Chapter 5: Bennick vs A Juiced Up Brute

Chapter 5: All-Out War

The air in the cavernous industrial complex, thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation, suddenly crackled with a new, dangerous energy. The distant hum of the city's nightlife outside was completely drowned out by the primal, guttural roar from within. Mike, the Butcher, had transformed. His massive frame, already a mountain of muscle, seemed to ripple and swell with an impossible, grotesque power. Veins on his neck and arms bulged, thick as ropes, and his eyes, once merely aggressive, now held a glazed, unfocused ferocity. Steam, faintly metallic, rose from his sweat-slicked skin, clinging to the humid air.

He moved with a terrifying, unnatural speed, a blur of raw, unthinking force. His dislocated shoulder, which moments before had hung limp, now twitched and moved with a horrifying, limited functionality, still damaged but unnaturally powered. The Butcher lunged again, a guttural bellow tearing from his throat, a sound less human and more beast. His good arm, now a piston of chemically amplified might, hammered at Bennick with a speed and a ferocity that seemed to defy the limits of human physiology.

Bennick, caught off balance by the sudden, unnatural surge, shifted purely to defense and counter-attack. He parried, weaved, and ducked, but the Butcher's augmented strikes were no longer predictable. Each blow carried the force of a wrecking ball, capable of pulverizing bone, and the sheer volume of attacks was overwhelming. The air in the hexagonal cage vibrated with the concussive force of impacts, even when they struck nothing but air.

Alexander felt a cold dread clench in his gut. His analytical mind registered the unnatural shift in Mike's power, but his immediate reaction was a sharp stab of worry for Bennick. This wasn't the powerful but predictable brute Bennick had been dissecting. This was something else entirely, something corrupted and dangerously unpredictable, and it was threatening his senior brother, his big brother figure. His Calm Mirror, usually a placid pool of observation, felt agitated, mirroring his sudden, acute fear for Bennick's safety.

The thousands of spectators, packed shoulder to shoulder around the hexagonal cage, were in a frenzy. A wave of collective disbelief, followed by a raw, hungry excitement, swept through the makeshift arena. Bets, previously favoring Bennick, now shifted wildly. Cries of "Juiced!" and "Roids!" mingled with the frenzied shouts of "Kill him, Butcher!" and "Finish him!" Money changed hands in frantic whispers, fortunes potentially won and lost with every unnatural swing. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer, sweat, and the sharp, coppery tang of anticipation. This was the spectacle they craved: raw, uncontrolled violence pushed beyond human limits.

"He's on venom roids, Alexander!" Thorne's voice, usually a low grumble, was a harsh, strained rasp beside him, cutting through the din. His knuckles were white where he gripped the railing, his face a mask of furious disgust. "That bastard juiced up before he even stepped in! It's just kicking in now! He's poisoning himself!"

Alexander watched, his Instinct Engine screaming. The energy radiating from Mike was a raw, chaotic storm, jagged and unclean. It felt fundamentally wrong, a distortion of true power. His Calm Mirror struggled to filter the corrupted input, the agitated fear for Bennick battling with his analytical observations. He had seen strong fighters, felt the flow of their natural strength, but this… this was an artificial surge, a desperate, ugly parody. His gaze remained fixed on Bennick, searching for any tell, any weakness developing under Mike's unnatural assault.

"This is illegal, Master?" Alexander asked, his voice quiet, almost lost in the roaring crowd, but edged with genuine concern. His eyes flickered towards Thorne, then back to Bennick, whose movements, while still masterful, showed the strain of combating such unnatural force.

"Illegal doesn't even begin to cover it, boy!" Thorne spat, his gaze glued to the cage, his jaw tight. "This isn't about skill or spirit. It's a coward's strength, bought with poison! These 'venom roids' fill your muscles with unnatural fire, numb your pain, turn you into a brute devoid of sense! He took them before he came here, banking on the drug kicking in to give him that extra push. That's why he recovered from Bennick's attack, why his shoulder is twitching with power it shouldn't have!"

