From Bullets To Billions Chapter 648: A New Fighting Style

A heavy, persistent grogginess clung to Max’s mind as he stirred awake in the university dorm room. It wasn't the residual effect of alcohol; most of what he had consumed during the previous night’s revelries had already been purged.

The true cause was the jarring environment. His bed was regrettably narrow and uncomfortable, a stark contrast to the opulent orthopedic mattresses he had become accustomed to. The thin walls offered no respite throughout the night, allowing muffled sounds of heated hallway arguments and the ceaseless thumping of bass from persistent parties to penetrate his sleep.

’Damn it, I really thought I could handle this, but have I truly become so accustomed to sleeping in luxury?’ Max mused, rubbing his aching neck.

His circumstances had transformed dramatically since taking control of the Fortis building. That facility was incredibly costly, and the private quarters he had designed for himself were among the finest available. He had to remind himself that the 'real' Max hadn't been raised in opulence; he had resided in a cramped, single-bed apartment for a considerable duration before the Vow altered everything.

’I suppose if I adapted to the good life so swiftly, I can adjust to this again. It’s purely a matter of perspective,’ Max thought, splashing cold water on his face and gazing out the small, smudged window at the campus below.

"Each time I look out there, I’m half expecting to see Aron standing by a black sedan," Max mumbled to himself. "But I suspect even he would struggle to blend in a place like this. He stands out far too much with that professional soldier aura."

While observing the courtyard, he could see teeming crowds of students eagerly preparing to head toward the main campus buildings. A rare contemplation surfaced in his mind: perhaps he should genuinely endeavor to make the most of his time at the university. In his prior existence, he had been a being shaped by survival and corporate conflict; the simple, unburdened joys of student life had never been accessible to him.

The initial week of university was widely recognized as "Freshers Week." This period was defined by continuous festivities on the campus periphery, with every pub and club in the city offering student specials and inexpensive drinks. Within the university itself, official classes were sparse, consisting mainly of introductory sessions aimed at familiarizing students with the professors who would be instructing their various subjects.

As he walked across the expansive, open plaza connecting the different faculty structures, Max observed several vibrantly colored stalls erected on the lawns. These stalls advertised a bewildering variety of clubs and societies. It was notably interesting that many of these organizations were, in fact, extensions of major academic disciplines. There were culinary workshops, advanced sports training sessions, and specialized interest groups. Apparently, this served as an avenue for senior students to gain practical teaching experience for academic credit as part of their final year studies.

"There are quite a few sports clubs here," Max remarked as he passed a line of athletic recruiters.

Many of them were for sports and activities he was intimately acquainted with. A part of him pondered how he would be perceived if he joined a rugby or boxing club, given his Vow-enhanced physical attributes. He would likely be hailed as a prodigy of his generation, a marvel among ordinary individuals. However, he swiftly discarded the notion; it represented a pointless expenditure of his time and would inevitably attract the very attention he sought to evade while pursuing Donto.

It was then that he spotted a sign for a martial arts club that wasn't a typical part of the standard academic offerings.

"Wushu?" Max inquired, halting his movement. "Isn't that the overarching term for Chinese martial arts? It encompasses so many distinct styles, doesn't it? Sanda, Taolu... I wonder."

He glanced down at his hands, reflecting on his recent confrontations. He had become remarkably adept at mirroring the fighting techniques of his adversaries, managing to prevail by leveraging his raw strength to compensate for disparities in skill.

’Should I endeavor to learn as many distinct formal styles as possible?’ Max contemplated. ’If I establish a groundwork in traditional forms, I would be equipped to adapt to any circumstance. I could deploy varied skill sets depending on the opponent.’

As Max proceeded, engrossed in his strategic considerations, his shoulder suddenly collided with a solid object. A faint, muffled cry immediately ensued. Looking down, Max saw a woman with short brown hair, giving her head a somewhat mushroom-like appearance. She was seated on the pavement, looking somewhat disoriented.

"My apologies," Max stated, extending a steady hand to assist her in rising. Even in his relaxed state, his reflexes remained sharp.

"It's alright. Many people have trouble noticing me," the woman remarked, brushing some dust off her skirt. She then looked at him with a slightly bewildered expression. "But my goodness... your body felt as solid as a rock. In any case, I must be going!"

Before Max could utter another word of apology, she had already turned and vanished into the throng of students. However, as Max glanced down at the ground, he realized that something had been left behind in her hurried departure. He knelt and retrieved a small plastic card. It was her student identification.

"Talia... what a distinctive name," Max mused, observing the photograph on the card. "I suppose I should find a way to return this to her, but not until I learn more about this Wushu club."

While Max was navigating the social currents of the university, he remained entirely unaware that his enrollment had already attracted the attention of two vastly different, yet equally perilous, individuals.

Across the city, seated at a desk piled high with papers and rocking back in a chair that emitted a persistent squeak, Detective Marvin Morgan was deep in contemplation. His brow was furrowed as he gazed at a report displayed on his computer screen.

"After all that has transpired, what brings you to a university, Max Stern?" Marvin pondered, drumming a pen against his chin. "Is this intended as a refuge, or perhaps a new place to cause trouble? It might be just about time for me to pay the campus a visit."

In another sector of the city, within a dimly lit chamber redolent of stale smoke and aged paper, a man was methodically pulling a pair of black gloves onto his hands. He reached out to grasp a thick, brown envelope resting on a mahogany desk. Upon opening it, he withdrew several surveillance photographs, each one capturing the image of Max Stern.

"Max, Max, Max," the man whispered, his voice a smooth, chilling sound. "It appears you've been exceedingly occupied since your departure from the Rejected Corps. But did you truly believe you could simply sever ties with us?"