"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!