Chương 140: Flower Power

Joe groaned as Punching strode up to him and jabbed a finger into his chest.

"How was your lashing?" Joe drew a long, steady breath, forcing his racing thoughts into line. Of course, he wasn't getting a break today. That, apparently, was the entire point of this cursed gate.

"Hey, Punching. Nice to see you again," Joe said evenly.

"You wouldn't be happy to just let me go? Seeing as my ass hurts like hell." Punching ignored the sarcasm entirely.

"Why the hell should I?" he snapped.

"You ruined my meditation. Do you have any idea how hard it is to concentrate with your ugly face in the way?" Joe had several responses ready. Most of them involved pointing out that he hadn't even looked at Punching. He wisely swallowed them.

"I'm sorry for ruining your meditation," Joe said instead.

"But I'm seriously sore right now, so I'm going home to bathe and clean the dressings." He tried to step past. Punching shifted smoothly and blocked him.

"I don't think so," Punching said flatly.

"I'm done being nice. Nothing short of your face colliding with my fist is going to make me happy today. Prepare yourself, Bi Luo." He stepped back, giving space. For a brief moment, Joe considered bolting. Then Drogon moved forward. Ah. So this was the plan. Let the henchmen soften him up first. Joe barely had time to register the thought before Drogon swung. To Joe's surprise, his body reacted fast enough to keep up with his mind.

The lingering power coursing through his muscles finally answered, sharpening his senses. He slipped aside as the punch cut through empty air, fast and clean. Drogon staggered, shock written across his face. Joe felt a wave of calm pass through him. The red energy still inside him was being absorbed, knitting muscle and flesh, dulling pain, even easing the raw burn across his back and sore ass. He moved. Joe's fist snapped out and drove into Drogon's ribs.

The impact drew a startled grunt, more surprise than pain, but it was enough. Drogon folded and crashed face-first to the ground, clutching his side. Joe straightened, equally stunned. For the first time that day, he felt strength in his tiny muscles. He stared at his hands for a brief moment, dimly aware that he had just punched a boy who was probably half his age. Then again, he was currently wearing a teenager's body, so perhaps that evened things out. He dismissed the thought with a shrug.

There was no time for moral philosophy.

"When in Rome," he muttered, "do as the Romans do." A second boy, Alvin, charged him with a shout. Joe tracked the movement as Alvin shifted seamlessly from a run into a tight, efficient punch aimed straight for his throat. Joe's eyes widened at the precision of it, but his body moved in time. He swayed aside and hooked a foot behind Alvin's ankle, sending him tumbling. Alvin rolled and sprang back to his feet in one smooth motion, already pressing the attack again.

Joe barely had time to register the others as Alvin's fists came in fast and controlled, snapping toward his neck and shoulder. This was no wild brawling. Alvin was focused, clearly aware that careless strikes would not be enough against the surprising sight of Bi Luo fighting back. He was right. Joe avoided every blow, but as he did, a strange sense of awe crept in. Alvin's technique was clean and economical, every movement purposeful, no wasted motion.

Without the energy flooding his muscles, Joe would have been on the ground already. Instead, he found himself studying the boy even as they fought, committing the stance and rhythm to memory. If he could move like that, truly move like that, he would be far more dangerous in a real fight. There was no quarterstaff in reach. No tools. So he adapted, turning survival into study. Unfortunately, Alvin was not alone.

"Clive, Scott, Trevor," Punching called calmly, eyes never leaving Joe.

"Help Alvin." Fuck. Joe's pace increased as the fight shifted from one-on-one to one on four. The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. Less than two hours ago, he would have folded from a single punch. Now he was dodging four attackers at once. The world narrowed to motion and instinct as Joe entered an almost trance-like state of concentration. For five long minutes, he weaved, parried, and redirected, relying on speed and the unnatural vitality still coursing through him.

Slowly, carefully, he waited for a mistake. When it came, he pounced. Joe slipped past one of Alvin's kicks and lunged toward Clive, feinting an uppercut. Clive leaned back exactly as Joe hoped. Joe swept his legs out from under him and followed through with a savage punch to the gut as Clive hit the ground. The opening was brief. But it was enough. Joe winced as the impact reverberated through his fist, pain flaring sharply. A heartbeat later, a boot crashed into his ribs as Trevor kicked him aside.

Joe rolled across the stones, then forced himself back to his feet. As he did, a small puff of red escaped his lips. He prayed no one would notice and would assume it was just blood. The grins told him they did.

"Hey," Joe said, rubbing his ribs, "that was ungentlemanly. How would you like it if I kicked you from your blind side?"

