“Hey, Ash,” Lucas said, his voice unnervingly calm despite the chaos. “Think you can handle a dozen more of these guys?”
Ash managed a weak smirk, his grip tightening on the stick. “Sure. Why not?”
Lucas chuckled. “Good. Let’s make it count.”
With a roar of wild yells, the majority of the lackeys ran towards them- some had sticks or broken pipes in their offense, and some were unarmed, but nonetheless, all of them seemed ready to fight.
Ready to beat the hell out of them.
Most of them ran towards Ash, while Ash was thunder-struck.
Why the hell are they coming after me?!
Now, it may have been because Ash looked weaker with a bloodied arm and a stick that was half-broken, half-chipped, while Lucas was swinging his arms and legs at them, savoring each moment.
Or, it may have been because Blake ordered them to attack Asher first, for whatever wicked plan he’s thinking of in his mind.
Both ways, Ash was doomed.
Ash tried to forget the stinging and throbbing pain in his arm, and positioned himself, side-stepping a wild punch, and forcing his stick on someone’s jaw, then ducking and smashing the stick on a guy’s ribs, while he was yelling curses.
There’s so many!
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, though.
Another came at him, swinging a pipe. Ash ducked, the pipe whooshing past his head, and then he smashed his stick against the guy’s ribs. The lackey yelled, doubling over, but Ash didn’t stop to see the damage.
Focus. Don’t stop moving.
The pain in his arm screamed at him, a constant throb, but he pushed through it. He couldn’t afford to falter- not with this many of them.
His stick slammed into another lackey’s knee, sending the guy crashing to the ground, but Ash barely had time to catch his breath before someone else was on him. A punch connected with his side, knocking the wind out of him, but he swung his stick upward, cracking it against the guy’s forearm.
The stick broke with the force.
Ash’s heart sank as he stared at the broken piece of wood in his hand. Oh, great.
A lackey saw the opportunity, rushing him with a wild grin, but Ash wasn’t done yet. He ducked under the guy’s outstretched arms, grabbing the stick he had in his hands and yanking it away. The lackey stumbled, and Ash wasted no time using the stolen weapon against him, hitting him hard in the gut.
Not today, buddy.
Meanwhile, Lucas fought like a pro. His movements were sharp, efficient, and almost casual, like he wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Punches landed squarely on jaws, and kicks sent lackeys sprawling.
Ash didn’t miss the smirk on Lucas’s face. “Having fun over there?” Ash called out, breathless but determined.
Lucas laughed, ducking a swing and countering with a punch that sent his opponent reeling. “Nah. It’s too easy.”
The tables started to shift. More of the lackeys turned their attention to Lucas, realizing that Ash wasn’t as easy a target as they’d assumed.
But the fight was far from over.
Ash barely had time to register the shift before a fist collided with his mouth. The impact was sharp, and he tasted blood, but he didn’t stop. He swung his stick wildly, catching the guy across the chest, but another lackey blindsided him, landing a hit on his injured arm.
The pain exploded, sharp and blinding. Ash stumbled, gasping, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep going.
Blake stood at the back of the chaos, his eyes locked on Ash. He wasn’t even sparing Lucas a glance. His focus was singular, his expression unreadable.
Liam approached him, his brows furrowed. “They’re tougher than we thought,” he muttered, glancing at the scene. “What’s the plan now?”
Blake hissed, his eyes narrowing. “Make way for me.”
Liam nodded, weaving through the crowd with a sense of urgency. He reached Ash, who was still pushing off attackers despite the blood dripping from his mouth and the ache in his arm.
“Hey!” Liam barked, and Ash barely had time to react before a heavy stick smashed against his forehead.
Huh?
Pain exploded across Ash’s skull, a sharp, overwhelming agony that made his vision blur. He staggered, the world tilting around him, and then his knees buckled beneath him.
Everything felt distant.
“Ash! Hey?!” Lucas’s voice cut through, all though he didn’t really have the time to see the full extent of what was happening since the dull roar of the lackeys brought him back.
Ash’s vision blurred. Warm blood trickled down his forehead, sticky, and his arm throbbed like it was on fire. Every inch of his body screamed at him to stop, to stay down, to just give up.
But giving up wasn’t an option.
With a groan, Ash pressed his palm against the ground, the dirt digging into his nails. His legs trembled as he forced himself upright, unsteady. His chest heaved, and for a moment, the world spun violently.
