supposed to be a big night—new turf, successful mission, and good food.
But now?
No one felt like celebrating.
Instead, the whole crew walked slowly down the street, heads low and shoulders heavy.
There was no chatter, no laughter—just quiet footsteps under flickering streetlights.
They were still on their way to find a place to eat, but no one was in the mood for anything anymore.
That’s when one of the more innocent guys mumbled:
“Didn’t we say we were going to hotpot buffet tonight?
Why are we just looking for a four-dish set meal now?”
Robinson shook his head.
This kid had no clue.
And Long Neck—still burning with grief—snapped.
“I’m not in the fucking mood for hotpot.”
He stepped forward and slapped the boy across the face, hard.
The group went silent again.
Then, in the middle of the street, a new figure appeared.
A man walked toward them—dressed in a sharp suit and polished leather shoes.
He carried a black messenger bag in one hand, and on his face was a pair of elegant, golden-rimmed glasses.
Long Neck spotted him immediately.
He knew who it was.
Michael.
Michael from the Humble Organization.
Long Neck’s heart began to pound.
His rage—which had been boiling beneath the surface ever since the death of his brother—suddenly surged.
He couldn’t hold it in anymore.
This guy didn’t look dangerous at all.
He looked soft. Polite. Fragile.
Maybe it was those golden-rimmed glasses—they made him seem harmless, almost weak.
But that was the trick.
That was the deception.
And Long Neck was about to fall right into it.
Reflex
Without any warning—no signs, no shout—Long Neck suddenly sprinted forward and threw a punch straight at Michael.
The attack came out of nowhere.
Even someone as powerful as Michael didn’t see it coming.
He was just walking down the street.
He had no reason to expect someone would try to hit him in public.
He didn’t dodge.
He didn’t think.
His body simply reacted.
A split-second reflex.
Before Long Neck’s fist could even reach him, Michael’s own punch had already connected—
and Long Neck went flying.
He crashed all the way across the street, rolled over the sidewalk, and tumbled ten or more times before finally managing to get up.
Luckily, Long Neck was tough.
He didn’t suffer any major injuries. Just a few bruises. But the hit was clean—and devastating.
Michael immediately looked concerned.
“Oh no—I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
“That was just a reflex. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
He walked over to Robinson and said politely:
“Is your guy okay? I don’t know why he came at me like that.
I really hope he’s fine.”
Michael then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp $100 bill.
“If he needs to go to the hospital, and it ends up costing more—
you can come find me anytime at the Humble Organization.”
What Michael didn’t know was that earlier that same day, Brian—another member of the Humble Organization—had killed one of their underlings in front of the whole gang.
Michael was completely unaware.
Robinson accepted the money, sighed, and said calmly:
“It’s fine. I’ll talk to him later. He needs to learn some self-control.”
Michael nodded, left hand tucked casually in his pocket, right hand still holding his messenger bag.
He turned and continued walking slowly down the street.
No Mercy
Michael hadn’t walked far when he heard rapid footsteps thundering behind him—fast, heavy, filled with rage.
“Stop! Don’t!” Robinson shouted from behind, but it was too late.
Michael didn’t even turn his head. He could already feel the intensity of the killing intent rushing in.
This wasn’t some clumsy follow-up or accident—this was vengeance. Something deeply personal. Something dangerous.
He could sense it: this man carried hatred. Not just toward him—but toward the Humble Organization.
And that was something Michael could not allow.
“If it were just me,” Michael thought, “maybe I’d let it slide.
But this man’s rage is aimed at the Organization—our name, our people.
I may be gentle… but I am still a royal. And a royal doesn’t forgive enemies of the House.”
He calmly tossed his briefcase from his right hand to his left.
Then, without warning, he swung his right arm backwards in one clean arc—not a punch, but a razor-sharp hand chop.
CRACK.
Long Neck’s elongated, fragile neck came clean off. His entire head—along with the upper half-meter of that ridiculous neck—spun through the air like a loose rope and hooked perfectly onto a traffic light pole.
And somehow, as the momentum carried it, the neck wrapped around the pole and tied itself into a loose, dangling knot, like a grotesque ribbon on display.
The head dangled there, swaying softly in the wind—silent, lifeless, and disturbingly poetic.
Michael slowly turned around.
In a soft, almost casual tone, he said:
“I may look gentle. I may seem kind.
But let’s get one thing straight—I’m not soft.
And I’m definitely not merciful.
Especially when it comes to the Organization.”
Screams erupted.
People on the nearby sidewalks began shrieking in terror. Cars slammed their brakes.
Pedestrians ran in all directions.
The street devolved into a panicked frenzy, filled with yelling, horns, and chaos.
Back in the middle of it all, Robinson stood still, head down.
A single teardrop slid from his eye and hit the ground.
In the same day, within just a couple hours, he had lost two of his most loyal brothers.
He clenched his fists tightly, breathing hard.
A faint darkness seemed to rise from within him—like a wave of something evil beginning to stir inside.
The Brotherly Power
Robinson stood still, fists clenched tight, tears streaming down his face.
