Chapter 3: Justice and Its Ghosts

Caleb heard me and finally drew his blade, pointing it at the man.

The blade gleamed under the diner lights. The room held its breath.

“I said, apologize. Or you’re not leaving.”

His voice was low, unshakable. The man faltered, but tried to cover it with a sneer.

“Just you? They call me ‘Iron Fist Rick’ for a reason!”

He pounded his chest, trying to scare Caleb. I almost laughed—he had no idea who he was messing with.

The man lunged, swinging at Caleb.

Caleb’s movements were smooth, practiced. He sidestepped like we’d drilled a thousand times.

Caleb sidestepped, met the punch with his sword—just enough to rip the guy’s shirt, not to cut flesh.

A thin line appeared across the man’s shirt, fabric tearing. He froze, realizing just how close he’d come to losing more than cloth.

The man froze, still mid-punch, when Caleb chopped his hand at the guy’s gut. The man doubled over, gagging.

The whole diner winced in sympathy. Caleb didn’t gloat—he just waited, sword still ready.

Caleb sheathed his sword. “Apologize to the waitress.”

His tone left no room for argument. The man, hunched over, knew he was beaten.

The man, gasping and trembling, apologized. Over and over.

He stammered, voice breaking, sweat beading on his forehead. The waitress just nodded, tears streaming down her face.

Caleb patted the waitress’s shoulder and was about to come back, but I stopped him.

I put a hand on his arm, stopping him mid-step. The look in his eyes told me he thought it was over. He should have known better. Nothing’s ever over that easy.

“Finish him,” I said.

My words hung heavy in the air. Caleb’s whole body went still, his face paling.

Caleb froze, staring at the man. Then at me. “Coach, you want me to kill him?”

His voice was barely a whisper. I could see the fear and confusion flicker across his face.

“You’ve trained with me for ten years and never killed anyone. Today’s the day. Use him to try your blade.” I took a sip of black coffee.

The coffee was bitter, grounding. I watched Caleb, waiting to see what he’d do. This was the test I’d always known was coming.

“Coach, I already stopped him. He apologized. There’s no need to kill.”

He sounded desperate, searching for a way out. I could see the conflict tearing him up inside.

“Don’t you always talk about equality? Guys like him—arrogant, cruel—they don’t change. A lesson’s not enough. Only killing him will stop him for good. You’ve got the strength now. Why not use it?”

I leaned forward, voice low. I wanted him to understand—sometimes, mercy is just another word for weakness.

“Coach! Killing is too much, it’s not right…” Caleb pleaded, frowning.

His eyes were pleading, begging me to see it his way. But I’d lived too long in the dark to believe in easy answers.

I put down my coffee mug and stared at him.

The mug hit the table with a dull thud. I met his eyes, unblinking, daring him to defy me.

“You’ve called me Coach for ten years. I’ve never forced you to do anything. Now I’m telling you: kill him. Caleb, are you going to defy your teacher?”

My voice was cold, final. The diner was silent, all eyes on us.

Caleb looked devastated. “Coach, I just can’t. He didn’t try to kill her, so why should I kill him?”

He was trembling, but he stood his ground. I felt a strange mix of pride and frustration.

“Aren’t you afraid that if you let him go, he’ll hurt someone else?”

I pressed, searching for a crack in his armor. The world was full of men like Iron Fist Rick, and I’d seen what happened when they got second chances.

Caleb sighed. “You can’t say that. Anyone could hurt someone in the future. Are we supposed to kill everyone?”

He looked at me, eyes sad but resolute. For a moment, I had nothing.

Damn it. I cursed inside.

I clenched my fists, the old anger rising. The world never made sense, and I hated that he could make me question it.

So I stopped talking. Grabbed the sword off the table. With a flash of steel, I slashed the man’s neck—blood spilling out.

The room erupted in screams. Blood sprayed across the tile, the metallic smell filling the air. I felt nothing—just the cold satisfaction of a job finished.

The man’s eyes went wide, knees buckling as he hit the floor, dead.

He collapsed in a heap, the life draining out of him. The silence that followed was deafening. Felt like the whole world stopped.

A body on the floor, and the diner exploded into chaos. Some people ran out, others just stared.

Dishes crashed, chairs scraped, people stumbled over each other trying to get out. The waitress sobbed, frozen in place. I stood there, calm as ever, letting the storm wash over me.

“Coach!” Caleb sighed, helpless.

His voice was quiet, almost lost in the noise. He looked at me with a kind of sadness I’d never seen before.

Amid the chaos, the diner manager stormed over, took in the scene, and before he could speak, I said, “I killed him.”

