CHAPTER 118: I WAS WAITING FOR YOU!!

Miles descended the steps slowly, every stride measured, the din of the crowd rising as they noticed him. He stopped at the edge of the ring, smirk tugging at his lips.

"Hey, big man," his voice carried, calm but cutting through the noise. "Are you strong?"

Heads snapped toward him.

The crowd murmured, then broke into whispers, laughter bubbling in waves. "Is he mad?" "He’ll get crushed." "Kid doesn’t know what he’s asking for!" Some voices even called out in warning, "Don’t do it, young man! He’s the all-time champ here!"

Brutus, towering in the ring with his chest heaving from victory, turned his gaze on Miles. His booming laugh echoed against the walls. "Are you serious, kid? Go back home. I don’t like bullying."

Miles tilted his head, smirk never fading. "Huh. The so-called all-time champion... afraid of me? What a scaredy cat."

The entire club reacted—gasps, jeers, and roars of disbelief.

From the balcony, Celina buried her face in her hands. "Now he’s done it..." she muttered.

Finn pressed his fingers to his earpiece, panic edging into his voice. "We need backup. Boss is in trouble."

As he turned toward the door, Celina’s voice stopped him. Calm, amused, certain. "It’s funny you don’t know your boss yet. Just watch the show."

Finn froze, confusion flickering in his eyes.

Back in the ring, Brutus’s expression shifted—amusement gone, replaced by a dangerous sneer."...What did you say?" His voice shook with rage. "Afraid? Of you? Come on then. Enter the ring. I’ll crush you!"

Miles’s smirk sharpened. Without a word, he slipped out of his coat, folding it neatly and setting it aside. His shirt stretched over lean muscle as he stepped between the ropes.

The crowd erupted into noise, the betting screens lighting up instantly. Numbers raced higher, nearly all money piling onto Brutus.

The host, mic trembling in his hand, stared at the newcomer. "What’s your name, young man?"

Miles stepped into the center of the ring, his gaze fixed on Brutus. His words were ice. "Call me... Grim Reaper."

The host’s eyes widened. Then he raised the mic, voice booming. "Ladies and gentlemen! We have a challenger! The Grim Reaper has stepped into the ring against our all-time champion—Brutus Kane!"

The crowd’s roar shook the walls, a storm of disbelief, excitement, and bloodlust.

The bell rang.

For a moment, the fight club held its breath. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, the crowd pressing forward, eyes fixed on the ring.

Brutus Kane rolled his shoulders, a grin splitting his face. His frame loomed like a mountain, veins bulging beneath his skin. He stomped once, the ring boards rattling under his weight.

Miles stood opposite him. Calm. Still. His chest rose and fell evenly, eyes sharp, smirk barely tugging at the edge of his lips.

The silence cracked with Brutus’s roar as he charged, fists swinging like sledgehammers. His first punch ripped through the air—Miles leaned aside, the blow missing by inches. The sound of wind cutting around that fist was enough to make the front row flinch.

Brutus didn’t stop. A hook. A jab. A crushing swing meant to take a head off. Miles slipped around them, weaving with effortless precision, his movements fluid, almost taunting.

The crowd began to murmur."He’s not even fighting.""He’s just avoiding.""Brutus will catch him any second now."

Brutus snarled, sweat glistening across his forehead."Come on, kid! Fight me! Don’t run away!"

Miles stepped back lightly, smirk deepening. His voice was calm, almost mocking."What’s wrong? You can’t touch me?"

Gasps rippled through the audience. Some laughed nervously, others jeered. But Brutus’s eyes burned red with rage.

"Enough games!" he bellowed, lunging forward with a devastating right hook.

This time, Miles didn’t move back.

He stepped into the strike.

His hand snapped up, palm deflecting the fist with effortless precision. Before Brutus could register what happened, Miles’s other fist shot forward, burying itself into the giant’s ribs. The sound cracked like thunder, Brutus’s breath exploding out of him.

The crowd roared—then faltered, stunned.

Miles didn’t stop. He moved like a storm breaking, fists, elbows, and knees striking in flawless rhythm. Each blow landed with bone-shaking force, Brutus staggering under the onslaught. His guard broke, his hulking frame crumbling under precision strikes that cut through him like blades.

An uppercut snapped his jaw. A spinning kick slammed into his chest, sending him reeling into the ropes.

The champion of three years, the man no one dared challenge, now stumbled, his arms flailing as the Grim Reaper picked him apart piece by piece.

The audience’s cheers faded into silence.

Bets flashing on the screens froze, gamblers staring pale-faced as their fortunes burned away before their eyes.

Only the sound of fists connecting and Brutus’s desperate gasps filled the hall.

Miles’s expression never changed—calm, cold, unshaken—as he beat the life out of the champion, step by step turning the storm into a massacre.

The fight that was supposed to be a spectacle became something else entirely—a lesson.

In the private room.

Thick smoke curled around the dim-lit walls. Angelo sat slouched in a leather chair, a cigar burning between his fingers, its ash long and steady. His bulky frame filled the seat, black hair slicked back, dark tattoos creeping up his arms. His eyes were on nothing—until the door burst open.

"Boss!" a man stumbled in, panting. "Brutus—Brutus is getting beaten up!"

