Chapter 22
The college gym was humid, the air thick with the scent of sweat, rubber mats, and the metallic tang of exertion.
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through high windows, casting long shadows across the training area.
The rhythmic thud of gloves hitting heavy bags created a percussion soundtrack punctuated by grunts of effort and the squeak of sneakers on the polished floor.
Remy moved with a fluid, terrifying grace that made Coach Martinez stop mid-instruction to watch.
His athletic build was now a masterpiece of functional muscle, not the inflated bulk of a bodybuilder, but the lean, dangerous power of a trained fighter.
His shoulders rolled smoothly as he threw combinations at the heavy bag, each strike backed by perfect technique and devastating force.
Left jab, right cross, left hook, right uppercut, spinning back kick that made the 150-pound bag swing violently on its chain. The impacts echoed through the gym like gunshots.
Every strike he threw was backed by the weight of his transformation.
Months of gruelling training, disciplined diet, and relentless self-improvement.
A far cry from the "fat and ugly" student who had once been the punchline of every joke on campus, who'd hidden in baggy clothes and kept his eyes down to avoid drawing attention.
Now, people stopped to stare when he trained. Even the veteran fighters who'd been at Warrior's Path for years watched with grudging respect, recognising that Remy Beaumont had become something special.
"Your form is perfect," Coach Martinez called out, wiping sweat from his scarred brow.
"Too perfect, almost. Like you can see the punches before you throw them."
Remy didn't respond, just smiled slightly and continued his workout. If only Coach knew how right he was.
Marcus Chen watched from the shadows of the locker room door, partially hidden behind a row of lockers.
He wasn't a member of Warrior's Path, the gym was too rough for his taste, full of actual fighters instead of Instagram fitness models.
But he'd followed Remy here, tracking his schedule for the past week, waiting for the right moment.
His grip tightened on a heavy metal bar, a piece of equipment he'd taken from the weight room, solid steel about two feet long and heavy enough to do serious damage.
His face was twisted with jealousy and barely controlled rage, a far cry from the confident pretty boy who'd ruled campus social hierarchy just months ago.
He had lost everything to Remy Beaumont. His reputation was shattered when the fat kid he used to bully transformed into something he could never hope to match.
His status as the most desirable guy on campus evaporated when Remy somehow claimed all three school belles in some kind of unconventional relationship that was the talk of every social media platform.
His self-image as the alpha male was destroyed in front of dozens of witnesses when Remy had effortlessly redirected his punch and sent him sprawling into a hedge.
The videos still circulated. The memes were brutal. "Marcus the Magnificent" had become "Marcus the Humiliated."
His Instagram followers had dropped by thousands. Girls who used to fawn over him now looked right through him like he was invisible.
And it was all Remy's fault.
Behind Marcus, two of his remaining friends lurked, Tyler and Brad, the only members of his old crew who hadn't abandoned him completely.
They were nervous, sweating despite the gym's air conditioning, clutching their own improvised weapons: a baseball bat and a length of heavy chain.
"Are we really doing this?" Tyler whispered, his voice shaking slightly. "Dude, he's like... he's actually trained now.
Did you see how he moves? That's not some guy who did a few YouTube workouts. That's..."
"He's just a lucky freak," Marcus hissed, cutting him off.
His eyes never left Remy's form, watching with predatory focus as Remy finished his bag work and moved toward the bench press.
"He got rich somehow, probably cheated or scammed someone. He got lucky with that car accident with Indigo.
And the three belles? They're just using him for his money. It's all smoke and mirrors.
Today, we remind him who actually runs this school. We remind him what happens when nobodies try to become somebodies."
"I don't know, man," Brad said, looking at the chain in his hands like it might bite him. "My dad's a lawyer. If we get caught, if this goes wrong....."
"It won't go wrong," Marcus snapped. "The power's going to go out, I paid the maintenance guy fifty bucks to flip the breaker at exactly 5:30 PM.
We move in the dark, mess him up just enough to humble him, and then we're gone before anyone can identify us. Simple."
"And if he fights back?" Tyler asked.
