CHAPTER 259: THE PAIN OF LOSS

With one arm out of commission, Max was clearly at a disadvantage. There was no denying it, his movements were limited, his options fewer.

But all of that changed the moment he picked up a weapon.

In the right hands, a deadly weapon could turn the tide of any fight. Even the most powerful opponents could fall if struck at the right time, in the right place. And if the wielder actually knew what they were doing?

Then it wasn’t even a contest.

Despite his personal dislike for weapons, Max was no stranger to them. In fact, he was more than capable, borderline a master when it came to handling blades, improvised or not. He had studied them, trained against them, disarmed them, and used them when necessary.

And right now, there was something else up his sleeve, something even Dud couldn’t see coming.

"You think pointing a broken bottle at me actually means something?" Dud scoffed, marching forward without hesitation. "Have you ever used anything like that in your life?"

Without waiting for an answer, Dud lunged forward and swung hard.

Before, Max had relied purely on dodging and brute instinct. But now? Now things were different.

He moved with purpose.

As Dud’s fist flew toward him, Max twisted his body with a sharp spin, evading the strike by inches. The glass bottle in his hand glinted under the light, and then it struck.

He slashed clean across Dud’s face with the jagged edge.

A thin line of blood appeared almost instantly.

What the, ? Dud froze mid-step. I didn’t even see it. I didn’t see the path of the weapon!

He had dealt with his fair share of fighters who carried knives or blunt tools. In most cases, he’d overwhelm them, knock the weapon away with force or surprise. That was how things usually went in his line of work, quick, dirty, and dominant.

But with Max... he hadn’t even tried to disarm him. He thought the bottle was a bluff. Just a scrap of desperation.

And now, blood was dripping down the side of his face.

When Dud spun around, fury bubbling up inside him, he charged again, this time leading with a high kick.

But Max saw it coming.

He slipped under the arc of the kick, stepping in close, and once again slashed downward with the broken bottle. Another thin cut opened up along Dud’s side.

It wasn’t deep, more of a surface wound than a real injury. After all, it wasn’t a proper knife. The glass edge was fragile, prone to shattering if too much force was applied. It was good for slashing in a pinch, not stabbing through bone.

Still, each strike chipped away at Dud’s composure.

"What the hell is going on?!" Dud shouted, voice cracking with rage. He launched forward with all his weight, wild and unhinged.

This time, he didn’t go for a punch or a kick.

He went straight for Max’s wrist, aiming to disarm him the old-fashioned way, by grabbing hold of the weapon hand and wrenching it free.

But Max had already read his move.

Timing it perfectly, he let Dud’s arm come in, then redirected his momentum and drove the jagged edge of the bottle straight into Dud’s forearm.

Crunch.

The glass didn’t break, but it buried in far enough for Dud to scream.

Pain shot through his arm, and blood spilled down his wrist like a stream.

The jagged glass had sunk in deep.

Max let go of the bottle the moment he felt it pierce through flesh, allowing it to stay embedded in Dud’s arm. Without missing a beat, he sprinted toward the nearest table, grabbed another empty bottle, and smashed it clean across the edge, once again arming himself with a sharp, makeshift blade.

"If I were you," Max said, glancing at Dud’s bleeding arm, "I wouldn’t pull the glass out. You know it’ll only make you bleed faster."

His tone was calm, colder than before.

"And if I stab you just a few more times," Max added, tightening his grip on the new shard of glass, "you might just bleed to death right here."

Dud froze, gritting his teeth.

"And about that question you asked earlier," Max continued. "I think you’ve already figured it out by now. I’ve definitely used one of these before. You don’t know everything about me..."

He took a step forward, glass glinting in the light.

"In fact, you don’t know anything about me."

That was all Dud could take.

With a roar of frustration, he charged in once more, unleashing a savage flurry of kicks and punches, just like he had earlier. But Max, now fully in rhythm, slipped through the attacks like water, weaving between strikes, staying just out of reach.

And with every dodge... came a counter.

The sharp edge of the bottle carved across Dud’s skin, producing shallow cuts on his arms, chest, and shoulders. They weren’t deep, but they were precise. Clean.

Dud pressed on, ignoring the sting and the blood now trickling from a dozen places. But the more he swung, the more Max sliced. The more he attacked, the more wounds he gained.

Though Max was undeniably skilled with weapons, thanks to his past life, there was another reason his movements felt so refined, so unpredictable.

