They entered the Black Lantern Club, a place glowing with lights, music, and secrets.
The ground floor was crowded — models, businesspeople, fake smiles everywhere. But above, on the second floor balcony, they saw the truth — crates with fake designer tags, monitors showing shipping routes, and armed guards standing like statues. This wasn't just a club. It was one of James's smuggling bases.
Then they saw him.
Jay, the executive manager of the Northern Company — tall, muscular, and smiling like a man who owned the place. His right arm was wrapped in bandages.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Jay said, leaning on the balcony. "You've come too far for customers. Tell me, where's the data you stole from me?"
Ayaan's jaw tightened. "We don't have your data."
Jay's smile vanished. He jumped down from the second floor in one motion, landing like a thunderclap. "Then I'll just kill you to be sure."
With a snap of his fingers, the music stopped.
The crowd was pushed outside.
And the four of them — Ayaan, Anshuman, Vasco, and Sam — were surrounded by Jay's men.
The fight began.
Anshuman's reflexes sparked first. He used Northern Mantis Style, twisting through the chaos, disarming one guard after another with sharp joint locks.
Vasco's body crashed through the crowd like a bulldozer, his Bajiquan power sending enemies flying with shoulder strikes.
Sam stayed low, moving like a whisper — precise, surgical, using Eagle Claw grips to crush wrists and throats.
But Jay didn't even flinch.
He punched Vasco so hard he slammed into a table.
He kicked Sam across the floor with a Brazilian tornado kick, the same one Ayaan had seen before — the same move that had beaten Master Iyer.
Ayaan charged, but Jay's speed was terrifying. Every strike Jay threw was heavier, sharper, cleaner. He smashed his knee into Ayaan's ribs, sent him crashing into the broken glass and floorboards. Ayaan coughed blood, his vision fading.
In that moment, darkness surrounded him.
But inside the dark, a memory rose — Master Iyer's words echoing like thunder:
"You four can reach the realm of instinct.
Ayaan — the Apex Instinct, born for dominance.
Anshuman — the Phantom Instinct, untouchable and sharp.
Vasco — the Iron Instinct, unbreakable in defense.
Sam — the Silent Instinct, the finisher in the shadows.
But only when your soul accepts the fight — not for anger, but for purpose."
Suddenly, something snapped awake inside Ayaan.
Time slowed.
Sound vanished.
His heartbeat became the only rhythm. His body began to move before thought could reach it — pure survival, pure focus.
The Apex Instinct had awakened.
Jay swung again — but Ayaan sidestepped effortlessly. His counter elbow struck like lightning, cracking Jay's ribs.
A second strike hit Jay's jaw, and before Jay could recover, Ayaan's final blow — a Bajiquan explosion — crushed through his guard and sent him flying across the club.
Jay gasped, tried to rise — but Ayaan was already there. One last strike to the chest ended it.
Jay fell, unmoving.
The room fell silent.
Ayaan stood there, chest heaving, his eyes glowing faintly under the dim lights.
Vasco, Anshuman, and Sam watched in awe — and fear.
They had seen what true instinct looked like.
It wasn't rage. It was perfection — the body's most dangerous form of clarity.
Sirens wailed outside. The guards fled.
Ayaan finally dropped to his knees, trembling, the instinct fading.
Sam walked forward quietly. "You… awakened it."
Ayaan nodded weakly. "Yeah… I felt it. The Apex Instinct."
Anshuman clenched his fists. "Then we're next. One by one… we'll awaken ours."
They looked around at the destroyed club — their first victory, and the first sign of how far they could go.
The war with James had just begun.
🌀 Instinct Rankings: Ayaan – Apex Instinct: The ultimate combat awareness; body and mind merge into unstoppable flow. Anshuman – Phantom Instinct: Unpredictable movement; opponent cannot read his rhythm. Vasco – Iron Instinct: Pure endurance; defense turns into counterattack. Sam – Silent Instinct: Deadly calm; strikes only when the kill is certain.