"I don't know what you just said," Trevor barked, "but shut your pie hole." Trevor lunged. Joe dipped under the snaking punch and answered with a real uppercut this time. Trevor's head snapped back, but Joe could not press the advantage. Alvin and Scott closed in immediately, forcing Joe back into frantic movement. Moments later, Clive and Drogon rejoined the fray. Five against one. The balance shifted fast.

Clean, hard punches began slipping through Joe's guard, hammering his shoulders, his ribs, his legs, his back. Bruises bloomed, breath burned, and his movements grew heavier. When Alvin finally landed a solid strike to Joe's jaw and blood spilt from his mouth, the boys eased off. Punching stepped forward, waving them aside.

"Not bad," Punching said.

"But one day of Flower Power doesn't erase years of neglect. Time for a proper lesson in humility, brother-in-law." Joe broke. He laughed, deep and uncontrolled, the sound tearing at his chest.

"Flower Power? Really? What am I, a moustached plumber?" His lungs protested as he wheezed through the laughter. Punching frowned, confusion flickering briefly across his face. Then he attacked. The difference was immediate. Punching's fists came fast and relentlessly, a brutal storm that made Alvin's earlier strikes look clumsy by comparison. Blow after blow slammed into Joe, pain stacking upon pain until his body screamed in protest.

Now he understood exactly why the man was called Punching, and he hated every second of it. Even so, Joe managed to slip past more strikes than he took. The energy still humming through his muscles kept him moving, kept him alive. Punching noticed, his expression sharpening as he pressed harder. A vicious blow whistled toward Joe's temple. He ducked at the last instant and snapped his fist into Punching's elbow.

It was barely a punch, more a sharp rebound than anything else, but it made Punching grunt and pull back a step. Joe sucked in a ragged breath, grateful for the brief moment it brought him. Joe let his memory take over as he fought, letting it guide his body while he studied the rhythm of Punching's attacks. Cascading snake bites. That was the closest translation he could form for the martial technique, even if the High Human language resisted a clean one-to-one match. The name fit.

Short, snapping strikes, relentless and venomous. Punching reset into the starting stance. This time, Joe mirrored it perfectly. A ripple of surprise ran through the boys watching. Punching's eyes widened a fraction before his fists lashed out again. For the first time since the ambush began, Joe let his footwork breathe. He could not access any system skills here. Everything he had earned since the Integration was sealed away. What remained was memory and repetition. Years of practice, burned into muscle and bone.

He moved. Not fast, not flashy. Smooth. Like water sliding over stone. Punching overextended by a hair. Joe stepped inside the strike and drove his fist into Punching's chest. The impact landed clean. The larger boy flew backwards, crashing into Alvin, who barely had time to register what was happening before they both hit the ground and skidded across the street. Silence followed. Only then did Joe notice how many eyes were on them.

A crowd had gathered outside the meditation building, drawn by the noise and the impossible sight of Bi Luo standing upright while Punching lay sprawled in the dirt. Joe's stomach dropped when he caught flashes of familiar figures in the crowd. A maid's dress. Braided brown hair. He even saw a spill of fiery red curls off to his right.

"Shit," he muttered. He did not waste the opening. Joe spun, shoulder-checked one of the boys whose name he could not remember, and bolted down the street. Stones slapped under his feet as he ran, heart pounding, leaving stunned onlookers and furious, bruised egos behind him. It turned out to be the right choice. Two village guards arrived moments later, demanding to know what the commotion was and why several boys were rolling on the ground, clutching their ribs.

Neither guard noticed the two girls who broke from the crowd and sprinted after the fleeing Bi Luo, eyes locked firmly on his retreating back. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. As Joe ran along a partially empty cobbled road, his heart hammered so hard it felt ready to burst free of his chest. The rush was intoxicating. Exhilarating. He had never felt this alive. That punch, the clean impact, the moment Punching flew back, replayed in his mind with frightening clarity.

For a fleeting second, he wondered if his true calling lay in fists rather than a quarterstaff. He shook his head hard as he ran. Blasphemy. Absolute blasphemy. He was a quarterstaff carrier. Always had been. Always would be. Still, something had changed. As his feet pounded stone, a prickle crept up the back of his neck. eyes on him. His senses were sharpening, stretching outward in ways that were blocked until now. It thrilled and unsettled him in equal measure.

He could not tell who followed him, only that he was not alone. He assumed two of the boys had shaken off their shock and given chase. He tried to lose them, weaving through side streets and altering his pace, mimicking the snaking rhythm of his fists from moments before. It did not work. Whoever followed him knew the village far better than he did. So Joe changed tactics. He sprinted for the outer wall looming ahead. A wide Archway yawned open, leading beyond the village proper.