Marcus's smile was ugly and mean. "Three on one? In the dark? He won't even see us coming."
Across the gym, Remy lay down on the bench press, setting up for his final working set.
He loaded the bar with 275 pounds, not his maximum, but heavy enough to require focus and effort. He wrapped his hands around the cold steel, took a breath, and prepared to lift.
Then his eyes suddenly flared with a brilliant, molten gold.
The Foresight hit him like a physical pulse, the world dropping away into that crystalline vision space where the future unfolded with perfect clarity:
5:30 PM and seventeen seconds: The lights cut out, plunging the gym into darkness.
The emergency lights wouldn't kick in for forty-five seconds due to a maintenance issue the gym owner didn't know about yet.
5:30 PM and twenty-three seconds: Marcus bursting from the locker room, the metal bar raised above his head, swinging for Remy's skull with enough force to crack bone.
5:30 PM and twenty-six seconds: Tyler is rushing from the rear entrance with the baseball bat, aiming for Remy's knees.
5:30 PM and twenty-eight seconds: Brad circling from the left with the chain, trying to wrap it around Remy's neck.
He saw every movement, every attack, every stumble and hesitation. He saw Marcus's face twisted with rage and desperation.
He saw the exact moment when Tyler would lose his nerve and pull his swing. He saw Brad tripping over a yoga mat someone had left on the floor.
He saw all of it playing out like a choreographed dance where he already knew every step.
"Grandpops, are you seeing this?" Remy thought, his heart rate barely increasing despite the adrenaline that should have been flooding his system.
The Foresight had taught him a kind of cold calm, when you knew exactly what was coming, panic became pointless.
"I see a boy who has forgotten that true strength is not just in the fist, but in the mind," Silas's voice echoed, the ghost appearing translucent beside the bench press though invisible to everyone else.
His 19th-century face was grave but not surprised. "And I see three fools about to learn a very painful lesson.
Finish this, Remy. Close the chapter on your past. Show them what you've become."
"Should I just let security handle it?" Remy thought back, already knowing the answer but asking anyway. "I could just call...."
"And let them think they almost succeeded? Let them walk away with nothing but a slap on the wrist and the courage to try again?"
Silas shook his head. "No, boy. Some lessons must be taught in person. But remember, you're not fighting to hurt them. You're fighting to end this. Permanently."
Remy checked his watch. 5:29 PM and forty-four seconds.
He stood up from the bench press, leaving the loaded bar untouched.
Walked to the centre of the training floor, away from equipment that could be used against him, positioning himself in the open space near the heavy bags.
Coach Martinez looked up from his clipboard. "You okay, Remy? You got this weird look...."
"Coach, you should probably step outside for a minute," Remy said quietly.
"What? Why would I..."
"Please. Trust me. Just for a minute."
Something in Remy's voice, the absolute certainty, the golden glow in his eyes that was impossible to miss now, made Coach Martinez hesitate.
He'd been training fighters for twenty years. He'd learned to trust his instincts about when something was about to go down.
"Alright," Coach said slowly, grabbing his phone. "I'm calling security, though. Whatever's about to happen...."
"Won't take that long," Remy assured him. "But yes, call them. They'll want to be here for the cleanup."
5:30 PM and two seconds.
Coach Martinez walked toward the exit, already dialling. The few other students training in the gym noticed his departure, sensed the change in atmosphere, and started drifting toward the doors as well.
Animals fleeing before an earthquake, responding to instincts they couldn't name.
5:30 PM and nine seconds.
The lights flickered once. Twice.
5:30 PM and fifteen seconds.
The lights died completely, plunging the gym into near-total darkness. The high windows provided minimal illumination from the setting sun, creating a twilight space where shapes were visible, but details were lost.
Silence fell over the gym, punctuated only by the heavy breathing of the three attackers and the distant sound of traffic from outside.
Emergency lighting should have kicked in immediately. It didn't.
"Now!" Marcus yelled, his voice cracking slightly with adrenaline and rage.
Remy didn't wait. Using the prediction he had processed moments before, he stepped into the vacuum of the dark with perfect confidence.
Ready to brawl it out with all of them.