How Far Are You Willing To Go

 Marquis apologizes to Anna quietly, his voice low, almost weighed down.

She nods, her expression unreadable, and tells him she'll wait outside the P.E. room.

Kai's note is stuck to the door, the handwriting messy but unmistakable:

"Yeah, we got trashed, but I have to read now. If I can't win a match, I'll do so in the exams."

Marquis huffs out a laugh, pulling it off the door and stuffing it into his pocket.

Typical Kai. He liked to talk big, but he was always running in his own lane, away from the mess of things.

After a quick shower, Marquis steps out, his hair still damp. Anna is a few paces away, talking to a younger girl—Elara.

For a moment, the sight feels almost normal. The golden afternoon sunlight streams through the window nearby, framing the two of them. Anna's hand rests lightly on Elara's shoulder as she speaks, her voice too soft for him to hear.

Marquis notices a small group approaching them. His gaze sharpens. Her friends? he wonders. But there's something off about their pace—something deliberate.

His thoughts drift as he walks closer, jaw tightening. The faces in front of him blur, replaced by Alain. The phantom of the game still lingers in his mind, taunting him.

"Alain…" Marquis mutters, his voice edged with bitterness. The guy was a paradox—lazy on the surface, yet always finding a way to move, to dominate. Marquis clenches his fists, recalling those rapid movements. Alain's hands blurred, both of them seemingly in motion at once. But it wasn't real. Just a trick to mislead. Marquis exhales sharply.

He trails off, "We would've won."

The sound of raised voices jolts him from his thoughts. His gaze snaps forward, and his breath catches.

The guy in front of Anna is raising his hand. His posture is stiff, the intention unmistakable. A slap?

Marquis's heart pounds, the world narrowing to that single, damning moment.

Time slows. Marquis surges forward, his brown blazer flaring behind him like a battle flag. His body moves on instinct—pivoting into a tight boxing stance, weight shifting seamlessly to his back leg. The punch lands hard on the guy's side, the thud reverberating in Marquis's bones.

The boy staggers, choking out a pained gasp. Marquis pulls at his long sleeve, rolling it up to his elbow with sharp, purposeful movements. His voice is low, dangerous. "What was that for!"

Gasps ripple through the hall, the hum of chaos rising. Students gather, some murmuring, others giddy at the prospect of a fight.

Anna steps behind him, her expression tense. Elara, trembling, clutches at Anna's arm, tears sliding silently down her face.

"Are you okay?" Anna murmurs, brushing a hand across her sister's cheek. Elara nods shakily, but the tears don't stop.

Marquis doesn't look back. His eyes are fixed on the group in front of him—six boys now, one of them visibly older, a second-year. They shift uneasily, but one steps forward, confidence leaking from his smirk.

"Do you really want to fight?" The boy's tone is mocking, his stance cocky.

Marquis doesn't flinch. "What are you doing to her? To both of them." His voice is flat, but the underlying rage makes it heavier.

The boy scoffs. "What, you're the 'good police' now? Spare me. Guys like us don't actually care. We're heirs."

The words hit harder than they should. Marquis's fists clench, but his chest tightens with an uncomfortable weight. The boy wasn't wrong—not completely.

"He's right, but—" The words tumble out of his mouth before he realizes. He freezes mid-thought, his own voice alien to him. "What… did I just say?"

The pause costs him.

A fist sails through the air, landing squarely on his jaw. Pain explodes in his head as he stumbles back, vision tilting. His knees hit the ground hard, and he barely registers the faint metallic taste of blood dripping from his nose.

Around him, the murmurs grow louder, but they're drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

Marquis looks up, his eyes locking with the group again. His vision blurs slightly, but he forces himself to focus.

They all rush at him. Blood dripping from his split lip, Marquis braces himself. One of the boys tries to kick him, but Marquis seizes the opportunity.

Grabbing the boy's leg mid-air, he twists, pulling him down. In a single fluid motion, Marquis grapples him in a wrestler's hold, pinning the boy's arm tightly.

With practiced precision, he shifts into a judo stance, his hands gripping the boy's shoulder and forearm like steel clamps. The boy struggles, his face twisted in panic, but Marquis's grip doesn't waver.

"How far are you willing to go?" his butler once asked. The voice echoes in his mind, eerily calm.

Then comes the sound—a sharp, sickening crack. The boy screams in agony, his arm limp and useless.