His eyes darted up to Liam, who stood there with a smirk that made Ash’s blood boil. “I hope it didn’t hurt,” Liam taunted, raising the stick again.
Ash didn’t give him the chance.
Idiot, he’s so dead.
Summoning strength from somewhere deep inside, Ash surged forward, ignoring the screaming protests of his body. He shoved Liam back, his palms slamming into Liam’s chest with enough force to send him stumbling.
Liam’s smirk vanished, replaced with a look of surprise.
But Ash didn’t follow through. He couldn’t. His breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, his knees threatening to buckle again. He leaned heavily on his stick, his fingers clutching it like a lifeline.
Then it happened.
Goosebumps prickled along his skin, an icy wave washing over him despite the heat of the fight. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end that sent a chill racing down his spine.
Something is wrong.
He felt it before he heard it, that shift in the air, the weight that pressed down on him. And then, there it was- the sound.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Dangerous.
Ash didn’t turn. He couldn’t.
His heart pounded wildly, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. The sound of those footsteps grew louder, closer.
And then the voice.
“Getting tired already? I didn’t even start toying with you.”
It was Blake.
Ash’s throat tightened, and he clenched his jaw, his grip on the stick faltering for just a second. He didn’t need to look back to know. The voice was enough.
The footsteps stopped, close enough that Ash could almost feel the presence looming behind him.
Move. Turn around. Dodge.
He wanted to move, to turn, to face whatever was coming, but he was frozen. His body refused to obey, locked in place by a fear so deep it felt like his very bones were trembling.
The faint scrap of metal reached his ears, the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn.
Ash’s mind raced, his thoughts tangled and frantic. Turn around. Look. Just… do it.
Ash swallowed hard, his throat dry, his palms slick with sweat. His legs felt like they were made of lead, every instinct screaming at him to run, to do something, but he was rooted to the spot.
The voice came again, quieter this time, but no less menacing.
“I wish you never came in my way, Ash.”
And still, Ash didn’t turn. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not while every nerve in his body was screaming that what waited behind him was something he wasn’t ready to face.
And then- it happened.
That sound.
Wet.
Sickening.
Final.
A blade piercing flesh.
Ash’s breath stopped, his chest tightening as the noise ripped through the air, sharp and merciless. It was worse than any scream, worse than any blow.
What… What was that? Where did…it hit?
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
His fingers trembled, the stick slipping slightly in his grip, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn. He couldn’t face it. Every part of him screamed to look, to move, but his body refused.
And then, Lucas spoke- soft, like life was being pulled out of him with every word.
“Don’t…t-turn.”
The voice was too close.
Too pained.
W-What?
Ash’s breath hitched, his heart pounded so loud. Slowly, as if dragged by some invisible force, his gaze shifted over his shoulder.
He wished he hadn’t looked.
Lucas stood there, but he wasn’t standing the way Lucas always stood- strong, confident, ready to face anything. His body was hunched, his shoulders trembling.
And it took Ash a few moments to contemplate what was happening; and when he did,
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t look anywhere else.
Lucas had been stabbed.
His world narrowed to that one image- Lucas, standing in front of him, a blade piercing his stomach. Ash couldn’t make out the blade except the brown handle, which meant…
…That the blade was completely inside Lucas’s body
Lucas didn’t cry out, didn’t flinch. He stood there, frozen, his breath caught in his throat. For a moment, it felt like time itself had stopped.
Blake sneered, his grip tightening on the handle, and then he pulled.
The blade came out with a sickening, stomach-turning sound, a cruel, deliberate tug.
And then-
Lucas staggered, his body convulsing slightly, and for one terrible moment, Ash couldn’t process what he was seeing.
Lucas took a step back, his legs wobbling, his eyes dull and unfocused. And then he fell.
Not gracefully.
Not slowly.
It was sudden, jarring- a heavy, lifeless collapse.
Ash’s chest tightened. His fingers loosened around the stick, his knees buckling slightly.
Blake’s laughter rang out, sharp and cold.
Ash barely heard him. His thoughts were a mess.
Lucas has been stabbed.
Lucas has been stabbed.
Lucas has been stabbed.
Ash barely processes his surroundings as only one thing swirls in his mind, and it was so painful to even consider it as truth. He was the reason for all of this to happen.
