With the young lady’s hand in his, Tyvan led her down the remaining stairs and into the parking garage. He checked his coat pocket for his parking ticket... and cursed his fortune.

The active correction of certain behaviours was not in his original agenda. He’d actually planned to patronise the hotel’s restaurant before leaving. They would have validated his ticket so he wouldn’t have to pay a fee.

“Yan Xue, do you have petty cash on hand?”

(He had recently acquired a five dollar, but he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to appreciate it.)

“Huh-what?” she replied, her expression dumbfounded.

“I only have large bills. I’ll pay for dinner-- I can at least do that much.”

“Tyvan! You’re still hungry after all that?!”

“I am especially hungry after all that,” Tyvan frowned.

Their argument lasted until their approach to the parking attendant.

“Bishop?” Yan Xue said, “What are you doing here?”

Admittedly, Tyvan had the same question.

The tall, vested, and sunglasses-wearing attendant was Prince Charming Latorre-- though he preferred the moniker of ‘Bishop.’

“I’m the valet!” Bishop said, smiling candidly.

Tyvan glanced down, noting the old and decrepit wood podium that granted him a semblance of authority on parking-related matters.

“Fair enough.” He handed over his ticket.

Yan Xue immediately snatched it out of Bishop’s hand.

“Tyvan! Bishop can’t see!”

Tyvan thought on that for a moment.

“Hm. Bishop, can you see?”

“Nope!”

Ah. That was a problem, then.

“How did you get this-- no, nevermind, I don’t care.”

Adjacent to the podium was a standing box, filled with keys. He retrieved his-- with zero assistance from the appointed assistant.

“Do I get a tip?” Bishop dared to ask.

“I pay your salary,” Tyvan glared.

That fellow had done nothing to deserve a tip. Key-retrieval aside, he still had to search for where the previous attendant parked his vehicle. And when he found it, he doubted he’d even get the door opened for him-- not unless he asked Yan Xue for the favour.

“Is that uh... a no?” Bishop asked.

“I’ll pay it!” Yan Xue exclaimed.

Oh. Problem solved. What that girl did with her earnings was her prerogative.

“Can’t let you leave that easily, Mister Valorum.”

Tyvan closed his eyes, raising his eyebrows.

A half-dozen and one exited the stairwell door.

Hostile.

The smug declaration was uttered by the gentleman at their centre-- their leader, perhaps?

He handed his car keys to Yan Xue, “Get the car.”

“I don’t have a driver’s license!” she argued.

“Go get the car,” Bishop said. “Boss doesn’t like repeating himself-- just keep it in first.”

Yan Xue scampered off to complete her mission, leaving him and Bishop.

Seven.

Seven was too numerous to engage. Too many variables.

But at least with Bishop’s help--

Tyvan furrowed his brows. He turned back to confirm with his eyes

That overlarge giraffe was gone.

Just why did he pay that fellow’s salary?

“Break him,” the leader said.

Bah.

Tyvan grabbed the valet podium and threw it at the first.

It struck true-- which was odd, considering its cumbrous form and trajectory. He leapt forward to kick the podium before it fell. The person behind it fell back, clunking the back of their head on the concrete.

Tyvan landed, switched legs, and kicked an unreasonably surprised fellow in the head.

An attack came from behind, a slow and telegraphed punch.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Tyvan slipped the blow, spinning around and powering an elbow into the back of their neck.

Two down.

Walking forward, he delivered a merciless stomp to the crotch of the podium-struck fellow.

Three.

A fourth attacker came. Tyvan leaned back, grabbing their wrist and pulling. With his opponent off-balance, he spun around, deposited them onto the floor and dislocated their arm with-- admittedly overmuch strength.

Four down. Three remained.

Two of them brandished weapons, a pocket knife and a pair of metal knuckles.

Tyvan opened his coat, revealing the pistol holstered on his chest.

“No weapons,” he said.

“No weapons,” their leader repeated.

The two did as they were told, tossing their tools aside. They were nervous as they circled him. Still, they had enough sense to attempt a flanking maneuver.

It would be foolish of him to allow it.

Tyvan rushed to one side, launching a kick at the sixth.

Blocked.

Grabbed.

Tyvan spun his body, but that person refused to release his leg. They both dropped to the ground, the human landing hard on their arm.

That left Tyvan in an awkward position. Still, he was able to twist his body, leaning over to deliver several strikes to that stubborn miscreant’s face.