He muttered to himself, “It’s all my fault. As your big brother… I failed to protect you.”
Then, his voice hardened. “But revenge… that’s the only thing I can still do for you.”
Without another word, he sprinted forward.
Usually a calm and rational man, Robinson had lost control. Right before reaching Michael, he spun three times on the spot, leaped into the air, and delivered his signature spinning kick—aimed straight at Michael’s face.
Michael raised his right arm just in time to block, but the impact was brutal. The force slid him back half a meter across the pavement.
Robinson, propelled by the recoil, landed two meters away, knees bent, body tilted forward, one hand bracing the ground to stabilize himself.
Michael, now steady, flung his document bag to the ground with his left hand.
Then, with his right, he stepped in and threw a punch toward Robinson.
Reacting fast, Robinson drew a circle in the air, masterfully deflecting the blow and redirecting its energy.
But before he could even attempt another move, Michael’s left fist had already come swinging in.
In a split-second decision, Robinson crossed both arms over his chest to block.
The punch landed with bone-crunching force.
Robinson’s body slid back over two meters.
His shoes were dragged so hard against the pavement that the soles flattened.
Behind them, their gang of underlings shouted in unison, cheering for Robinson.
“Let’s go, Big Bro!”
“Get him!!”
But they didn’t know what had just happened.
Both of Robinson’s forearm bones were already fractured.
The Strongest Muscle
Michael already knew he had won. He could feel it in the impact of that last punch—the resistance in Robinson’s arms had crumbled. Both forearms were broken.
But he didn’t follow up. He stopped.
To him, Robinson was still a man of blood and flesh. A fighter with honor. And for that, Michael chose to show him respect.
He raised his voice and said loud and clear, “You’re a powerful opponent. Seriously strong.”
Michael paused a moment, then added with a calm smirk, “Probably just a little stronger than a gang boss I fought a few days ago.”
He was referring to Canelo—but he didn’t mention Robinson’s fractured arms. He didn’t want to humiliate him in front of his crew.
Robinson, swallowing the pain, crossed his arms over his chest—pretending like nothing was wrong. His voice remained steady.
“We’ve got other business to handle today,” he said. “Next time, we’ll have a proper fight. For now… let’s call it early.”
The pain had brought his rationality back. Just minutes ago, Robinson had lost control, but now, through sheer willpower, he had returned to his usual self.
He understood clearly—he was no match for Michael.
Michael’s strength wasn’t flashy or filled with tricks. It was raw. Pure muscle power—on a level Robinson had never encountered before.
Michael gave a small smile, bent down to pick up his briefcase, tucked his right hand back into his pocket, and casually walked away.
He didn’t rush, didn’t look back. Just strolled toward the far end of the street and disappeared into the distance.
Then, the same innocent underling—the one who had been slapped by Long Neck earlier, the one who had been spouting clueless nonsense all day—spoke up again.
“Boss, we actually don’t have any plans for the rest of the day… Why didn’t you keep fighting? I think just a few more rounds and you would’ve taken him down! Avenged our brothers!”
A blue vein twitched on Robinson’s forehead. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
Even the normally composed Robinson had his limits.
He snapped:
“Shut the fuck up!”
Humble Organization – The Absolute Power
Robinson’s underlings stood frozen, stunned. None of them had ever seen him curse like that before. He was usually calm, collected, the type of guy who didn’t lose his temper. They couldn’t understand why he suddenly exploded at the innocent one—especially since, in their eyes, Robinson and Michael had only fought to a draw. Nothing more.
As they stood there processing what just happened, a loud thud landed not far from them—a man, clearly a gangster, had crashed face-first onto the ground from the sky.
Everyone turned in confusion.
Then, every two or three seconds, another body flew in from above—thud, crack, slam—one after another, slamming into the pavement like dumplings being dropped into a boiling pot of oil.
It was chaos.
These were all gangsters—young, tattooed, some still holding onto weapons, others knocked clean unconscious. The rain of bodies continued. A few had blood on their noses, a few had broken limbs, and one still had a cigarette dangling from his lips, barely conscious.
From around the corner, a furious voice echoed down the street.
“You bastard! You dared to spit in my Pepsi and then didn’t even apologize!”
It was Michael’s voice.
Only a few days ago, Canelo had tried to claim a bottle of Pepsi that Michael was also after. They’d gotten into a fight over it. At the time, Canelo thought he had the upper hand. He didn’t know that bottle meant everything to Michael—a sacred mission from the top.
Now he was paying the price.
Whoosh!—another man came flying.
He landed hard, rolling like a ragdoll across the sidewalk. He wore a hoodie, a crooked expression on his face, and had a cigarette still clamped between his teeth. It was Canelo—the infamous punk. His gang had clearly been crushed.
Whoever they had messed with… didn’t hold back.
Robinson stared at the pile of broken men with wide eyes. His face remained composed, but his legs… his legs gave out slightly. His knees buckled, his body lurched just a bit forward. That was fear. Real fear.
For the first time, he had witnessed—in first-hand experience—the terrifying power of the two high-ranking enforcers from the Humble Organization.
And it was too much.