Max had heard Wolf's words clearly.

A+ class ranked fighters.

But the truth was, he didn't actually know what that meant, not by Wolf's standards, anyway. The ranking system wasn't something universal or widely known. It was something personal, something Wolf claimed as his own talent. His own secret way of measuring people.

Some said it was just ego, some called it instinct, and others, especially those who didn't like him, thought Wolf made it all up as he went along. No one knew for sure where his so-called ranking system came from. There was no manual, no scale, no list. Just Wolf's gut.

But despite that, the people closest to him, the ones who'd actually seen him fight, who'd watched him size up killers and come out alive, knew better. They knew that when Wolf gave someone a rank, he wasn't doing it lightly. He wasn't the type to exaggerate.

In fact, if anything, Wolf was too humble about his rankings. Too strict.

So the fact that he'd labeled both Na and Dud, two Sergeants in the Rejected Corps, as A-class meant something serious. It meant he saw them as more dangerous, more effective, and potentially more deadly than even himself.

That thought settled deep in Max's chest like a weight.

"You think I didn't know that?" Max replied sharply, his voice dry and calm. "Why do you think I've been playing along with their nonsense?"

The answer surprised Wolf. It wasn't that he thought Max was naive. Max was a tactician, a leader, a man with money, influence, and power. He was street-smart and sharp. But this?

Was Max saying he was complying with the Rejected Corps out of caution? Maybe even fear?

The White Tigers were known for being untouchable. Ruthless. Even the syndicates hesitated before crossing them. People feared even researching the White Tigers, let alone fighting them.

And yet, here was Max. The leader of that very group. And he was playing it safe with the Rejected Corps.

The more Wolf learned, the more it shook him.

Meanwhile, the battle around them had started escalating.

The Chalkline Boys had poured in from the back, dozens of them, even more than last time. Max immediately noticed the numbers. The restaurant was larger than before, and it looked like the enemy had scaled accordingly.

It was confirmation that the Chalkline Boys weren't just any street gang. They were an organized force. They had logistics. Coordination. Strategy.

This was no ambush. This was war.

And the Rejected Corps?

They were adapting.

Unlike the chaotic brawl from the last encounter, this time the Rejected Corps were tighter. Sharper. They fought with formation and structure, pairing off, backing each other, defending and attacking with rhythm.

Max watched it all unfold with precision in his eyes.

They were calling out code words, quick and efficient. Short bursts of language, almost like military signals, that told their partners what move was coming next. It was tactical. Professional.

One member ducked under an incoming strike, snatched a steaming pot of broth, and hurled it across the room. The boiling liquid splashed into a group of attackers, scattering them in pain. Another fighter rolled low, grabbed a knife off the floor, and hurled it into an enemy's foot with pinpoint accuracy.

They didn't stop there.

Both soldiers charged forward, landed two crushing uppercuts in perfect sync, and moved on without missing a beat. It was relentless. Clean. Deadly.

This is the second time I've seen the Rejected Corps fight, Max thought, eyes locked on every movement. But it's not the same. This time, they're more serious. They're getting hit less. They're backing each other up like they've trained for this. They're not just brawling, they're evolving. Becoming something else. A real unit. A force.

And above it all were two outliers: Na and Dud.

Na moved like a machine. Brutal. Efficient. Surgical.

He launched himself at one of the attackers, wrapped his legs around the man's head, and slammed him down. In a single motion, he stole the knife from the stunned attacker's grip and hurled it across the room, burying it in the chest of another who was charging forward.

Na rolled to his feet and exploded upward, driving his knee into another man's sternum with bone-cracking force. Before the man could even hit the ground, Na had launched his body forward, using the rebound to crash into the next group like a wrecking ball.

It was clear: one skilled fighter like Na was worth more than ten average gang members. Maybe more.

Dud, on the other hand, was a different kind of storm.

While Na was controlled destruction, Dud was chaos with a purpose. He didn't tire. Didn't slow. His wild, feral energy never wavered. No matter how many he dropped, he was still moving like it was the first punch of the night.

His stamina was terrifying. His unpredictability was worse.

And now, Na had reached the second floor.

Two massive men came out to meet him, tall, thick, built like battering rams. They were easily seven feet, a mix of muscle and mass that looked like they could knock down walls.

But Na didn't even hesitate.

He charged between them, dipping low and snapping a kick into the back of one of their knees. A chair came swinging at his head, Na ducked it effortlessly and launched his fist straight into the chin of the nearest brute.

The sound was sickening.

"Just because you're big doesn't mean you're strong!" Na yelled, standing tall.

He brought his arm around in a brutal arc, slamming his elbow into the face of the second man.

"You've relied on your size your whole life," he said. "You've never had to actually fight. That's why you'll never match up to someone like me."

Back on the ground floor, Max and Wolf were still standing at the entrance, unmoving. Observing. Studying.

But then they looked up.

Na stood on the second-floor banister, holding one of the massive men up by his face. His legs dangled like a rag doll, the sheer force of Na's grip lifting him off the floor.

Na locked eyes with Max and Wolf.

"What are you two idiots doing?" he roared. "You just gonna stand there and stare? Or are you gonna show me you belong here? Because right now, neither of you deserve the Rejected Corps title!"

He dropped the man unceremoniously and folded his arms.

Wolf glanced at Max, a grin spreading across his face.

"You heard him," he said. "Let's show them what we can do."