Chapter 22: "License to Thrill (or, Who Needs Paperwork When You've Got an Ancient Sect Head?)"
In which I ride a bike I definitely don't have a license for and don't immediately end up in jail. Mostly thanks to supernatural connections.
So there I was, face-planted on a patch of grass, breathing like I'd just run five marathons while being chased by zombie cheerleaders.
Every part of me ached.
My ribs felt like they'd been auditioning for a percussion solo, and my lucky baseball bat?
Bent at the handle and halfway to retirement.
And then the men in black walked in.
No, not the Will Smith kind.
These guys were the serious kind—the kind of people who looked like they'd been carved out of granite and dressed in imported suits that probably cost more than my house.
They moved through the fog and moonlight like they owned the graveyard.
One of them—tall, built like a tank, with a scar across his chin—walked right up to me, lowered his sunglasses—
yes, sunglasses at night, because gangster fashion rules are weird—
and said:
"Are you Evan Mercer?"
I blinked at him from my crumpled position on the ground.
"Last I checked."
He didn't smile.
Instead, he did something way more terrifying.
He bowed.
"I'm honored to meet Master Asterion's disciple," he said solemnly, like I was some kind of young warlord instead of a limping high schooler with grass stains on his jeans. "We'll take it from here."
Before I could say, "Wait, what?" his crew moved into action.
They checked on the unconscious thugs—still out cold, thank you, baseball bat—and started zip-tying them like professionals.
One guy pulled out a phone and casually called the police.
"I thought you guys were the police," I muttered.
"No."
Scarface nodded toward a black SUV that looked like it could survive the apocalypse.
"We work for the organization now under Master Asterion's orders. You, young master, are under our protection."
Okay.
Time out.
First off:
Young master?
Second:
Under protection?
Third:
Asterion apparently had people.
Like, actual black-suit, armored-SUV, dispose-of-problems-efficiently people.
I was still processing all that when they lifted me—
very gently, I might add—
and carried me into the backseat of their armored cruiser like I was made of glass.
I expected cold leather.
Maybe handcuffs.
Possibly creepy surveillance equipment.
Instead, they handed me a juice box.
Apple flavor.
And a warm towel for my face.
And a literal first-aid kit, which one of them proceeded to use like he'd done battlefield triage in six countries.
They patched me up faster than a school nurse on Parent-Teacher Day.
"Do you require painkillers, sir?" asked another guy, adjusting the car temperature for me. "Or perhaps something from the snack basket?"
I stared at him.
"Snack basket?"
"Yes."
He gestured toward a small compartment.
"Master Asterion instructed us to look after you."
I sipped my juice.
Dazed.
It was organic.
And cold.
"Is this… real?" I asked no one in particular.
Scarface, now sitting in the passenger seat, turned slightly.
"You are Master Asterion's disciple. His position places you above us."
Oh.
Great.
Because that's exactly what my teenage ego needed.
Asterion accidentally making me underworld royalty.
"We follow his orders," the man continued. "And when appropriate, yours."
I stared at him.
I stared at my bent baseball bat lying on the floorboard.
I stared at my juice box.
Then I did the only thing I could think of.
"...Do you guys have grape flavor?"
Scarface looked toward another man.
"Check."
Note to self:
Getting beaten half to death in a graveyard?
Terrible.
Getting treated like the heir to an ancient cultivator's rapidly reforming criminal empire afterward?
Kind of awesome.
Later, while the cleanup continued, I sat on a tombstone.
Not because I was feeling particularly emo—though, to be fair, I'd just been in a graveyard brawl with five grown men who had more tattoos than IQ points.
No.
I sat there because my legs had the consistency of overcooked noodles, and the tombstone was the only seat nearby that didn't smell like cigarette ash and broken dreams.
That's when Asterion appeared.
Not physically.
More like his spiritual image stepped into the edge of my awareness, visible to me as clearly as if he were sitting right there.
One second, empty air.
The next—
Asterion.
Relaxed robes.
Calm expression.
The easy confidence of a man who had spent centuries surviving situations considerably worse than mine.
He sat on the tombstone across from me, arms resting casually on his knees.
"You did well."
Despite myself, I grinned.
"So... does that mean I'm officially a hero now?"
Asterion raised an eyebrow.
"Do you want a certificate?"
"I mean, maybe a sticker."
"You'll have to earn one."
"Of course I will."
Asterion chuckled.
"What you did tonight wasn't about titles. You were given a responsibility, and you followed through despite being afraid."
He nodded toward my battered body.
"Messily."
"Hey."
"But you did it."
Something warm rose in my chest.
Pride.
Relief.
Possibly leftover adrenaline refusing to leave my bloodstream.
Then Asterion's face became more serious.
And there it was.
The inevitable but.
"But you were careless."
I sighed.
"Which part?"
Asterion actually started counting on his fingers.
"You didn't check for reinforcements."
One.
"You committed to a direct confrontation before properly studying all five opponents."
Two.
"You relied too heavily on the bat."
Three.
"You forgot the smoke talismans I gave you."
Four.
"And you tripped over a grave marker while attempting to look impressive."
I winced.
"That last one feels unnecessary."
"It was memorable."
"Okay, okay. I get it."
Asterion's expression softened.
"Evan, this is a journey. You won tonight."
He glanced at the unconscious men being loaded into vehicles.
"Barely."
"Thanks."
"Barely is acceptable for now."
That made me look at him.
"Just don't let barely become your standard."
I nodded.
Fair.
Then Asterion's eyes gained that little spark that usually meant he was about to make my life either much better or much worse.
