Chapter 6: Bennick s Situation And Past

Chapter 6: The Vultures Above

The sterile quiet of the hospital room pressed in on Alexander, a suffocating counterpoint to the raw, visceral violence of the previous night. The relentless thump-thump of the heart monitor and the gentle hiss of the ventilator were the only sounds, marking the fragile hold Bennick had on life. His senior brother, the Unyielding Titan, lay bruised, tubes running into him, a stark reminder of the brutal cost of that poisoned fight. Alexander stood fixed, a statue of contained fury, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, his Calm Mirror reflecting not the usual placid stillness, but a roiling storm of helplessness and rage. Every instinct screamed for him to act, but here, in this place of hushed suffering, there was nothing he could do.

Master Thorne, also known as Old Man Van, sat beside the bed, his face a mask Alexander had rarely seen—not grumpy, not wise, just profoundly, unusually silent. His grip on his gnarled cane was white-knuckled, his gaze fixed on Bennick with an intensity that spoke of deeper bonds than Alexander had ever fully comprehended.

The door creaked open, admitting the hushed anguish of Bennick's parents. Bennick's father, a man of rigid military bearing, held himself with a stoicism that barely masked the tremor in his hands and the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. Bennick's mother, however, offered no such pretense. A soft, heart-wrenching sob escaped her as she rushed to Bennick's side, her trembling hand stroking his bruised forehead. "My son... my son," she whispered, her voice thick with anguish, a sound that tore at Alexander's carefully constructed composure. His stomach churned, a cold, bitter taste rising in his throat.

The sight was a fresh wound, far deeper than any blow he had ever taken in training. Alexander couldn't bear to watch their raw grief, the profound vulnerability of those he respected so deeply. His body, already humming with restrained fury, began to shake. He felt a desperate urge to smash something, anything, to redirect this suffocating wave of despair. Without a word, he turned, needing to escape the crushing weight of their sorrow, seeking refuge in the small, private waiting area near the ICU.

A few moments later, Thorne (Old Man Van) joined him there, his silence speaking volumes. Bennick's parents soon followed, their faces red-rimmed but etched with a weary resolve.

They sat together in the sterile waiting area, the muted hospital sounds forming a distant backdrop. Bennick's mother reached out, gently placing a hand on Alexander's arm. Her touch was soft, but her voice was firm, though still laced with unshed tears.

"Alexander," she began, his gaze filled with deep affection. "You were like another son to him. He talked about you constantly. How quiet you were, but how quickly you learned. He was so incredibly proud of you." She turned her gaze to Thorne, her voice thick with emotion. "Master Thorne... Bennick poured his entire life into his training. Every single day, from the moment he could walk, he pushed himself beyond what anyone thought possible. He would come home, exhausted, bruised, but his eyes would still be burning with that fire. He was... he was such a good son. Kind, honorable, always striving for what was right."

Alexander listened, his own heart aching. He remembered Bennick's tireless energy, his patient guidance during spars, the way he would always push Alexander to find the edge of his own limits. Bennick was more than a training partner; he was a mentor, a big brother. To hear his parents speak of his dedication, his purity of spirit, only deepened the bitter resentment coiling in Alexander's gut. Such a good man, broken by a coward's poison, he thought, his jaw clenched.

Bennick's father cleared his throat, his stoic facade cracking slightly. "He trained with a discipline I've rarely seen, even in the military. He never took shortcuts. He just... climbed. Honestly. He truly believed in the strength you forge with your own hands, your own spirit. He was becoming exactly the man he wanted to be. A true master." His voice broke slightly on the last words, his gaze fixing on the unmoving door to Bennick's room. "We were so incredibly proud of him."

A heavy silence fell, filled with the weight of their shared grief and admiration. Thorne merely grunted, a sound of solemn agreement, his eyes shadowed. Alexander felt a cold fury begin to solidify within him. The injustice was a burning brand.

Then, Bennick's father turned his gaze, now cold and sharp, towards Alexander. His voice dropped, losing its grief-stricken edge and hardening with a steel that Alexander recognized from his own burgeoning rage.

"Alexander," Bennick's father said, his voice low, measured, but leaving no doubt as to the gravity of his words. "There is one thing I must ask of you. One thing, and you are free to refuse it. You owe us nothing. You owe Bennick nothing beyond the bond you already share."

Alexander met his gaze, his expression unwavering. He felt his own blood hum, an instinctual understanding that this moment would define a new path.

