CHAPTER 20 : LIMIT BREAK
Silence stretched.
No system alerts.
No tactical overlays.
No voice.
George’s group fanned out, leather jackets creasing as they moved, boots scraping asphalt as the semi-circle closed—clean, practiced—cutting off the sidewalk.
Bunty froze, his eyes scanning, calculating. With his size and raw durability, he could handle two, maybe three if he went hard.
Rayan… he knew Rayan could maybe manage one, but it would push him to his absolute limit.
“Ray—” Bear hissed, body coiling. “Escape! While I buy you time. We can’t handle eight… maybe two, three tops!”
Rayan’s calm didn’t crack. It deepened, becoming something colder. “Don’t worry, Bunty. We got it.” The steadiness in his voice was unnatural.
Bear stared, shock overriding fear. This wasn’t the Rayan he knew. But the confidence was a contagion. “Ah– Fuck it man,” Bear growled, settling into a brawler’s stance. “Let’s speak with our actions.”
George burst into harsh, mocking laughter. “Look at you! Still acting cool! Where’s your bike, huh? In the dumpster where you belong?”
Rayan said nothing. He simply turned his head and fixed George with a glare. It wasn’t fiery; it was empty, like the gaze of a shark before it bites. It stripped away George’s bravado, leaving only naked, humiliated fury in front of his crew.
George’s face mottled red. “Speak up, Rayan! Cat got your tongue?”
The air got colder.
Rayan’s voice, when it came, was so calm it was terrifying. “Guess Ms.Reed words didn’t went into your head and also yesterday’s beating wasn’t enough for you.”
A ripple went through the gang. Yesterday?.
George’s rage exploded. “YOU BASTARD! You got one lucky shot when I was off-guard! You think that means anything?” He screamed, spittle flying. “What are you all looking at? Go on! Beat that bastard into a pulp! Make him eat the curb! I want to hear his bones snap!”
The seven moved. Two lunged for Bear first. Bunty was a storm—he dodged a wild punch, driving his fist into the second guy’s nose with a wet crunch. He pivoted, leg lashing out to catch a third in the knee. Then a fourth tackled him from the side, driving him into a fifth who wrapped him in a bear hug. A fourth drew back for a brutal kick to Bunty’s ribs. Bunty roared, drove an elbow into the fifth’s chin, and twisted, taking the kick on his meaty thigh. He was holding, but five against one was a tide, relentless and smothering.
George cackled. “Look! Your fat meat shield is getting cooked! He’ll be pissing blood for a week!”
Meanwhile, the two remaining thugs swaggered toward Rayan, smirking. The first swung a lazy, telegraphed haymaker. Rayan’s hand shot up, catching the fist mid-air with a solid smack. Before the shock could register, Rayan’s other hand buried itself like a piston into the man’s solar plexus. There was a horrific, airless whoosh. The man’s eyes bulged. He dropped to his knees, vomiting a stream of blood-streaked saliva onto the pavement, gagging for a breath that wouldn’t come.
The second guy stumbled to a halt.
“FORGET THE PIG!” George shrieked, pointing at Rayan. “GET HIM!”
The five men swarming Bear disengaged, turning with their companion. Bear catches his breath. He is almost knock out stage . even though seeing all 6 going towards rayan . He decides to push his limits and trying to go. But, he can’t . he unable to go .
Now six encircled Rayan. They came in a wave. Rayan’s mind hyper-focused. He saw the punches—the hook from the left, the jab from the right, a kick aimed at his knee. He weaved, ducked, parried. He landed a sharp jab that shattered a lip, a kick that buckled a knee. But it wasn’t enough. A fist glanced off his temple, stars exploding in his vision. A boot caught him in the ribs. He grunted, stumbling back. They pressed, their blows raining down—on his arms, his shoulders, his back. He was a dam holding, but cracking.
George danced at the periphery, his voice a shrill symphony of hate. “That’s it! Break him! Make him crawl! Just like his useless father probably crawls to beg for work! And his whore mother—I bet she’s lying on her bed with others, to get money, pathetic—"
The words didn’t just hit Rayan’s ears. They drilled into his skull, poisoning his blood, igniting a inferno in his chest. Rational thought vaporized. There was only a red, pulsating need: to erase that voice, to shatter the thing that made it.
In his mind, a roar. ‘NIRA…. I don’t care what you suggest or what you do. I want to make him PAY.’