"Now."
I became suspicious.
"What?"
"You earned your reward."
My eyes widened.
"No."
Asterion smiled.
I heard it before I saw it.
The roar.
Low.
Mechanical.
Beautiful.
The sound of the Fireblade purring like a giant metallic tiger with anger-management issues.
My head snapped toward the cemetery path.
There it stood beneath the moonlight.
Sleek red bodywork.
Black detailing.
Faint formation lines along the chassis.
The kind of motorcycle that made grown men stare and teenage boys immediately lose all ability to make rational decisions.
My jaw dropped.
"Is that—"
"Yes."
I stood so fast I nearly fell straight back onto the tombstone.
"Wait."
My eyes narrowed.
"You mean mine, right?"
Asterion shook his head.
"No."
My soul cracked.
"I said you could ride it."
"For tonight?"
"For tonight."
"But—"
"You want to own it?"
"YES."
"Earn more points."
I looked between him and the motorcycle like a toddler being offered one lick of a popsicle.
"That's cruel."
"Motivating."
"Psychological warfare."
"Effective psychological warfare."
I hate it when he's right.
So...
Did I climb onto the Fireblade?
Absolutely.
Did I immediately discover that unlocking riding knowledge in my head and actually feeling several hundred pounds of machine respond beneath me were two very different experiences?
Also absolutely.
Did I scream when I hit the throttle too hard and nearly launched myself backward?
We don't need to discuss that.
Asterion laughed for a solid minute.
But you know what?
Worth it.
It was 4:30 p.m. the next day.
The sun was doing that lazy golden-hour thing where everything looked cinematic and slightly too good to be real.
Birds chirped.
The breeze ruffled the trees.
Somewhere, a little kid probably dropped their ice cream cone in slow motion.
And I?
I was riding the Fireblade like I was in the final scene of an action movie.
Black leather jacket.
Black pants.
Black helmet with a silver flame emblem on the side—
customized, thank you very much.
The engine purred beneath me like a wild animal barely restrained, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I actually had a grip on some of the chaos around me.
One tiny problem.
"I DON'T HAVE A LICENSE!" I yelled into my helmet.
Inside my head—because apparently having an ancient Sect Head live rent-free in your skull also includes unsolicited legal advice—Asterion chuckled.
"I'm aware."
"THAT'S NOT REASSURING!"
"The motorcycle's paperwork has been handled."
I slowed behind a minivan going approximately seventeen years below the speed limit.
"Paperwork doesn't magically give me a license!"
"Correct."
"Then why am I on a public road?!"
There was a pause.
"Because you insisted."
...
Okay.
That was technically true.
But I didn't appreciate him using facts against me.
"The organization registered the motorcycle properly," Asterion continued. "And I've already arranged a legitimate explanation for why it's in your possession."
"That still leaves the small issue of ME BEING UNLICENSED."
"Which is why you're going to learn properly and obtain one."
I blinked inside the helmet.
Wait.
That was...
Actually responsible.
Asterion continued.
"Until then, don't attract unnecessary attention."
At that exact moment, I accelerated past the slow minivan.
Asterion went silent.
Then:
"Evan."
"What?"
"That was unnecessary."
"It was emotionally necessary."
"That's not a category."
"It is now."
I stopped at a red light.
The Fireblade hummed beneath me, vibrating through my arms.
I looked down at the controls.
"This still feels extremely illegal."
"It is."
I nearly dropped the bike.
"ASTERION!"
"You asked."
"You're supposed to tell me it's fine!"
"Why would I lie?"
I groaned.
This man was impossible.
"Besides," he continued, "if a police officer stops you, you will stop."
I froze.
"No supernatural mind tricks?"
"No."
"No running?"
"No."
"No mysterious blue flames while doing seventy through downtown?"
Asterion was silent.
I narrowed my eyes.
"You did that, didn't you?"
"The circumstances were different."
"YOU ABSOLUTE HYPOCRITE."
The light turned green.
I took off—
at a completely reasonable speed.
Mostly because I could practically feel Asterion judging me.
Still...
Once we reached quieter roads, I let myself enjoy it.
The wind.
The engine.
The way the bike leaned beneath me.
Every movement felt increasingly natural, the riding skill Asterion had helped implant becoming something my own body was slowly learning to reproduce.
I passed cars.
Carefully.
Took corners.
Mostly legally.
And only nearly stalled twice.
Progress.
People stared.
Pedestrians turned their heads.
A couple of teenagers actually pointed.
Then, at one stoplight, I noticed Sofia and two of her friends standing near the crossing.
Her eyes widened.
Oh.
Oh, this was too perfect.
Old Evan would've panicked.
Probably crashed into a mailbox trying to impress her.
New Evan?
I raised two fingers from the handlebar in a casual salute.
Then the light turned green.
I rode away.
No dramatic burnout.
No illegal street-racing nonsense.
Just enough throttle for the engine to roar pleasantly.
Which, honestly?
Felt even cooler.
Asterion's voice came quietly through my mind.
"Better."
I grinned under the helmet.
"You saw that?"
"Unfortunately."
"She was staring."
"Watch the road."
"You're ruining my moment."
"I'm keeping your moment from ending against a lamppost."
Fair.
I leaned forward slightly, feeling the bike move beneath me.
"So."
"Hm?"
"Still want this back?"
Asterion chuckled.
"Earn your points."
"And then?"
"Then it's yours."
My grin widened.
The road opened ahead.
The sun was dropping.
The Fireblade was beneath me.
And for once?
I didn't need to pretend I was becoming someone.
I could actually feel it happening.