"How boring… this is too easy." Gray sighed as he muttered to himself.
The clock above the blackboard ticked with a monotonous rhythm, each second reducing Gray's dwindling patience.
Light Children Academy. What a name. More like Light Headed Children Academy, these rich kids had millions of dollars, yet it seemed like they all shared a single brain cell.
Gray, on the other hand, was a different story.
His pen flew across the calculus exam paper, numbers and symbols blurring into a symphony of correct answers.
He barely even had to think. It was basic memorization, really.
A monkey could do it if it had enough flashcards.
This was Gray's life as a 16 year old high school student. Perfect grades. Perfect attendance. Perfect image.
"Psst, Gray."
A whisper, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, broke his concentration for a fraction of a second.
He ignored it. Finishing this exam five minutes early meant an extra five minutes of precious, uninterrupted daydreaming about… well, about his extracurricular activities.
"Gray, you done yet?" The whisper came again, more insistent this time.
It was Graham, the class clown who somehow managed to scrape by the school year just on sheer charisma.
Gray considered ignoring him again, but his paper was practically finished.
He placed his pen down with a soft click. "What the hell do you want?"
His voice was low, devoid of any real emotion.
In school, Gray was a perfect, quiet, academic machine.
He didn't make waves. He didn't cause trouble. He simply excelled.
Graham leaned forward, his eyes wide. "Dude, you gotta tell me. What's the answer to question seven?"
Gray glanced at the problem. It was a simple derivative, practically spoon-fed to them in class.
"Why should I tell you?" Gray asked.
"C'mon, I'll give you ten dollars if you tell me." Graham pleaded.
"A hundred dollars." Gray said.
"Why don't you rob me instead?" Graham was furious as he tried his best to keep his voice down.
The teacher noticed they were talking and said "Please refrain from talking while answering the exam, Mr. Graham, or I'd have to fail you."
Gray's expression darkened as he glared at Graham.
"Alright, fine, a hundred!" Graham whispered, pain in his voice.
"Too late, now it's three hundred."
Graham looked like he had eaten a fly. He saw the teacher's scrutinizing look and reluctantly agreed.
"It's two."
Graham's face lit up. "Just two? Are you serious? I thought it was like, x squared divided by y plus z!"
A sigh escaped Gray's lips.
He opened his eyes and pushed his paper forward. "Just copy it, Graham. And don't forget to pay me."
Graham practically salivated, grabbing Gray's paper like it was a winning lottery ticket. "You're a lifesaver, man! Seriously, what would I do without you?"
Gray didn't reply. He just leaned back in his chair, staring out the window at the pristine green lawn of Light Children Academy, daydreaming, anticipating the chaotic yet exciting world that awaited him after school.
A world where 'two' wasn't just a number, but the number of teeth he was about to knock out of some wannabe gang leader.
…
The bell finally rang, a glorious peal of freedom.
Gray was out the door before his teacher could even finish her usual platitudes about "enjoying your weekend."
He moved through the crowded hallways like a phantom, sidestepping chattering groups of students.
He walked past the school gates, a polite nod to the security guard, Mr. Henderson, who always gave him a friendly smile.
"Have a good weekend, Gray!"
"You too, Mr. Henderson," Gray replied, his voice calm and even.
But the moment he was out of sight, past the corner where the old oak tree stood, a subtle shift began.
His shoulders, usually hunched slightly as if to minimize his presence, straightened.
His steps, which had seemed precise and measured, became more confident, almost predatory.
He pulled out his phone, a cheap, beat-up model that contrasted sharply with the latest iPhones most of his classmates carried.
He typed a quick message:
"Ready. You guys just wait for me at home. I'll handle this alone."
Almost instantly, a reply popped up:
"Got it. Iron Fist is waiting. He brought his whole crew."
A smirk touched Gray's lips. Iron Fist. The second strongest delinquent in the district. Gray had been looking forward to this.
He was systematically dismantling the hierarchy of delinquents, one bloody knuckle at a time.
His goal? To become the undisputed King of Delinquents.
He knew the title was stupid and pointless. Still, he wanted it more than he ever wanted to be the top student in school.
He slipped into a back alley, the scent of stale garbage and damp concrete filling his nostrils. However, to Gray, the smell almost felt comforting.
He pulled a worn denim jacket from his backpack, shrugging it on.
The oversized jacket hid his lean but surprisingly muscular frame. He also pulled out a cap, pulling it low over his eyes, further obscuring his face.
Transformation complete. Gray, from genius student to infamous delinquent.
He walked for a few more blocks, the urban landscape changing from pristine academy grounds to graffiti-filled walls and broken streetlights.
He arrived at a vast, smoldering garbage dump, where towers of rubble and rusted metal choked the evening air with the stench of decay.