"I ask this," Bennick's father continued, his eyes burning with an unspoken fire, "because I saw the strength in your hands. I saw the quiet fury in your eyes tonight. Bennick cannot fight now. But someone must. We want a revenge match."

The words hung in the sterile air, heavy with unspoken implications. A revenge match. Not just a fight, but a direct challenge, a pursuit of retribution for Bennick's current state. It was an offer of war.

Bennick's father leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. "You have every right to say no, Alexander. This path is dangerous. It is not for the faint of heart. It will draw eyes. It will make you enemies."

Alexander listened, his mind racing. He thought of Bennick's broken body, the cold calculation of the attack, the venom that had poisoned his senior brother's strength. He thought of Thorne's quiet despair. His own anger, which had been a raw, shapeless thing, now coalesced into a sharp, terrifying point. He had made a silent vow already, but this... this was an an invitation he would seize.

He knelt beside Bennick's bed in the hospital room, his eyes focused with an intensity that burned through the facade of the quiet, calm boy. His voice, when it came, was low, firm, and utterly devoid of tremor. It was a promise, a declaration forged in raw emotion and burning rage, directed at his fallen senior brother and his grieving parents.

"You hear me, brother?" Alexander breathed, his gaze locked on Bennick's still face. "You're not done. Not by a long shot. I will make sure of it."

He then rose, turning to face Bennick's parents and Thorne (Old Man Van), his eyes blazing with a fierce, unwavering commitment.

"Bennick was more than a senior brother to me. He was a pillar. He showed me what true dedication means, what honor means in this brutal world. He was a good son, a good person, and he did everything clean. He deserved none of this." Alexander's voice hardened, carrying a chilling certainty. "And I will accept your request for a revenge match."

He looked at Bennick's father, his jaw set, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "And As for that Butcher... Mike Reyes... tell him, when he gets out of prison, that I will be waiting. I will break every bone in his body. I will leave him begging for the venom that ruined Bennick, and I will make sure he understands what true, honorable pain feels like. The revenge match will be inevitable, and it will be brutal."

His promise hung in the air, potent and terrifying. The silent, observant boy was gone. In his place, a quiet storm, armed with a new, dangerous resolve, stood ready.

Just moments later, as Bennick's parents, their faces a mix of grief and dawning hope from Alexander's vow, slowly moved to give their son more space, Thorne (Old Man Van) gently nudged Alexander. "Come on, boy. There's someone who wants to talk to us. Privately. Very privately."

Thorne led Alexander away from the grieving parents, deeper into a secluded wing of the hospital, past a 'Staff Only' door, and into a small, unused office, far from any prying ears or watchful eyes. The door clicked shut behind them. Waiting inside was a figure, calm and sharp-eyed, dressed in a dark coat. It was Detective Merik. His movements were fluid, precise, carrying a subtle aura of authority.

"Master Thorne, Alexander," Merik greeted, his voice low, measured, devoid of overt emotion, yet sharp as a scalpel. "I expected to find you. And I have information you need, but it's not for general ears."

Alexander's Instinct Engine immediately recognized the controlled power radiating from Merik. This wasn't a sympathetic visit; this was official, dangerous business.

"Mike didn't just... spontaneously acquire those venom roids," Merik began, cutting straight to the chase. "We've been tracking this particular strain for months. It's custom. Lab-grown. Not something you pick up on the underground market. It's too pure, too potent, too perfectly designed to override pain and amplify aggression. They made him stronger and faster, but at the cost of the probability of being stuck in his current rank forever."

Alexander's eyes narrowed. This confirmed his suspicions, adding a chilling layer of premeditation and a hidden, crippling cost to the attack. Thorne's jaw tightened.

"It was supplied to him. Planted on him, actually," Merik continued, his eyes unwavering. "Not by some faceless organization, but at the direct order of a very particular individual. A very spoiled, very rich young master from one of the Upper Circle Houses. He has his clan's power and resources at his beck and call. Mike was paid off. Not just to win. To destroy Bennick. To break him, to end his rising name permanently."

A cold, hard knot formed in Alexander's stomach. The enemy had a name, a face, and a powerful backing. The scale of the injustice was immense.

"This young master operates far above the 'circuit' you saw tonight," Merik explained, his voice grim. "His clan pulls strings in this city you can't even imagine, ensuring he faces no consequences. And Bennick? He beat two of this young master's personal 'pet projects' a year ago. Two of his supposed 'Low Tier Apex Predators'—fighters he groomed for spectacle, used as toys. Bennick embarrassed him. Showed his playthings for the fakes they were, and the young master took it as a personal affront. He wanted revenge."