He wasn’t just fighting on instinct.

He was imitating someone.

Aron.

An S-rank when it came to weapon combat.

Max had observed him countless times, his posture, his rhythm, the way he moved with a blade. Dud had used batons and knives in the past in front of Max, and even though a bottle wasn’t quite the same, the core principles still applied.

Using a knife, or anything similar, meant fighting differently. You didn’t rush in like a brute. You danced just outside of reach, striking when the moment was perfect.

Max remembered how Aron had done it.

Hit without getting hit.

Use the slight reach advantage to control the tempo. Stay light on your feet. Don’t overcommit.

And, most importantly, use fear.

There was something primal about being cut. Even trained fighters, even those used to living with a knife in hand, still hesitated. It was human nature. That hesitation could mean everything.

Unless someone was truly deranged, even the toughest combatants flinched when they saw their own blood spill.

Max used that.

Again and again.

And now, Dud’s cuts were stacking. His breathing was heavier. His swings were wilder.

His anger had taken over his technique.

And from the sidelines, Wolf, who had been silently observing the entire time, narrowed his eyes.

Finally, finally, he could see it.

A path to victory.

Max might actually win this fight.

With his enhanced speed, sharpened instincts, and relentless application of weapon skills, Max had carved out a dangerous rhythm. Every move he made felt faster, more precise. The pain had faded into the background, replaced by adrenaline and raw focus.

But then, out of sheer desperation, Dud made a move Max didn’t expect.

With a sudden burst of energy, Dud lunged forward, throwing his entire weight into the charge. Max reacted instantly, driving the broken bottle he held deep into Dud’s side.

Stab!

Dud winced, his face twisting with pain as the glass pierced through flesh. But then, just when Max thought he had the upper hand, Dud did something unexpected.

The shard of the first bottle, the one still lodged in his forearm from earlier, had remained there this whole time. It hadn’t fallen out because Dud had tensed his muscles around it, the shard buried so deep that even his movement hadn’t dislodged it.

Now, gritting his teeth, Dud ripped the shard out of his own arm, and without hesitation, he swung it down.

Slash!

The jagged edge of the glass stabbed straight into Max’s side.

Pain exploded through him.

He gasped, his body jolting. The sharp burn lasted only a second before adrenaline surged again, dulling the sensation, forcing the agony away.

Not again... Max thought, staggering slightly. Crap. Not this feeling again.

I hardly ever got stabbed in my old life... and now? After dying from getting stabbed, I’m reliving it over and over again...

"You think you’re the only one who knows how to use a weapon?" Dud shouted, his voice manic. "Max, you’re one crazy kid... but I promise, you’ve never met anyone crazier than me!"

With blood still dripping from his side, Dud ignored his pain and threw a solid punch straight into Max’s face.

Crack!

The blow landed clean.

Max’s head snapped back. His vision blurred. The world swam in dizzy colors. His knees buckled slightly as he stumbled back, the accumulated damage finally catching up to him.

He felt like he was going to black out.

Like his body couldn’t take a second more.

This might be it, he thought. That hit... it might’ve been the one to end it.

But then a voice, his own voice, roared back inside his mind.

Falling here? Right now? Who the F** are you kidding, Max?!*

This is the guy who killed Jay.

You promised you’d get back at him, didn’t you? You said you’d make him pay, for his sister.

Jay should be here right now. Not you. HIM.

His heart pounded harder.

So what if you’re tired? So what if you’re weak? So what if it hurts? Jay can’t feel any of those things anymore.

He’s dead. Because of the bastard standing in front of you!

Grinding his teeth, Max let out a sharp breath, and charged forward with everything he had left.

His fist, trembling with exhaustion but filled with purpose, smashed into the bottle still embedded in Dud’s side.

Crack!

The impact drove the glass deeper into Dud’s body. The bottle shattered completely, shards splintering and scattering across the floor.

Dud’s face contorted with pain.

He let out a strained groan, lifting his head slowly, only for Max to grab him by the back of the hair with his one good hand.

His grip was tight. Brutal.

Max pulled Dud’s head down, rage building with every breath, and screamed:

"Dud, F** you!!*"

And with that, he raised his knee and slammed it straight into Dud’s face.

Crack!

Blood sprayed, and Dud’s body went limp from the impact.

Max didn’t loosen his grip.

He held on, eyes burning, refusing to let go until he was sure Dud would never forget this moment, this pain, this loss.