Mike landed a glancing blow, a monstrous hook that caught Bennick's guard arm. The sound was a dull, sickening thud, and Bennick visibly stumbled, his movements losing a fraction of their fluid grace. Alexander's breath hitched, a sharp intake of air. A collective gasp, then a roar of anticipation, erupted from the crowd. His eyes narrowed, watching Bennick's subtle recovery, the way he absorbed the impact.

He's not just powerful, Alexander thought, his mind racing. He's disconnected from his own body. No finesse, no control, just overwhelming force. His strength is borrowed, a temporary madness. It's the antithesis of everything I've learned. The thought of relying on such a perversion of strength made his stomach churn, especially seeing the genuine danger it posed to Bennick. It was a terrifying display of raw power, yes, but it was ugly, desperate, and unsustainable. His own Beyonider style, rooted in internal stillness and organic growth, felt more vital, more real than ever before, a true path to power that required no shortcuts.

"He'd rather inject venom into his veins than train honestly, Alexander," Thorne continued, his voice heavy with disgust, but also a hint of grim resignation. "He'd rather corrupt his own body than admit Bennick is the better fighter. That's how much he wants to win. That's his absurd hatred, right there. Willing to burn himself out just to try and beat Bennick, to take his place in this pit."

Alexander's gaze hardened, watching Mike's wild, powered swings. Bennick was on the defensive, dodging and parrying, but Mike was relentless, landing hits. Even glancing blows from this juiced-up monster carried devastating force. A surge of protective fury, an emotion rare and intense for the usually stoic Alexander, flared within him. He found himself tensing, muscles coiling instinctively, his eyes darting towards the cage door, considering the distance.

He's in danger, Alexander thought, a primal urge to intervene overriding his usual calm. This isn't fair. I have to—

"Don't even think about it, boy!" Thorne's voice, sharper than a whip crack, cut through Alexander's internal turmoil. Thorne, his eyes still on the cage, had clearly seen the shift in Alexander's posture, the sudden tightening of his jaw, the subtle flicker in his eyes. "You pull that stunt, you'll be buried under this place, and Bennick will lose his win and his pay. This is his fight! You hear me? He knows what he's doing!"

Alexander froze, the impulsive urge to move checked by Thorne's commanding voice and the stark truth of his words. The reality of the underground, the unwritten rules, crashed over him. His intervention would not be a rescue; it would be a chaotic, suicidal act that would only compound the problems. His jaw tightened further, but he forced himself to unclench, his gaze returning to Bennick with renewed, desperate intensity.

The fight had devolved into a brutal, primal exchange. Mike, a roaring, amplified behemoth, continued to press his relentless assault, his attacks less precise but delivered with a terrifying, unnatural velocity. Bennick, though on the defensive, was still a picture of controlled combat, adapting to this new, chemically enhanced monster. His usual fluid movements were now tempered with powerful, deflecting blocks and precise evasions, punctuated by sharp counter-attacks whenever the tiniest opening appeared in Mike's overwhelming barrages. Alexander watched, a knot of concern tight in his chest, as the air crackled with the sheer, destructive energy of Mike's chemically fueled rage, a testament to what humans would risk for victory in the city's dark, unforgiving underbelly. The crowd screamed, sensing the shift, the unexpected twist that promised a fight to the very bitter end.

A brutal overhand right, fueled by the drug, arced towards Bennick's head. It was a blow designed to decapitate. Bennick ducked, the wind of the punch whipping his hair, and countered with a lightning-fast kick to Mike's knee. The impact resonated through the cage, a sickening thwack that should have buckled a normal man. Mike grunted, a flicker of pain crossing his glazed eyes, but he merely pivoted, his damaged leg absorbing the blow with horrifying resilience. He followed up with a barrage of hooks, forcing Bennick to dance backwards, absorbing impacts on his forearms and shoulders that would have shattered less seasoned fighters.

"He's getting through, Master!" Alexander's voice was tight, his hands clenching into fists. He saw the subtle flinches, the tightening of Bennick's jaw with each absorbed strike. His senior brother was a master, but this was beyond raw strength; it was strength untethered, unfeeling.

