SmilinKujo
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Chapter 29 – The Monkey vs. The Bull
🕑 Added 2025-03-07 09:42:17 +0000 UTCThe streets were quiet. Too quiet. Jack stood still, unmoving, his black-and-gold robes swaying slightly in the breeze. The sun hung high, casting long shadows over the convoy of black SUVs.
The driver stepped forward, face twisted in annoyance. He was an older man, rough around the edges, the kind of guy who had been in this business long enough to know when someone was a threat. And yet, looking at the unarmed young man standing before him, he only felt irritation.
"Dumbass, get the fuck out of the way."
Jack didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't react. He was as still as a lake untouched by wind. Then—he spoke. "Are these all the men under Crusetti?"
The driver frowned. "What the fuck are you saying? Just move, bitch."
Jack's golden gaze met his. "Not until your boss hands over all his territory."
Silence.
The driver's breath hitched. It clicked. The face. The robe. The eerie confidence. His stomach dropped. "Sir." The driver bolted back to Marco's SUV, knocking on the window with urgency. "Sir, I think that's the guy who took over Volkov's territory."
Marco stopped flicking his lighter. Volkov? The bear-like mutant lieutenant under the Tracksuit Mafia?
Marco scoffed, leaning back. That dumb bastard? Volkov's territory could have been taken by a group of determined ants if they wanted it. This wasn't a concern. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, disinterested. "Let Orsino handle it."
The driver relayed the order over the walkie-talkie. A different car door opened. And from it—a giant stepped out.
Orsino was a wall of muscle. At least seven feet tall, built like a slab of concrete, with arms thick as tree trunks. A mutant enforcer under Marco, known for his raw strength and brutality.
His skin had a rough, stone-like texture, and his movements were slow but deliberate. Orsino cracked his neck, then rolled his shoulders. "Boss say you go."
Jack stayed where he was. His grin widened slightly. "Me no go-go until your stupid boss is dead."
Orsino's heavy brow furrowed. He grunted. "Orsino can't let stupid man hurt boss."
Jack tilted his head. Then—he smiled. And when Jack smiled, it was never a good thing. "If a man walks into a forest and punches a tree... does the tree punch back?"
Silence.
Orsino blinked. Marco blinked. Even the driver blinked. "What the fuck is he talking about?" one of the goons muttered.
Jack sighed dramatically, shaking his head. "It means, you dumb brick, that you should've run when you had the chance." The air grew heavy.
Orsino snarled. And then—he charged, the air trembled. A seven-foot, half-ton mass of raw power, surging forward like a battering ram. The ground beneath his feet cracked with each stomp.
His massive fists clenched, veins bulging as he threw everything into his charge. A single hit—that was all it would take.
One clean strike, and this cocky bastard in robes would be nothing more than a bloody smear on the pavement.
But Jack? Jack was already gone.
WHOOSH.
Like a whisper in the wind, he stepped aside, effortlessly slipping past the charge.
Orsino's fist cut through empty space, the sheer force of it sending shockwaves through the air.
Jack didn't even look at him. He was casually examining his fingernails. Then—he whistled. "Ole~"
Orsino skidded to a stop, nostrils flaring.
Marco narrowed his eyes from inside the SUV. He didn't see it at first. Didn't register why Orsino's fist never connected. But now? Now—he was paying attention.
Orsino charged again. Jack sidestepped. Another charge. Another effortless dodge. Over. And over. And over.
Until even Marco realized something. Orsino hadn't landed a single hit. Not one.
Orsino growled, rage boiling in his veins. This was impossible. His opponent was nothing but a flimsy little man in robes. He should've been crushed already. And yet—He couldn't touch him.
His breathing turned ragged. His muscles coiled. And then—His body began to change. Bones shifted.
Tendons stretched. Skin hardened. His arms swelled even larger, thick cords of muscle bulging unnaturally.
His face elongated—his nose flattening, his jaw widening. Two massive, curved horns erupted from his skull. His eyes turned red. His breath came out in hot, heavy snorts.
A bull.
Orsino had transformed. Marco watched, unimpressed. "Finally."
Jack grinned. "Oh? You're a bull now? That makes this even funnier."
Orsino lowered his head—horns gleaming. Then, he roared and charged again.
Jack pulled out a red silk cloth from his sleeve.
He twirled it between his fingers, then snapped it open like a matador. "Let's dance, toro."
Orsino charged—faster, stronger, deadlier. But Jack was having the time of his life.
WHOOSH.
Sidestep.
The bull-man rammed straight into one of the SUVs—crushing the hood like paper. Marco's men barely leaped out of the way. Orsino snorted, shaking the car off.
Jack spun the red cloth, taunting. "Come on, big guy. You're embarrassing the bovine community."
Orsino snarled, hooves scraping against the pavement. Then, he lunged again. Jack sidestepped—again.
And this time? Orsino rammed straight into a group of Marco's own men.
"AGHHHH!"
Three were sent flying. One smashed through another car windshield. Another got caught on Orsino's horn—flailing as he was carried along.
Jack was laughing. "Oh nooo, you're hurting your own guys. Tsk, tsk. What a bad bull."
Orsino snorted, eyes burning with rage.
Jack twirled the red cloth again, tilting his head. "Tell me something, Orsino. Do you know what separates a bull from a steer?"
Orsino snarled.
Jack grinned. "Steers don't have balls."
Orsino roared and charged again.
Jack flipped over him—casually landing on one of the cars. The bull-man, too blinded by rage, crashed straight into another SUV. More of Marco's men dived out of the way, screaming.
More bodies hit the floor. More cars were turned into scrap metal. Marco was starting to realize he had fucked up. Jack wasn't just winning. Jack wasn't even trying.