Merik paused, his gaze softening slightly, a rare hint of admiration entering his eyes. "Bennick, at just 20 years old reached Low Tier Apex Predator... that's unheard of. Very rare. Most reach that in their 30s, if ever. He did it clean. Honest. And he was rising too fast for the young master's comfort. They needed to make an example."

Merik then looked Alexander up and down, a flicker of something akin to awe in his sharp gaze. "And you... Alexander. I looked at Thorne's old records. You're already a Mid Tier Elite? At 14? You're a damn freak of nature. A natural-born monster. The kind this world produces few in a generation. No wonder Thorne keeps you hidden." He paused, then continued, his voice taking on a harder edge. "As for Mike Reyes, The Butcher, he's 29 years old. We've been looking into him since this incident. What we've found... he's involved in more than just underground fights. Racketeering, intimidation, assault with intent to injure in several other cases that mysteriously got buried. He's a dirty dog, through and through. And make no mistake, this young master will definitely get him bailed out. It's just a matter of when. You need to be prepared, Alexander. This isn't just a fight; it's a war, and it's coming."

The words echoed in Alexander's mind. "Mid Tier Elite." "Monster." But the compliment, the acknowledgment of his potential, solidified the revelation Merik had just given him. His master's warnings about the "Beasts" and the true nature of power now had a specific, terrifying face. This wasn't just about fighting anymore. It was about survival in a world controlled by invisible, ruthless hands, wielded by spoiled masters. The shame of being helpless, the fury at the injustice, and the raw pain of seeing Bennick broken, all converged into a singular, burning resolve. His vow against the Butcher was already made, but now it was expanded, informed, precise, and aimed at a much larger, more insidious target. The knowledge that Mike was a hardened criminal, capable of worse, and that he would be free, only sharpened Alexander's focus further. He would be prepared.

He had promised Bennick. He had promised his parents. Now, with the full knowledge of who he was truly up against, that promise became a sacred, terrifying mission against both the immediate perpetrator and the unseen puppet masters. His climb had truly begun.

The hospital, now mostly hushed for the late hours of the night, perhaps just past eleven o'clock, felt stifling. Alexander, his mind still reeling from the twin impacts of Bennick's state and Merik's grim revelations, walked beside Thorne (Old Man Van), the older man's cane tapping a steady rhythm against the polished floors. They moved past the reception desk, the few remaining staff giving them solemn, knowing glances. Outside, the night air was warm and humid, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of the hospital. The sounds of the city were muted at this hour, a distant hum replacing the daytime bustle.

The walk to Alexander's house was long, a familiar route that now felt alien under the weight of the night's events. For a while, neither spoke, the silence punctuated only by their footsteps and the occasional distant vehicle. Alexander's mind raced, replaying every brutal punch, every sickening impact, every word from Merik. The fury that had ignited in the hospital room, fueled by the cold facts of the conspiracy, slowly began to give way to something more raw, more vulnerable.

A shudder ran through Alexander's body, and he slowed his pace, his gaze fixed on the cracked pavement ahead. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat wouldn't budge. He felt a sting behind his eyes, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

"Master Thorne," he began, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper, as if speaking aloud would make the nightmare real. "It wasn't... it wasn't fair." His voice cracked on the last word, and a single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. He quickly swiped at it, angered by the display of weakness, but another followed.

Thorne stopped, placing a gnarled hand on Alexander's shoulder. His touch was firm but surprisingly gentle. "No, boy. It wasn't fair. Nothing about that fight was honorable. It was a calculated act of malice."

"But... Bennick," Alexander continued, his voice choked with emotion, the dam finally breaking. The tears came faster now, hot and unstoppable, blurring the streetlights into streaks of color. He hated this, hated feeling so helpless, so weak, but the grief was overwhelming. "He's... he's in a coma. I saw him, Master Thorne. So many tubes. He didn't even move. He was just... lying there." He choked back a sob, his chest constricting painfully. "I can't believe it. He's so strong. The Unyielding Titan. How could... how could this happen? It's not right!"

Thorne pulled Alexander into a rare, awkward embrace, patting his back with a heavy hand. "It's alright, Alexander. Let it out. This is a heavy burden, even for an old man like me." His voice was gruff, but held a deep, uncharacteristic tenderness. "Bennick is strong. Stronger than most. He's fighting. He's still fighting, even now, in that coma. That's the Titan in him. And he will need every ounce of that strength, and so will you."

