Who else could pull off something so badass as riding a bike into a battlefield? Besides John, of course.
He had spotted the group from a distance, so he slowed his pace, pedaling at a casual speed to avoid drawing attention. But as he approached, something caught him completely off guard.
One of the women looked startlingly familiar—eerily so. She resembled someone he had only seen in a photograph once. A photo taken at Grandpa Wodehouse's house.
She looked exactly like his seventh sister—Bertha.
Curious, John pedaled closer, narrowing his eyes to get a better look. His jaw nearly dropped.
It wasn't just a resemblance.
It was her.
Unless the universe had decided to duplicate her face on someone else, that woman standing confidently in the clearing was Bertha.
John never imagined he'd bump into her by the banks of the Hudson River, of all places.
A grin crept across his lips as excitement surged in his chest. He was ready to charge in on his bike, give her a good scare, maybe even get a laugh out of it. But before he could make a move, two cold-faced men stepped in his path, arms crossed, eyes deadly serious.
"Martial Arts League business ahead. If you value your life, turn back," one of them barked with no trace of warmth.
The Martial Arts League? John's eyes widened even further. Bertha is a part of that?
Hell yes! Bertha!
Relief and pride surged through him.
Back in the day, Bertha had been the wildest among the bunch. A tiny tornado of chaos. Despite being a girl, she had a spirit as fierce as any boy—and a right hook to match. Nearly every boy in the welfare home had eaten dirt courtesy of her fists, including little John himself.
The difference?
While the other boys were knocked flat on their bellies, John was always face-up, blinking at the sky.
The two most frequently punished kids in the welfare home? Bertha and Gary. The latter had a head full of mischief; Bertha, fists full of discipline. Whenever the two were sentenced to stand still for punishment, Bertha outlasted Gary easily—usually because she beat him to tears halfway through it.
Those were the chaotic, bruised-knee days of their childhood.
Now here she was, not only a member of the Martial Arts League but clearly a high-ranking one, judging by how she directed the group around her.
She'd really grown into the fierce warrior she'd always dreamed of becoming.
"Hey, kid!" one of the cold-faced guards snapped, jarring John from his nostalgic daze. "Didn't you hear us? This area's restricted. Move along before you regret it."
John raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm going. But before I do, satisfy a man's curiosity—who's that stunning goddess over there?"
At first, both men glared at him, but when they caught the genuine admiration in his voice, their pride kicked in. One of them gave a small, almost smug smile. "That's Master Bertha. She leads the Martial Arts League in the Central U.S."
They both seemed to swell with pride, puffing out their chests a little.
But almost instantly, their expressions turned stern again.
"Don't get any ideas," the other one said. "Even we don't dare look at her with anything more than respect. You're just an outsider. Don't go dreaming above your station."
John grinned and nodded. "Got it."
He turned his bike around and casually walked it away in another direction, a spring in his step and warmth bubbling in his chest.
President Bertha... Master Bertha, he thought to himself with amusement. You used to beat me down just for fun. This time, I'm gonna get my revenge—properly.
Of course, he didn't really leave. Once out of sight, he veered around to the back of the mountain, scaling it with the ease of a panther. From the summit, he crouched low and peered down at the clearing below, ready to enjoy the show.
And what a show it was.
Boom! Boom!
Explosions and shockwaves rippled through the air as a fierce battle erupted below. The Martial Arts League had found Drake's hiding place, and now all hell had broken loose.
John watched, enthralled—not because he enjoyed violence, but because watching Bertha fight was like witnessing a warrior goddess in motion. Her every move, every strike, carried lethal grace and ferocious beauty. The arc of her leg, the twist of her torso, the way her eyes narrowed with precision—it was like poetry written in blood and bruises.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The battle intensified. Drake, clearly no pushover, managed to slice Bertha's hairband in the scuffle. Her long black hair cascaded down like a waterfall, framing her fierce features with wild, untamed beauty.
"President Bertha!" one of the fighters shouted between clashes. "Drake's reached Heaven-level cultivation! He's too strong. We should retreat and call for reinforcements!"
It was true. They'd come based on outdated intel, thinking Drake was just half a step into Heaven-level. With that assumption, they'd brought only a strike squad.
But Drake had made a breakthrough recently—thanks to John, ironically enough.
After John killed three of Drake's disciples, the shock and fury had ignited something dark and potent inside him. Unlike orthodox martial artists, who balanced external cultivation with inner peace and mental discipline, scumbags like Drake followed no such path.
They thrived on chaos.
Unstable emotions made them stronger. Rage, despair, pain—it was all fuel for their ascent. They didn't care about balance or inner demons. They just wanted raw, destructive power.
Now Drake stood before them at full strength, and the League's warriors were struggling.
Only one among them could stand toe-to-toe with him—Bertha.
But even she was finding it hard. Drake wasn't alone. He had a giant python coiled across his shoulders, its head hissing with menace.
The serpent wasn't just intimidating—it was poisonous.
Generally, pythons weren't venomous, but this creature was no ordinary snake. Its fangs dripped with dark, acidic toxin. A single bite could paralyze or kill a man within minutes.
As the other fighters hesitated, looking for an opening to escape, Bertha stood tall.
"No," she said coldly, shaking her head.
She twisted her waist and lunged forward again, diving straight into the fray.
This time, there was no holding back.
Bertha had burned her bridges.
She fought with desperate precision—targeting Drake with everything she had while expertly dodging the snake's attacks. She knew better than to expose even a sliver of vulnerability to that poisonous beast.
John, still crouched above, watched her with awe.
Damn, sis, he thought. You've really become something else.
And down below, as punches shattered the air and sparks flew from blades clashing, the battle for survival raged on—each strike a testament to the strength, loyalty, and fire of Master Bertha.