Chương 3: 1 vs 4

The rat-faced kid charged ahead of the others with his fists swinging wildly. Tyson's response was swift. He twisted, letting his backpack slide from one shoulder and swing forward in a single motion. The heavy bag stuffed full of textbooks slammed directly into the boy's stomach, folding him over with a wet gasp. At the same instant, Tyson's palm snapped upward, catching him under the nose. A wet crunch followed. The boy shrieked, stumbling backward.

'Damn it,' Tyson winced internally, not from the scream but the warm blood that stained his hand. God, fighting children felt awful. Even though they were technically the same age, it still felt awful. Tyson almost felt like he was bullying the weak, which he technically was. Another boy charged in immediately after. He was significantly taller than the rat-faced kid but just as slow and predictable.

Tyson caught the incoming wrist easily, twisted sideways, and yanked him forward into a sharp elbow driven straight into the middle of his chest. The impact knocked the breath out of the kid in a wheezing gasp. The pulling also happened to coincidentally place him into the path of a wild kick from the third attacker. Foot met shin. The tall kid was sent tumbling to the floor with a pained cry.

Tyson then swiftly delivered a short, efficient kick to his exposed stomach to make sure he stayed down, forcing another pained groan out of him. The boy who had kicked earlier pulled out of the shock of kicking his own teammate and lashed out again.

'Why are all these guys so fucking slow?' Tyson wondered before he easily caught the boy's ankle mid-kick and held it there, forcing him to hop, arms flailing, eyes going wide with shock and horror. Dudley, who had been slowly approaching from behind, hesitated for a second, trying to move around his wobbling friend. Tyson didn't hesitate. He yanked the one-legged boy closer, clamped one small hand over his face, and swept the remaining leg out from under him with a low kick.

The boy slammed onto his back, air rushing from his lungs in a strangled wheeze, which assured Tyson that he was down for good. Now there was only Dudley. And Dudley was a problem. No matter what anyone said, size always mattered. It wasn't the primary deciding factor in a real fight, but it was a factor. And Dudley outweighed him badly. His body was wrapped in a thick layer of adipose armor, a natural shock absorber that rendered most body shots useless.

Punching him in the stomach would likely be just like punching a particularly vindictive beanbag chair. It just wouldn't work. Tyson's reach was also limited, while his weight was insufficient for a throw. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other. Dudley's fists remained lowered, but his beady eyes burned with angry humiliation.

"You shouldn't have done that, Yank."

"You gonna keep talking, Akimichi boy, or fight?" Tyson kept his voice relaxed, almost bored.

"I'm honestly worried if I cut you, bacon fat and butter will ooze out. Your belly button probably makes an echo. If you were a truck, you'd need a wide load sign. You—" A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"AAAAAHHHHH!" With the surprisingly high-pitched war cry of an enraged calf, Dudley charged at him, slower than the combined slowness of all of his cronies before him. What a pity. Tyson had been planning to continue. The routine was a classic from a certain web-slinging superhero's playbook, and he had at least three more fat jokes queued up. The audience would have been thoroughly entertained if Dudley hadn't cut him off. It pissed Tyson off. For half a second, he even considered a cheap shot to the groin.

It would end the fight almost in an instant, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Dudley was a bully and a sadistic little monster in the making. But he was also nine years old. There were lines that, even now, even with his personality twisted by years of frustration, Tyson wasn't willing to cross. Better to stick with ordinary strikes. So instead, he stepped aside at the last second and drove a palm strike into Dudley's nose. It was the same move he had used on the rat-faced boy.

The impact jarred his wrist, Dudley's face momentarily distorted by the blow. As the fat boy's momentum carried him forward, Tyson hooked a foot around his ankle and twisted. The little whale toppled forward with a startled yelp, hitting the ground with a resonant thud. Before he could recover, Tyson landed on his back, seized one flailing arm, and wrenched it behind the boy's back in a textbook armbar. Dudley's screams echoed across the hallway. Nearby, the rat-faced kid was openly crying now.

The kid he had kicked earlier was curled on the ground groaning beside the one he had slammed onto the floor.

"Get off me, you— AHHH!" Dudley's voice cracked into another squeal when Tyson applied slightly more pressure to the arm lock. A sigh escaped Tyson's lips.

"Fatty," he said, almost conversationally, "you really need to find healthier emotional outlets for all this aggression. Play video games. Join a sport. Maybe jog once in your life and save that poor future heart of yours. Exercise that doughy fat—""WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!" An adult voice cut through the hallway. He looked up. A woman stood frozen several feet away, horror written all over her face as she stared at the pile of injured children.

She was a teacher, presumably, given the lanyard swinging from her neck. And behind her, half-hidden, stood The Boy Who's Ass He Just Saved. Harry's eyes behind his round glasses were as wide as saucers as he took in the sight of his frequent tormentors sprawled across the floor crying. His expression was a mix of shock, disbelief, and a tiny flicker of something that Tyson read as... hope. Tyson shrugged, a bit awkwardly given his position on top of Dudley's back.

"Interfering with the main storyline, apparently," he said dryly. The moment the words left his mouth, he already knew with absolute certainty that this was going to become a massive problem. Which was unfortunate. Because he strongly suspected things would only spiral further from here. ••• The aftermath was predictable, and predictably tedious. Headmistress Pomona's office was a cramped, dusty space that smelled of old paper and ink.

She sat behind her desk, a thin woman with a severe bun and the expression of someone who had just bitten into a lemon and discovered it was actually a slug. Across from her, in two uncomfortable wooden chairs, sat Tyson and his father.

"Never in all my years at St. Gregory's have we witnessed behavior this violent," Headmistress Pomona said indignantly, staring at his father with the expression of someone recounting a war crime.

"Poor Mister Polkiss has a broken nose," she continued.

"Dennis is still sobbing, and Dudley claims his arm was broken!"

"Claims," Tyson interjected, his voice flat, "but his arm is perfectly fine. I checked." His father sighed heavily beside him and rubbed at his mustache as Pomona's gaze snapped to him, a mixture of horror and... incomprehension.

'Fuck you, bitch!' Tyson absolutely loathed that look from adults.

"And," he added patiently, "I already explained this. Piers attacked me first."

"All four boys claim you initiated the confrontation!" Pomona snapped.

"I didn't." He leaned back slightly in the chair and spoke calmly.

"It's my first day at this school. I don't know anyone. I was trying to find my way to the lunch hall. Then four kids I've never met cornered me and tried to jump me. I just defended myself."

"You really expect me to believe—""He does." His father finally interrupted. Mike leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the Headmistress, and spoke with surprising calm.

"Ms. Pomona, I understand my son's response may have been… excessive by your standards. But there were four boys involved." He spread his hands slightly as he continued, "Are you suggesting that my son, on his very first day, having never met these children, decided to assault a group of strangers without any reason?" Pomona hesitated. The logic was, regrettably, difficult to refute. Mike pressed the advantage, his tone softening into something almost conciliatory.

"We're willing to apologize to the other parents, if that would help. We regret that any child was hurt. But it's his word against theirs. And from where I'm sitting, Headmistress, one of those stories makes a great deal more sense." The Headmistress looked increasingly cornered. Her eyes darted to Tyson, who nodded slowly, deciding to compromise.

"I'll apologize," he said.

"And I promise I won't ever start a fight in this school. But if someone hits me, and I can't get to a teacher safely, I'm allowed to defend myself. Right?" Pomona's expression somehow became even more strained. She rubbed her face, a gesture of profound exhaustion.