[Host’s prefrontal cortex is being flooded with adrenal and noradrenaline. Emotional override imminent. Warning: This level of rage will induce significant personality drift. You will carry this.] Nira’s voice was a clinical counterpoint to the chaos.
I. DON’T. FUCKING. CARE.
[Understood. Analyzing optimal solution for host’s objective: ‘Make him pay.’] A nanosecond pause. [Most suitable action: Temporary physical stat boost. Elevating Strength, Stamina, Endurance, and Agility to peak human sub-tier: 15/20. Cost: 3 Cognition Points. Available CP: 3.]
[Does host agree?]
Whatever. YES. Do it!
[Initiating temporary physiological override. Time limit: 00:59 minutes :59 seconds.]
For five seconds, Rayan’s world was pure, unadulterated agony. It felt like his bones were being dipped in molten lead, his muscles shredded and rewoven with steel cable. A guttural scream tore from his throat, his eyes squeezed shut. Then, as suddenly as it came, it vanished.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
His eyes opened.
The calm was back, but it was no longer human. It was the calm of a landslide, of a glacier grinding stone to dust. His body hummed with terrifying potential.
The six men hesitated, unnerved by the scream, by the sudden stillness.
Rayan moved.
He didn’t fight them.
He dismantled them.
His agility (15/20) made him a blur—not frantic, not wild. He slipped past a clumsy punch by inches, movements tight and economical, like he’d already seen it coming. A short step. A pivot. No wasted motion.
His strength (15/20) wasn’t explosive—it was contained.
A compact cross slammed into one man’s chest, not to break ribs, but to shut the air out of him. The impact landed with a hollow, sickening thud. The man staggered back, eyes wide, lungs refusing to cooperate, sliding down the wall as his legs gave out.
They rushed him together.
He absorbed the counterblows without flinching. His stamina and endurance (15/20) made their strikes feel distant—dull taps against something immovable. Pain registered, then vanished.
He caught another attacker by the forearm and collar, turned with the man’s momentum, and redirected it—sending him crashing into two others. All three went down in a tangled heap, gasping, stunned, scrambling to remember how balance worked.
A sharp twist—not enough to break—forced one wrist open. Fingers went numb instantly, the hand useless, pain blooming too fast to process.
A knee drove into a thigh, precise and merciless. The muscle seized on impact, locking up like a dead engine. The man collapsed with a strangled cry, unable to stand, unable to understand why his leg wouldn’t obey.
Another tried to rise.
A palm strike snapped his head sideways, rattling his senses, leaving him slumped and blinking, consciousness leaking away.
Less than thirty seconds.
Six men were down—not shattered, not destroyed—but finished. Groaning. Gasping. Clutching limbs that still worked but refused to cooperate. Some curled inward, some stared blankly at nothing, all of them suddenly very aware that moving again was not an option.
Bear froze.
The scene in front of him didn’t make sense—not all at once. His mind stalled, caught somewhere between shock and disbelief, eyes moving but not seeing. Bodies on the ground. Groans. One man clutching his chest like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Another staring at his own hands, flexing his fingers as if they belonged to someone else.
And Rayan.
Standing.
Calm.
Bear’s heart thudded hard, too loud in his ears. What the hell just happened?
His thoughts scrambled backward, replaying everything in jagged fragments.
The shouting.
George’s voice—loud, cruel, carried by numbers.
The way they’d closed in, confident, careless.
Bear remembered tensing, preparing himself for chaos… for blood… for Rayan to be overwhelmed.
But that wasn’t what he’d seen.
There had been no panic. No hesitation.
Just movement—clean, controlled, terrifyingly precise.
Bear swallowed. His mouth felt dry.
He remembered the first man going down, the sound of air being knocked out of lungs. The way the others had rushed in together, like wolves who suddenly realized too late they’d misjudged their prey. He remembered thinking, This is where it turns ugly.
Instead, it had ended.
Too fast.
Bear’s gaze drifted again to the men on the ground. None of them were screaming anymore. None of them were getting up. They were alive—clearly—but emptied of fight, stripped of intent.
His chest tightened.
Rayan didn’t lose control, Bear realized. That thought hit harder than anything else. He never even raised his voice.
Bear looked at him now—really looked.
