Chapter 30: Blueprint of Flesh
The room was filled with the sound of Lucas's sobbing and Garret's laughter.
Asher lay motionless on the stone floor. His hands were shattered. His ribs were cracked. His face was a mask of red.
But inside his mind, the gears were turning.
Pain is just a signal, Asher thought, his consciousness swimming. Damage is just data.
"You don't..." Asher wheezed, coughing up blood.
Garret stopped laughing. He looked down. "What did you say?"
"You don't have to worry about me, Lucas," Asher whispered. His voice was getting stronger. "I have... a few tricks left."
Garret frowned. "You have broken hands and a concussion. You have nothing."
Asher slowly stood up.
As he rose, a sickening sound filled the room. Squelch. Pop. Crack.
Lucas watched in disbelief. Asher's right hand, which had been bent backward, suddenly snapped into place. The purple bruising on his skin vanished, replaced by fresh, pink flesh. The swelling in his face deflated instantly.
Steam began to rise from Asher's body. His skin turned a shade of crimson red, the blood boiling beneath the surface.
"What..." Garret stepped back, his sword trembling slightly. "What are you?"
Asher held up his newly healed hand, flexing the fingers. He looked at Garret with dead, hollow eyes.
"You can't break me, you son of a bitch."
Garret's shock turned to rage. "I can break you as many times as I like!"
He charged. He swung his heavy jagged sword, slamming the pommel into Asher's face. Asher didn't dodge. He took the hit. Then another. And another.
Garret beat him like a madman. He broke Asher's nose. It healed in seconds. He shattered Asher's jaw. It snapped back into place before the next punch landed.
Hours seemed to pass. Or maybe it was just minutes. The sun began to rise through the shattered window.
Garret was panting, sweat pouring down his face. His arms were heavy. He was exhausted.
But Asher was still standing.
"Do you know how muscle fibers work?" Asher asked. His voice was calm, almost scientific, which made it terrifying.
Garret stared at him, chest heaving. "What?"
"When you tear a muscle," Asher said, taking a step forward, "it rebuilds itself. Denser. Stronger. Harder."
Asher's eyes glowed with a feral intensity.
"You've been breaking me all night, Garret. You've just been helping me train."
Garret swung his sword again, but this time, it was slow. Asher caught the blade with his bare hand. The steel cut his palm, but he didn't care. He ripped the sword from Garret's grip and tossed it aside.
"Now," Asher whispered, stepping into Garret's personal space. "It's my turn."
Asher punched.
It wasn't a technique. It was a piston. His fist slammed into Garret's stomach, folding the assassin in half. Then an uppercut that lifted him off the ground.
Asher didn't stop. He pounded Garret into the floor, punch after punch, his face devoid of emotion. He was a machine dismantling a faulty part.
Garret's face was unrecognizable. He was gurgling, drowning in his own blood. Asher raised his fist for a final, lethal strike to the throat.
"Asher! Stop!"
Lucas scrambled forward, dragging his injured leg. He grabbed Asher's arm.
"Stop! If you kill him like this... what's the difference between him and you?" Lucas cried, tears streaming down his face. "You're a good man, Asher! You're not a maniac!"
Asher's fist hovered inches from Garret's windpipe. He looked at Lucas, then at his own bloodied knuckles. The red glow in his skin faded. The steam stopped rising.
He slowly lowered his hand.
Garret lay there, broken, weeping through his swollen lips. "Kill me..." he gurgled. "Don't spare me... the shame... kill me..."
Asher stood up, wiping the blood from his face with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. He looked surprisingly dignified, despite the carnage.
He ignored the dying assassin and turned to the doorway.
"Alfred," Asher called out calmly.
The old butler stepped out from the shadows of the hallway, looking pale but composed.
"Yes, Young Master?"
Asher smiled, a tired, human smile.
"Call the cleaners."