The next morning, the four of them — Ayaan, Anshuman, Vasco, and Sam — went straight to the police headquarters.
They handed over the stolen data drives they had recovered from the club — proof of Jay's crimes and James's secret smuggling empire in the north. The officers checked everything carefully, their eyes widening at the amount of evidence.
By afternoon, the Northern Branch of James's organization was officially shut down.
The news spread fast across the city — "MOF-Man On Fashion" was raided and locked down permanently.
Ayaan stood outside the station, hands in pockets, looking calm but confident.
"One down, three more to go," he said, his voice low and focused.
The others nodded — this was only the beginning.
Later that day, they went back to Crimson High.
The moment Ayaan walked through the gate, whispers started everywhere.
"Isn't that Ayaan?"
"Where has he been these days?"
"He looks even better than before—"
Within minutes, a crowd of girls surrounded him, smiling, giggling, and asking questions.
"Hey, where were you all this week?" one asked.
Ayaan gave a small smirk. "On a mission."
That one line made them even more interested — his mysterious tone, the confidence in his eyes — it made him the center of attention instantly.
Across the hall, Vasco and Sam were laughing quietly.
"Bro turned into a celebrity overnight," Vasco whispered.
"Yeah," Sam said with a grin. "And he's pretending he doesn't care."
Then, as the group entered their class, a new voice called out.
"Hey… you're Anshuman, right?"
They turned. Standing by the door was a girl with sharp eyes, black jacket, and a confident smile.
She walked straight up to Anshuman.
"I kinda like you," she said without hesitation.
Anshuman blinked, completely frozen. "W-what?"
She folded her arms, leaning close. "I said… wanna be my boyfriend?"
The class went silent — everyone watching.
Anshuman turned toward Ayaan, totally speechless.
Ayaan chuckled and said, "Go for it. You deserve what you want."
Anshuman smiled awkwardly, scratched his head, and said, "Uh… yeah, okay."
The girl grinned, holding out her hand. "Name's Mira."
He shook her hand, still blushing. "Anshuman."
Vasco and Sam burst out laughing from the back.
And Ayaan just smirked — "Looks like our Phantom found his match."
The class continued, but something new was in the air —
victory, confidence, and maybe… a little romance.
They stumbled, world tilting as a sudden haze rolled over them — a thin, chemical smoke that sank into their lungs like ice. One by one their legs folded; the club's lights blurred into streaks, voices warping into distant thunder.
"Breathe—" Sam tried to say, but his words turned to fog. The floor rushed up. Darkness closed like a fist.
When Ayaan opened his eyes, the light was hard and grey. Concrete above, a half-formed ceiling—rebar cutting the sky. His throat tasted of dust. For a second he thought he was still on the Black Lantern balcony, then the smell told him otherwise: wet mortar and iron.
"Ugh… where—" Anshuman groaned somewhere beside him.
Ayaan pushed at his wrists. Rope bit into his skin; his hands were tied behind his back. He rolled and blinked into the faces of the others. Vasco lay a few feet away, face swollen and unconscious; Sam's eyes were already open, pupils small, scanning the room with that calm, sharp look Sam always had when danger was still being assessed.
"Sam?" Ayaan rasped.
Sam's jaw worked. "We've been moved," he said, throat tight. "This is a construction shell—no finished walls, no windows. They shut the openings. We're… tied."
Anshuman spat blood and rolled his head. "Tied, great. And I didn't sign up for a sequel to the last time." He tried to laugh; it came out a harsh cough.
From the shadowed stairwell a silhouette detached itself and stepped into the ragged light. A man in a dusty suit, too clean for this place, walked with the slow certainty of someone who owned more than buildings.
He smiled without humor. "Good. You're awake." His voice cut the concrete cold. "I'm Mark. James sends his regards."
Mark's grin widened as the phone's screen flickered — James's face filling the display, pale and composed like a god. Mark held the camera so James could see the four, tied and bruised, sprawled on the concrete.
"Kill them," James said, voice flat.
"Okay, boss," Mark replied, and the line cut.