This was it. The arena for tonight's main event.
Ahead, he saw two groups facing each other, silhouetted against the setting sun.
At the center of one group stood a hulking figure, easily a foot taller than Gray, with broad shoulders and fists that looked like cinder blocks.
This was Iron Fist.
His reputation preceded him. They said he could punch through steel.
Gray was about to test that theory.
As Gray approached, a figure came up to him from the shadows.
It was a skinny kid, maybe sixteen, with a nervous twitch in his eye.
He was Rat, Gray's informant and self-proclaimed hype man.
The reason he was called Rat was because the way he moved looked so shifty and he always ate everyone's food when they're not looking.
"Gray! You made it!" Rat's voice was a high-pitched squeak.
"Iron Fist is really riled up. He heard you took out Razor last week."
Gray merely grunted, his eyes fixed on Iron Fist.
"So, you're Gray, huh? The punk who thinks he can waltz into my territory and kick everyone around?" Iron Fist took a step forward, his heavy boots crunching on the loose gravel, his voice was a low rumble, laced with menace.
Gray stopped about ten feet away from him, his hands tucked casually into his jacket pockets.
"Your territory? This garbage dump? It truly fits you."
A few of Iron Fist's crew snickered, quickly stifling themselves when Iron Fist shot them a glare.
Iron Fist's face darkened. "You got a smart mouth, kid. Let's see if your fists are as smart as your tongue." He cracked his knuckles, the sound like dry bones breaking.
"They're smarter," Gray replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
"Enough talk," Iron Fist roared, charging forward.
He was surprisingly fast for his size, a whirlwind of muscle and fury.
His right fist, the infamous 'Iron Fist,' arced towards Gray's head, a devastating blow designed to end the fight in one shot.
Gray didn't flinch.
He caught the punch head-on, meeting the blow with brute indifference.
Iron Fist's momentum shattered, it was as if he had collided with an immovable object.
This was Gray's specialty.
He was physically the strongest.
His raw, untamed physical power was unmatched and insurmountable.
Truth be told, Gray himself didn't understand why this was so, he was simply born with innate strength.
As Iron Fist's arm recoiled from the shocking force of the collision, Gray responded with a single, devastating strike, a bone-shattering haymaker aimed straight at Iron Fist's midsection.
The sound of the impact was sickening.
Iron Fist roared in agony, his formidable body buckling and bending backward from the sheer, crushing force.
Before Iron Fist could even begin to recover, Gray closed the distance, overpowering his guard with a relentless assault.
Each punch was meant to shatter bone and demolish Iron Fist's defense.
Iron Fist swung wildly in desperation.
Gray took the blow to his shoulder without registering it and countered with a final, earth-shaking smash.
He wasn't just venting steam; he was demonstrating absolute, unstoppable strength.
"How can an ant like you be so strong?!" Iron Fist couldn't believe the strength behind Gray's body.
He thought that due to Gray's small physique, he would be able to overpower him, yet, the opposite was happening.
"An ant? Ha!" Gray chuckled, circling Iron Fist. "You do know that ants can lift and carry objects up to 50 times their own body weight, right?"
"…"
Iron Fist felt how annoying it was to fight with someone stronger and smarter than you.
Iron Fist felt a profound sense of injustice.
It was like watching a house cat slam a grizzly bear into the ground.
Everything he knew about fighting, about strength and size, was being turned upside down by this skinny, smart-mouthed kid.
His pride, more than his ribs, was shattered.
Fueled by a fresh surge of rage and humiliation, Iron Fist roared.
It was a guttural, animalistic sound of defiance.
He pushed himself off the ground, his legs trembling not from weakness, but from the sheer effort of will.
"You... you think you've won?" he snarled, spitting a wad of blood onto the gravel.
Gray watched him with an air of detached amusement, like a scientist observing a particularly aggressive lab rat.
"I don't think. I know."
That was the last straw.
"I'LL CRUSH YOU!" Iron Fist bellowed. He planted his feet, drawing on every last ounce of his strength.
This was his ultimate technique, the very move that had earned him his name.
The air around his right arm seemed to thicken as he channeled all his power into a single, devastating punch. "IRON BREAKER!"
He lunged forward, his fist a blur of motion, aimed directly at Gray's face.
The attack wasn't fast or tricky; it was a battering ram of pure force, designed to obliterate anything in its path.
Iron Fist's crew gasped. They had seen this move shatter concrete blocks. It was over.
But Gray didn't even try to dodge. He simply raised his left hand, palm open, as if to casually wave hello.
CRACK!
The sound was not of a punch landing, but of a speeding truck hitting a steel wall.
Iron Fist's Iron Breaker, his ultimate weapon, was stopped dead in its tracks, caught squarely in Gray's palm!