It’s my fault.
If he had turned, maybe it would have been Ash who got stabbed, but instead, he stood there, frozen in fear as Lucas took the hit for him.
Why didn’t I do something?!
Ash’s vision blurred, not because of the agony he felt, but because of the blood, because of his breath hitching.
Lucas’s body was still there, crumpled on the ground, motionless except for the faintest rise and fall of his chest. His shirt was soaking in red spreading across the fabric.
It was too much.
Ash’s hands trembled. His breathing came in shallow gasps.
And then, Blake’s voice.
“Geez,” Blake sneered, “looks like your friend took the hit for you while you stood there. Pathetic runt.”
Ash’s stomach churned, the words slicing through him.
The word echoed in his head, clawing at him, tearing him apart.
Pathetic. You are pathetic.
Lucas had said it once before, maybe at that time as a joke. Maybe he hadn’t meant it, not really. But now it clung to Ash like a curse.
.
.
You are pathetic.
.
.
Why didn’t I turn around?
Why didn’t I do something?
If I had turned, if I’d moved even a second earlier… maybe…
Maybe Lucas wouldn’t have-
Ash’s stomach twisted, the guilt suffocating him. His fingers clenched into fists so tight it felt like his nails might pierce his palms. The stick in his hand wavered. His vision swam, but he couldn’t stop staring at the red forming on Lucas’ shirt.
Lucas.
Lucas, who had stepped in.
Lucas, who had taken the hit meant for him.
Lucas, who had tried to warn him, even at the last second.
His chest burned, anger and disappointment tangling. But the anger wasn’t for Blake- it wasn’t even for the lackeys still circling.
It was for himself.
You are pathetic.
And then, the anger boiled over, spilling out like wildfire.
His gaze snapped up to Blake. The mocking grin. The bloodied blade in his hand. The sheer satisfaction.
Ash’s body moved before his mind could catch up.
With a wild yell, he swung the stick.
It wasn’t calculated. It was raw.
Wild.
Desperate.
The stick cut through the air, aimed right at Blake’s smug face.
But Blake was quick. He ducked, laughing as the stick missed by inches, the force of Ash’s swing throwing him off balance.
“Aw, look at you!” Blake taunted, taking a step back, waving the blade carelessly. “Finally found your guts, huh? Too bad you’ve got no idea how to use them.”
Ash gritted his teeth, his jaw tight enough to hurt. The stick felt heavy in his hands now, but he swung again, the motion fueled by nothing but rage.
Blake dodged once more, his laughter ringing out, sharp and cruel. “You’re pathetic, Ash. Can’t even land a hit on me?”
Ash’s chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His arm throbbed, his injured muscles screaming with every swing, but he didn’t stop.
The guilt churned inside him, twisting into something darker. Something uglier.
This is my fault.
Lucas is hurt because of me.
The stick came down again, and again, missing each time. But Ash didn’t care. He couldn’t hear Blake’s taunts anymore, couldn’t see anything beyond the blood on Lucas’s shirt and the sneer on Blake’s face.
His mind screamed with one thought, drowning out everything else:
You should’ve turned around.
And then- Ash swung again, the stick heavy and slick with sweat in his hands, his arms trembling from the weight of exhaustion and emotion. Every breath he took was a struggle, his chest rising and falling erratically, but he didn’t stop.
Blake dodged again, a grin stretching across his face. "What’s the matter, Ash? That all you’ve got? No wonder Lucas had to step in for you. He probably knew you couldn’t handle this on your own."
The words stung.
Right. He’s right.
Ash clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t waste energy on words. Not when his every muscle screamed for rest, not when the image of Lucas collapsing was still burned into his mind.
Lucas was on the ground. Bleeding. Gasping for air.
And Blake was laughing.
No.
Ash tightened his grip on the stick, his knuckles whitening, his fingers trembling.
You should’ve turned around. You should’ve seen it coming. Lucas wouldn’t have-
He couldn’t finish the thought.
But Blake’s laughter brought him back, grounding him in the present. Ash’s movements sharpened, his swings less wild and more calculated, each one aimed to force Blake back, to corner him.
He was acting on a strategy.
At first, Blake didn’t notice. He was too busy dodging, too busy taunting, too busy feeding off the power he thought he still held.
But then his grin faltered. His foot slipped slightly as Ash pressed forward, his strikes relentless.
