The Wrath of Wick
Wick was looking like the devil himself.
His presence had morphed into something primal, something otherworldly. His aura pulsed with a dark energy that sent shivers down the spines of everyone present. The air grew heavier, the silence denser. Even the wind seemed to halt, as though nature itself feared what it saw.
Wick's movements became erratic, unpredictable. His blows came like a storm—wild, untamed, unstoppable. His body was a blur, not of chaos, but of unleashed wrath. He didn't strike like a man. He struck like vengeance incarnate.
Eddie, once the pinnacle of confidence and domination, found himself stumbling. Each of his attacks, so methodical and calculated in the beginning, now lacked rhythm. They faltered under the pressure of Wick's relentless assault. His breathing became shallow, chest heaving, the strain of the battle starting to show.
Nick, standing with The Shield, watching every motion, felt his heart hammering against his ribs. And then, realization dawned in his voice.
"Eddie isn't slowing down."
Dev turned, confused. "What?"
"It's Wick… he's moving faster."
It was true. Wick's speed, his reflexes, his instincts—everything had evolved in the span of minutes. It was as if pain and rage had forged something new in him, something more. Every time Eddie swung, Wick wasn't just dodging. He was predicting, responding, punishing.
Wick ducked under a wild swing, spun, and drove an elbow into Eddie's ribs. The impact was sharp, brutal. Eddie winced and staggered back, clutching his side for a breath too long.
Then, Wick did something no one expected.
He slammed his own fist against his forehead. Hard.
The sound echoed—a jarring, violent motion.
Gasps erupted.
It wasn't self-destruction. It was a signal.
A reminder.
"Do not lose."
Blood trickled down his forehead, painting a crimson path between his eyes. He welcomed it. The pain grounded him. Sharpened him.
And then he moved.
He crouched low and launched forward. A devastating low kick whipped across Eddie's knee. The sound—the crunch—was sickening. Something gave way. Eddie let out a howl of agony, his leg buckling.
His once-unshakable foundation crumbled.
He staggered, eyes wide in disbelief, pain coursing through every nerve.
Wick's eyes glowed with fury. Not just anger. A storm. A fury carved from betrayal, sacrifice, heartbreak, and the endless wars he'd fought alone.
He stepped in. His hand trembled with rage, knuckles raw and bloodied.
He remembered it all—Varsha's tears. Nick's silence. Shristi's Bravery. The betrayal at the Monarch. The humiliation. The loneliness. The buried graves of the brothers who'd once fought beside him and turned.
And then he released it all—in one final strike.
A brutal uppercut drove into Eddie's jaw with merciless force.
The impact echoed like thunder.
Time seemed to pause.
Eddie's body lifted slightly off the ground before crumpling in a heap.
The once-unbreakable warrior collapsed. Unmoving.
The entire battlefield went still.
A second passed. Then another.
Silence.
And then—
Chaos.
The Demolition, witnessing their titan fall, stumbled back. Fear gripped them. For the first time, they weren't staring at an opponent.
They were staring at a monster.
Nick's eyes brimmed with unshed tears—not of sadness, but of pride. Of awe. This wasn't just a friend. This was Wick. The King. The Ghost. The reason The Shield still stood.
"Long live the King," Dipanshu whispered.
The Shield erupted. Cheers, roars, cries of victory. They rushed forward, but none dared touch Wick yet. He was still smoldering, still simmering in that storm.
Wick stood there, staring at Eddie's broken form.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
A god in the flesh.
And then he turned.
Not toward his gang.
Toward the shadows.
Toward the voice that had spoken earlier.
The one that had confessed. Mocked. Boasted.
His eyes narrowed.
There was more.
He began walking—slow, deliberate steps through the scattered debris, each footfall echoing louder than the cheers. The crowd parted like water, unsure whether to celebrate or flee.
Shristi, from the sidelines, clutched her chest. Her fingers trembled. She had seen Wick in every shade—cold, soft, angry, protective—but this… this was something else. A version born from darkness.
A version created by the very people who underestimated him.
He walked until he found the voice.
A boy, no older than twenty-one, a smug expression smeared across his face. He was a lower-tier member of Demolition—one of the whispering snakes.
"You think this changes anything?" the boy spat. "You'll fall too. They always fall. You just haven't realized it yet."
Wick said nothing.
He looked down.
And without a word—slapped the boy across the face.
It wasn't brutal.
It was worse.
It was humiliating. A declaration.
You are not even worth the wrath.
The boy stumbled back, clutching his cheek in disbelief.
And Wick walked on.
Toward his own.
The Shield welcomed him. Each member stepped back with reverence, parting a path to Nick. To Dev. To Annu. To the core.
Nick stepped forward.
And for a brief second—he smiled.
"You okay?"
Wick nodded. "For now."
Dipanshu muttered under his breath, "King's back."
"No," Deep corrected, awe in his voice. "He never left."
And just like that—it was over.
The field emptied slowly. The Demolition, humiliated, melted into the shadows. The Shield, victorious, carried their wounded and departed with heads held high.
But the night… it wasn't done.
Because behind the blood and bruises, behind the roaring triumph—
Lingered a storm that had yet to be unleashed.
Wick looked at the night sky. Rain began to fall.
Soft. Gentle. Cleansing.
And yet—
He felt nothing.
He had won.
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To be continued...