The morning began with a grim resolve, the bruised skies mirroring Jack's tired yet determined spirit. The courtyard was eerily silent as he went through the now-familiar drills Victor had shown him. The mop handle, still his makeshift weapon, moved with more precision than before. Each strike and block carried a shadow of his father's teachings, blended with Victor's grounded experience.
Jack exhaled sharply, lowering the stick as sweat dripped down his face. Clara leaned against the doorway, a faint smile on her lips.
"Not bad," she remarked, handing him a towel.
"Not enough," Jack muttered, wiping his face.
Clara frowned. "You're pushing yourself too hard again."
"I have to. Neville's not going to stop," Jack replied, his voice heavy with frustration.
Clara's expression darkened. "You're not wrong. The Lockwood family has always been relentless, but you can't win this fight by breaking yourself."
"I'm not breaking," Jack said firmly. "I'm rebuilding."
By mid-morning, Jack was back to business. Armed with a notebook filled with contacts and insights from his mother's memory ball, he navigated the bustling streets. His first stop was a local pawnshop owned by a wiry man named Garrett, whose sharp eyes missed nothing.
"What can I do for you, kid?" Garrett asked, not bothering to hide his skepticism.
Jack laid out his pitch, explaining how he could refurbish electronics for resale. Garrett listened, tapping his fingers against the counter.
"Sounds good on paper," Garrett said, leaning back. "But what makes you think you can pull it off?"
Jack hesitated for a moment, then straightened. "Because I have to. Give me a chance, and I'll prove it to you."
Garrett studied him for a long moment before shrugging. "Fine. I've got a few old phones in the back. If you can make them shine, we'll talk."
Jack nodded, his heart pounding. This was his first real break.
The following days were a whirlwind of activity. Jack spent hours tinkering with the phones, using every trick he had learned from his mother's memory ball. He salvaged parts from other broken devices, cleaned the screens, and reinstalled software. The results were far from perfect, but they were functional—and they looked good enough to sell.
When he returned to Garrett with the refurbished phones, the pawnshop owner's eyes widened in surprise.
"Not bad, kid," Garrett admitted grudgingly. "You've got potential. Let's see how these sell."
The phones sold quickly, and Garrett was true to his word. He offered Jack a steady supply of old electronics, and soon, Jack's small operation began to grow.
Meanwhile, Jack's training with Victor intensified. The guard pushed him harder each day, introducing more complex techniques and scenarios. Jack's clumsiness gradually gave way to confidence, though his body bore the marks of his efforts.
"Remember, it's not just about strength," Victor said during one session. "It's about timing, balance, and reading your opponent. Anticipate their moves before they make them."
Jack nodded, absorbing every word. His father's teachings and Victor's guidance were merging into a unique style, one that felt like his own.
But not everything was going smoothly. Neville's shadow loomed large, and Jack knew it was only a matter of time before his rival struck again. The robbery had been a calculated move, and Jack had no doubt Neville was watching him, waiting for the next opportunity to crush him.
One evening, as Jack walked home from Garrett's shop, he felt the weight of eyes on him. The streets were quieter than usual, the air thick with tension. Jack's grip tightened on his bag, which contained the day's earnings and a newly acquired tablet he planned to refurbish.
"Well, well," a voice drawled from the shadows. "If it isn't the bastard himself."
Jack froze, his heart racing. Neville stepped out from an alleyway, flanked by two thugs.
"Thought you could bounce back, huh?" Neville sneered. "How's that working out for you?"
Jack's mind raced as he assessed the situation. He was outnumbered, and he knew he couldn't win a fight—not yet. But he also knew he couldn't back down.
"What do you want, Neville?" Jack asked, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at him.
Neville smirked. "Just checking in on my favorite punching bag. You're getting a little too bold for my liking, running around like you matter."
Jack clenched his fists. "Get to the point."
"The point," Neville said, stepping closer, "is that you need to remember your place. You're nothing, Jack. Always have been, always will be."
Jack's anger flared, but he forced himself to stay calm. He couldn't afford to lose control.
"Funny," Jack said, his voice laced with defiance. "For someone so determined to ruin me, you sure spend a lot of time proving I matter."
Neville's smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of rage. "Careful, bastard. You're playing with fire."
"Then burn me," Jack shot back.
Neville's fist flew before Jack could react, connecting with his jaw. Jack staggered but managed to stay on his feet. The thugs closed in, and Jack braced himself for the beating he knew was coming.
But this time, he wasn't completely defenseless. Victor's training kicked in, and Jack managed to block the next punch, countering with an awkward but effective jab to one of the thug's ribs.
The fight was messy, chaotic. Jack took more hits than he landed, but he didn't go down without a fight. When Neville finally called his men off, Jack was bruised and battered but standing.
"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Neville said, his tone dripping with disdain. "But guts won't save you."
As Neville and his thugs disappeared into the night, Jack leaned against a wall, his body screaming in pain. But despite the beating, a small spark of pride burned within him. He hadn't won, but he hadn't given up either.
When Jack limped home, Clara and Victor were waiting for him. Clara's face turned pale at the sight of him, while Victor's expression hardened.
"What happened?" Clara demanded.
"Ran into Neville," Jack said, his voice hoarse.
Victor cursed under his breath. "That bastard's getting bolder."
Jack sank into a chair, exhaustion washing over him. "I'll be fine. I just need to rest."
Clara knelt beside him, dabbing at his wounds with a damp cloth. "You're going to get yourself killed, Jack."
"I'm not stopping," Jack said firmly. "I can't."
Victor nodded slowly. "You've got fight in you, kid. But you need more than that. Tomorrow, we take your training up a notch."
Jack managed a weak smile. "Bring it on."
As Jack lay in bed that night, his body aching and his mind racing, he replayed the fight in his head. He had a long way to go, but he was getting stronger—bit by bit.
And he would keep going, no matter what.
End of Chapter 7