A wave of air blasted outwards from the point of impact, kicking up dust and debris.
The members of Iron Fist's crew stumbled back, their eyes wide with disbelief.
Even Gray's crew was shocked; they knew Gray was strong, but they didn't know he was this strong.
Iron Fist's face was a mask of pure, unadulterated horror.
His punch, his pride, his very identity, had been caught effortlessly by a kid half his size.
He tried to pull his fist back, but it was trapped in a grip of unbreakable steel.
"A decent punch," Gray commented, his voice flat. His fingers tightened around Iron Fist's knuckles.
A sickening crunch echoed in the sudden silence.
"… by a normal person's standards."
With his other hand, Gray delivered a short, sharp jab to Iron Fist's jaw. It didn't look like much. There was no wind-up or dramatic motion.
Just a quick flick of the wrist.
But the impact lifted the hulking delinquent clean off his feet.
Iron Fist's eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed onto the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, completely and utterly unconscious.
The garbage dump fell silent once more.
All that could be heard was the faint evening breeze whistling through the unfinished building frames.
Gray shook his hand, a bored expression on his face.
"That was almost a warm-up."
Rat slowly crawled out from his hiding spot, his jaw hanging open. "G-Gray you... you caught it! You caught the Iron Breaker! With one hand!"
Gray glanced at the trembling Rat.
"It wasn't that impressive."
Rat finally scrambled to his feet, hurrying to keep up as Gray turned and started walking away, hands back in his pockets.
"Not impressive?! Gray, the guy punched through a steel door last week! Everyone was terrified! But you just... caught it!"
"Muscle-heads rely too much on raw power," Gray said dismissively, kicking a loose piece of gravel.
"So when they meet someone stronger, they suddenly have no idea what to do. Really makes them predictable."
"Predictably gonna break your whole arm, maybe!" Rat countered, still buzzing.
"Oh man, Knuckles and Leo are gonna flip when they hear about this! Specs is probably gonna want to analyze the kinetic force involved or something." Rat excitedly added.
Gray just smiled. "Let's get back. I'm starving."
They left the garbage dump behind, the sounds of Iron Fist's crew trying to figure out how to un-pretzel their leader fading into the distance.
Gray and Rat walked through the darkening streets, heading towards the industrial district.
Their destination was Warehouse 9.
From the outside, it looked like any other abandoned building, rusted metal doors, boarded-up windows, graffiti scarring its brick walls.
But to Gray, this was home.
He and Rat entered Warehouse 9 through a loose panel which served as a secret entrance.
The vast, echoey warehouse smelled faintly of dust, old grease, and instant noodles.
Several old couches and chairs were arranged around a low table made from stacked wooden pallets.
String lights dangled across some support beams, casting a warm, cozy glow.
On one wall, someone had spray-painted a stylized, slightly lopsided crown.
In the center of this makeshift living room, the scene was pure chaos.
"Die! Die! Die! Why won't you die?!" Knuckles, the big brawler, roared, furiously mashing buttons on an ancient game console controller.
He was hunched over a tiny, flickering portable TV screen, his face inches away, sweat beading on his forehead.
"This stupid final boss is cheating! I swear he's cheating!"
Leo, Gray's second-in-command, sat calmly on a lumpy couch nearby, engrossed in a worn paperback novel.
Without looking up, he said dryly, "Perhaps if you varied your attack pattern instead of just spamming the punch button, you might achieve a different outcome."
"Shut up, Leo! You don't understand high-level strategy!"
Knuckles shot back, immediately getting hit by a boss attack on screen. "Argh! See?! I lost because you distracted me!"
Meanwhile, Specs, the brains of the crew, was meticulously poking at the sputtering generator in the corner with a screwdriver, muttering to himself.
"Okay, the capacitor seems stable... maybe it's the voltage regulator? Or is the impedance just completely mismatched with this ancient power converter...? Damn it, Knuckles, stop yelling, your vibrations are messing with my readings!"
The air was filled with the frantic sounds of button mashing, Knuckles's enraged shouts, Leo's calm page-turning, Specs's frustrated technical mumbling, and the undeniable, comforting aroma of beef-flavored instant noodles simmering on a portable burner.
This was home. Gray was an orphan, his parents died when he was five.
Knuckles had run away from an abusive home.
Leo's family had disowned him.
Specs just... sort of showed up one day, declared their wiring inefficient, and started fixing things.
Rat's family didn't care where he was as long as he wasn't causing trouble at home.
They were a motley crew of strays, misfits who had found their own dysfunctional but fiercely loyal family here, in this rundown warehouse.
Gray's intelligence was his ticket out, the scholarship was his path to his dream—a "normal" future.
But this place, these guys, the fights… this was his real life.
"We're back!" Rat announced loudly as they stepped into the warehouse.