Angelo’s expression shifted instantly, his brows knitting together."...What?" His voice was low, dangerous.

He stood abruptly, tossing the cigar into the ashtray. With a flick of his hand, the large wall screen buzzed to life.

And there it was.

On the broadcast feed, his undefeated champion, Brutus Kane, lay sprawled in the ring, being dismantled by a lean young man with cold eyes and precise strikes.

Angelo’s jaw tightened."Who is he?"

The man hesitated. "We... don’t know, boss. He calls himself the Grim Reaper. A newbie. First time stepping in the ring."

Angelo’s nostrils flared, rage simmering under his calm."What a waste... Three years undefeated... beaten by a kid." He straightened, voice a growl."I’ll take care of him myself."

In the balcony.

Celina’s eyes sparkled, her lips parted in awe."Woah... He didn’t hold back at all."

Beside her, Finn stood frozen, still gripping his earpiece. His face was pale, his voice barely a whisper."What... what did I just see?"

All he knew about Miles was that he was the young chairman of Sterling Enterprises—the man he called "boss." But this? This was something else entirely.

Celina leaned forward, amused at his disbelief. "You’re still underestimating him? This is nothing new."

In the ring.

Miles stopped. His chest rose and fell calmly, not a bead of sweat betraying his control. At his feet, Brutus groaned, broken, no longer the champion he once was.

The crowd erupted—an explosion of cheers.

"The winner! The new champion!" the host screamed into the mic, his voice cracking with excitement. "The Grim Reaper!"

The audience roared, chanting the name. "Grim Reaper! Grim Reaper!"

But the noise faltered as another figure began descending the steps.

Angelo.

The very owner of the fight club. The man who pulled strings in the shadows. The man whose name alone kept gamblers feeding this ring with fortunes.

"Hey, young man!" Angelo’s voice boomed, silencing the crowd. "Do you dare fight me?"

The atmosphere shifted. Silence pressed down like a weight.

Whispers cut through the quiet."Angelo himself?""He never fights... not unless it’s serious.""The kid’s finished now. He’ll learn what a real fighter looks like."

Gamblers leaned forward nervously, pale faces hoping for salvation.

Celina’s lips curled, her voice bright with excitement."Oh, it’s getting even more interesting now..."

Miles smirked faintly, his eyes never leaving Angelo as the man approached the ring."I was waiting for you."

Gasps rippled through the audience.

Angelo climbed into the ring, pulling off his shirt in one swift motion. His body was a wall of muscle, inked with jagged tattoos that told their own story. Every step he took made the canvas groan.

He cracked his neck, staring down at Miles."So... you were waiting? Do I know you?"

Miles’s gaze was cold, unflinching."You’ll know me soon enough."

The host swallowed, then lifted the mic, his voice trembling as he made the announcement."Ladies and gentlemen... tonight we have a match unlike any other! The owner of the fight club himself, Angelo, versus the challenger... the Grim Reaper!"

The crowd held its breath.

The storm was about to break.

The bell clanged.

Angelo didn’t wait. He thundered forward, muscles rippling, a freight train of rage. His fist cut the air in a heavy arc—

Miles slipped aside, catching Angelo’s arm in mid-swing. With a twist of his wrist and a sharp pull, he wrenched the giant downward.

"AAHHH!" Angelo roared, dropping to one knee as pain shot through his shoulder.

The crowd gasped. The sound of his scream rolled through the arena like a shockwave.

Angelo’s veins bulged, his face red with fury."You... I’ll crush you!"

Miles’s smirk never faltered. His voice was quiet, almost dismissive."Yeah, of course, of course."

The mockery stung worse than the hold.

With another roar, Angelo tore free and charged again, fists flying like hammers. He threw a wild hook, the kind that would’ve broken ribs if it landed.

Miles swayed back, the punch grazing his shirt. Then—crack!—Miles’s fist snapped into Angelo’s jaw.

The sound echoed.

Angelo staggered, his head whipping to the side.

The crowd erupted—half in shock, half in disbelief."Did you see that?!""He hit Angelo!""No one’s ever done that before!"

Enraged, Angelo lunged again, his massive arms locking around Miles’s torso. With a grunt, he lifted, trying to slam him into the mat.

But Miles’s knee rocketed upward—slamming into Angelo’s stomach.

The big man’s eyes bulged, the air rushing from his lungs in a guttural groan. His grip faltered.

Miles twisted free, spinning behind him, and drove his elbow into Angelo’s spine.

The giant stumbled forward, crashing into the ropes.

The audience was on their feet now, the betting screens flashing madly, numbers plummeting, fortunes vanishing.

"Impossible..." gamblers muttered, pale-faced. "He’s... winning."

Angelo turned, bloodlust in his eyes, charging once more with fists swinging like sledgehammers.

Miles slipped through the storm, weaving between blows, every dodge calm, calculated. Then he struck—sharp counters to the ribs, a snapping jab to the chin, a sweeping kick that buckled Angelo’s stance.

Every move landed clean. Every strike echoed like a drumbeat.

The crowd had gone quiet, their roars replaced by stunned silence.

The Grim Reaper wasn’t just fighting.

He was dismantling.