Ash just stood there, looking at the fallen bodies.
For a moment, he didn't move.
His breathing was rapid, dragging in air like his lungs were still fighting. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream, hot and electric. His heart pounded hard against his ribs—each thud heavy, forceful, alive.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The alley smelled of iron and dust.
His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the aftermath. The body doesn't calm as fast as the mind. Not after violence.
He inhaled slowly.
Held it.
Exhaled through his nose.
Again.
Gradually, the rhythm of his breathing steadied. The pounding in his chest dulled from a war drum to something more controlled.
His body burned; the pain still lingered. He wiped the blood from his lips.
He hissed, "Fuck!"
Even the slightest movement sent bolts of pain through him, muscles screaming like they had been hammered on an anvil. Every joint, every sinew felt raw, as if he had just stepped out of a forge, tempered and battered, fire still lingering under his skin.
There were too many questions left unanswered. Was it really a vision of the future?
He pressed a hand to his head again. It was still intact—no blood, no cuts, nothing. Everything as normal as before.
Then why the vision? Did he… have a superpower?
Wait—he remembered. Maybe he had a system. Doesn't it always go like this in every novel where the MC gets OP through some kind of system?
Maybe he had one too.
He muttered under his breath, "System."
Silence. The alley swallowed his words. No answer.
"Status."
Still nothing.
"Profile."
He tried calling out different names, louder this time. Still no response.
The shadows pressed closer, silent and indifferent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
He panted, frustration tangling with disbelief. "Fuck… there's no response. What the hell am I doing, embarrassing myself like this?"
He slammed a fist lightly against his thigh. "Fucking hell."
A pause. A thought gnawed at him. "Then… do I really not have a system?"
His mind raced faster. "Then… is it a superpower? Did I… become some kind of… Superman?"
His chest heaved, the adrenaline from the fight still pumping, but now mixed with confusion, excitement, and a twinge of disbelief. The alley was silent, indifferent, as if mocking his thoughts.
If I really have one… what was the trigger to the power?
Was it danger?
Or is there something I don't understand?
No… if it was danger, the power would've already warned me the moment I stepped into this gang's territory.
So why then?
What exactly set it off? it.
"Yes, he's the one!" someone shouted from behind Ash.
Footsteps echoed through the alley.
A group of guys—ten, maybe more—poured in from the entrance. The ones Ash had beaten earlier were with them, pointing him out, leading the way like scouts who had finally found their target.
Ash didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Who else could it be other than those motherfuckers who had nothing better to do than chase him?
Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder.
Then he raised both hands.
And lifted his middle fingers.
A crooked smirk pulled at his lips as he taunted them.
"Go fuck yourselves."
Silence swallowed the alley whole.
It was sudden. Absolute.
Like someone had pressed pause on the world.
No footsteps.
No curses.
No movement.
The air itself felt heavy, thick—like the moment after a warning siren, when everyone knows something devastating is about to happen but no one moves yet.
It felt like the split second before a nuclear strike.
And Ash stood at the center of it.
Then it came.
A sudden laugh.
One of them pointed at Ash, bending slightly as he burst out laughing. Another joined. Then another. Within seconds, the entire group was laughing their asses off.
The sound echoed harshly against the alley walls.
It was almost hysterical.
Hilarious, really—how someone could still joke, still provoke, in a situation like this. When his life was clearly in the other party's hands.
Wasn't this what they called ignorance?
Or stupidity?
They laughed louder. Some clutched their stomachs. One wiped tears from his eyes.
To them, Ash wasn't dangerous right now.
He was entertainment.
Slowly, the laughter began to die down.
Not all at once. It faded in fragments—one voice stopping, then another—until only a few lingering chuckles echoed against the brick walls.
But the amusement didn't disappear. It hung in the air, thick and sour, like smoke that refused to clear.
One of them stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as if warming up. He spat to the side and smirked.
"Alright, enough messing around," he said, voice light—almost playful. "Let's finish what we came for."
He tilted his head toward Ash.
"A rat sneaked into our territory."
A few of them snickered again.
"It's our job to teach it a lesson, right?"
Low laughter rippled through the group. Not loud this time. Just mean. Anticipating.
"Yeah."
"Break him."
"Make it slow."
The one who had spoken earlier lifted his hand casually and pointed at a few of the bigger guys near the front. Then he flicked his fingers forward—a small, lazy gesture.
Go.
No shouting. No rushing.
Just quiet intent as they stepped out of the group and began walking toward Ash.
Two of the bigger ones stepped forward.
Not rushed. Not excited.
Confident.