Thorne's expression was grim. "Bennick's holding his own, but this isn't a fair fight, Alexander. The Butcher's senses are dulled, his pain suppressed. He can't feel the damage Bennick's doing to him. He's just a rampaging engine. A short-lived one, but dangerous all the same."

Mike roared again, pushing Bennick against the mesh wall of the cage. He delivered a series of savage body blows, each one landing with a wet, heavy sound that made the crowd gasp and cheer simultaneously. Alexander watched in horror as Bennick's midsection seemed to compress with each impact, though his senior brother maintained his guard, refusing to fall. Bennick countered with short, sharp jabs to Mike's solar plexus, strikes that would have folded a lesser man, but Mike just absorbed them, his chest heaving with unnatural vigor.

This is different, Alexander thought, his earlier protective fury now mixed with a cold, analytical dread. Bennick usually exploits openings, forces reactions. But Mike isn't reacting naturally. He's just... enduring. This isn't skill versus brute force anymore; it's skill versus corruption. The energy signature from Mike was becoming even more volatile, radiating heat and a buzzing instability that made Alexander's Instinct Engine prickle. It was like watching a bomb that refused to detonat, only to absorb more chaotic energy.

One particular punch, a massive left hook, clipped Bennick's temple. It wasn't a clean hit, but it was enough. Bennick's head snapped sideways, and he staggered, his feet momentarily tangled. The crowd erupted, a deafening wave of noise. Bets swung wildly, almost audibly. Mike saw his opening. With a bestial roar, he lunged, aiming a knee strike for Bennick's head.

"Bennick!" Alexander instinctively yelled, a raw cry of alarm escaping him.

Bennick, however, was not the "Unyielding Titan" for nothing. Just as Mike's knee ascended, Bennick's vision cleared. With a guttural shout, he twisted, deflecting the knee with his forearm, then used the momentum to pivot, delivering a devastating elbow strike to the side of Mike's head.

The sound was a sharp, cracking thwack that echoed even over the crowd's roar. Mike's head snapped sideways, and for the first time since the roids took effect, his momentum faltered. He stumbled, a brief, dazed look in his eyes, before his unnatural fortitude reasserted itself. But it was a crack in the armor, a momentary lapse that Bennick would relentlessly exploit.

Bennick didn't let up. He became a coiled spring of controlled aggression, not seeking to overwhelm Mike with power, but to dismantle him with precision. He weaved inside Mike's next wild swing, slipping a brutal uppercut to Mike's jaw, then instantly following with a series of sharp, cutting hooks to the liver and ribs. Each blow landed with a sickening efficiency, designed to inflict maximum damage on a normal human. But Mike, powered by the venom, simply grunted, his eyes glazed, pushing through the pain that should have crumpled him. His counter-attacks were wild, sweeping arcs that Bennick largely evaded, yet the sheer force of them still churned the air, forcing Bennick to remain constantly in motion, expending energy at an alarming rate.

The air grew thick with the smell of blood and iron. Mike, now a terrifying spectacle, began to foam slightly at the mouth, his movements becoming less controlled, more manic, but no less powerful. His strikes, once predictable in their raw force, now came from unexpected angles, fueled by a drug-addled fury that defied logic. Bennick, his face now slick with sweat and showing the first faint signs of bruising, shifted to an even tighter defensive stance. His parries had to be stronger, his evasions quicker. He was finding fewer and fewer opportunities to counter, as Mike's onslaught became a suffocating wall of pure, unthinking aggression. Each block sent a jarring impact up Bennick's arms, threatening to numb his limbs.

Alexander's heart hammered against his ribs. He could feel the raw, destructive energy radiating from Mike intensify, becoming less a storm and more a self-consuming fire. Bennick was still graceful, still technically superior, but the sheer, unyielding pressure was beginning to tell. A thin line of blood trickled from Bennick's nose, a result of a glancing uppercut that had somehow slipped through his guard. The crowd howled, sensing the tide, feeding off the primal energy of the arena. This wasn't a fight of skill anymore; it was a desperate endurance test against an opponent fueled by self-destruction.