The manager’s face twisted with fear and anger. He opened his mouth, but I cut him off, my voice steady and cold.

The manager’s face went cold. “Do you know who owns this place, pulling a stunt like that?”

He tried to sound tough, but I could see the fear in his eyes. He glanced at the blood, then at me, weighing his options.

I tossed my sword on the table, picked up my mug. “Would I be here if I didn’t know? I just killed his guest and plan to skip out on the check. Go tell him.”

The mug was warm in my hands, the coffee bitter on my tongue. I watched the manager, daring him to call my bluff.

Caleb stared at me, muttering, “So, Coach, you planned to dine and dash…”

He shook his head, half-amused, half-exasperated. Leave it to me to turn a murder into a free meal.

The manager’s expression soured, his voice taunting. “So you want me to call out Mr. Easton?”

He tried to sound in control, but his hands were shaking. I leaned back, letting him stew.

I slammed my mug down, coffee splashing.

The coffee splattered across the table, the sound sharp as a gunshot. I stared him down, letting him know I wasn’t bluffing.

“I damn well hope he comes out.”

My voice was flat, but every word was a challenge. The whole diner seemed to freeze, waiting for the next move.

The manager left, and soon a middle-aged man in a sharp purple suit strode over, looking conflicted.

He moved with the kind of confidence you only get from years of running the show. His suit was expensive, but his eyes were cold.

“Jack Tennyson, long time no see,” he said.

His voice was smooth, almost friendly, but I could hear the edge underneath. Old grudges never die, they just wait for a chance to come back.

“Cut the crap,” I replied.

I didn’t bother with pleasantries. We both knew why I was here.

I picked up the sword from the table, gripping it tight.

The weight of it was familiar, comforting. I could feel the old adrenaline start to build.

“You killed Sam Quinton, didn’t you? Own up.”

My voice was cold, flat. I watched his face, waiting for the lie.

Easton paused, then nodded. “I did.”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t try to deny it. I almost respected that, in a twisted way.

I sneered. “My friend of over ten years. And you killed him just like that.”

The words tasted bitter in my mouth. I remembered every drink, every story, every fight we’d shared. Now he was just another body in the ground.

Easton sighed. “Didn’t have a choice, Jack. In the underground, everyone’s fighting, and in business, everyone’s competing.”

He tried to sound regretful, but I could see the calculation in his eyes. Business was just another kind of war to him.

I nodded. “If business can’t be settled, just kill? Then I’ve got nothing to say—except to kill you.”

I stood up, the chair scraping back. The room seemed to shrink around us, the tension thick as smoke.

“Jack, think about this. You and I both work for the Monroe family, for Mr. Monroe. Isn’t it stupid to go at each other?” Easton pleaded.

He tried to appeal to reason, to old alliances. But that bridge had burned a long time ago.

“Trying to use Monroe against me?” I sneered.

My voice was pure contempt. I’d never been anyone’s dog, and I wasn’t about to start now.

“I’ve always worked for myself. At most, I’ve got ties to Monroe. You’re a dog, so you think everyone else is too?”

I spat the words, watching his face for a reaction. He just stared back, jaw clenched.

I stood up, sword in hand, sliding it into my coat.

The blade felt like an extension of my arm, the weight of it grounding me. I could feel the old instincts kicking in.

“Besides, Monroe always believed in paying back kindness and revenge. I’ve got a reason to kill you, and he won’t care.”

I let the words hang in the air. Daring him to disagree. Monroe’s rules were simple—loyalty and payback. Nothing more, nothing less.

Easton wanted to say more, but I turned to the stunned Caleb. “Eat up, kid. Don’t waste the food. After I kill this bastard, we’re out of here.”

I tried to sound casual, but my hands were shaking. Caleb just stared, fork halfway to his mouth.

“Coach…” He started, but I glared. I knew he was about to try and stop me.

He closed his mouth, eyes worried. I could see him thinking. Weighing whether to step in.

Easton sighed again, hand drifting to the hilt at his belt. “Jack, my diner still needs to make money. If we’re gonna fight, let’s do it outside.”

He tried to sound reasonable, but I could see the fear in his eyes. He knew how this was going to end.

“No need. You’ve got no future, and this place won’t be yours much longer.” I slid my sword from my coat.

The blade caught the light, a flash of silver in the gloom. The air felt electric, like a storm about to break.

I stepped forward, drew my blade, and slashed at Easton’s chest.

The move was fast, practiced. Easton barely managed to jump back, the blade missing him by inches.

He jumped back, drew his own blade, and swung at my side.

His blade was heavy, slower than mine. I sidestepped, letting the momentum carry him past me.

I sidestepped, swung my sword, and cut his chest—blood spraying like a thread.

