Chapter 21: "Gravestones, Gravel, and One Very Lucky Bat"
In which Evan discovers that street fights aren't like the movies—and that baseball bats are surprisingly versatile.
Here's something I never thought I'd say:
I walked into school and people didn't look at me like I was a walking wedgie magnet.
No, seriously.
The usual sideways glances, snickers, and "Hey Mercer, your pants on backwards again?" jokes were noticeably absent. It was like the whole school had been body-snatched and replaced with semi-decent humans.
Even the vending machine didn't eat my dollar this time.
Coincidence?
I think not.
Mara, Toby, and I were strutting down the hallway like we owned the place.
Not in a "we're too cool for this school" way—more like, "we survived supernatural training and leg day, and we dare you to mess with us" kind of vibe.
Toby even had his hoodie unzipped halfway like he was some kind of anime protagonist mid-power arc.
Mara looked like she could crush someone's soul with a stare.
I was just trying to keep up.
The change wasn't subtle.
People noticed.
And not in a "Look, the nerds are role-playing again" way.
No.
This was different.
They respected us.
Even the teachers had stopped giving me that "we'll just pass you so you go away" look.
Mrs. Thorne actually gave me a thumbs up in algebra.
I'm still trying to decide if I should be honored or afraid.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I wasn't suddenly the King of Ravencrest High.
I didn't have a locker shrine or a fan club—though Toby claims he heard whispers.
But for once, I didn't feel like a loser trying to cosplay confidence.
I felt it.
In my spine.
In my bones.
In my probably-bruised ribs from training, but hey, progress hurts.
And speaking of growth—
Derek was suspended.
Something about "excessive testosterone and a locker door."
I won't say I smiled when I heard.
But I definitely didn't cry.
The best part?
Sofia walked past me and did not get my attention.
I let her walk by.
She even flipped her hair.
Old Evan would've written sonnets in her honor.
New Evan just nodded and kept moving.
Why?
Because I finally realized something:
Chasing people who don't see your worth is like yelling into a void—just louder and sadder.
If she didn't care about who I really was, then I wasn't going to waste my time.
Unless she sent me a handwritten apology with cookies.
Then maybe we'd talk.
But honestly, my mind was elsewhere.
Because after our mission last night—which included ghosts, a sentient trash can, and Mara drop-kicking a poltergeist—I finally had enough points to unlock a new skill.
Riding.
Motorcycle riding, to be specific.
More importantly:
Fireblade riding.
That glorious red beast waiting for me like a loyal steed forged in the fires of coolness and probable death.
I opened my mental menu like a kid checking a loot box.
The glowing Unlock: Riding Skill option stared at me, whispering promises of wind in my hair and epic entrances.
That's when Asterion's voice piped up in my head.
Of course.
"There are better choices. Perfect Body Art. Wind-Step Movement. Both would improve your chances of surviving. Your body is barely at the level of a trained soldier."
Barely.
At.
Soldier.
Level.
"Thanks for the ego boost," I muttered.
"I'm not here to flatter you."
"Clearly."
"Choose carefully."
I stared at the options.
Perfect Body Art—strength, speed, durability.
Wind-Step Movement—faster dodging, better footwork, dramatically lower chance of getting punched in the face.
All very logical.
Sensible.
Wise.
And yet…
Fireblade.
There was just something poetic about earning the right to ride that thing.
Like it symbolized everything I was becoming.
Not a reckless kid.
Not a coward.
But someone in control.
Someone moving forward.
Someone who could drive.
So naturally...
I chose Riding.
Asterion was silent for several seconds.
"You're disappointed, aren't you?"
"It's your choice."
That was somehow worse.
But he didn't stop me.
And that was the point.
This was my path.
My story.
And possibly my funeral.
You ever have one of those days where everything clicks?
Like, the universe finally stops throwing anvils at your face and goes:
"You know what? Let's give this kid a break."
Yeah.
Today was that kind of day.
After school, Mara, Toby, and I hung out in our usual spot behind the gym.
There's something sacred about those crumbling bleachers—the way they creak when you sit down, the smell of sweat and spray paint, the occasional pigeon watching you like it knows your secrets.
It was home.
Toby was tinkering with his wrist console, muttering about drones and thermal sensors, while Mara threw him increasingly sarcastic commentary.
"Careful, Toby. Last time you 'upgraded' that thing, it nearly fried your eyebrows off."
"That was one time," he huffed, then looked at me.
"Okay, maybe two."
We laughed.
And not the awkward, "I'm-trying-to-fit-in" kind of laugh.
It was the real kind.
The we've-been-through-stuff laugh.
The I'd-fight-ghosts-for-you kind.
I didn't realize it until recently, but moments like these?
They're worth their weight in ectoplasm.
Eventually, Toby waved us off to go help his grandma with something techy—or possibly to avoid Mara's relentless teasing—which left just me and Mara.
