CHAPTER 59: CHAPTER 58: BULLYING THE BULLY (2)

My fingers closed around his knuckles, stopping the blow dead.

There was no great impact, no strain. It was like catching a ball a child had tossed.

Then his eyes widened, his anger momentarily eclipsed by pure, unadulterated shock. As if surprised.

Well, I didn’t know why he was surprised. I just casually dodged all his attacks; what made him think I couldn’t do this?

Did he think my only skill was leaning out of the way?

The lack of basic logic was astounding.

"I would ask you only one question," I said, my voice low and steady, my grip on his fist unyielding. "What rank are you?"

The boy didn’t reply. He just stared, wide-eyed, trying and failing to pull his hand free.

So, to bring the word out of him, I increased the pressure.

I didn’t punch him. I just squished his hand tight.

My fingers, strengthened by levels and a core he couldn’t even imagine, tightened like a vice.

He groaned in pain, his bravado evaporating as his knuckles ground together.

"... Rank 1020!" he blurted out, the number torn from him in a gasp of agony.

My face twisted into pure, unfiltered annoyance.

That low? Rank 1020? He was practically just a strong fodder.

All that posturing, all that arrogance, for that?

"That low," I muttered, my voice expressionless.

The disappointment was profound.

"But just so you know... This is my rank," I simply said.

I threw his fist away, releasing my grip with a slight push that caused him to lose his balance and stagger backwards.

While he was off-balance, bewildered and clutching his throbbing hand, I decided to show him my rank.

I didn’t punch him. A punch, with my strength, even a pulled one, felt... excessive. It was overkill to someone like him.

Because I know that if I do, in my current situation, he would lose a head.

Or at the very least, several teeth and a significant portion of his jawbone.

I wasn’t in the mood for that much cleanup, and problems.

So I slapped him. A quick, almost casual backhand swing.

The slap collided with his face with a sharp ’crack’ that echoed in the hallway.

His head snapped to the side, and his feet left the ground.

He flew backwards, a tangle of limbs, and crashed into the wall behind him with a heavy ’thud’.

The moment he hit the wall, my heart skipped a beat.

A completely different kind of panic surged through me.

"Don’t break that wall!" I yelled, the words out before I could stop them.

Visions of invoices from the academy’s maintenance department flashed before my eyes, drywall repair, painting, a fee for ’disruptive conduct.’

My newfound wealth, evaporating over a stupid slap fight.

I couldn’t afford to use the money I had with me to pay for damages!

I couldn’t afford to spend money on unnecessary things.

But luckily for me, and my bank account, he hit the wall and nothing happened.

He slid down to the floor, groaning, a red handprint blooming on his cheek.

Nothing broke actually.

My heart then came down from my throat and settled back in my chest.

Crisis averted. Payment disaster avoided.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

My money was secure. That was a win in my book.

His minions and the boy they were bullying just stood there, frozen.

They looked at their leader’s body, which was laying on the ground clutching his face, in absolute shock.

The silence was so thick you could taste it, a mix of fear and disbelief.

I’d just turned their world upside down with a single slap, and they had no idea what to do next.

They were statues in a museum of my making.

I needed to drive the point home. Lessons like this had to be memorable, or they’d just fester and come back later.

I brought out my wooden katana from my inventory.

I wasn’t about to attack him, not for real. That would be literal bullying.

So no, I was simply about to put manners in his head, the old-fashioned way.

A little corporal encouragement never hurt anyone. Permanently, anyway.

I walked up to him. He was still on the ground, but his eyes were open, wide and terrified.

He saw me approaching, the wooden katana held loosely at my side, and he began trying to crawl away from me, scrambling backwards like a crab on the polished floor.

It was a pathetic sight, all that earlier bravado gone, replaced by pure, animal fear.

I raised my wooden katana, not with a warrior’s flourish, but with the weary sigh of a disciplinarian, and whipped it down on his butt.

Hard.

The ’thwack’ was satisfyingly sharp in the quiet hallway.

The boy screamed, a high-pitched, undignified yelp, and immediately rolled over, clutching his stinging rear.

The sound was so comically pained I almost felt bad. Almost.

I didn’t think he was disciplined with only one hit.

A single swat would just make him angry and embarrassed later. Or rather yet, I wasn’t satisfied yet.

The annoyance of being delayed, of having to deal with this trivial nonsense, was still buzzing under my skin.

He needed to understand the depth of his miscalculation.

So, I continued. I whipped him again with my wooden katana, another sharp crack on his backside.

He continued screaming, each cry more desperate than the last.

And with each hit, his minions, and the boy they’d been tormenting, seemed to shake in fear.

They weren’t watching a fight; they were watching a public execution.

Their eyes were huge, glued to the spectacle.

They soon probably reached their fear limit, because in a sudden, synchronized burst of panic, they all turned to run in unison. A herd instinct taking over.

My eyes instantly flashed to them.

"If anyone moves one more step," I said, my voice devoided of any emotion, flat and cold as a steel plate. "I will cook you."