From Bullets To Billions Chapter 744: A Mental Break

How was Aaron meant to win this fight?

The thought looped continuously in his mind, rhythmic and unrelenting, synchronized with the heavy thud of his boots against the cold floor. The recent clash had laid out a brutal, undeniable reality. Monk was faster. Monk was stronger. And, worst of all, Monk was just as skilled.

Aaron’s entire fighting style relied on reading the room—on picking up the subtle cues, setting mental traps, and luring opponents into making a critical error. Finding a way to outsmart a stronger foe was the only way Aaron knew how to survive. But how could you trick a wrecking ball that knew all the same tricks you did?

Determined to break the rhythm, Aaron charged. As the distance between them closed, he deliberately scraped the tip of his weapon against the ground. Dust and gritty debris exploded upward, flinging directly toward Monk’s face.

Without waiting to see if it blinded him, Aaron seized the split-second distraction. He brought both batons around from the side, swinging with everything he had.

Monk didn’t even flinch. He stomped his lead foot into the ground, raising a single forearm to intercept the blow.

The hardened batons slammed into his sleeve with a dull, heavy . Power rippled through Monk’s frame as he absorbed the impact effortlessly. Before Aaron could pull back, Monk countered with a lightning-fast straight punch to the stomach. The strike hit like a battering ram, launching Aaron off his feet and skidding several yards across the floor.

Aaron had managed to tense his core at the last possible millisecond, but the shockwave of pain still radiated through his ribs, stealing the air right out of his lungs. He dropped into a low crouch, wheezing as he forced his legs to hold his weight.

"I guess that’s the expected move, right?" Monk taunted, rolling his shoulders with terrifying ease. "When you realize your opponent is superior in every way, you start playing dirty."

Monk took a slow, deliberate step forward, the confidence radiating off him like heat. "Though I suppose in our world, there’s no such thing as a dirty fight. But come on, Aaron—I could read that angle from a mile away. You’re going to have to do better than that. You need to give me a bigger challenge. Give me something even couldn’t give me!"

Aaron ignored the taunts, forcing his lungs to draw in air despite the burning sensation in his chest. He surged forward again. He dragged the left baton across the floor, kicking up another cloud of dust, then instantly shifted his weight to the right to repeat the trick from a different angle.

He lunged through the haze, swinging both weapons in a lethal arc. Monk ducked easily, the batons whistling over his head. Aaron immediately brought the weapons down in a sharp, downward strike, but Monk brought his forearm up, blocking the assault once more.

Predicting the inevitable counter-punch aimed for his ribs, Aaron spun his body sharply to the side. The massive fist grazed his jacket, missing his flesh by millimeters.

Aaron screamed at himself internally.

He had to let his body learn from the pain of that first hit. If he stopped moving, if he let his instincts dull for even a second, the next hit would end him.

Capitalizing on his pivot, Aaron drove a heavy low kick into Monk’s outer thigh. The connection was solid, but it felt like kicking a concrete pillar; Monk barely shifted his stance. Before Aaron could retract his leg, another massive fist came shooting out like a cannonball.

Aaron barely managed to cross his batons in front of his chest to form a guard. The sheer kinetic force pounded the weapons directly back into his sternum. Pain exploded across his chest as he was knocked backward again.

The batons held up. They were custom tech—newly engineered inventions crafted by the Gilt Rats’ specialized division. Made to be lightweight yet hardened enough to withstand extreme force, they were even equipped with high-voltage shock channels. But high-tech gear didn’t mean anything if the guy holding it was getting pulverized.

"You’re getting better, but it’s still not good enough!" Monk shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. "If I don’t see something impressive soon, I’ll at least do you the honor of burying your grave myself!"

"You’re obsessed with growing strong, aren’t you?" Aaron panted, rising from his stance and preparing to charge again.

As he watched Monk’s theatrical posture, a realization began to take root. Monk loved to talk. Even now, with every advantage in his favor, he was desperate to prove he was the best. It was practically dripping off him—a massive, unresolved inferiority complex. Instead of ending the fight quickly like a professional, Monk was dragging it out because he had something to prove.

And a desperate ego was something Aaron could exploit.

"Say you defeat me," Aaron called out, circling as he brought his batons up. "Say you get to the top and prove I’m just a disappointment. Then what? What are you even fighting for? Don’t you have your own goals? Your own wishes?"

Aaron leaped, bringing a baton down in a powerful overhead strike. Monk raised a arm to block it smoothly, but as Monk threw his counter-strike, Aaron was already fading away. He dropped low, sliding across the grit and sweeping a palm across the floor. He flung another handful of sharp dirt straight into Monk’s eyes before the larger man could close the distance.

Monk hissed, staggering back a half-step as the grit bit into his eyes.

"My purpose?" Monk spat, wiping his face with the back of his arm, his voice laced with venom. "The whole reason we went through that hell was for strength. My purpose is to serve. And if I’m not strong enough, I’ll get chucked to the side... just like everyone else!"

"Is that what happened to me?" Aaron asked, his tone dropping. "Was I chucked to the side when I left?"

"Do I look like I care?" Monk sneered. "Those are two different things. Right now, my job is to get rid of you. Just like it was our job to get rid of that damned man, Hercules."

Aaron froze. The air in his lungs turned to ice.

He had read the intelligence reports. He knew the likelihood of what had happened, but hearing it confirmed out loud hit him like a physical blow. It was one thing to read a cold file; it was another to hear the words from the mouth of the killer.

"From the look on your face, you already knew him," Monk said, a dark smile spreading across his lips as he noticed Aaron’s hesitation. "Tell me... did you end up fighting him too?"

Aaron gave a single, rigid nod. "I did."

"And you survived," Monk said softly, his tone mocking. "Right. But there’s a big difference between us, Aaron. You might have fought him and managed to survive... but fought him and managed to succeed."

Monk took a step closer, savoring the horror settling on Aaron’s face.

"Of course, taking down a monster like Hercules on our own would have been impossible," Monk continued, leaning in. "It was mostly thanks to a certain friend we had on our side. And that friend... well, since he’s not here right now, you know what that means, don’t you?"

Monk’s grin widened, sharp and cruel.

"It means he’s currently on his way to take out your boss. The one person you care about most."