Two guards stood there, turning as he approached at full tilt. Joe skidded to a halt, breath tearing from his lungs. One of them was his father. Or rather, Bi Luo's father. The distinction barely registered right now. Separating his own thoughts from Bi Luo's memories was becoming harder by the minute, and right now, he simply did not care. He bent forward, hands on his knees, sucking in air as his legs trembled beneath him.

"Bi, what in the world is going on?" his father demanded, disappointment heavy in his voice.

"I heard you broke the meditation time limit today." When did he have time to learn that? Joe wondered while he resisted the urge to laugh. The gossip train had beaten him again. He glanced back down the road, but his pursuers were gone, either hiding or having chosen not to approach the guards.

"Dad… I can… explain later," Joe said between gasps.

"I was…. punished and released. No harm…. done." He dropped to sit in the middle of the road, uncaring of appearance as his breath slowly returned. His knees screamed. Every muscle ached. Yet beneath the pain was relief. Gratitude. His body was alive with strength, the petal's energy still roaring through his stomach, knitting wounds closed faster than he could track.

"Do not brush me off, young man," his father snapped.

"I am your father. You will explain yourself now." Joe winced, then straightened slightly and offered him a carefully altered version of events. Nothing untrue, just trimmed. Redirected. When he finished, his father stared at him in stunned silence.

"You reached the fifth row?" his father stammered as he sank down beside him. That was one of the details Joe had adjusted. It sounded believable. Far safer than the truth. Joe nodded.

"I was more surprised than anyone," Joe said, "That's why I lost track of time and got punished." A sharp clang echoed nearby. Joe's head snapped toward the corner of a building. For half a heartbeat, he thought he saw a flash of fiery red curls. He shook his head. No. Absolutely not.

"Well," his father said after a moment, following Joe's gaze and then dismissing it with a shake of his head and light chuckle, "If Cere administered the punishment, then it's settled."

"How is that fair?" Joe protested, feigning outrage.

"She lashed me. My buttocks still hurt." They did not hurt at all. In fact, they were the only part of him that did not feel like it was on fire. His father laughed, and despite himself, Joe laughed too. The moment stretched until the stern-looking guard standing nearby cleared his throat.

"We should resume our rounds. Shift change is coming up," he said, gesturing toward the archway. Bi Luo's father rose, pulled Joe to his feet, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

"There's something different about you today, son," he said quietly.

"Try not to get carried away. And say hello to Twirling for me." Joe froze.

"Fuck," he muttered as his father walked away. Joe turned sharply, and this time he saw her. Twirling's grinning face peeked out from behind a nearby building. He tried to blot, but his legs chose betrayal. He stumbled instead and groaned as he caught himself.

"At least help me out if you're going to stalk me," Joe called as she approached. The next thing he knew, he was seated outside what appeared to be a bakery, at a small wooden table opposite two beautiful young women. Twirling and Dances were deep in conversation, pointedly ignoring him as they laughed and whispered.

"And then," Twirling said brightly, "I stole a kiss from the roguish young lout. But he was terrible at kissing. I think it was his first." She giggled and shot Joe a sideways glance. He stared at her in disbelief.

"Hey, that's not fair," he protested.

"I didn't even have time to react. That doesn't count." Even as he said it, Joe wondered why he was defending himself at all. He had known this girl for only a few hours, and yet somehow, his day had already spiralled completely out of control. He glanced at Dances, who was giggling along with Twirling and pointedly ignoring him. She had not acknowledged him once since arriving, not even a sideways look, as if he simply did not exist at the table.

"That's what you get for stealing kisses from roguish louts," Dances said, hands dancing animatedly through the air.

"You should have waited for your prince charming." Joe let out a slow breath and stared at the tabletop. Being a teenager again was miserable. The emotions came fast and hot, bubbling up without permission, and he had to clamp down hard to keep from saying something stupid. As if sensing the struggle, Twirling's attention snapped fully onto him.

"Maybe I'll give the rogue one more chance," she said lightly.

"A chance to impress me." The look she gave him made Joe deeply uncomfortable. He raised a hand at once.

"No, thank you." Then he remembered his punishment. The hourly visits. He did not have a watch, but he noticed the glint of metal on Dances's wrist and addressed her directly for the first time.

"Dances, do you know what time it is?" She lifted her wrist so he could see the watch face, but said nothing. He read it quickly. Half past the hour. Thirty minutes left. She was strange, he decided. Not unfriendly exactly, but distant in a way he could not place.

"Somewhere you need to be?" Twirling asked, narrowing her eyes. Joe saw no point in lying.

"I have a meeting with Cere. Part of my punishment." Dances met his gaze.

"With my mother? Did she ask you to come by?" Joe nodded.