Bennick absorbed a monstrous kick to his side, his body flexing to disperse the force, but a low groan escaped him. He returned with a short, blurring combination of punches, targeting Mike's temples and the vulnerable points around his neck, strikes that would have sent any normal man into a stupor. Mike merely shook his head, a grotesque, animalistic snarl twisting his features, and lunged forward with renewed, terrifying speed. The ground beneath the cage vibrated with his impact.

The Butcher's next attack was a furious flurry of sledgehammer blows, targeting Bennick's head and body without mercy. Bennick moved like a phantom, a blur of defensive blocks and slips, a master dancer in a ring of death. He weaved through the maelstrom, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his muscles screaming. He landed a precise knee to Mike's abdomen, then a sharp, chopping elbow to the collarbone. Sounds of bone on bone cracked through the cacophony, yet Mike remained upright, his only response an intensified, guttural roar, as if the pain only stoked the drug-induced fire within him.

Alexander watched, his hands gripping the railing until his knuckles ached. This wasn't combat; it was an execution. Bennick's genius was being wasted against a mindless force that couldn't be reasoned with or truly damaged in the way a human could. The air in the cage shimmered with the heat of the conflict, a grotesque ballet of skill battling pure, unthinking, chemically-fueled rage. Every move Bennick made was perfect, every defense impenetrable, every counter precise. Yet, for every blow landed, Mike absorbed it and returned two more, his energy seemingly limitless, his pain nonexistent. Bennick's usual calmness was being eroded by the sheer, unyielding pressure. He was a stone wall against a tsunami, and even the strongest wall had its limits.

The crowd, a single, ravenous entity, surged forward, their shouts now a guttural, primal chant. They didn't care about the injustice; they only craved the spectacle, the raw, uncontrolled violence. Bennick, his face now a mask of pure concentration and increasing fatigue, knew he was nearing his limit against this inhuman foe. Each breath was a struggle, each movement a Herculean effort. He could feel the borrowed time Mike was on, but also the rapid depletion of his own strength, fighting a ghost that refused to fall.

The octagon, once a stage for tactical brilliance, was now a small, unforgiving space where one man's skill was pitted against another's drugged, inhuman ferocity. The very air seemed to thicken, heavy with the raw, brutal energy of their all-out war.

Just as Bennick tried to shift his battered weight to gain leverage, Mike, with a guttural roar, abandoned his punching barrage and lunged low. He was a bull, a freight train of raw muscle and chemically-fueled momentum, diving for Bennick's legs. The move was crude, devoid of grappling finesse, but its sheer force was overwhelming. Bennick, caught in the transition, tried to evade, but Mike's arms, thick as tree trunks, wrapped around his waist in an iron grip. He was trapped, pulled into a terrifying, suffocating grapple.

Bennick strained, muscles coiling and flexing, attempting to break free, but Mike's grip was unbreakable, powered by the venom surging through his veins. He thrashed, trying to create space, to roll or twist away, but Mike held him like a vice. Cornered and desperate, Bennick resorted to close-quarters combat, driving his knees repeatedly into Mike's ribs and solar plexus. Each knee landed with a sickening thump, designed to fold a normal man, to steal his breath and shatter his resolve. A flicker of pain, sharp and brief, crossed Mike's glazed eyes, a momentary grunt escaping him, and a fresh spray of blood erupted from his foaming mouth. The blows were clearly connecting, clearly causing damage beneath the drug's numbing shroud. But Mike only tightened his grip, his eyes burning with a monstrous, unfocused determination. The pain, rather than stopping him, seemed to ignite a deeper, more savage fury.