Alexander pulled back, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand, trying to regain his composure. He took a few shaky breaths. "I just... I keep seeing his face. When he fell. And that Butcher, just laughing." His fists clenched again, the fury returning, mixing with the grief. "I swore I'd make him pay. I meant every word."

"I know you did, boy," Thorne said, his eyes hard. "And you will. That's the promise of a true fighter. But remember what Merik said. The Butcher is just a pawn. A brutal, despicable pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. The real enemy hides in the shadows, pulling the strings. You have a long road ahead, Alexander. A much longer, darker road than you ever imagined."

They resumed their walk, the conversation now a little more subdued. The initial surge of tears had passed, leaving Alexander feeling emotionally raw but with a renewed sense of purpose. Thorne continued, his voice low and steady, guiding Alexander's thoughts.

"Bennick taught you many things, didn't he?" Thorne mused. "Discipline. Honor. How to strike true. Now, he's teaching you another lesson: the cost of this world. The ugly truth behind the glamor of the arena. This isn't just about fighting anymore, Alexander. It's about surviving. And it's about justice, on your own terms."

Alexander nodded slowly, looking up at the sky. The moon was a sliver, casting faint light on the quiet streets. "I understand, Master Thorne. I understand it now. My training... it was just the beginning, wasn't it?"

"The very beginning, my boy," Thorne confirmed, his grip on his cane tightening slightly. "And now, the real lessons begin. And those lessons will continue tomorrow. After school, Alexander. We have much work to do."

Finally, the familiar silhouette of Alexander's home emerged from the dim streetlights—a suburban house nestled on a street so quiet you could hear a dog sigh three blocks over, usually humming with the predictable rhythm of family life. Tonight, only a single light glowed warmly from within, a beacon in the late hour.

They stopped at the gate. Thorne offered a brief, knowing nod. "Rest, Alexander. The journey ahead demands a clear mind."

"Thank you, Master Thorne," Alexander replied, his voice firm, his gaze meeting the old man's. There was a depth of understanding between them now, forged in shared grief and a looming battle.

With a final, almost imperceptible dip of his head, Thorne turned and walked away, his cane tapping a rhythmic cadence that slowly faded into the quiet night.

Alexander pushed open the gate, the familiar creak a soft welcome. He let himself in through the front door, the click echoing in the hushed entryway. His parents, Aaron and Grace, were in the living room, a low lamp casting soft shadows. His dad, a man built like a reliable old pickup truck, and his mom, bless her ever-patient heart, turned towards him instantly, their faces etched with worry.

"Alexander, you're home," Grace said, her voice a soft sigh of relief. Aaron nodded, his expression grim but his eyes conveying a silent question. They knew about Bennick, of course, but not the full, venomous truth of the conspiracy.

"Yes, Mother. Father," Alexander replied, his voice calm, reassuring them subtly. "Master Thorne walked me. Bennick... he's stable. We just have to wait." He kept the deeper, darker revelations locked away for now, unwilling to burden them further.

Grace stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. "Get some rest, my son. It's been a long night."

"I will," Alexander promised, offering a small, tired smile.

He moved through the quiet house, each step deliberate, the familiar comfort of his home wrapping around him. His bedroom was sparse, orderly, reflecting his own disciplined nature—a neatly made bed, a simple desk, a training dummy tucked in a corner. He changed into comfortable clothes, the movements automatic, his mind already elsewhere.

He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, the darkness of the room amplifying the turmoil within him. Bennick. His big brother figure. Strong, honorable, unyielding. And now, broken. The image of the Butcher, Mike Reyes, flashed in his mind, that sneering face, the brutal, unfair blows. Alexander closed his eyes, picturing every strike, every weakness, every vulnerability. He began to plan, not just a fight, but a methodical, agonizing dismantling. He would study every movement, every tell, every possible counter. The Butcher would pay. He would feel every ounce of Bennick's suffering, multiplied.

And beyond the Butcher, the Young Master. The unseen puppet master. Alexander knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that this was the true, long war. He would climb, as Thorne had said. He would rise, hone his skills, learn the hidden currents of power until he could reach that untouchable level. For Bennick. For the justice he so deeply deserved. He would not stop until they all paid. The last thought before sleep claimed him was a cold, unwavering promise whispered to the silent night: Just wait. My real training has only just begun.