Getting clipped by another rapid strike as he tried to open distance, Jason finally decided pure defense was getting him nowhere. The longer he stayed reactive, the more Michael dictated the rhythm. He set his feet, coated both fists in a thin layer of spiritual energy, and stepped in to exchange.
Punches met punches. Michael's speed still forced Jason to take glancing blows across the ribs and shoulder, but now Jason was landing answers of his own—short, heavy hooks that made the taller boy's guard tighten.
*What is wrong with you?* the bracelet snapped inside his mind. *You're burning energy trading clean hits. And why aren't you using the technique you've been drilling?*
Jason's eyes narrowed. *Dammit—I actually forgot.*
He adjusted at once. The Invisible Iron Fist coating thickened and stabilized, becoming a dense, transparent gauntlet around both hands. The next exchange changed character. Michael still landed the occasional strike, but the number dropped sharply. Jason's fists began finding gaps—ribs, floating rib, the soft point just under the sternum. Whenever Michael raised a guard to stop one blow, another was already arriving from a different line.
Jason ended the sequence with a full-power straight. Michael, trusting his reinforced guard, brought both forearms up to block. The coated fist met bone with a deep, ugly crack. Michael's eyes went wide. A second later the pain arrived in full; he staggered back with a raw scream, hands already swelling and crooked.
Jason lowered his arms, breathing evenly, and offered a thin smile. "Still want to continue?"
Michael did not answer. Gritting his teeth hard enough that the muscles in his jaw jumped, he retreated to the rest of the group, cradling his ruined hands.
Andrew stared at the damage. "What happened?"
"I don't know," Michael forced out between clenched teeth. "His punches were ordinary at first. Then that last one… it felt like a mountain hit me."
Andrew's expression flattened. "Go get that treated. I'll handle the rest."
He stepped into the clearing without the usual lazy smile. The air around him felt heavier.
"I'll give you credit for beating my men," Andrew said. "That ends now."
Jason rolled one shoulder, still tasting copper from an earlier clip. "You've all had your fun for weeks. I decided it was my turn."
"We'll see how long that smile lasts."
Andrew vanished.
Jason barely had time to register the word *fast* before a fist slammed into his lower back, driving the air from his lungs. An instant later Andrew was in front of him; a second punch cracked across his cheekbone and snapped his head sideways. Andrew was already gone again, reappearing at a safe distance with a look of cold satisfaction.
"Still think you can win?"
Jason spat blood onto the dirt. "I still believe I can take you."
Andrew did not bother answering. He came in again, a blur of controlled violence. Jason gave ground, trying to read the angles, but Andrew's footwork was simply cleaner. A low kick swept Jason's legs out from under him. The moment his back hit the earth Andrew was already astride him, fists rising and falling in short, punishing arcs aimed at the face.
Dennis, who had regained consciousness, shouted encouragement. The remaining follower joined in. The clearing filled with the wet sound of impacts and the gang's crude cheering.
Jason took three solid punches before he managed to drive a knee upward into Andrew's side hard enough to unbalance him. He shoved, rolled, and scrambled to his feet. His left eye was already swelling shut. Blood ran freely from both nostrils. He wiped it with the back of his wrist and kept his remaining good eye fixed on Andrew.
Andrew looked almost pleased. "Still confident?"
"You talk too much," Jason rasped. "Shut up and fight."
Andrew cracked his knuckles and walked forward. Jason settled his stance and began gathering spiritual energy into both legs and both fists at once—Phantom Kick pathways and Invisible Iron Fist coating simultaneously. The dual circulation was still clumsy, but it held.
Andrew attacked without further words. Jason gave ground in small increments, focusing most of his attention on maintaining the energy layers. Every time he threw a coated punch Andrew slipped or parried, clearly wary after what had happened to Michael. That caution created a narrow opening. While Andrew's eyes stayed locked on the glowing fists, Jason's right leg snapped upward in a short, powered front kick that drove straight into Andrew's midsection.
At the same instant Jason's left fist—still fully coated—connected cleanly with the side of Andrew's face.
The two impacts landed almost together. Andrew's eyes rolled. His body went slack and he collapsed sideways onto the dirt, completely unconscious.
For a frozen second the remaining three boys simply stared. Dennis recovered first.
"Get him!" he yelled. "Don't let the bastard leave!"
Jason did not stay to celebrate. He turned and ran.
The woods behind the outer camps were his training ground; he knew every low branch, every animal trail, every place where the undergrowth grew thick enough to break line of sight. He used all of it. The pursuit lasted several minutes of crashing underbrush and angry shouts, but gradually the sounds fell behind. When he was certain he was no longer followed, Jason changed direction and made for home at a limping, ground-eating pace.
He reached the tent on the last of his strength. The flap was open. Clara and Hannah were both inside. Jason did not speak. He simply crossed the small space, dropped onto his sleeping mat, and was unconscious before his head fully settled on the thin pillow.
Hannah's face tightened with worry. "Looks like big brother was bullied by those guys again."
Clara studied the faint, almost content curve that remained on her son's bruised mouth even in sleep. She shook her head slowly.
"I don't think it was that simple," she said quietly. "Look at the smile. Someone who only got beaten doesn't usually sleep with an expression like that you know."