With a final, bestial roar that vibrated through the floor of the cage, Mike straightened, his immense power lifting Bennick clean off his feet. Bennick was airborne for a horrifying second, suspended helpless above the canvas. Then, with a sickening CRACK that echoed through the stunned silence of the crowd, Mike slammed him backward onto the ground. Bennick landed with the full force of his body weight, the impact shaking the entire octagon, a sound of bone and muscle meeting unyielding floor. A collective gasp rippled through the thousands of spectators, their cheers dying in their throats. Alexander cried out, a raw, anguished sound ripped from his chest, his eyes wide with horror as Bennick lay sprawled, seemingly lifeless, on the canvas.

From the ringside, a booming voice cut through the pandemonium, a voice that carried the weight of authority and years of overseeing these brutal contests. "STOP THE FIGHT!" Old Man Van roared, his face contorted in a rare display of alarm, his hand already rising to signal the referee.

But the Butcher, lost in the venom's merciless grip, heard nothing. His eyes, completely vacant of reason, were fixed only on the downed form of Bennick. With an animalistic gurgle, he dived back in, ignoring Old Man Van's command, ignoring the referee's hesitant steps forward. He delivered two more monstrous, hammer-like blows directly to Bennick's head, still partially protected by his arms, but the force was absolute, undeniable. The thuds were sickening, final. Bennick's body, which had been subtly twitching, went utterly limp, his defensive arms falling away like dead weights, exposing his bruised and bloodied face. He was completely unconscious, definitively out.

A collective, horrified gasp swept through the arena, replacing the bloodthirsty cheers. The reality of the brutality, intensified by the violation of the unwritten rules, washed over them. "STOP HIM!" screamed voices from the crowd, raw with outrage. "He's out! He's done!" Someone, in the frantic surge of bodies near the railing, was already shouting into a phone, their voice strained: "Call the cops! He's going to kill him!"

Alexander felt a profound, icy disbelief twist through his gut, replacing his terror with a desolate void. He stumbled back, a choked sob escaping him, his hands flying to his mouth. Bennick, his big brother, the Unyielding Titan, lay motionless, utterly broken, not by skill or strength, but by a savage, senseless, chemically-induced rage. The roar of the crowd shifted to a cacophony of condemnation and panic, as the arena, moments ago a cauldron of bloodlust, now faced the chilling aftermath of unchecked, corrupted fury.

Before anyone else could react, a blur of controlled power surged from the perimeter. A figure, moving with a speed and precision that spoke of honed discipline and a dangerous purpose, vaulted over the railing. This was no ordinary security guard; this was an apex predator, built for decisive action. In an instant, the man was on Mike. With a powerful, calculated dive, he tackled the Butcher, slamming the drug-fueled behemoth sideways to the canvas with a resounding impact that cracked the tense silence. Mike, disoriented from the unexpected assault and still lost in the venom's haze, grunted, momentarily stunned.

Before Mike could even register the new threat, the figure—a plainclothes officer, his movements ruthlessly efficient—delivered a single, concussive punch directly to the Butcher's jaw. It was a short, sharp blow that had no wasted motion, designed not for show but for effect. Mike's head snapped back, and he collapsed fully onto his side, a broken, involuntary moan escaping him. His rampage was abruptly, decisively halted.

The officer, his voice cutting through the stunned silence like a whip, stood over the fallen Butcher, his gaze sweeping over the silent, awestruck crowd. "Mike 'The Butcher' Reyes!" he bellowed, his voice carrying an undeniable authority. "You are under arrest for the illegal use of performance-enhancing drugs and aggravated assault! You just poisoned yourself and nearly killed a man in this ring! We've been watching you, you fool. Your little venom game is over!"

The crowd, which had moments before been a chaotic surge of outrage and calls to the police, now fell into a stunned, murmuring silence, watching the sudden, decisive intervention. Alexander, still reeling from the sight of Bennick's unconscious form, could only stare, tears still streaming down his face, his mind struggling to process the rapid turn of events. Disbelief, profound and unsettling, warred with a nascent, unfamiliar sense of relief. The Butcher, still twitching faintly on the canvas, was no longer the terrifying, unstoppable monster. He was a defeated, pathetic figure, about to be dragged into the unforgiving light of justice.