Rayan’s breathing was steady. His hands were relaxed at his sides. There was no rage on his face. No satisfaction either. Just a quiet stillness, like this outcome had been decided long before the first punch was thrown.
A chill crawled up Bear’s spine.
This wasn’t strength born from anger.
This was something else.
Something deliberate.
And for the first time since he’d known him, Bear felt a strange, unsettled mix of awe and fear—because he understood one thing with absolute clarity now:
Rayan had been holding back all along.
George stood alone, his laughter long dead, his face a mask of pure, primal fear. He tried to back away, but his legs were jelly.
Rayan walked toward him. No rush. A predator with certain prey.
“N-No… stay back!” George whimpered, swinging a wild, terrified punch.
Rayan’s head moved an inch. The fist passed through empty air. Rayan’s hand shot out, catching George’s wrist in a grip like industrial vice. With terrible, slow force, he drove his other fist into George’s stomach.
The impact wasn’t loud. It was deep, a visceral thump. George’s eyes shot wide. He doubled over, a geyser of crimson vomit erupting from his mouth, splattering Rayan’s shoes. He sagged, retching.
Rayan’s grip on his wrist didn’t loosen. He transferred it to George’s throat. With effortless, terrifying strength, he began to lift. George, choking, kicking weakly, was raised from his knees, to unsteady feet, and then higher, until his toes scrabbled for purchase on the asphalt. His face turned purple. A wet stain spread across his jeans. He tried to speak, to beg, but only produced desperate, gurgling rasps. His free hand flailed, slapping weakly at Rayan’s arm.
Rayan caught that hand too. He held the choking, trembling boy aloft with one hand, a grotesque trophy. He leaned in, his voice a low, chilling murmur that carried in the dead air.
“Are you disappointed that the bones didn’t crack ?”
The question hung in the air, cold and almost curious.
A brief silence followed—long enough for George’s breath to hitch, long enough for him to realize something was wrong.
Rayan’s voice came again, lower now. Steadier.
“I’ll satisfy you.”
His eyes dropped to George’s hand.
The same hand that had pointed.
The same hand that had shaken while he laughed.
The same hand that had sliced the air as he spat curses about Rayan’s family.
Rayan took it.
Not fast.
Not angry.
With calm, deliberate precision, his fingers closed—locking the wrist, controlling the elbow. The grip wasn’t violent. It was final. There was no struggle, only the sudden, terrible realization that struggle no longer mattered.
Something in Bear’s chest dropped.
Realizing something wrong—very wrong—he shouted, “Ray—!”
The sound cut off halfway.
A thick, explosive SNAP, like a heavy branch being broken over a knee, ripped through the street and slammed into the storefronts, echoing back at them.
George’s body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He convulsed violently, spine arching, mouth stretching open in a silent scream. No sound came out. His throat locked, breath trapped somewhere behind raw shock. His eyes bulged—wet, frantic, unfocused—staring at nothing at all
Rayan tossed him.
George collapsed.
Not fell—collapsed, crumpling like dead weight, his broken arm folded wrong against his chest, instinctively cradled even as his body rejected the pain.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then air slammed back into his lungs.
The scream that followed wasn’t human anymore. It ripped out of him—high, shrill, cracked—a pig-like shriek of pure agony that scraped the air raw. He thrashed, heels digging into the ground, face twisted beyond recognition, sobbing and screaming all at once.
Rayan stepped back.
His hand was already relaxed again.
George’s screams filled the street.
The seven other boys stared, trembling, swallowing dry heaves of terror. Even Bear was frozen, his face pale, his mind refusing to process the cold, systematic brutality he had just witnessed. This… this was not Rayan.
Rayan turned. He walked over to Bear, his expression shifting, the glacial menace melting away, leaving something almost like concern. He offered a hand, his voice back to its normal, friendly tone. “Bunty, let’s go.” said in calm tone while seeing his watch ,” We can still get that bike.”
Bear flinched, just for a millisecond, before taking the hand. “Huh? Yeah… yeah, okay. Let’s go.” Rayan helped him up.
They stepped over the moaning bodies, past the sobbing, broken thing that was George Yung, and continued down the sidewalk toward the bicycle shop.
As if nothing had happened at all.
Rayan’s thoughts slowed.
To step beyond human limits… something had to crack first.
If it was a bone today—
he wondered what it would be tomorrow.
End of Chapter 20.
on my PATREON.