"Anything and everything to prove myself," Marquis murmurs. The words slip out subconsciously, as if they weren't his own.

The others hesitate for just a second before rage overtakes their fear. They swarm him, fists and kicks flying.

Marquis blocks a few hits, but they overwhelm him quickly. He's pulled down, boots slamming into his ribs, his back. He gasps for air, barely able to protect himself.

"Marquis!" Anna's voice cuts through the chaos as she rushes to stop them, but one of the boys shoves her back. She glares, then in the next instant sweeps through his legs. He stumbles down—Anna's precise elbow hits his chest, and he's out cold.

They pick Marquis up like a ragdoll, slamming him hard against the wall near Elara. The impact makes his body crumple, his breath wheezing out painfully.

"Are you alright?" Marquis mutters hoarsely, his voice barely audible, meant only for Elara.

Elara, tears streaking her face, nods weakly. "Yeah…"

The pummeling continues. Marquis takes punch after punch, his face swelling, bruises blossoming across his body. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth, but he doesn't cry out.

"This is what I hate about you," Anna says suddenly, her voice quiet but cutting through the noise like a blade.

Marquis flinches—not from the blows, but from her words.

"You act a lot. You're never real. And you think you're the only one with the real truth," she continues, her voice trembling slightly but steady enough to pierce through the chaos.

One of the boys drives his fist into Marquis's gut. He chokes, a thick glob of spit forcing its way out of his throat. His vision darkens at the edges, his body slumping further as consciousness begins to slip away.

Anna doesn't say another word, but she can always read his mind, predicting his thoughts before they even form. He doesn't need to hear her voice to know what she's saying:

Just because you were privileged doesn't make you better.

Her voice cracks, and for the first time, tears spill down her cheeks. "Please," she whispers. "Please stand up."

The plea reaches him. Through the haze of pain, something inside Marquis stirs. His body feels heavy, broken, but her voice cuts through the fog like a beacon.

The words of his butler continue to echo in his mind:

"Learn everything, even if you can't master everything. Everything you know is and will be useful."

With a guttural growl, Marquis propels himself upward, drawing on a strength he didn't know he had left.

"Don't you see a woman talking? I suggest you leave." His voice is hoarse but laced with authority, as if daring them to test him again.

The closest boy—a brown-haired one—doesn't have time to react. Marquis drives a vicious kick into his stomach, sending him sprawling.

In one fluid motion, Marquis twists on his hands like they were feet, catching another boy's leg and pulling him down. The two hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of the second boy.

Marquis stands, swaying slightly, blood staining the corner of his mouth. He raises a hand, his knuckles bruised.

"I wouldn't like to punch you," he mutters, gripping the headband from one of the boys—a sleek black one. He ties it around his head like a makeshift crown, his movements deliberate.

The remaining boys, wide-eyed and unsure, exchange glances before bolting down the hallway. Marquis watches them disappear, then collapses onto the unconscious body of one of the fallen boys, his chest heaving.

Anna is there in an instant, her hand tapping his shoulder gently. He looks up at her, bloodied and beaten, but still managing a lopsided grin.

"That riled you up," Anna says softly, her lips curling into a faint smile.

Marquis chuckles weakly, leaning back as Anna moves toward Elara. She kneels, holding her sister's hand.

"They left. It's going to be alright," she whispers, her voice soothing.

Marquis watches her, head tilting. "You did it again."

Anna turns, raising an eyebrow. "Did what?"

"Your choice of words. You never say what you really mean unless you want to."

Anna smiles faintly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Yes. Wouldn't want you to lose consciousness again. I barely know how to fight."

She's lying. She just doesn't want it to mess with her story skill.

Marquis lets out a dry laugh, sitting up slowly. "Hey, Anna…" His voice is quieter now, almost unsure. "I love you."

She freezes mid-step, her back to him. When she turns, her face is flushed, her expression unreadable. "Why—why now?" she stammers.

Marquis shrugs, his battered face betraying the faintest hint of amusement. "Do you like me back?"

Anna exhales, her gaze softening but not breaking. "No."

Marquis nods, his grin widening despite the sting of her words. "Alright. I still like you, though."

Anna turns, walking away with Elara in tow. Marquis leans against the wall, watching her go, the faint echo of her voice lingering in his ears.

What good is a 'perfect king' if his throne is built on corpses?

Father… you never taught me how to rule living people.