From Bullets To Billions

Joe was still in rhythm, throwing out jab after jab with machine-like precision. Each strike snapped forward with clean form, the subtle twist of the foot, the snap in his shoulder, the recoil of his arm always coming back to guard. There was no break in his technique, no pause in his pace.

The jab wasn't considered the most powerful strike in boxing, but it was often the most important. It controlled distance. It managed timing. It dictated the rhythm of the entire fight.

And right now, Joe owned that rhythm.

As he kept the jabs flowing, a creeping panic began to slither into Bando's mind.

'Is this guy... ever going to get tired? He just keeps throwing punch after punch. What the hell am I supposed to do?'

Joe's relentless pace was doing more than just scoring hits, it was draining Bando's ability to defend. His forearms were going numb, each one buzzing with impact. At this rate, he wouldn't be able to lift them at all soon.

So Bando made a desperate call.

He broke his form and lunged forward with a punch.

That single moment of weakness cost him.

Joe's fist slipped through his open guard and landed squarely against his face. The jab snapped Bando's head back with a sharp thwack. It wasn't a knockout blow, but it was clean. Fast. Painful.

"It's gonna take more than that to take me out!" Bando barked, trying to shake off the hit. With a growl, he launched a wild kick, but the move was too broad, too slow.

Joe leapt backward, dodging it with ease. And before Bando could even plant his foot again, Joe dashed back in, his jab striking once more, this time hitting clean across the eye socket.

The crowd gasped.

The blow stung deep. But Bando pushed forward, gritting his teeth. From the outside, the same pattern was repeating itself again and again.

"I don't get it," one Clapton student mumbled, watching with wide eyes.

"I do," another answered grimly. "Bando's losing. He's getting completely destroyed out there!"

"Yeah, but the other guy... he's just doing the same move over and over. It's like playing a fighting game and spamming one attack."

And to some extent, they weren't wrong.

What Joe was doing was simple. It was almost mechanical, jab, dodge, jab again. But it wasn't just repetition. It was timing. It was accuracy. It was defense turned into offense, and no matter how strong Bando was, he couldn't break through it.

If anything, Joe's technique was like fighting a boss battle where the pattern never changed, except Joe never made a mistake.

Still, Bando wasn't just some thug. He was an athlete. A fighter. A brawler who'd risen to the top of his school not just with strength, but with guts. In his mind, he believed he might even be stronger than Rick.

And this? This was supposed to be his moment.

Rick had failed. So now it was Bando's chance to show what he was made of, to take out the Bloodline group one by one and lead the alliance into victory.

'This is not how I imagined this going!' Bando screamed in his head as he took another swing. His neck snapped from the impact. His right eye had swollen so badly that he could no longer see out of it, and it was starting to mess with the vision in his left eye too.

And that... was the beginning of the end.

Joe had picked up on it. Now when he threw jabs toward the blind spot, Bando didn't know how to block.

Each strike landed harder. More often.

Bando's legs began to buckle. His balance was gone. His stamina drained. Then, finally, he dropped to one knee, gasping.

He stayed there, exposed, expecting the final punch to come. His arms refused to lift, and his body no longer obeyed. All that was left was to accept defeat.

But the final hit never came.

"We shouldn't hurt each other more than we have to, right?" Joe said calmly, his fist frozen in the air, ready, but not willing, to strike.

Despite the pain, despite the humiliation, Bando smiled weakly.

"You're right," he said, barely standing on trembling legs. "It's my loss."

The declaration echoed through the cage.

"I've lost!" he shouted and turned to make his way back to his side of the arena. He limped, his pride bruised but his spirit oddly lighter.

Once again, the victory fell to the Bloodline Group.

What surprised people wasn't that they'd won, some had begun expecting that. What shocked them was how they kept winning. The fight had looked completely one-sided. While it was the longest match so far, it had also been the most dominant display of control and skill from beginning to end.

Bando was halfway back to the Clapton side when he started feeling some strength return to his legs. Still bruised and aching, he turned and gave Rick a single look.

"Don't bother kicking me out of the alliance," Bando muttered. "I'll leave before you have to lift a finger. But let me say this, unless you can take out every single one of them yourself, this thing's already lost."

His voice hardened.

"And if you think making enemies of the only ones who had your back through all of this is smart, then you're already finished. Even if you win this whole thing... the alliance is broken."

Back on the other side of the ring, Joe returned to his team. He walked with a slight bounce in his step and spread his arms wide, expecting cheers and praise.

At first, the students clapped and cheered for his return, applauding the clear win. But then they caught a glimpse of his face.

The smug smile.

The cocky expression.

The applause began to fizzle.

"Man, is it just me, or... do you suddenly want to punch that face?" someone muttered.

"Yeah. Everything he just did out there that was so cool? Kinda just lost its shine."

Just then, Steven marched over, grabbed Joe's wrist, and yanked his hand up for inspection.

"OW!" Joe yelped, flinching.

"Look what you did to yourself," Steven scolded. "Do you even realize you might not be able to punch for weeks with your hand like this?"

Joe looked down.

The skin was torn open, blood dripping steadily from his knuckles. His hand was swollen, the bruises already forming beneath the skin.

Most likely, there were fractures.

"Punching without gloves is not the same as training in the gym," Steven said sternly. "I know I taught you how to jab, but do I really have to teach you everything? Use your head, Joe!"

While Steven laid into him, Max walked over and gently placed a hand on Joe's shoulder.

"I'll take care of your hand," Max said. "You did a good job, Greeny."

Then he turned to Jay, his expression sharpening with purpose.

"Now it's your turn."

Jay nodded silently. The last of the five to fight before the tournament shifted into the winners' bracket.

"Jay," Max said, eyes narrowing with confidence, "do me a favor. I don't just want you to win. I want you to show everyone, all these schools, what kind of dominating force the Billion Bloodline Group really is."