Deeper Meaning

The Black Hound's eyes narrowed as Asher's words landed like a hard slap, only this one stung the pride more than the face.

With a grunt, he wobbled to his feet, trying to look okay. But just seconds before he could get back into the fight, he started coughing violently and spitting out blood on the ground.

He could taste the metallic tang in his mouth, a reminder of the punishment he had taken.

The accumulated damage was worse than he had expected.

Meanwhile, everyone around stared in shock. They had assumed the Black Hound was not hurt by the barrage of punches, but that couldn't have been further from the truth. 

Asher sighed in relief. The tide was finally turning in his favor. Before the black hound could regain its composure, he sprang into action, seizing the moment without hesitation.

"Stop him!" the black hound barked, limping away as the realization set in—he couldn't keep fighting anymore. His voice, once commanding and arrogant, now sounded strained and desperate.

The rival group rushed forward, shouting to intimidate Asher and rally behind their best fighter. Their faces twisted in anger and frustration, they were desperate to regain control.

But their efforts were in vain. The taunts went unheard, barely making a dent in Asher's resolve to quickly finish this off. 

On the other hand, James's crew joined the fray, pushing back the advancing rival gang members. 

The enemy still outnumbered them, so losing him wasn't something they could afford. 

But it turned out they didn't need to exert themselves so much.

Despite his exhaustion, Asher's skills far surpassed those of the average high school thug.

His instincts kicked in, allowing him to dodge their wide swings and deliver powerful counterattacks to anyone who got too close.

One by one, the enemies realized that Asher's punches were anything but weak.

Each hit packed enough force to send them crashing to the ground. 

Asher couldn't afford to go easy on them anymore, so his punches became faster and sharper. 

The sounds of breaking noses, bloodied mouths, and thudding cheeks echoed as he methodically dismantled his opponents, targeting their weak spots with single, decisive strikes.

What was most frightening about his approach was the indifference in his expression. 

His face remained blank—no frustration, no anger, no arrogance. He was like an emotionless machine that was just doing its job. 

After a few more exchanges, he closed the gap to the black hound and delivered a powerful uppercut, followed by a straight punch to the cheekbone.

The force of the blows sent the already battered thug sprawling to the ground.

"Stop... I'll tell my boss about you! They'll come after you!" the black hound threatened, trying to use his connections as leverage.

Asher hesitated for a moment, contemplating his next move. But then it hit him—he didn't give a shit. 

He began to rain punches down on the black hound, each blow swelling the face further until he finally knocked him out.

The remaining rival thugs were still standing, and Asher turned to face them.

With a deep breath, he launched himself into the group, his instincts taking over.

He moved through his enemies, dodging their wild swings that whistled past him while making sure to deliver counterattacks of his own.

The speed of his movements sent loose gravel scattering beneath his feet, creating a crunch with each step.

Behind him, James's crew was engaged in their own fight, struggling to maintain the upper hand.

They all look clumsy next to Asher, whose every movement had a purpose. Even while surrounded, he positioned himself strategically to avoid getting caught in any blind spots.

As the fight continued, he single-handedly turned the tide in their favor, forcing the rival gang to carry the Black Hound away as they fled.

"We did it!" one of James's lackeys exclaimed, setting off a chain reaction, causing the others to join in, their cheers echoing through the air.

The whole crew basked in a moment of pride and exhilaration, feeling like heroes even though they were just supporting characters in the fight. 

They expected that Asher would share in their excitement over his overwhelming victory, perhaps even brag about how strong he was, and none would question him. 

However.

"Why does he look so down?" they wondered, their gazes fixed on Asher, who stood there with a blank expression.

'My money,' he sighed, watching the retreating high school thugs, which now resembled credits vanishing into the distance.

For the others, this fight was just a display of dominance, a chance to prove their strength.

But for him, it was about something much deeper—an opportunity to earn a substantial amount of cash in one go for his mother's hospital bills. 

'Should I chase them?'