The courtyard trembled with raw energy as Crazy Bouncer's grin faded, replaced by a flicker of confusion. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing beneath the blood-smeared face.
"…Huh."
The sound was small—confused, uncertain. It was almost as if the chaos had momentarily paused, waiting for something unspoken.
Before he could voice a question or sneer, a calm, unwavering voice sliced through the tension.
"I want my name on the list of wanted fighters," the masked man declared, his tone smooth and absolute, carrying across the debris-strewn courtyard.
Crazy Bouncer clicked his tongue, glancing sideways with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.
"Oi. Don't tell me you're—"
"So forgive me, Crazy Bouncer," the *Dancer of Death* continued, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. Each movement precise, measured, as if he were following a ritual written into his bones. "But this fight ends now."
Crazy Bouncer exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, his jaw clenched.
"Tch. Always in a hurry," he muttered, cracking his neck and bouncing on his heels.
The masked man raised his hands. Not wildly—no reckless gestures, no shouting. Just perfectly controlled movements. His fingers traced invisible symbols in the air—circles, intersecting angles, pauses held long enough to feel the weight of each motion. A silent language, a dance of intent.
The courtyard responded.
A low hum vibrated through the air, subtle at first, then growing—like the strings of a bow pulled tight. Dust lifted from the ground, swirling upward in lazy spirals. Hairline fractures spider-webbed across the concrete, racing outward. Then, in a sudden burst, chunks of rubble tore free, rising like a storm lifted by gravity's sudden surrender. The ground trembled beneath the spectacle.
Andrew staggered back behind an overturned bench, eyes wide, heart pounding like a drum. His mind raced—how was he supposed to stop this? How could anyone?
The *Dancer of Death* flicked his wrist.
The concrete didn't fall. It launched.
Dozens of slabs shot forward in a spiraling storm, accelerated by the screaming wind of their passage. Each piece of debris became a deadly missile—flying, slicing through the air with purpose.
Crazy Bouncer's grin snapped back into place.
"Now that's more like it!" he roared.
He slammed his foot into the ground, unleashing a shockwave that rippled outward like an explosion. Without hesitation, he moved—bouncing, rebounding, smashing off walls, debris, even the compressed air itself. Each collision fed his momentum, turning his body into a living projectile, a reckless force of destruction.
A slab shattered against his shoulder. Another exploded as his fist tore through it. Fragments rained down as he laughed, a wild, primal sound, vibrating with raw, unrestrained power. He smashed through the storm, each movement a testament to reckless fury—wind howled, concrete screamed, and the courtyard became a war zone of flying ruin.
Andrew pressed himself low, shielding his face as debris screamed overhead. The bench behind him cracked, splintering under the impact. This was no longer a fight. It was a collision of disasters—destruction on a scale that defied reason.
And standing at the edge of the chaos—
was a boy who had never wanted to fight anyone at all.
The air trembled anew.
A sharp, mechanical hum sliced through the tumult.
Andrew looked up.
Above the storm of debris, dozens of drones flooded the sky—black, angular, military-grade. Red sensors ignited one by one, sweeping across the battlefield. Targeting lasers danced across the wreckage, locks tightening on the fighters below.
A cold, amplified voice echoed through the courtyard, everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Cease combat immediately. You are in violation of restricted-zone law."
The drones shifted, weapons primed and ready.
"Failure to comply will result in weapon deployment. Project Z units are on-site."
Crazy Bouncer rolled his neck, the annoyance clear on his face.
"Always ruining the fun," he muttered.
The *Dancer of Death* lowered his hands. The wind suddenly ceased. Floating debris fell back to the ground with thunderous crashes. Dust clouds billowed outward, swallowing the courtyard in a choking haze.
He tilted his masked face upward, unbothered by the weapons trained on him.
"…So," he said softly, almost pleased, "my name will be on the list."
He turned slightly, as if acknowledging an unseen audience beyond the drones.
"That's enough for today."
Crazy Bouncer scoffed, a smirk curling across his face.
"You're really backing off?"
The masked man didn't answer. He stepped backward into the drifting smoke—his form dissolving into the haze, as if the air itself had swallowed him whole.
Gone.
The drones hovered, relentless, scanning every inch of the wreckage, their sensors flickering with suspicion.
Andrew stood frozen beneath them, chest rising and falling wildly. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure the machines could hear it.
The amplified voice returned.
"All civilians remain where you are. Medical units inbound."
Sirens wailed—closer now, their cry almost deafening.
The fight was over.
But the damage—oh, the damage—had already been done.
A heavy, ominous sound cut through the air.
Chop-chop-chop.
Military helicopters descended over the school, wind ripping debris across the courtyard like discarded paper. Ropes unfurled, boots pounding concrete as soldiers in high-tech armor stormed into the chaos—visors glowing, weapons held with disciplined precision. Controlled. Prepared for the worst.
At the center of the squad, a woman with sharp eyes and a tablet in her hand moved swiftly. Sara.
Andrew slumped against the ground, dust streaking his uniform, his back aching dully beneath the adrenaline. His friends huddled close, their fear etched into every line of their faces.
"Doctor," Sara said crisply without looking at him. "Check him first."
A medic knelt beside Andrew, running a scanner over his torso and spine.
"Any dizziness?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No."
The scanner beeped once.
"…It's okay," the medic said, surprised. "No fractures. No internal injuries. Just impact shock. Rest for a few days."
Andrew nodded slowly.
Sara finally looked at him, her gaze lingering just a moment longer—sharp, assessing, almost measuring something he couldn't quite understand.
Then she turned to the soldiers.
"I think they were normal-ranked fighters," she said calmly. "Not top-tier—but reckless."
A heavy breath escaped her lips.
"This is on us."
Her grip tightened on the tablet.
"We catch both of them. No exceptions."
She gestured toward the ruined school.
"And we shut this place down."
Teachers murmured quietly, students whispering in fear.
Andrew's friends helped him to his feet.
"Hey," Keal said, voice tight. "We're taking you home."
"No arguments," another added.
They moved together, walking away from the wreckage. Andrew cast one last glance back—at the soldiers, the drones, the shattered school.
Sara noticed. Their eyes met briefly—hers sharp with suspicion, his steady with something unspoken.
Something had crossed into his life today.
And it wasn't leaving quietly.