Chapter 2: Crushing Fist

Words : 1803 Updated : Oct 17th, 2025

The hood caved in, leaving a deep dent, and the Porsche badge popped off and hit the pavement with a little clack. On the other side of the collision, the bridge of Bryson Lawson's nose had snapped into three pieces. Blood spurted from his nostrils and soaked the front of his shirt. "Holy crap, did I really just see that?" "A beggar actually decked Bryson Lawson." "Won't be long before there's a body with broken limbs under a bridge." For three seconds everyone went dead silent-then the place erupted. People admired Otto Nicholson's guts, but the reality was, in their eyes, Otto had already signed his own death warrant. Off to the side, Nala Jameson's brow furrowed. It was obvious Otto had stood up for her. But a reckless move like this wasn't going to fix anything-it'd only get him killed. "Aaah, aaah, aaah… filthy beggar, you're dead! You're finished!" Bryson clutched his shattered nose and howled, still managing to taunt Otto between groans. "So you haven't had enough, huh? Come on, three more." Otto had no patience for loudmouths. He hauled Bryson to the rear end of the car and slammed him against the trunk three times. Thud, thud, thud. He whimpered, unable to keep up the bravado now. Twenty-one of his thirty-two teeth had been knocked out, three of them wisdom teeth. Blood was pouring from his mouth. Even so, the result fell short of what Otto had expected. With the force he'd just used, all of Bryson's teeth should've been knocked out. The only explanation was that the so-called limited-edition sports car was all show and no substance. The thing was too flimsy. "Piece of junk." With a flick of his wrist, Otto tossed Bryson onto the roof of the Porsche 911 like he was throwing away trash. Then he walked over to Nala. "Hello. I'm Otto Nicholson." "Otto Nicholson… Yeah, I'll remember that name." Nala pulled out her wallet and emptied it, stuffing a few hundred bucks in cash into Otto's hand. "Go. Get as far away as you can. Don't ever come back to Nykomar." "Uh…" Otto stood there, baffled. This wasn't how he pictured it. In his mind, Nala should've said, "Hi, I'm Nala Jameson. Let's go get married." As Otto hesitated, Nala pressed him, "Why are you still standing there? Go. The Lawson family's enforcers will be here any minute. By then, you won't even be able to run." "I can't go." Otto shook his head. "Why?" Nala looked puzzled. "Because my mission isn't finished." Otto spoke plainly. "What mission?" Nala pushed. "To marry you and have a son." Otto never beat around the bush. "Marry, have a son? What kind of nonsense is that?" A moment ago, Nala thought Otto was a stand-up guy with a strong sense of justice. The next, she instantly pegged him as a creep. Turns out Otto was just like Bryson-he only wanted her for her body. "Young Master Bryson, what happened?" Just then, a van roared in. Seven or eight men in black piled out once it stopped. At the front strode a man in his early thirties, close to six-foot-three with a buzz cut. His muscles bulged against his shirt. One look and you could tell he was a trained fighter. The most striking feature, though, was the tattoo at the nape of his neck-the Chinese character for "He." Those in the know recognized it as the mark of the Glory Gang. The Glory Gang has been Nykomar's most powerful underworld outfit for the past seven years. Tyler, the boss, was unbeaten in Nykomar. Under him stood the eight guardians, each formidable. The man now approaching was Maximus, ranked fifth among the eight guardians. Seeing Bryson bloodied and sprawled across the car roof, Maximus's brow furrowed. The boss had assigned him to protect Bryson. He'd been on Bryson's detail and had ridden with him to the Jameson Group today. Unfortunately, Bryson's Porsche 911 had been too fast and had left Maximus's van in the dust. He figured arriving a minute late wouldn't matter. Instead, everything had gone to hell. "Get Young Master Bryson down, now!" First things first-get him to a hospital. Maximus sent his men to rush the semiconscious Bryson to the nearest hospital. Then he grabbed a gawking bystander by the collar. "Talk. What happened?" "It was that beggar. That beggar hit Young Master Bryson." One glance at the tattoo and the bystander didn't dare hold anything back. He pointed, shaking, at Otto Nicholson, who stood with his back to them not far away. "The nerve. A beggar picking a fight with the wrong people. Take him down." Maximus waved his men forward, and a few of them lunged at Otto. "Watch out!" Even though Nala had decided Otto was a creep, the warning sprang from her lips before she could stop herself. "There aren't many people I need to watch out for." Otto smiled lightly. He didn't even turn his head. Without even turning, he whipped back a flurry of backhand slaps. Each slap landed clean across a face. Maximus's men spun like tops, pinwheeling through the air before they crashed to the ground. "Hmm?" Maximus's pupils narrowed. These men were ones he had personally trained. They had skills. To be dropped so easily meant the opponent was no ordinary fighter. So what. He was one of the Glory Gang's eight guardians, a disciple of the boss himself. Stepping over his fallen men, Maximus closed in on Otto, one heavy, rhythmic footfall at a time. Hearing that drumbeat of steps, Otto frowned, then turned and looked Maximus up and down. "Who taught you that form?" "Form?" "What form?" "Did you see a form?" Around them, the onlookers traded baffled looks. Maximus had only walked a few steps. He hadn't even raised an arm, and Otto's question sounded absurd. Maximus, the man in question, felt a chill under his skin. Those steps were the opening sequence of a form-the power-loading phase of a technique taught only within the Glory Gang. Only the eight guardians had been allowed to train in it. Outsiders had never even seen it. "You're doing it wrong." As Maximus reeled that their exclusive technique had been spotted at a glance, Otto added calmly. "Wrong? I haven't even thrown a punch and you say I'm wrong?" Maximus decided Otto was bluffing. He took two more steps, the final two. His body surged and his fists shot out, one high, one low-twin hammers driving for Otto's chest. It was the most lethal move in the Crushing Fist: the Double Crush. Too bad. In Otto's eyes, the move was riddled with holes. He had at least a hundred ways to break it. He chose the easiest one. He angled his body, flicked up the tip of his foot, and baited Maximus with a fake foothold. Maximus's stance was shaky. Before he grasped what had happened, he stumbled and pitched headfirst onto the concrete. "Tell the guy who taught you to master it before he teaches anyone else-so he doesn't embarrass himself in front of me." Otto glanced at Maximus, head split and bleeding, eyes glassy and unfocused, and spoke coldly.

Chapter 2: Crushing Fist

Comments (0)