A thin line of red blossomed across his shirt. He staggered, eyes wide with shock.

Easton scrambled back, knocking plates off the table toward me.

He grabbed whatever he could, hurling dishes and cutlery in a desperate bid to slow me down. The crowd scattered, ducking for cover.

He hurled dishes at me. I raised my sword, shattered them midair. Shards rained down.

Porcelain exploded in the air, white shards falling like snow. I didn’t flinch, eyes locked on my target.

A plate was still falling—I kicked it up and flicked it with my sword, sending it flying at Easton.

The plate spun through the air, a makeshift missile. Easton barely dodged, but not fast enough.

He dodged, but it grazed his shoulder—blood and porcelain flying together.

He let out a grunt, blood trickling down his arm. I didn’t give him a chance to recover.

Before Easton could react, I was on him, blade coming down hard.

The clash of steel echoed through the diner. Tables splintered, chairs toppled. It was chaos, but I moved with purpose.

He blocked with his own sword—steel clanged on steel.

The sound rang out, sharp and final. I pressed the attack, not giving him an inch.

I twisted my wrist, pulled back, and my coat sleeve flicked out, sending a flurry of silver light at him.

The move was pure Cloudridge—fluid, unpredictable. Easton’s eyes widened as he tried to keep up.

The sword flashed, soft as a drifting cloud, then gathered at Easton’s chest.

It was over in a heartbeat. The blade moved like mist, then struck with the force of a thunderclap.

In a heartbeat, the light became a blade, slicing his chest open, blood spraying.

Red blossomed across his shirt, spreading fast. He stumbled, coughing blood, but I didn’t let up.

Easton coughed blood and stumbled back, but I pressed in, stabbing again and again.

Each strike was precise, calculated. He tried to defend, but I was faster, stronger.

He could only defend. Out of ten strikes, he blocked three. Missed seven.

His guard faltered, blood splattering the walls, the tables, the food. The fight was slipping away from him.

Blood spattered everywhere, staining the burgers and fries.

The smell of it mixed with the grease and coffee, turning my stomach. But I kept going, lost in the rhythm of the fight.

Sword and blade danced, splinters of table and chairs flying.

The diner was a wreck—food, blood, and broken wood everywhere. But in that chaos, I felt alive.

In the chaos, I didn’t stop. I gathered my strength and slashed at his right shoulder.

I drew on every lesson, every muscle memory, and let the blade fly.

The blade, soft but deadly, landed on his shoulder. Like a gentle breeze. Then it turned sharp, severing his right arm at the shoulder.

The arm hit the floor with a sickening thud. Easton screamed, blood gushing from the wound.

Easton’s blade fell with his arm, blood pouring onto the floor, pooling at our feet.

He staggered, eyes wild with pain and fear. I didn’t hesitate.

I stepped into the blood, and with a last, light sweep, cut his throat.

The blade moved almost lazily, but the effect was immediate. Blood arced through the air, painting the floor.

Blood arced like drifting clouds, splashing down into the bloody puddle.

It was over in an instant. Easton’s body crumpled, the life gone from his eyes before he hit the ground.

Easton collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.

The diner was silent again, the chaos settling into a heavy, suffocating quiet. I wiped the blood from my face, breathing hard.

I wiped the blood from my forehead. Then turned to Caleb. “You done eating? If not, grab another fry.”

I tried to sound casual, but my hands were shaking. Caleb looked at me, eyes haunted, then pushed his plate away.

Caleb looked at me, sighed softly. “I’m done, Coach. Let’s go.”

His voice was small, defeated. I felt a pang of guilt, but pushed it down. This was the world we lived in.

After we left the diner, I took Caleb toward Silver Hollow. On the way, he kept looking like he wanted to say something.

The road wound through the hills. Sun dipping low. Caleb stared out the window, chewing on his thoughts. I waited. He’d speak when he was ready.

Finally, I said, “If you’ve got something to say, spit it out. Who’s stopping you?”

I kept my eyes on the road, but my voice was softer than usual. I could tell something was eating at him.

“Coach, I was just thinking… between you and that guy, was killing him the only way?”

He sounded tired, like he already knew the answer but hoped I’d surprise him.

“What else? He killed my friend. Letting him die quick was already a mercy.” I snorted.

I tried to sound tough. But the words felt hollow.

“Everyone in the underground knows how to fight, but why does it always end in killing?” Caleb sighed, looking helpless.

He turned to me, eyes full of questions I couldn’t answer. For all his training, he still believed there was another way.

“Stop talking like you’re my coach.”

I tried to make it a joke, but my voice was too sharp. The kid was getting under my skin.

