The rebuilt dojo was quiet except for the low crackle of the propane heater in the corner. Reggie sat on the edge of the futon, steel bat across his knees, mask hanging on the wall like a sentinel. The ledger lay closed on the crate. Twenty-four names crossed off. Six left. The remaining four were the real machine—corrupt officials, black-budget ties, the kind of people who made kids disappear on paper and burned legacies for profit.

  Reggie stared at the mask.

  He knew now.

  Major K wasn’t the endgame.

  He was a symptom. A mercenary. A virus hired to clean up the mess Reggie was making.

  Deshaun Washington sat across from him on the crate, blue mask pulled down around his neck, sai sheathed at his hips. The older man looked at Reggie with soft, wise eyes—eyes that had seen too much but still carried light.

  “Listen here, young blood,” Deshaun said, voice smooth, warm, that 70s jive rolling easy. “You been swingin’ that bat like a storm, dig? But storms don’t win by bein’ loud. They win by bein’ smart. Deception ain’t lyin’… it’s survivin’ with style.”

  Reggie nodded slowly.

  Deshaun leaned forward. “That Major K? He’s comin’. Relentless. Nose like a bloodhound, rage like a devil. But he’s got weaknesses. We know he’s comin’. So we make it to our advantage.”

  Reggie looked up.

  “Traps,” he said.

  Deshaun smiled. “Now you talkin’. Shinobi don’t fight head-on. We flip the script. We make the hunter the hunted.”

  They planned for two days.

  No rush. No panic.

  They chose the forest on the edge of Nashville—the same wooded patch where Reggie had built his first shack at seven. The place he ran to when the world tried to break him. Symbolic. Fitting.

  They spread out. Worked in silence mostly. Deshaun showing Reggie how to lay false trails, confuse the nose, force the target airborne.

  Pitfalls: shallow holes covered with leaves and branches, sharpened stakes at the bottom.

  Smoke traps: hidden canisters rigged to tripwires, thick clouds to blind and choke.

  Scent traps: nine bottles of cologne and perfume—cheap, strong, different scents—smashed on impact to flood the area. Bags of ground pepper. Open smelling salts. Petrol mixed with certain acids to burn the nostrils and tongue.

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  Steel fencing wire nets hidden high in the trees—rigged to drop when triggered, tangle wings.

  Deshaun clapped Reggie on the shoulder after they finished. “We set the stage, young blood. Now we wait for the show.”

  Reggie looked at the forest.

  Nodded.

  They waited.

  Major K came at night.

  Reggie felt him before he saw him—air pressure shifting, distant wings cutting through the trees.

  Reggie stepped into the clearing.

  Major K landed twenty meters away. Wings folding. Yellow eyes glowing. Talons clicking on the ground.

  Reggie didn’t run.

  He raised the bat.

  Major K charged.

  Reggie dodged. K’s talons raked the air.

  Reggie retreated—slow, deliberate, drawing K deeper into the forest.

  K followed. Quadrupedal sprints. Venom dripping from serrated teeth.

  First trap: pitfall.

  K stepped on it. Foot dropped. Stake grazed his leg. K snarled. Pulled free.

  Reggie kept moving.

  Smoke trap triggered. Thick cloud exploded. K coughed. Vision blurred.

  Reggie circled.

  Scent traps next.

  Reggie smashed the first bottle against a tree. Floral scent flooded the air.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Nine different scents—cloying, overpowering, conflicting.

  Pepper clouds. Smelling salts. Petrol + acid mix.

  Major K staggered.

  Nostrils flared.

  Forked tongue flicked.

  He couldn’t smell.

  Couldn’t taste the air.

  Couldn’t track.

  K roared—rage, frustration.

  He tried to fly up. Wings spread. Launched.

  Steel wire nets dropped.

  K tangled. Wings caught. He thrashed.

  Reggie stepped forward.

  Bat raised.

  Major K twisted. Snapped at Reggie with venom teeth.

  Reggie swung.

  Deadline Swing.

  Steel bat connected with K’s chest. Lightning exploded inward.

  K screamed.

  Reggie didn’t stop.

  He grabbed the steel cables holding the nets. Wrapped his hands around them.

  Channelled.

  Lightning surged.

  Tier 3 power poured out.

  More.

  And more.

  Rage. Pain. Abandonment. The orphanage beatings. The fire. Kenji’s death. The lie that his parents didn’t want him.

  All of it.

  He poured it into the cables.

  Lightning arced brighter. Thicker. Pressure waves rolled off him. The air itself felt heavy, charged.

  Major K convulsed. Muscles locked. Yellow eyes rolled back.

  Reggie kept going.

  Until the rage left him.

  Until the pain left him.

  Until he felt… quiet.

  Reconciled.

  The past didn’t vanish.

  But it didn’t own him anymore.

  He let go of the cables.

  Major K collapsed. Stunned. Breathing shallow.

  Reggie stood over him.

  Didn’t swing again.

  He looked up.

  Deshaun stepped out from the trees. Sai sheathed. Blue mask pulled down.

  He looked at Reggie.

  Saw the change.

  Smiled—small, proud.

  Reggie unclenched his fist.

  Lightning still hummed—stronger now. Tier 4. Not wild. Not angry. Precise. Calm. Atmospheric control. Pressure waves. Power under resolve.

  He looked at Deshaun.

  Deshaun walked over. Put a hand on Reggie’s shoulder.

  “What you plannin’ to do next, young blood?”

  Reggie looked at the forest. The nets. The traps. The monster he’d spared.

  “I might stay in the city for a little while,” he said. Voice steady. “Clean it up. Piece by piece.”

  He paused.

  “Then… I might go find my parents.”

  Deshaun’s eyes softened.

  They looked at each other.

  Then both smiled—small, real smiles.

  Deshaun laughed first—that low, rolling disco chuckle.

  Reggie joined in.

  It felt like uncle and nephew.

  Like family that hadn’t been lost after all.

  The laughter faded into the quiet forest.

  Reggie looked at the steel bat in his hand. Lightning still hummed along the grip, faint and blue.

  He was ready.

  To be continued…