And that's when things got…
Soft.
We wandered over to the park.
The sun was doing that golden-hour thing where everything looks like it belongs in a movie montage.
Birds were chirping.
Kids were screaming in the distance—because this is Havenbrook, and someone probably summoned a slime monster again.
And the breeze was just warm enough to make you forget your hoodie at home.
Mara nudged my shoulder, smirking.
"You're quiet."
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous," she said, mock gasping. "Should I alert the authorities?"
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help smiling.
"Just… stuff. You. This. Us."
She arched an eyebrow, that trademark Mara look that said:
I'm intrigued, but I'll pretend not to be so you keep talking.
So I did.
"Today felt... different. Not because Derek wasn't around to shove me into a locker. Or because teachers didn't assume I was sleeping through class."
I glanced at her.
"It was us. We're changing. Getting stronger. Smarter. Better."
She reached out and laced her fingers through mine.
"You're changing, Evan. You're finally seeing what was right in front of you."
I swear, if my heart beat any faster, it would've jumped straight out of my ribs.
I looked at her.
Really looked at her.
The purple streak in her hair catching the fading sunlight.
The way her eyeliner made her eyes look like they held galaxies.
And that smirk that said she could destroy you or kiss you depending on how the conversation went.
And then she kissed me.
Not the awkward TV-drama first kiss where someone sneezes halfway through or someone's dad walks in.
No.
This was real.
Warm.
Steady.
And…
Familiar.
Like I'd done this in a dream a hundred times but never realized I could just do it in real life.
She pulled back just enough to whisper:
"Took you long enough."
"I'm a slow learner," I mumbled, slightly dazed.
She bumped her forehead against mine.
"But you're worth the wait."
Cue internal system crash.
I swear I heard my brain make the Windows XP shutdown noise.
Something Asterion had told me early on floated back into my mind:
"Sometimes people search the horizon for treasure and overlook what has been beside them all along."
I used to think that kind of talk was ancient-master fortune-cookie wisdom.
But now?
Now it made sense.
I'd spent years trying to figure out who I was.
What I was supposed to be.
Chasing popularity.
Approval.
Sofia.
Answers.
But the people who mattered had always been beside me.
Helping.
Believing.
Caring about me even when I didn't particularly like myself.
Today, I held Mara's hand.
And it wasn't just a romance thing.
It was a finally getting it thing.
Maybe Asterion really was wise.
Don't tell him I said that.
You ever get the feeling someone dropped you into the deep end of a shark tank and yelled:
"Swim, champ!"?
Yeah.
That was my vibe walking into my first "part-time job."
Most teens get to work retail.
Maybe flip burgers.
Maybe babysit a gremlin in diapers.
Me?
I get an ancient cultivator mentor assigning missions like:
"Go shut down an armed drug operation near a cemetery."
No training wheels.
No backup.
Just vibes.
To be fair, Asterion did say it was a test.
Which, I've learned, is his preferred phrase for:
"I'm about to put you somewhere dangerous. Try to learn something before you die."
I approached the graveyard just as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting a dramatic orange glow across the tombstones.
Very cinematic.
Very spooky.
Very please-don't-let-me-get-shot-today.
There they were—
five guys lounging beneath the big gnarly tree near the far edge of the cemetery.
Smoking.
Laughing.
One of them picking his teeth with a butterfly knife like it was a toothpick.
You know.
Just your average drug-dealing aesthetic.
All of them wore cheap jackets, slicked-back hair, and an aura of:
We've-done-prison-time-but-we're-still-unimpressive.
For a second, I thought about calling in sick.
But then Asterion's voice echoed in my head.
"You wanted responsibility."
Fine.
Responsibility.
Confidence.
Swagger.
All that stuff.
I straightened my jacket—
okay, hoodie—
cracked my knuckles quietly because it still hurt, and strolled up like I owned the place.
"Hey, fellas," I called casually, hands in my pockets like I wasn't currently standing ten feet from five career criminals.
They all turned.
One of them, the beefiest, squinted at me.
"What, you get lost, kid? Halloween's not for another five months."
"Nah," I said, flashing a grin. "I just figured I'd drop by and remind you that dealing discount cocaine in front of dead people is kind of tacky."
There was a pause.
One of the thugs actually snorted.
"You got a death wish or something?"
"Not really. I just have a strict no-drugs-near-haunted-graves policy. Bad for the local atmosphere."
"Man, what's this kid talking about?" another thug muttered.
They stood.
Weapons appeared.
Knives.
A bat.
A chain.
And yes—
a very illegal amount of firearms.
Except...
I knew something they didn't.
Asterion had already disabled their guns.
I had no idea how he'd done it.
He'd muttered something about disrupting the firing mechanisms with a thread of ki, and my brain had wisely chosen not to ask for the physics lecture.
Basically?