The rest stayed back, forming a loose wall behind them. Spectators now. The alley narrowed, closing in around Ash like a throat tightening before the swallow.
The first guy was broad-shouldered, thick arms hanging heavy at his sides. The second was leaner, sharper eyes, the kind that calculated before moving.
They stopped a few feet away.
Close enough to smell the blood.
"You should just surrender," he said casually, almost bored. "We don't want to make it harder for you."
The broad one cracked his knuckles slowly.
"In the end, the result's already decided."
Ash's breathing was steady now. Too steady.
Pain throbbed through his ribs. His forearms burned. His knuckles were split. But his eyes—his eyes were clear.
He wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, tasting iron.
Then he smiled. Not wide. Not cocky.
Sharp.
"Who are you," he said quietly, "to decide how it ends?"
He lifted his chin slightly.
"A god?"
The words didn't echo. They settled.
For a split second, something flickered in the lean one's eyes. Annoyance.
The broad one didn't wait. He lunged first—fast for his size. A heavy fist tore through the air toward Ash's head.
Ash shifted sideways at the last possible moment. The punch grazed past his ear, wind brushing his skin.
Too close.
He countered instantly—short hook to the ribs.
Solid impact.
The big guy grunted but didn't fall. Instead, his elbow came down hard toward Ash's shoulder. Ash raised his forearm to block—pain exploded up his arm like glass shattering under his skin.
Before he could reset, the lean one moved.
A sharp kick aimed low.
Ash barely saw it. He twisted, but the shin clipped his thigh. His leg buckled slightly.
They weren't random thugs.
They were coordinated.
The broad one grabbed for his collar. Ash reacted on instinct—he drove his forehead forward.
Crack.
Bone met bone.
The big guy staggered back half a step, stunned. Blood trickled from his nose.
But the lean one was already there.
A fist drove into Ash's side.
Air left his lungs in a violent burst.
His body folded slightly—just enough.
And that was enough.
The broad one recovered and slammed a heavy punch across Ash's jaw.
The world tilted.
Sound dulled.
His feet scraped against concrete as he staggered sideways.
The spectators murmured.
Ash's vision swam—but didn't break.
His heart thundered again.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Pain screamed through his body.
The broad one didn't give him space to breathe.
He came in again—no pause this time.
A straight punch.
Another.
Another.
Heavy. Fast. Brutal.
Ash barely slipped the first. The second skimmed his cheek. The third—he blocked with both forearms. The impact rattled his bones.
No rhythm. No clean form.
Just raw force.
The lean one moved with him, circling. He shot in with a jab toward Ash's throat—sloppy but quick. Ash knocked it aside and pivoted, but the lean one followed immediately with a low kick.
Thud.
Ash's calf flared with pain.
They weren't skilled.
But they were relentless.
The broad one swung a wild hook meant to end it.
Ash ducked under it.
Counter.
Short punch to the ribs.
Elbow to the sternum.
The broad one staggered—but didn't stop. He grabbed at Ash's shirt again, trying to drag him in close for a knee.
Ash twisted his torso, letting the grip slide. He stepped inside the man's balance and drove a compact strike into his floating ribs.
A sharp exhale burst from the big guy's mouth.
The lean one lunged from the side—fist flying toward Ash's temple.
Ash tilted his head just enough. The punch grazed.
He answered immediately.
One step forward.
Palm strike to the nose.
Crunch.
The lean one reeled back, hands flying to his face. Blood spilled between his fingers.
The broad one roared and charged again—no guard, just fury.
Punch after punch rained down. Wild. Heavy.
Ash didn't trade.
He moved.
Slip.
Block.
Deflect.
Each motion tight. Efficient.
Another hook came—
Ash stepped inside it.
Shoulder check.
The big guy's momentum betrayed him. He stumbled forward, off balance.
Ash pivoted and drove his knee up into the man's abdomen.
Impact.
The air left him in a broken gasp.
But before Ash could press the advantage, the lean one came back in desperation—throwing rapid, messy punches toward Ash's head and chest.
One connected.
Another clipped his jaw.
Ash's head snapped sideways.
Pain flashed white.
He planted his feet.
Enough.
He parried the next punch outward and fired back—
Straight to the throat.
Not clean technique. Not polished martial arts.
Just survival.
The lean one choked and stumbled back.
The broad one swung again from behind—
Ash spun.
His fist crashed into the man's jaw.
Full weight behind it.
The sound echoed.
The broad one staggered two steps back, blinking, disoriented.
Ash stood between them now, chest rising and falling hard.
Blood on his lip.
Bruises blooming under skin.
His movements weren't pretty.
But they were sharper.
Faster.
And he was adapting.