The Tattooed Emperor: Reborn Before the Apocalypse

Chapter 6: Arrogant? One Punch and He's Done

"Holy hell, I'm telling you this isn't just a concussion talking. The kid's completely lost it!"

"Exactly what I'm saying! Somebody needs to knock some sense back into him, and fast. Otherwise we're going to wake up one morning and find the Crimson Talon Syndicate handed off to a bunch of clowns!"

"Fine, but how do you propose we do that? Just walk up and slap the Prince awake?"

Ricky "Bull" Doyle stepped out of the crowd with a mean grin already spreading across his face.

"Simple. We wake him up the old-fashioned way."

The crowd shifted almost on instinct, folding into a rough circle and clearing a makeshift ring in the middle of the warehouse floor.

Damon and Bull squared off in the open space, a dozen feet apart.

Bull sized up the calm, faintly smiling man in front of him and sneered.

"Your Highness, I don't know what half of what you just said meant, and I don't much care whether you follow through on it later."

"None of that matters to me right now. If beating some sense into you costs me a broken hand, I'll consider it a good trade."

His eyes hardened, and with a roar, he lunged.

The punch came in fast and heavy the kind of strike that told everyone watching exactly how much power was behind it.

Along the sidelines, the older men who'd watched Bull grow up nodded approvingly.

"Kid's not holding back today."

"If he'd thrown that at half strength, the Young Master might've had a shot. But full power like that? No chance."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Bull wasn't the strongest man in the warehouse, not by a long shot, but he sat comfortably above average more than enough to put down most men in one clean hit.

Given everything, they figured the Young Master would survive maybe three sec

Holy hell.

The thought died half-formed as every eye in the room went wide.

Instead of getting flattened, Damon slipped Bull's punch at an angle that shouldn't have been physically possible for someone his size, and in the same motion, drove a precise, brutal shot straight into Bull's liver.

One punch. That's all it took.

Bull's whole body seized, veins standing out along his neck, all the fight draining out of him in an instant.

They'd expected the Young Master to lose. Badly, probably. Instead, he'd ended it before most of them even registered the exchange had happened.

Every younger man in that crowd went dead silent, staring.

On the ground, drenched in cold sweat and gasping through the pain, Bull's confusion completely overpowered the agony ripping through his side.

Wiped out. Just like that?

He'd thrown everything he had and gotten dropped, in a single hit, by a man twelve years his junior.

"How the hell is that even possible?"

The question hung on his face like a brand.

That's when Jonah Doyle stepped forward.

He waved over a couple of men to haul his little brother off the floor, then turned to Damon, expression carefully unreadable.

"Jonah. It's been a while."

"Long time, Your Highness."

Jonah's face was a mess of conflicting emotion as he studied the calm, smiling man in front of him.

Bull, still reeling, hadn't caught what had actually just happened. But Jonah had watched it happen in real time, and he understood exactly what he'd seen.

That dodge. That angle. That single, surgical strike.

That wasn't luck. That was instinct forged in real, repeated, life-or-death combat the kind of reflex you couldn't fake and couldn't rush.

By every account Jonah knew of this kid's life, that instinct shouldn't exist. Not in someone who'd spent his whole life sheltered behind bodyguards and tutors.

And yet here it was, plain as day somehow sharper and more dangerous than it had any right to be.

He's been hiding it. Sandbagging us this whole time.

It was the only explanation Jonah could land on.

Whether Damon had been quietly holding back his whole life or had genuinely just unlocked something new overnight, Jonah wanted to find out for himself. Properly. With his own two fists.

The tattoo demand still struck him as reckless nonsense. But that punch that punch had earned a second look.

"Your Highness, it's been a couple years since we last traded blows, hasn't it?"

"It has. Ever since you took over the overseas operations, we haven't had the chance."

Something wistful passed briefly through Damon's eyes.

"Then let's not waste any more time talking. I want to see exactly how much you've grown these past two years, Your Highness."

Jonah's voice dropped cold, his whole frame tightening like a drawn bowstring.

Where Bull was strong, Jonah was on another level entirely six years older, forged in real combat, a man who'd bled for the Syndicate more times than most could count.

Top ten fighters in the entire warehouse. No argument.

Let's see exactly how far you've come, Damon thought, watching Jonah bear down on him like a freight train.

The corner of his mouth curled.

"Come find out."

Jonah closed the distance instantly, driving a vicious elbow strike straight at Damon's chest. Damon rolled his shoulders and slipped it by a hair.

Jonah didn't hesitate for even a fraction of a second he'd clearly expected the dodge. His fist was already cocked, and the follow-up punch came in a heartbeat later, thrown with everything he had, aimed dead center at Damon's chest.

Fast enough that an average fighter would've been unconscious before they even saw it coming.

But Jonah had watched Damon move once already. He didn't believe for a second that instinct like that would simply vanish and let this punch land clean.

So he was already three moves ahead, ready to capitalize the instant Damon dodged again.

Except Damon didn't dodge.

Jonah's brow snapped down in confusion as Damon inexplicably, almost carelessly moved to take the full-force punch head-on.

It made no sense. It contradicted everything he'd just shown seconds earlier. Taking a hit like that dead-on all but guaranteed the fight was over.

For a split second, Jonah's expression soured not with satisfaction, but genuine disappointment.

He'd wanted a predator that had been quietly biding its time.

Not some overconfident kid about to eat a fist to the sternum.

That disappointment lasted exactly as long as it took the punch to land.

Under the stunned, breathless gaze of the entire warehouse, Damon didn't brace. Didn't cross his arms. Didn't even flinch.

He simply raised one open palm almost lazily and caught the punch.

A wave of mockery had already started climbing up the throats of half the crowd.

It died instantly.

Because Jonah's fist a punch that could shatter ribs had stopped dead in Damon's grip like it had hit a wall.

Every set of eyes in the building blew wide open as Damon's fingers closed tight around Jonah's fist. Then, in one smooth, effortless motion, he pivoted his hips, twisted at the waist, and sent Jonah Doyle flying clean across the ring.