They were carrying expensive metal paperweights.
I tilted my head, still grinning.
"Tell you what," I said. "I'll give you a head start. Pack up your overpriced chalk dust and leave the city before you embarrass yourselves."
The leader pulled out his gun and pointed it directly at my forehead.
My smile suddenly became much harder to maintain.
Please work.
He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
He blinked.
Tried again.
Click-click.
Still nothing.
Relief flooded through me so hard my knees almost gave out.
I smiled wider.
"Oh no. Don't tell me the warranty expired."
The guy cursed and tried again.
The others caught on.
Guns came out.
Triggers pulled.
Clicks and curses filled the cemetery like a symphony of frustrated crime.
I took a step forward, lowering my voice.
"Still feel tough?"
The leader growled and drew his knife instead.
"You're dead meat, punk."
I sighed dramatically.
"Why is it always 'you're dead meat'? No one ever says, 'Hey, good job standing up for your neighborhood, mysterious and charming teenage vigilante.'"
Then I raised my fists.
My stance shifted into something resembling what Asterion had beaten into me during training.
"Alright," I muttered.
"Let's see if all those bruises were educational."
They charged.
So, quick question:
Have you ever had your face introduced to the business end of a steel-toed boot while trying to swing a baseball bat at a guy who looks like he eats drywall for breakfast?
No?
Then congratulations.
You're smarter than me.
Because that's exactly how my night started after I decided to open my heroic career with a five-on-one street brawl in a graveyard.
To be fair, I wasn't entirely stupid.
I brought my lucky baseball bat.
You know, the one from my little league days that still had a dent from when I hit a home run off Coach Reynolds' car.
That bat and I have history.
And thank every friendly spirit in existence I had it, because without it, I'd be very dead.
They charged, yelling something very inspirational like:
"GET HIM!"
I swung the bat like my life depended on it—
which, spoiler alert, it did.
The first guy got a solid WHACK to the stomach and folded like a beach chair.
Unfortunately, the second guy caught me in the ribs with a chain.
I'd like to tell you I took it like a stoic anime protagonist.
Nah.
I screamed.
Then I tripped over a gravestone.
Not my proudest moment.
But!
As fate would have it, I landed near a sharp rock.
Instinct kicked in.
I grabbed it and flung it straight into one guy's face.
He dropped like his Wi-Fi just disconnected.
Two down.
Three to go.
The others were smarter now.
They circled.
Coordinated.
One came at me with a knife.
I ducked—
sort of.
He cut my hoodie sleeve but missed the arm.
I rewarded him with a bat swing straight to the kneecap.
CRACK.
He went down wailing.
I went down wheezing.
My lungs were burning.
My bat arm felt like jelly.
And my side?
Definitely bruised.
Possibly cracked.
One of the thugs tackled me.
I remembered the lesson from Asterion's childhood.
Use what's around you.
So I grabbed him and drove the back of his head into a gravestone.
Not heroic.
But effective.
Sorry, Old Man Jenkins.
Your tombstone just saved my butt.
Now it was just me and the leader.
Bloody.
Bruised.
Staring each other down.
"You're just a kid," he spat, limping toward me.
"Yeah," I coughed.
I raised the bat.
"A kid with a bat."
Probably better not to say nothing to lose.
I had plenty to lose.
Mom.
Dad.
Lena.
Mara.
Toby.
And I'd rather not give Asterion the satisfaction of lecturing my corpse.
We clashed.
It wasn't elegant.
It wasn't cool.
I hit him.
He hit me.
I tripped him.
He elbowed me.
We wrestled in the mud like two angry raccoons until I finally slammed the bat across his chest with everything I had left.
He went down.
And stayed there.
I stood over him, swaying like a tree in a windstorm, trying very hard not to pass out or throw up.
Five thugs.
All down.
Me?
Still standing.
Barely.
My bat?
Covered in scratches, mud, and something I sincerely hoped was cemetery moss.
My body?
A beautiful canvas of bruises.
But I'd won.
Asterion's voice finally came through.
Calm.
Measured.
"Better."
I leaned against the bat.
"Better? That's all I get?"
"You used the terrain. Improvised when your plan failed. Adapted when they began coordinating."
I waited.
"And?"
"Your stance fell apart after the first chain strike. You wasted energy on three swings. You let the knife wielder get far too close, and smashing a man's skull against a gravestone is not something you should make a habit of."
I stared into the darkness.
"You couldn't just say good job?"
Asterion chuckled.
"Good job."
I blinked.
Huh.
I'll take it.
"Gee, thanks," I muttered aloud, beginning the long limp home.
"Can't wait to do this never again."
But deep down…
I felt proud.
I'd done something dangerous.
Dumb?
Yeah.
Reckless?
Definitely.
But I had stood my ground.
For the mission.
For my city.
For myself.
And maybe next time...
I'll bring two bats.