Darius stepped forward, eyes locked on the towering brute. His voice cut through the chaos like a whip. "You stay away from this kid!"
Jonathan pushed himself off the wall, teeth clenched. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were still burning. "No! I can still fight!"
Darius didn't even glance back. "You're outclassed, kid. Sit this one out."
With a swift, fluid motion, he reached over his shoulders and unsheathed a pair of canes. They weren't flashy, but their weight told the story—worn, balanced, and built for battle. The dull gleam of their reinforced alloy caught the flickering alley light like fangs in the dark.
The brute scoffed, showing his jagged teeth. "A pawn from Nexlark, huh..." He gave Jonathan one last sneer. "I'll deal with you later, boy."
But Darius stepped in, voice steeled with purpose. "Not on my watch." Then he moved.
He wasn't fast—he was precise. Like a spring unwinding. The canes carved the air and slammed down on the brute's forearms with a thunderous crack. The shockwave echoed through the alley. The brute grunted, forced back a step. He'd blocked—but not well. The force rattled his arms, pain spiking down to his knuckles.
Snarling, the brute lashed out with a wide kick, the kind meant to flatten buildings, not people. But Darius ducked under, pivoting to the side, a ghost in motion. His boots barely scraped the ground. He wasn't just dodging—he was leading, tugging the brute away from Jonathan, step by calculated step.
Rebecca sprinted to Jonathan's side. He was slumped low, one hand over his ribs, breaths shallow.
"Hold still." She yanked a sleek injector from her kit and jammed it into his upper arm.
A cool numbness spread almost instantly, washing away the sharpest edges of pain. Jonathan exhaled with a shaky breath.
"Thanks... I owe you one. Now I can return the favor." He reached for the wall to push himself up again.
Rebecca clamped a hand on his shoulder—strong, insistent. "No. That hero's handling it. If you go back in, you're just giving the brute another target."
Jonathan stared at her. "And your friend? The girl who you said we would rescue?"
Rebecca's mouth tightened. She glanced toward the alley's exit. "We'll find her. But this... this isn't a fight we can win. Not without backup."
Jonathan's jaw tensed. He hated this feeling—uselessness. But he nodded. For now.
---
South Seventh Avenue – Barricade Zone
Two enforcers scanned the cordoned-off perimeter as reinforcements arrived. Sirens wailed distantly.
A senior officer approached, his coat fluttering behind him—lieutenant rank.
"Anyone on scene?" he barked.
"Yes, Lieutenant," the female enforcer answered. "It's Darius Cane. B-ranked hero."
The lieutenant froze mid-step. "B-ranked?" His eyes narrowed. "Why did you let him in?"
"Regulations allow it, sir. B-ranks can respond to local threats."
The lieutenant's voice sharpened like a blade. "You don't get it, Sergeant. This isn't a street-level robbery. It's a flagged zone. Sensitive. Only A-ranks and above are supposed to intervene."
She frowned. "Flagged for what? It looked like a mugging gone bad."
"That's not for you to know," the lieutenant said, lowering his voice. "And Darius? He's a wildcard. A vigilante wrapped in registration papers. He acts alone, and he doesn't play by the book. That's dangerous."
"So what do we do now?" she asked, unsure.
"Nothing," the lieutenant snapped. "Contain the perimeter. Let the top brass clean this up."
Right on cue, two vehicles pulled up—one sleek and custom-painted in red, pink, and black. Out stepped two figures in combat-ready suits: Freya the Shieldborn and Hanzo the Quickhand. A-ranks.
The lieutenant rushed to greet them. "You're just in time!" he said, eager. "We've been waiting. Please, follow me. I'll brief you immediately."
The two A-ranks followed him toward the staging area, silent and professional.
Back at the barricade, the female enforcer folded her arms and muttered, "What's his deal?"
Her partner shrugged. "He's trying to look important. He gets like this whenever A-ranks show up."
She snorted. "Whatever."
---
Outside the South Seventh Avenue Bar
The alley trembled with every strike.
Darius spun and slammed both canes into the brute's side, flipping over the man's back before landing cleanly on his feet. He pivoted away as the brute stumbled, unable to track him.
"Coward!" the brute roared.
"Not my fault you're slow," Darius called. "You're swinging like a drunk toddler."
The brute let out a snarl and punched—his massive fist slamming into the wall. Bricks crumbled, but now he was stuck.
Darius didn't wait. He moved in, battering the brute's spine with both canes in a flurry of strikes. Each hit precise. Measured. Disruptive. The brute roared, struggling to free himself.
On the sidelines, Jonathan watched, wide-eyed.
"He's not just fast... he's flowing with the rhythm of the fight. That's Water Style, right? But he's using Wind to guide his momentum..."
Rebecca nodded, just as impressed. "He's controlling the pace like it's a dance. That's not something you see outside pro tournaments."
With a furious cry, the brute finally ripped his arm from the wall. "That's enough!!!"
He swung wildly, missing Darius by inches. Darius retreated a few steps, cool as ever.
"Getting serious now, are we?" He collapsed one of the canes and clipped it to his belt. From a sheath under his coat, he drew a dagger—short, curved, gleaming faintly with enchantment runes.
"Glad you're ready to stop playing," the brute growled. "Let's finish this, stick-boy!"
Darius grinned. "With pleasure."