"You really think this will change anything?" Blake sneered.
Ash didn’t answer. He just kept moving.
Blake stumbled again, his back inching closer to the uneven ground behind him. It was subtle, but Ash noticed. He saw the way Blake’s confidence wavered, the way his eyes darted around, searching for an escape.
Good. Let him feel trapped.
Ash swung the stick again, the force of the impact knocking the blade from Blake’s hand. It clattered to the ground, forgotten, as Blake stumbled backward. Ash didn’t stop. He aimed low this time, sweeping the stick toward Blake’s legs.
Blake’s balance gave out, and he fell hard, his body hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
For a moment, there was silence. Blake’s lackeys gasped as if the scene unfolding in front of their eyes wasn’t real. But to their dismay, it was.
Blake was on the ground.
Ash stood over him, his chest heaving, his grip on the stick so tight it hurt. His mind was a whirlwind of anger, guilt, and exhaustion, but one thought cut through.
This isn’t over.
Blake groaned, propping himself up on one elbow, his face twisted in a mix of pain and defiance. "You think this makes you strong? You’re still the same pathetic kid who can’t-"
Ash didn’t let him finish. He dropped the stick, the sound of it hitting the ground lost in the pounding of his heart. His hands moved on their own, grabbing Blake by the collar and yanking him up with a force he didn’t know he had.
Ash’s fist flew before he even realized he’d moved, connecting with Blake’s jaw. The impact jarred his entire arm, but he didn’t care.
Blake’s head snapped to the side, but Ash didn’t stop. His fist came down again, and again, each punch fueled by a mix of rage and guilt so intense it felt like it might consume him.
His lackeys hasped again, some of them slowly creeping out of the hideout, now noticing that the game was not in their favor anymore. How could they? After all, Blake was- their leader was on the ground, getting punched by a mere teenager who looked way younger than them.
Another reason was Lucas- they were looking at him as his breaths became slow, shallow, as the red stained his shirt. It wasn’t really sure if he’d live, since he had been stabbed in the stomach. No one can survive that, right?
If Lucas was to die, then Blake should’ve been the one caught, some of the lackeys scurried away as if they were guilty of doing it.
Whereas, Ash was on top of Blake, punching him, every punch harder than the last. Blake was acting tough, laughing it off and still smirking.
"You think you can just-"
Another punch, harder this time.
"-hurt people-"
And another.
"-and laugh like it’s nothing?!"
Blake tried to push him off, his hands weakly clawing at Ash’s arms, but Ash didn’t budge. His knees pressed into Blake’s sides, pinning him to the ground, his weight keeping him there.
Blood smeared across Ash’s knuckles, warm and sticky, but he didn’t care. All he could see was Blake’s face- with that smug smirk.
Why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I turn around?
Ash’s chest tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his fists slowed, hovering in the air for a moment before falling to his sides.
Blake lay beneath him, his face a mess of blood and bruises, his chest rising and falling erratically.
But Ash didn’t feel victorious.
Why was that? Blake always acted satisfied whenever he beat students or people. He always had this smirk on his face, wide-shoulders as if he was ready for anything, and that look- menacing but confident.
He must feel satisfied; Ash would sometimes think; and he wondered what would he feel if he ever got a chance to beat Blake and take all the rage others contained when they got bullied by Blake.
Great… Ash would think…I would feel great after beating Blake.
But now, as Blake lay beneath him, blood trickling down his broken nose, and from the corners of his mouth, Ash didn’t feel victorious at all.
He felt…nothing.
He released Blake’s collar, his hands shaking as he let them fall to his sides. His body felt heavy, his limbs numb, his mind blank.
Blake coughed weakly, a pathetic attempt at a laugh escaping his bloodied lips. "Beating me the hell up won’t…bring him back. Lucas might be dead…and you know it."
Ash’s eyes widened- his orbs trembled as he looked around; none of the lackeys made any attempt to get closer. And then; his eyes narrowed at an object lying not really far from him. He moved his hand and it hovered over the object for a second, before he picked it up.
The dagger.
Ash's fingers curled tighter around the dagger, its edge glinting. It isn’t rusty. Somehow, that fact stuck with him. It wasn’t some old, discarded weapon.
It was sharp.
Clean.
Deadly.
It had been prepared for this, for violence, for destruction.
And now, it was in his hands.