Knuckles didn't even look up from his game. "Did he win? Arghh! I almost had him! That stupid final boss..."
Leo marked his page with a finger and looked up, a calm smile on his face. "Judging by the fact that neither of you is being carried back in pieces, I assume it went well?"
"Went well?" Rat practically exploded.
"Leo, you should have seen it! Iron Fist used his ultimate move, the Iron Breaker! And Gray just—" He mimed catching something. "—caught it! With one hand! Then crunch! Broke his knuckles! Then bam! Knocked him out cold!"
Specs stopped tinkering, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Interesting. The estimated force calculation for the Iron Breaker technique suggested a high probability of fractured metacarpals upon direct interception. How did you do it, Gray?"
Gray just rolled his eyes and walked towards the steaming pot of noodles sitting on a portable burner. "Nah. He just hits like a girl."
He grabbed a bowl and started ladling noodles. "Anyone save me any?"
"Hey!" Knuckles finally paused his game, looking indignant. "I made those! And no, go cook your own!" He quickly went back to mashing buttons.
Leo chuckled. "There's another packet left, Gray. Help yourself."
Gray nodded his thanks and sat down on an old beanbag chair that leaked styrofoam beads whenever he moved.
He started slurping his noodles, the MSG-filled broth tasting like victory.
Rat excitedly recounted the entire fight, complete with sound effects.
Just as Rat finished his dramatic retelling, Leo looked up from his book again, his expression thoughtful. "Iron Fist was never really a threat," he stated calmly. "The one we should be worried about is the final boss."
The atmosphere in the warehouse shifted instantly.
Knuckles paused his game mid-jump. Specs stopped fiddling with a wire. Rat stopped bouncing.
All eyes turned to Gray, who was still casually slurping his noodles.
"Grandmaster Dan," Leo continued, a rare hint of excitement in his calm voice. "Beat him, Gray, and you'll finally be the King of Delinquents. The undisputed top dog of the entire district."
Specs adjusted his glasses, a small, calculating smile appearing. "Statistically, Grandmaster Dan commands the largest network. Defeating him would consolidate control over all major territories. A strategically sound objective."
Rat just looked at Gray with pure, unadulterated hero-worship. "King Gray..." he whispered in awe.
Knuckles slammed his controller down. "Hell yeah! Once you become the King Of Delinquents, we'll be considered as the strongest crew!"
The mention of being the strongest crew brought a smile to their faces, it was their dream to reach the top together!
Gray finished his noodles, set the bowl down, and leaned back in the leaky beanbag chair.
He looked at his friends, at their eager, expectant faces.
A slow, confident smirk spread across his face.
"Schedule the fight for next week." he said.
"Alright, I'll see what I can do." Leo nodded.
The brief moment of focus passed. Knuckles immediately picked his controller back up, yelling at the TV again.
Leo went back to reading his novel.
Specs went back to arguing with the generator's faulty wiring.
Rat started asking Gray for more details about the fight.
It was perfectly chaotic.
Gray's dual life was exhausting, but moments like these, surrounded by his loyal, idiotic friends in their ridiculous warehouse home... it made it all worth it.
…
A few weeks had passed since the fall of Iron Fist.
The name 'Gray' was now spoken in hushed, fearful tones throughout the district's back alleys.
Gray had systematically crushed every notable challenger, his reputation for unstoppable strength growing with each victory.
For him, however, it was just a prelude.
What he wanted was the title of 'King of Delinquents' which he would gain once he defeated the top dog of their district.
The final exams had been, as usual, a trivial affair.
He handed in his last paper, Advanced Thermodynamics, a full hour before the bell rang, ignoring the desperate, pleading looks from his classmates.
He'd aced it, of course. Maintaining his perfect academic record was crucial for his dream future.
…
As he was packing his bag, the classroom door opened. It was Mrs. Davison, the principal's secretary.
"Gray?" she called out, peering over her glasses. "Principal Thornton would like to see you in his office, please."
Gray paused.
A call to the principal's office usually meant trouble, but he knew his record was spotless. 'Probably just the standard 'congratulations on being a genius' speech,' he thought with an internal sigh.
"Okay, thank you, Mrs. Davison. I'll head right over."
He walked through the quiet, polished hallways towards the administrative wing.
Principal Thornton's office was large and intimidating, filled with dark wood furniture, imposing bookshelves, and awards the school had won.
The principal himself, a dignified man with sharp eyes, sat behind a massive desk.
"Ah, Gray! Come in, come in! Sit down!" Principal Thornton boomed, gesturing enthusiastically towards one of the plush chairs facing his desk.
"Good afternoon, Principal Thornton," Gray said politely, sitting down and adopting his usual quiet, respectful student persona. "You wanted to see me?"