Orsino panted, his massive frame heaving. He wasn't just battered. He was humiliated. His horns dripped with blood—not Jack's, but his own men's.
His rage had cost them half their forces. Jack stood atop the last intact SUV, twirling his red cloth lazily. "You still wanna keep going, big guy?"
Orsino huffed. His legs trembled. His vision blurred. Jack smirked. "I'll give you one last charge. Make it count."
Orsino roared—one final, desperate burst of energy surging through his veins. He thundered forward, horns aimed straight for Jack's heart.
Jack simply… Dropped the cloth. And vanished. Orsino's charge didn't stop. Didn't slow. Didn't swerve. It went straight toward Marco's car. Marco's eyes widened. "Oh, you gotta be fuc—"
CRASH!
The bull-man slammed into Marco's SUV at full force—flipping it over. Metal shrieked. Glass shattered. The car rolled.
Once. Twice.
Then silence.
Dust settled.
Marco's car lay on its side, wrecked beyond recognition.
Jack landed gracefully a few feet away, dusting off his sleeves. He glanced at the wreckage. Then—he whistled. "Damn. Someone call AAA. This man's car just committed insurance fraud."
The wreckage smoked, metal groaning under its own weight. Blood stained the asphalt, pooling beneath crushed bodies and shattered glass.
Yet—Jack stood untouched. His robes, now splattered with red, clung to him like war paint. His smile hadn't wavered. If anything—it had only grown.
Across the battlefield, Marco's surviving men had regrouped, shaking off their terror, their instincts screaming at them to flee.
But fear? Fear was a funny thing. It made desperate men reckless. And reckless men? Died fast. "S-Shoot him! Now!" one of the goons shouted, raising his weapon.
Guns cocked. Fingers tightened on triggers. Jack watched, amused. Then—he laughed. A deep, manic chuckle that echoed through the battlefield like a funeral bell. "Pfft—kekekekeke—oh man, this is gonna be fun."
Jack tilted his head, then slowly reached for his left ear. His fingers brushed against his dangling earring. And then—He pulled. A gleaming rod extended from the small charm, stretching, growing, twisting into something monstrous.
Ruyi Jingu Bang.
The legendary staff of the Monkey King. The gold caught the sunlight, shimmering like liquid fire.
Jack spun it once, then slammed it against the pavement—sending cracks spider-webbing beneath his feet.
The air trembled. And then—Jack moved.
The first shot rang out. A bullet whizzed toward Jack's skull. And yet—it never reached him.
CLANG.
The staff elongated, intercepting the bullet mid-air, sending it ricocheting into the skull of the man who fired it. Jack didn't stop.
He darted forward, moving through the ranks like a ghost. His staff moved with him—twisting, bending, stretching.
One moment, it was a spear. The next—a wrecking ball. He swung downward—flattening a man's ribcage like stepping on a soda can.
Another charged him from behind, machete raised.
Jack sidestepped, twirled his staff, and in one seamless motion—took the man's legs out from under him.
He didn't even give the guy time to scream before the staff slammed into his skull, caving it in.
Gunfire rained. Bullets zipped through the air—aimed at Jack. But it was pointless. Either he dodged, or the staff intercepted. Each blocked bullet rebounded, carving through flesh that wasn't his.
The shooters became the shot. The attackers became the corpses. One by one—they fell.
And Jack was dancing through it all. His steps were light. His movements effortless. His grin—never-ending.
Orsino, still frozen in place, snarled. His massive bull-like body trembled as he fought against the unseen force locking his muscles.
Jack strolled toward him, twirling his staff. He hummed a tune, his voice casual. "Damn, you really do look like a fine-cut steak. You think if I grill you up, you'd taste good?"
Orsino's red eyes burned with rage.
Jack leaned in, voice a whisper. "Nah, I bet you'd be all tough and chewy. No good beef comes from stress, y'know?"
Then—Jack raised a single finger. And snapped. The Body Freezing Spell shattered.
Orsino roared, lunging—desperate, feral, mindless.
Jack didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His staff shot forward, shrinking mid-air—before slamming directly into Orsino's kneecap.
CRACK.
A sickening crunch echoed. Orsino collapsed, howling in pain. Jack grinned wider. And then—he began taking him apart. Piece. By. Piece.
A swipe here took off chunks of flesh. A jab there crushed bones. Jack circled his prey, carving into him like an artist sculpting marble.
Orsino's roars turned to gurgles. His form, once a towering bull, was reduced to nothing more than a quivering pile of meat.
By the end—he was unrecognizable. And Jack stood over him, expression unreadable.
Then, he sighed. "Bullfighting show's over. No refunds."
Orsino didn't respond. Because he couldn't. Jack wiped his staff against his sleeve, sighed, and turned toward the last man standing.
…
Marco Crusetti. The last survivor. His SUV was wrecked, overturned, body half-trapped beneath the door.
His men? Gone. Slaughtered. The carnage stretched behind him like a blood-soaked tapestry. And Marco had no idea.
"Help!" he gasped, voice hoarse. "Somebody—get me out of here!" Footsteps approached. And then—hands grabbed him, pulling him free.
Marco staggered up, wheezing, dust and blood smeared across his suit. "Thank you! I'll give you a raise—" Then—he saw.
Jack stood before him, face covered in blood. His robes soaked in red, as if he had bathed in carnage itself. His golden eyes gleamed.
Marco shrieked.
Jack grinned, voice light. "I don't want your raise, though." His staff rested against his shoulder. Dripping. Waiting. Marco felt something crawl up his throat.
A terror he hadn't known since he was a child. And in that moment—He realized something. Jack wasn't a man. He was a force of nature. A storm in human skin.
And Marco was nothing but a corpse still waiting to die.
