Awakening: Starting With The Villain System

The words hung in the air for a second, simple and utterly ridiculous.

The arm around my neck went rigid. The faux-friendly gesture was gone, replaced by a tense, angry grip.

The other bullies, who had been watching with eager grins, froze.

The boy being bullied, still pressed against the lockers, let out a tiny, choked sound that might have been a gasp or a sob of terror.

Shit.

Well, frankly, I didn't actually mean to say that at all.

It wasn't part of some master plan to provoke him; it just came out naturally, like that.

It was the kind of automatic, smartass response my brain cooked up when faced with overwhelming stupidity.

It was a reflex, like jerking your hand away from a hot stove, except my mouth was the hand and his ego was the stove.

But damn, my mouth would put me in fire sooner or later.

Well, it looked like it already did.

The air in the hallway went from tense to electrically charged.

The bully leader's face twisted, his features contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated anger mixed with instant annoyance.

It was the look of someone whose carefully constructed persona had just been publicly flicked on the nose.

All his posturing, his slow walk, his condescending arm around my neck, all of it was undermined by five stupid words.

"You—" he began, his voice a low, dangerous growl, but I didn't let him finish.

A sudden, overwhelming wave of 'why am I even here' washed over me.

This was so pointless. This wasn't a battle; it was a squabble in an academy hallway.

And I was arguing with a kid who probably thought his new jacket made him look tough.

"I apologise, sorry for everything, I would like to take my leave now, see you in class, have a good day," I finished, spitting out those random words in a rushed, monotone jumble.

I didn't even care to fix them in order or even notice what I even said.

It was verbal white noise, a desperate attempt to disengage and end this farce.

I just wanted to be anywhere else.

I turned to leave, already mentally calculating how late I'd probably be to class.

But the moment my back was turned, he moved.

The bully leader charged at me, his footsteps loud on the tile, and grabbed my shoulder.

His grip was tight, then he twisted me to face him and threw a right hook straight at my face.

Hard. Or at least, he put everything he had into it.

I saw it coming, a telegraphed, angry blow.

I could have blocked it. But I didn't. I wanted to know. I needed to measure the threat.

The punch landed with a solid 'thwack' against my cheekbone.

But to me, it didn't feel hard at all.

It was… nothing. A faint pressure. A dull tap. My head bearly moved at his punch.

It was like being hit by a particularly aggressive pillow.

There was no shock of pain, no ringing in my ears. Nothing.

At that moment, I confirmed it beyond any doubt: this guy was a certified weakling.

All bark, no bite. All posture, no power. His rank, whatever it was, had to be abysmally low.

I slowly turned my head back to face him, my neck creaking slightly more from the motion of looking than from the impact of his fist.

My expression was flat, bearly showing any reaction.

Inside, I wasn't angry. I was just… disappointed. And profoundly bored.

But seriously...

That was his move? Going straight right to violence just because I touched his pride?

No clever comeback, no attempt to regain control with words? Just a pathetic, flailing punch?

It was the most basic, unimaginative response possible.

But I didn't say it out loud. The words were on the tip of my tongue, a scathing remark about his lack of strength, a comment on how that was the best he could do.

Now that I had confirmed he wasn't that much of a threat to me, I could say it.

I could verbally dismantle him right here in front of his lackeys and his victim.

But nah. I didn't want to bother wasting my time.

I just looked at him, my blank stare saying everything my mouth wouldn't.

The silence was louder than any insult. His fist was probably hurting more than my face was.

The his face, already flushed with anger, turned a shade of purple.

My utter lack of reaction to his best punch wasn't just an insult; it was a negation of his entire existence here.

With a grunt of pure frustration, he took a fighting stance.

His feet shuffled, his hands came up in a sloppy guard.

It was something he'd probably seen in a movie.

Oh, that escalated quickly.

From faux-friendly arm-drape to full-on combat stance in under a minute.

This guy's emotional control was on par with a toddler's.

He dashed towards me, a burst of speed that was honestly somewhat impressive for someone so clearly untrained, and threw another punch.

This one was aimed at my solar plexus, a slightly smarter target.

I casually leaned back, letting his fist whistle through the empty air where my stomach had been a split second before.

He was quite fast, I'd give him that much.

But speed without power, without control, was just running in circles.

He was still weak.

The second blow came almost immediately, a wild haymaker aimed at my head.

I casually sidestepped, and it missed me by a mile, his own momentum making him stumble slightly.

"Is that all you can do?" I taunted, my voice flat. I wasn't even breathing heavily.

I was purposely showing that I was dodging without effort.

No fancy footwork, no frantic blocks. Just minimal, almost lazy movements.

It was the most disrespectful thing you can do in a fight, show your opponent that they aren't even worth your full attention.

And the result soon came.

The bully leader's eyes glazed over with a kind of mindless rage.

The taunt had hit its mark. He soon looked like he has lost all sense of reasoning.

The last shreds of his cool act evaporated, replaced by the raw, sputtering fury of a wounded ego.

He charged at me even more wildly, his attacks becoming less like punches and more like frantic, windmilling swings.

"What, gonna cry?" I taunted again, sidestepping another clumsy charge.

I was hitting the right spot. He wasn't thinking about winning a fight anymore; he was thinking about wiping the smirk off my face, a smirk that wasn't even there.

The boy threw another desperate punch. And this time, I didn't dodge.

Instead, my hand snapped up and I held his fist mid-air.