Mark stepped forward like a hammer. His first blow was a missile — a fist that smashed Ayaan's head against the floor. The hollow thud of skull on concrete answered. Ayaan's vision cracked; blood tasted metallic in his mouth.
Mark spun and drove a boot into Anshuman's ribs with brutal intent. A hard crack echoed as small fractures spidered through bone. Anshuman folded like a rag, breath leaving him in a staccato gasp.
Mark laughed, confident, and advanced — a man used to breaking others with little bother. Vasco and Sam struggled against their bindings, limbs trembling from the earlier fight and the drugs that had fogged their minds. They were exhausted, breath shallow, but their eyes burned with refusal.
Something in the air shifted. Anshuman's pupils narrowed; an animal calm dropped over him. The Phantom Instinct — the memory of Master Iyer's voice — rose like a blade in his marrow. He moved with a speed that stopped Mark's amusement cold. In a blink he launched: a snapping hook to the jaw, a low sweep that unbalanced Mark's base, then a Mantis hook that torqued a wrist and flung Mark off rhythm.
Mark stumbled, surprise cracking his face. Before he could recover, Ayaan's hands found a pillar. The Apex Instinct flared like a match in dark oil — not thought, only motion. He planted his feet, wound his hips, and delivered a kick that was less limb than piston. It struck Mark's ribs with a concentrated thunder — a clean, crushing report of bone giving way. Mark staggered, blood blooming on his mouth.
They did not pause. Anshuman flowed into Ayaan's momentum, Phantom hooks and snapping palms tying Mark to the spot while Ayaan's Bajiquan-fired elbows hammered like compressed steel. Each strike was precise, structural; each movement finished before Mark could find purchase.
Vasco, tasting adrenaline, broke free enough to shove off his bindings and join the grind, Systema counter-twists turning Mark's attempts to push into nothing. Sam, battered, lunged with Eagle Claw precision — fingers finding tendons, seizing anchors. Mark roared and lashed out, every blow a test of their resolve.
Mark was strong — brutal and practiced — but he had never met two instincts hitting at once. The Phantom's unpredictability tore through his guard while the Apex's concentrated impact dissolved his balance. Ayaan's elbows found sternum and temple; Anshuman's traps snapped shoulders and knees. Mark's breath went shallow, his steps sloppy, his confidence bleeding out.
At last Mark crumpled against a column, clutching a broken rib and gasping. He tried to rise, claws scraping concrete, but the fight had bled him dry. He spat, eyes wild, and for a second something like fear crossed his face.
Vasco and Sam moved in, not to kill but to stop. They pinned Mark gently but firmly — Systema locks and Eagle Claw holds that would hurt hard but leave him alive. Mark thrashed, cursed, then finally sagged, conscience swallowed by pain.
Ayaan sank to his knees, chest heaving, the Apex light dimming like a struck flame. Anshuman staggered, Phantom breath ragged. Around them the unfinished building was a map of violence: scuffed concrete, dragged footprints, the echo of the world's worst business.
Sam wiped his hand on his sleeve and looked at the fallen Mark. "We don't kill for sport," he said flatly. "We stop people like him."
Mark's eyes burned with furious promise. "You've not seen the worst of James," he rasped. "He'll—"
—then the distant sound of sirens threaded through the skeleton of the building, near enough to make Mark's jaw clench. Footsteps pounded outside; someone shouted that a tip had come in. Panic and calculation warred in his face. The prisoners' binders were a mess, the ropes torn; Mark's men were scattered and broken.
Mark glared at them, chest heaving. "This isn't over," he hissed. "We will come for you."
They left him there, bound and bleeding, to the oncoming lights and the law that would finally see what the team had dug up. Ayaan and the others, bruised and raw, rose slowly — each feeling the cost of the fight and the dangerous edge they now walked.
As they stepped out into the evening air, the Master's lesson lived in them — the instinct could be the sharpest weapon, but it demanded control. They had used it and they had been mercilessly effective, but the war with James had only widened.