From Bullets To Billions

Chapter 653: Not The Same Joe (Part 1)

The training dynamic between Joe and Stephen had undergone a massive, fundamental shift since the early days of the Billion Bloodline group’s rise. In the beginning, they were the twin pillars of the organization’s training program, regular fixtures at the main gym who would spar for hours and then turn around to lead combat classes for the new recruits. These students, who ranged from young street kids looking for a purpose to older bouncers looking for an edge, were all part of the Bloodline group’s growing infrastructure.

The partnership had been mutually beneficial in a dozen ways. They encouraged each other, analyzed each other’s footwork, and shared the burden of management. However, a slight but undeniable change had occurred the moment the two of them had received their Vows.

Due to the vast differences in their supernatural abilities and the specific uses for their powers, they had reached a plateau where they could no longer help each other progress. They were like two specialists in different fields; they spoke the same language of violence, but their dialects were now too far apart.

Stephen, ever the perfectionist, wanted to focus on honing his skills to a razor’s edge. He wanted to make himself the absolute best he could be, a goal that required a level of isolation and concentration that the public gym couldn’t provide. The public facilities were essentially running like clockwork now, overseen by professional managers at each location, so Stephen felt comfortable taking a step back.

Max had also given the Rangers a special mandate: they were free to do as they wished and would continue to receive their high salaries regardless of their daily activities. They held a sacred position within the hierarchy. With that freedom and the money he had earned through his own grit, Stephen had opened up his own private gym in a completely different area of the city. It wasn’t a "Bloodline" gym in the public sense; it was a fortress of solitude filled with specialized equipment tailored to his specific Vow and body type.

As for Joe, he had been given the keys to the original gym, the humble place where Max had first met Stephen. Although Joe hadn’t been a practitioner of martial arts for nearly as long as Stephen, he took his role as a teacher very seriously. He continued to train the students, passing on the fundamentals of boxing and street fighting, but he also realized his own limitations.

Using his own substantial earnings, Joe had begun inviting professional boxers and retired fighters into the club as consultants. It was a brilliant move that benefited everyone; the professionals provided high-level instruction, and the local students got to witness what true mastery looked like. For Joe himself, it was a goldmine of experience. These professional boxers were often intrigued by Joe’s build and his seemingly bottomless stamina, and many were willing to spar with him.

In a lot of cases, Joe was even willing to step into the ring against fighters in much higher weight classes, men who outweighed him by fifty or sixty pounds. He would promise them that he could take the hits, and they were consistently surprised when he actually stayed upright. These sessions allowed Joe to learn the delicate balance of his new abilities. Although his body could heal far better than any normal human, to the point where a fractured rib or a broken nose would knit back together in just a few hours, his biology was still fundamentally human.

A heavy, well-timed hit to the cranium could still knock him out instantly, and if his brain shut down, his healing wouldn’t matter; the fight would be lost. This realization drove him to work harder than anyone else. He needed to build a body that didn’t just heal from damage, but one that could avoid it or mitigate the impact in the first place.

There was one more routine Joe kept, a secret he guarded carefully. When the other students and trainers left the gym, calling it a day, Joe would stay behind in the dim light of the facility. That was when he would pull out the salvaged exoskeleton and test it out in total isolation. Currently, the exoskeleton was only equipped on his left arm. There were two practical reasons for this: first, only one arm unit had been salvaged in working condition from the Gilt Rats conflict; the other had been pulverized beyond repair.

The second reason was tactical. Joe had realized that his most effective move, his signature weapon, was the jab. By placing the hydraulic assistance of the exoskeleton on his lead arm, that jab had become something far more deadly, a strike that could crack concrete and move with a velocity that the human eye struggled to track. He even took the precaution of wearing it at all times, hidden under loose-fitting clothing, whenever he left the gym. He had been jumped, beaten, and left for dead too many times to ever feel truly safe in the city again.

To modernize the business, the gym had been upgraded with a high-tech entry system. Regular members could enter a secure glass tube, scan a personalized QR code, and be allowed inside where 24-hour cameras monitored every inch of the floor. This allowed the facility to stay operational around the clock, and it meant Joe didn’t have to stay and personally lock up every night.

"Alright, I’ll call it a day for now," Joe muttered, wiping sweat from his brow and pulling his jacket over his armored arm. He stepped out of the gym and began the walk down the darkening street toward his home.

It didn’t take long for his heightened senses to pick up a disturbance. A large, black vehicle with tinted windows was moving at a snail’s pace along the walkway, keeping perfect pace with his stride. Joe slowed his walk, his heart beginning to thump with a rhythm he recognized, the rhythm of incoming danger. The car pulled up alongside him and came to a smooth halt. The passenger window rolled down with a soft hum.

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Do you remember me?"

The voice was cold and mocking. It belonged to Dud.

Immediately, Joe felt a surge of adrenaline that made his vision sharpen. The memories of their last encounter came flooding back, the feeling of his own blood on his face, the sound of his ribs snapping, and the overwhelming fear of a man who thought he was going to die. Dud had nearly finished him off in that very gym. For a split second, a gut reaction of pure terror urged Joe to back away, to run, to put distance between himself and his nightmare.

But the new Joe, the Ranger, caught himself before he could take a single step back.

"Yeah, I remember you," Joe said, his voice dropping an octave as he clenched his left fist, the metal of the exoskeleton clicking softly under his sleeve. "So what the fuck are you doing here!"

Joe didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t want to hear whatever twisted monologue Dud had prepared. He stepped forward with an explosive movement, throwing out a lightning-fast jab. The force behind the strike was monstrous. His fist clipped the bottom of the car’s window frame, and the tempered glass didn’t just crack, it shattered into a million tiny diamonds as his fist continued its lethal trajectory toward Dud’s smug, surprised face.