Chapter 24. Four Punching Bags
Reo tilted his head, crimson eyes unyielding fire as he faced the four lackeys. His lips twisted into a sneer. "So, what's that fatass Garrik wants now?" he said, his voice low.
The biggest thug—a hulking brute with a scar across his cheek—blinked, thrown off by the sheer contempt in Reo's tone. "Huh?" he growled, stepping forward until his face was inches from Reo's, his rancid breath fouling the air.
His grin was all teeth, jagged and yellow. "Don't know, don't care, runt. Garrik just wants you scared shitless—crawling on your knees in front of the whole academy before the duel even kicks off."
Reo didn't budge. "I've got coffee brewing," he said, voice flat with boredom, "so make this quick."
Then, a vicious glint sparked in his eyes. "Tell the healer you tripped in the bathroom."
The lackey's grin wavered. "What the fuck—"
But the words choked off as Reo's hand lashed out, swift and merciless. His fingers clamped around the guy's face, nails digging into flesh, and with a savage yank, he hurled him into the wall.
The impact was deafening—plaster shattered, and the thug's skull bounced off the stone with a wet crack. Reo didn't pause; he slammed the guy's head again, and again, and again, each blow a thunderous crash that sprayed blood across the cracked wall.
When he finally released, his face was a ruined mess—nose flattened, eyes swollen shut.
Reo glared down at the wreckage, wiping his blood-slick hand on his pants. "Your mouth's garbage," he snarled, planting a boot in the guy's ribs.
He turned to the other three, their bravado crumbling as they stared at their fallen leader. Reo cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he slid into a boxer's stance—fists wrapped tight, muscles coiled like a predator ready to pounce. "Come on," he said, "let's dance."