Seeing him like that, I got annoyed for no reason.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to shake the feeling. Caleb just watched me, silent and stubborn.

“Everyone’s got skills. If not for fighting, what—chop onions?”

I tried to lighten the mood, but it came out harsher than I meant. Caleb didn’t smile.

Caleb turned to me, dead serious. “Coach, I think the point of learning to fight should be to save people. Not kill.”

His words were soft, but they hit hard. For a moment, I couldn’t look at him.

I was stunned, frowned. “Who told you that? You sneaking off to another trainer?”

I tried to make it a joke, but I was half-serious. The idea was so foreign to me, it almost sounded like a betrayal.

He shook his head. “I’ve always thought so. From the first day I picked up a sword with you, I told myself—I want to use this to help people.”

He looked out the window, voice quiet. I wondered if I’d ever really listened to him.

I thought about it, couldn’t argue, so I shrugged. “Some people should be saved, but some are meant to be put down. You can’t save everyone.”

I kept my eyes on the road, pretending not to care. But his words stuck with me, echoing in the quiet of the car.

Caleb thought for a moment, wanted to say more, but I didn’t want to argue, so I told him to zip it and keep moving.

He nodded, lips pressed tight. We drove on in silence.

We reached the Golden Sun Society in Silver Hollow at dusk, seven days later.

The town was quiet. Shadows stretched long across the pavement. The Society’s gates loomed ahead, golden letters gleaming in the last light of day.

The setting sun cast our shadows long as we walked through the gates.

The air was cool, heavy with the scent of pine and old secrets. Caleb walked beside me, silent but steady.

At the door, a man in a gold jacket led us into a wide room with polished floors.

The place was all polished wood and velvet curtains, the kind of old-money luxury that always made me itch. The man didn’t say a word, just nodded for us to follow.

“Jack, long time no see.”

The voice was calm, familiar. I turned to see Derek Lansing, standing tall in his gold suit, eyes as sharp as ever.

Inside, a man in gold stood steady and calm. He turned as soon as he saw me.

His posture was perfect, every movement controlled. He looked like a man who’d spent his whole life playing by the rules—and making sure everyone else did, too.

“I’m not doing well.”

His words were simple, but the pain behind them was obvious. I felt a pang of sympathy, but pushed it down.

I gritted my teeth. “And it’s not just me.”

My voice was rough, edged with old anger. Derek’s eyes met mine. For a moment, the years fell away.

Derek Lansing fell silent for a moment, then finally said, “I heard about Miss Yates.”

He spoke quietly, like the words hurt to say. I clenched my fists, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“Yeah, you heard. So what? You gonna do anything?” I said, cold as ice.

The room felt colder, the silence stretching between us. Derek didn’t answer right away.

Derek stayed quiet. Seeing him like that, I snapped. “Over ten years ago, she crossed half the country to find you medicine, then gave up her own skills for you. You still wouldn’t marry her. Later she married Ed Monroe, became stepmom to his brat, and last month…”

My voice rose, anger spilling over. I remembered every sacrifice she’d made, every time she’d been let down by the men in her life.

My chest ached with anger. “Last month, that brat turned twenty and tried to force himself on her. She used to know how to fight. But because of you, she couldn’t even defend herself. In the end, she couldn’t take the shame. Killed herself in her room.”

The words came out raw, each one a wound that hadn’t healed. I saw Derek flinch, but I didn’t care.

“And Ed? He knew what his son did and acted like nothing happened…”

I spat the words, disgusted. The world was full of men like Ed—powerful, untouchable, rotten to the core.

I laughed bitterly. “She was a good woman. Why did she only meet heartless men?”

The laugh tasted like ashes. I thought of all the times she’d smiled. All the kindness she’d shown, wasted on men who didn’t deserve her.

Derek sighed. “I told you all back then—justice and personal feelings don’t mix. When I became head of the Liberty Hall, I could only give her that answer.”

He sounded tired. Defeated. I wondered if he believed his own words, or if he was just trying to convince himself.

“Derek, save me the speech.”

I cut him off, voice sharp. I didn’t want excuses—I wanted action.

I jabbed a finger at his chest. “Just tell me. Are you coming with me to find Ed Monroe and get justice for her?”

The question hung between us, heavy as a death sentence. Derek’s face shifted, emotions warring behind his eyes.

Derek’s eyes flickered, his face shifting, but he stayed silent a long time.

The silence stretched, thick with old regrets. I could feel my patience slipping.

Just as I was about to curse him out, a sudden knock came at the door.

The sound echoed through the room, sharp and unexpected. We both turned, the moment broken, but the anger in my chest burned hotter than ever.