"It was her decision. I assume she's going to make me do something unpleasant." Dances laughed softly.

"Mother would never. She's far too kind to strays for that." That did it. Twirling burst into laughter so sudden and violent that she tipped sideways out of her chair and rolled onto the ground, clutching her stomach and smearing dust all over her dress. Joe stared at her in stunned silence, very aware that whatever he had just stepped into, it was only getting worse from here. He shook his head. The first time Dances actually looked at him properly, it was to call him a stray.

He regretted ever opening his mouth in her direction. After far too long, Twirling finally hauled herself back into her seat, brushing dust from her skirt as if nothing had happened, and the conversation resumed as though Joe had not been sitting there the entire time.

"Where did you learn those steps?" Twirling asked casually.

"That last punch you gave my brother was impressive."

"Oh. You saw that?" Joe frowned.

"Wait. How long were you following me?"

"Since you left the distillery," she replied, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. Dances giggled again and promptly returned to pretending Joe did not exist. Joe leaned back and stared at the sky, questioning every decision that had led him to this moment. Five more minutes of idle chatter passed while his body continued to heal, warmth pooling beneath his skin, when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was coming.

He tried to stand, instinct screaming at him to run, but Twirling's grip locked onto his wrist with surprising strength.

"Let me handle this," she said quietly.

"I need to speak with my brother anyway." She stood, and before Joe could react, she leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. He tried to pull away, but it was useless. She laughed, patted his shoulder, and sprinted off toward the approaching group. Dances took that moment as her cue to leave, slipping away without a word. Joe sighed and stayed seated, running a mental check over his body. Strangely, he felt fine. Too fine. Then he belched, and a faint cloud of red escaped his lips.

He waved it away quickly, heart pounding. Maybe moving really did help burn the excess off. As he considered his options, raised voices carried across the street. Twirling and Punching were arguing, sharp words cutting through the afternoon air. Joe rose slowly. Whatever gratitude he felt toward her, this was his problem now. He walked toward them, every step steady. The argument died the moment they noticed him approaching.

Twirling smiled, stepped forward, gave his shoulder a light squeeze, and walked away without another word. He watched her go, baffled.

"Back for more?" Joe asked Punching, noting with a grim sense of inevitability as he was once again ringed by ten boys. This was getting old.

"Shut it," Punching snapped.

"If I wanted your opinion, I'd ask." He lifted his hand.

"This time, everyone get him!" With that, the second battle began. Joe no longer had any room to hold back as eleven boys surged toward him, Punching included. He flowed into his footwork, feet snapping out to parry two strikes while he slid beneath Punching's right hook and countered with his own, mirroring the motion perfectly. He was not faster than Punching, but years of combat and violence were etched deep into him, and he felt the attack coming before it fully formed.

He had already moved a fraction of a second ahead of them. When his fist cracked against Punching's jaw, Joe smiled as the boy's head snapped back, and Joe slipped around him, using his larger body as a shield against the others. Punching quickly learned, how difficult it was to pin down a smaller opponent who knew how to disappear behind him. The experience felt disturbingly familiar. Joe had fought larger opponents many times before, but he usually had the advantage of speed or overwhelming strength.

Here, he had neither. Being weaker and slower turned the fight into a razor's edge, demanding precision with every movement. Each dodge mattered. Each misstep promised bone-deep pain. When he survived the opening rush without taking a single hit, a flicker of optimism took hold. He leaned into it, watching their strikes closely and copying them whenever he could. This only angered the boys further. Their frustration showed as their attacks grew sloppy and uncoordinated, which gave Joe the openings he needed.

Eleven attackers became nine as he dropped two in quick succession. The sight of their fallen companions rippled through the group, hesitation spreading. Joe pressed the advantage. Within ten minutes, only four remained standing. He was breathing hard now, lungs burning, but he did not retreat when Punching stepped forward.

"How?" Punching demanded.

"You were never good at fighting. What changed? How did you learn so fast?" Joe was surprised by the question, but he welcomed the pause. He straightened slowly, forcing air into his aching chest.

"I bumped my head this morning," he said again.

"Let's just say I'm not the same person today. I gave you a chance to walk away. You chose not to." He stepped in and drove his foot into Punching's chest. At the same moment, Joe coughed up a mouthful of red cloud and spun instinctively to disperse it. The movement left him exposed. Alvin's fist smashed into his neck. Joe's vision went white as consciousness slipped away. He collapsed to the ground at the same moment Punching did, but Joe was not as fortunate.

Alvin and Trevor fell on him, fists hammering into his helpless form. The last thing Joe felt before darkness claimed him was Alvin's boot slamming square into his face.