**Early morning, Midtown High School.**
The morning mist had not yet dissipated, and raindrops dripped from the oak leaves at the school gate.
Damian held a long-handled black umbrella, a silent silhouette moving through the humid dawn.
He wore a neatly ironed white shirt, its top button fastened, and a dark gray knitted vest that accentuated his slim, upright frame.
His black hair was slightly long, the ends beaded with tiny droplets. A few strands clung to his forehead, but they couldn't conceal his eyes—bright with curiosity, though he tried hard to suppress it.
"Hey! Dumb boy over there! Did you finish the homework I asked you to help me with yesterday?!"
"You'd better give me a 'yes,' or I'll make you cry like a little girl and run home to your mommy—hahaha!"
"Hahahaha—!!" × 10
Suddenly, a familiar yet unwelcome voice cut through the air from behind, laced with the usual American mockery. The surrounding students immediately burst into laughter.
It was Flash Thompson.
An image deeply etched into the original body's memory—and one it feared.
The original host had been bullied by him for years. Verbal abuse was a daily ritual; physical attacks were just as common. But the original was a coward, never daring to fight back.
Damian, however, had no interest in engaging. He kept walking straight toward the school building without breaking stride.
Seeing no reaction, Flash let out a lazy whistle and motioned for his group to block Damian's path.
"What's this? Has Dumb Boy grown a spine today? Or did you finally learn how to play dead?"
As he spoke, Flash reached out to shove Damian's shoulder.
Damian sidestepped smoothly, then leveled the tip of his umbrella at Flash's throat. With a deliberately blank expression, he said:
"A wise mage once said, 'Fools are still human beings—raised by their parents.' So I'll tolerate fools… but only up to a point. You should cherish that."
Flash squinted, pretending not to hear. He leaned in with exaggerated curiosity and mimicked:
"What was that? I didn't catch it—you—"
But before he could finish, a voice rang out from beyond the circle of onlookers:
"That's enough, Flash!"
The crowd parted, revealing the speaker.
It was a boy of striking handsomeness, though slightly lean, holding a camera in one hand.
Flash whirled around, grabbed the boy's collar, and nearly lifted him off the ground, grinning cruelly.
"Well, if it isn't 'Insignificant Parker'! Did you take the wrong pill this morning? Or are you volunteering to take his beating for him?"
Peter Parker flinched—but steeled himself and spoke up:
"I said, that's—"
Before he could finish, Flash swung his right fist without warning.
**Thud!**
Just as the punch was about to land, the handle of the black umbrella hooked precisely around Flash's wrist. With minimal effort, Damian arrested the blow mid-air.
He held the umbrella like a conductor's baton—steady, unwavering—and warned calmly:
"Though body language is a form of expression, I'd advise you to use it less. It's an art… and I happen to know a little about art."
Flash stared at him, momentarily thrown off. After a beat of silence, he frowned and asked:
"…What did you just say?"
Damian sighed deeply. With a fluid motion, he retracted the umbrella, shrugged off his backpack, and tossed it to Peter Parker. Then, looking at Flash with weary resignation, he said:
"…Forget it. Just do it."
Damian's posture while holding the umbrella was very distinctive—his thumb pressed into the groove of the handle, as if he were ready to attack at any moment, or perhaps to salute.
Seeing Damian's calm, almost caring expression, Flash flew into a rage. His face flushed crimson, and he swung his right fist straight at Damian's face!
"Whoosh—!"
The gust from the punch ruffled the strands of hair on Damian's forehead. He sidestepped—just barely—but precisely enough to let Flash's fist graze the tip of his nose.
In the same motion, Damian flicked his wrist. The black long-handled umbrella rose from below like a coiling dragon and, with a sharp *snap*, struck the inside of Flash's wrist.
"Ugh!"
Flash cried out in pain; his entire right arm went numb instantly.
Damian gave him no time to recover. He tapped the umbrella's tip to the ground, used the rebound to launch himself upward, and whipped his right leg forward, driving it hard into Flash's abdomen.
*Bang!*
Flash staggered backward, crashing into two of his henchmen. All three tumbled to the ground, sending up a spray of filthy water.
Silence fell over the scene.
Flash struggled to his feet, mud and stinking water dripping from his face, and roared at his stunned companions:
"What are you staring at?! Get him—now!"
At his command, more than a dozen men charged forward.
Damian's eyes flashed. In one fluid motion, he brought the umbrella across his chest.
*Shuashua—!*
The first two attackers lunged simultaneously. Damian blocked their punches with the umbrella; the metal ribs clanged dully against their fists.
Riding the momentum, he took half a step back, then spun and thrust the umbrella handle like a spear, striking the nerve cluster beneath one man's armpit.
"Ahhhhh!"
The man's cheeks twitched violently. His arms went limp, and he collapsed to his knees.
Three more rushed in from the right. Damian flicked his wrist—the umbrella tip traced a swift arc and slammed into the hollow beneath one man's collarbone.
*Bang!*
As that man doubled over in pain, Damian drove his knee upward, knocking him backward into the arms of his companion.
*Bang!*
Flash seized the opening and attacked from behind—but Damian moved as if he had eyes in the back of his head. He dropped his body low and thrust the umbrella handle backward under his armpit, striking Flash squarely in the knee.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
Flash screamed and dropped to one knee.
Damian's movements were seamless, the black umbrella seeming to come alive in his hands—now stabbing like a longsword, now sweeping like a short staff. The metal tip carved cold arcs of light through the sunlight.
His white shirt remained spotless, save for faint smudges on the cuffs from blocking blows.
Finally, three men charged at once. Damian suddenly tossed the umbrella into the air.
Instinctively, they all looked up—
*Bang! Bang! Bang!*
Damian surged forward, chopping the side of one man's neck with a knife-hand strike. At the same instant, he caught the falling umbrella—the tip slammed into the second man's Adam's apple with a sickening *thud*. With his right leg, he swept the third off his feet.
Time seemed to freeze.
"Uh…"
More than a dozen men lay groaning on the ground. Only Damian remained standing, the tip of his black umbrella leveled steadily at Flash—the last one still on his feet.
"Apologize," Damian said softly, "and leave."
His words were as light as a sigh, yet they carried the weight of mercy. Flash, trembling, stammered an apology and fled at once, his followers scrambling after him.
As they disappeared into the distance, Damian turned to Peter Parker, who stood nearby, dazed and wide-eyed. He extended his hand with a gentle smile.
"Hello—could you give me my backpack back?"