It was somewhat deceitful of him to imply that they fight without weaponry. The enchantments on his gloves bore a similar hardness to the other fellow’s metal knuckles.

Tyvan purposely avoided being specific. Lying was abhorrent.

He looked over to the sixth as he continued to pummel the downed man’s face.

“Weak,” he said between strikes. “Helpless. Impotent.”

“FUCK, MAN! HELP ME!!” screamed the fifth.

Their bloody spittle landed on Tyvan’s coat.

He did not like that.

With one hand, he tightly grasped the whelpling’s hair.

He pulled them up so he could glare into their trembling pupils.

He threw them down with force, the back of their skull crashing against the pavement.

He paused briefly to look at the sixth. Awe. Hesitation.

He lifted the unconscious man’s head once more, and higher--

“GahHHHHH!!!!”

Brave. Foolish. Filled with irreconcilable rage.

And. so. much. Fear.

Tyvan dropped the one in hand. He stood up, swaying to avoid a reckless overhand punch.

He grabbed the back of his attacker’s neck, powering a knee into their abdomen, then to their crotch.

After another brief pause, he struck him again before tossing them away.

Six.

Tyvan casually stretched his back before turning to face the last.

“If you want a tip: leave. Pretend you saw nothing.”

The last grit his teeth... deliberating.

Unfortunately, he chose to continue wasting Tyvan’s time. He grabbed something out of his coat and ingested it, gulping loudly.

A drug? A... pill?

The man’s mana flared violently-- or perhaps it was his chi as the eastern martialists referred to it. His muscles began to visibly bulge and his eyes grew bloodshot.

He charged forward with a low roar, crescendoing into a harsh, throaty battlecry.

“graWWRrrRRR!!!!”

Fast.

Worryingly fast.

Tyvan held his gaze on the man’s eyes as long as he could. Then, he hopped out of the way, rolling on his shoulder.

He stood up, dusted himself off, and cast what was arguably his most useful spell.

“⌈As You Were⌋”

The over-muscled human turned in confusion, sensing the change in his body. In a few short seconds, his size visibly reduced-- perhaps even smaller than prior.

He bent over, clutching his stomach as his physique tried to process the changes to his muscles and mana-circuits... the sudden and rapid expansion and the subsequent, forced return.

The agony in his scent implied a severity Tyvan had not encountered prior.

Why was the feedback so severe? Was it because he was human?

Ah. Or did that pill have a natural aftereffect?

Ominous. He’d only allowed the pill to run a modicum of its duration. How much more devastating would it have been, otherwise?

Seconds passed. That person resumed his fighting stance. The muscles of his arms and legs continued to twitch and convulse. The scent he exuded was thick with pain and grief-- yet it was also laced with... courage?

Tyvan could respect that. Relying on an unnatural and fleeting boost to strength was a loathsome prospect to a proper warrior.

He was worried yet also exhilarated by the notion of a challenging fight. And considering his opponent’s disadvantaged state, he had full confidence in emerging the victor.

However, that fellow was struck from behind by a black, mid-sized Sports Utility Vehicle. The words on the familiar, slightly-dented hood read ‘Gallivanter.’

Tyvan tilted his head, “Bishop?”

Bishop stuck his head out of the car window, “Hey, Boss!”

Hm.

So that was why he paid his salary.

“You hit someone.”

“Oh. Oh, sssshhhhit.”

A ponderously slow second vehicle approached, jerking to a stop just behind the other.

Yan Xue got out of his car, waving frantically, “Tyvan, let’s go!”

Ah, and she left the door open for him.

She wouldn’t be getting a tip, though.

----------------------------------------

Once Yan Xue situated herself in the passenger seat, Tyvan began to drive.

“Tyvan,” she whispered... “Your eyes...”

His eyes?

He glanced at his rearview mirror. His eyes retained a golden mana-glow. It was the price of using his most recent spell-- a sign even more conspicuous than the blood on his gloves.

A sign that he wasn’t quite human.

Was she repulsed by the notion? She was fearful, that much was certain. Was he the cause?

“There’s a pair of sunglasses in the dashboard compartment,” he said.

Yan Xue retrieved the sunglasses and placed them on his face. That was... wholly unnecessary-- he could have done so, himself. But the notion was appreciated.

Tyvan was about to drive out of the parking garage, but... as he feared, his passage was once again obstructed.

Over a dozen unsavoury individuals were gathered in a crowd, blocking the exit. The lot stood at a respectable distance away from a gentleman that stood at the centre, wearing a suit of lightly coloured grey.