Chapter 408: Not That Easy! (Part 1)

Published Mar 30, 2026, 07:01 AM

Chapter 408: Not That Easy! (Part 1) It was as clear as day that Jett was going to fight Max. The intent was written all over his grin, in the lazy way he rolled his shoulders, as though this moment had been planned from the start. But what was the reason for it? Max’s group might have had its grudges, and maybe the Stern family had built up plenty of bad blood with the Black Hounds over the years, but he had never personally met Jett before. Every action so far, every move Jett had made, felt strangely personal. The tone, the choice of words, even the smug amusement, it wasn’t business; it was obsession. The whole thing felt like a personal grudge disguised as a gang order, as if Jett was acting for his own satisfaction while pretending it was for the Black Hounds. But why? What could he possibly gain from this? There was only one explanation that fit the pattern: someone else had put him up to it. The way Jett spoke, the way he was so confident about the "payment" afterward, it all added up. After delivering whatever beating he had in mind, he would probably contact the Billion Bloodline Group and demand money for Sheri’s safe return. ’Sheri and me, both targeted? Who would want that?’ Max thought, his eyes narrowing. ’Could this be one of the Sterns? Someone like Bobo, trying to use a gang to get rid of both of us at once?’ He didn’t have proof, but every instinct told him something bigger was in play. Jett still stood there, smiling with the ease of someone who thought the fight was already won. His arms were folded, his confidence absolute. Around him, the Black Hound members began to move, shadows in the narrow pathways between containers. Ten men at least, circling in like wolves. ’There’s an easy way to stop this,’ Max thought. ’I could tell him the truth, that I’m the head of the Billion Bloodline Group. If he really wants money, he’d back off the moment he knew who he was dealing with.’ But that wasn’t an option. Letting the Black Hounds know that he ran the Bloodline Group could tear open everything he’d built. And more than that, he couldn’t bring himself to pay off the people who had kidnapped Sheri. He clenched his fists. "Get him," Jett ordered. The nearest thug came sprinting forward, bat raised high. He swung it down with a shout that echoed between the metal walls. But the hit never landed. Max twisted at the last second, spinning to the side. The bat slammed against the ground with a hollow clang, and before the man could recover, Max’s leg snapped upward. The side kick landed hard in the man’s stomach, folding him in half. The thug hit the floor, gasping, the weapon rolling free across the ground. For a moment, the echo of that single strike filled the space. Jett’s confident posture faltered, his arms unfolding as his eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh? What’s this?" he said with a half-laugh. "I thought my guys got beaten up by some random employees from that company. But it looks like you’ve got some skill after all. Maybe I was wrong about you." The downed thug coughed, trying to push himself up. Max watched, frowning. His kick should have ended the fight right there, yet the man was already standing again. Whether it was raw endurance or sheer stubbornness, it told him one thing: these weren’t ordinary street fighters. "Jett, right?" Max said calmly. "The Enforcer." The name froze a few of the Black Hounds mid-movement. For a second, the space between them grew heavy. They had assumed the target in front of them was just some executive brought in for the payout, maybe a figurehead to scare. But the way he said that name, it carried weight. "When we raided your underground fighting rings," Max continued, "I kept hearing the same thing. That we didn’t know who we were dealing with. That we’d regret picking a fight with the Black Hounds." He took a step forward. The sound of his foot against the dock floor echoed, slow and deliberate. "But the truth is," Max said, his voice hardening, "we know exactly who we’ve been dealing with this entire time." Four men charged at once. One swung a chain at his head; the metal whipped through the air with a shrill snap. Others followed with brass knuckles and blades glinting in the dim light. And then, the sound of metal clanging from the side. From the shadows above, four figures dropped in like thunder. The first landed in a crouch, his green jacket flashing as he grabbed the man with the chain and yanked him off-balance. The strike missed Max completely. In the same breath, three quick jabs smashed into the thug’s face, precise, brutal, efficient. The second newcomer, dressed sharp in a suit, rolled across the ground and rose with a heavy uppercut that lifted another Black Hound clean off his feet. The third, wearing a red jacket, moved differently, low, measured, coiled. He bent his knees and launched upward, his punch cutting through the air in a clean vertical arc. It cracked against the attacker’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. The thug tried to counter with his brass knuckles, but the strike was parried sideways. In the same motion came a jab to the cheek, then a hook across the ribs, two moves, one rhythm. The man collapsed. The last figure moved fastest of all, a blur in a black tank top. He dashed forward and leapt, his heel connecting squarely with a thug’s temple. The body dropped before the echo faded. A fifth figure appeared in the chaos, his golden jacket catching the dim light. As one of the remaining Black Hounds rushed to join the fray, the man in gold swept in, grabbing the attacker’s legs mid-stride and twisting hard. The thug’s head slammed against the ground with a dull crack. It was over in seconds. Five arrivals, five takedowns. They stood around Max like an unspoken wall, the scene shifting from ambush to reversal. The smell of rust and sweat mixed with salt air. The sound of distant gulls felt suddenly far away. Jett’s smirk faltered. His gaze darted from Max to the newcomers, and for the first time, there was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. Max met his stare, his voice low but steady, carrying through the space like a quiet storm. "You guys are the ones who have no idea who you’re dealing with."

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