Chapter 35: "Ambulances, Bruises, and the Art of Reckless Victory"
In which Danny discovers pain is temporary, but revenge is glorious—and also painful.
Let's get one thing straight: Dash Baxter wasn't just your average high school jock.
He wasn't the "lift weights, eat protein, pick fights with nerds" type. No—Dash was the 5-star general of teenage athleticism. A one-man army in letterman jacket form. If this school was a kingdom, Dash wasn't just the prince. He was the warrior prince who bench-pressed dragons and threw touchdowns for the honor of the realm.
He was fast. He was strong. He was absurdly good at grappling arts that most adults took decades to master. He could probably wrestle a bear, and that bear would need therapy afterward.
And it wasn't just brawn. His GPA was solid. He aced math. Could cook steak medium-rare without Googling it. Woke up at 5 a.m. every day to train. Ate kale voluntarily.
He came from a family of high achievers. His dad was a decorated Army colonel who once beat a tank in a staring contest (probably). His mom was an ex-Air Force pilot who casually mentioned pulling 6Gs like it was a traffic report. At Thanksgiving dinners, they talked about tactical gear, not turkey stuffing.
So, yeah. Dash had pressure. But he wore it like a weighted vest—built muscle from it.
The one person he had ever really looked up to, weirdly enough, wasn't a Baxter at all. It was Jack Fenton—Danny's dad. That mountain of a man had body-slammed Dash's dad in a friendly spar years ago and earned the elder Baxter's eternal respect. Dash never forgot that. He'd watched Jack take down his hero—and then laugh and hand him a sandwich afterward.
So when he heard that Danny Fenton, the son of Jack Freakin' Fenton, had become… well, Danny, he didn't know what to do with that disappointment.
He wanted to like Danny. They'd actually been friends once, when they were little. Threw water balloons together. Swapped snacks at lunch. Played tag like it was life and death.
But then Danny started hiding. Avoiding gym. Slouching in corners. Flinching when people raised their voices. It was like his spirit had just… deflated.
And Dash?
Dash hated wasted potential.
So he did what he'd been trained to do. He intervened.
At first, it was small. Push him around. Call him names. Try to toughen him up. He'd done it with other kids before—helped them "find their fire," as he called it. Rough? Yeah. But effective? Usually.
But Danny? Danny just took it.
So Dash escalated. Created friction. Tension. Challenge after challenge. He wanted Danny to snap out of it—to fight back. Because deep down, Dash didn't think he was the bad guy. He thought he was the hero in Danny's underdog story.
But now, standing across from Danny on the Judo mat, watching the kid he once called "weak sauce" stand like a soldier—
Dash grinned.
Finally.
"You sure about this, Fenton?" Dash said, rolling his shoulders. "I've been waiting a long time, but I didn't think you'd ever grow a spine."
Danny's eyes were sharp. Calm. "Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint your ego. But this isn't about you. This is for me. For Sam. For Tucker. For every time you made me feel worthless."
Dash raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to apologize. What I did—was necessary."
Danny scowled. "You broke me down for years, and now you want to play the 'it's character development' card?"
"It was development," Dash said, serious. "You think people grow by sitting in comfort forever? Pressure builds strength. Fire forges steel. You needed to get mad to change."
"I needed someone to help me, not kick me while I was down!" Danny snapped.
"You wouldn't have listened," Dash said, stepping onto the mat. "But you're here now. You've grown. So have I. This is what you wanted, right? A real fight?"
Danny inhaled. The room was dead silent. Every eye in the gym was on them.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "This is what I want."
Dash gave a short nod. "Then bring it on, Fenton. Let's see who you really are."
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The air in the gym was so tense, you could've sliced it with one of Mr. Lancer's passive-aggressive sighs.
Students were packed around the mat like it was Fight Club: Amity Park Edition. Even Coach was watching with his whistle half-in, half-out of his mouth, already regretting agreeing to "friendly Judo sparring" today.
On the mat stood two titans of teenage tension: Dash "Military Prodigy" Baxter and Danny "Ghost-Powered Ninja-In-Training" Fenton.
Except no one knew that second title yet.
"Begin!" Coach barked.
And then everything exploded.
Dash moved first. A classic feint-step—then a spinning hook kick aimed at Danny's head. Most people would've hit the mat right there. Not Danny. He ducked under, twisted, and swept Dash's leg.
Dash jumped, flipped mid-air, and landed on his feet like a show-off jungle cat.
"Oh," Danny muttered, "he's actually good."
Dash grinned. "That the best you got, Fenton?"
They closed in again.
Dash tried to grab Danny in a clinch, going for a shoulder throw, but Danny slipped out and hit him with a sharp elbow to the ribs. It connected—but Dash barely flinched. Instead, he grabbed Danny's wrist mid-strike and twisted, flipping him over onto the mat in a picture-perfect Judo throw.
WHUMP!
The students gasped. Sam shouted, "Get up, Danny!" and Tucker waved a drone over for aerial footage.
Danny groaned but rolled to his feet. "Okay… okay. That one was solid."
"You think that was solid?" Dash shot forward like a linebacker, fists blazing in rapid-fire boxing strikes.
Danny parried—left, right, right again, ducked under a hook—and responded with a low kick to Dash's thigh. Dash staggered, then came back with a double jab and a hip throw.
Danny twisted in mid-air, caught Dash's collar, and brought him down with a reversal slam that sent Dash's back slamming into the mat with a satisfying THWACK.
Even the Coach flinched.
And then the crowd truly went wild.
This wasn't just a nerd getting lucky. This wasn't someone juiced up on science goo. This was a match.
Dash's brain was doing somersaults. What the heck is happening?
This wasn't strength. Sure, Danny was faster than before, maybe even stronger, but this was training. Danny was using transitions, chaining moves, adapting to everything Dash threw at him. No hesitation. No wasted energy. Just skill.
"You've been training," Dash growled, wiping blood off his lip.
Danny panted, smirking. "You could say that."
Dash came in again—this time for a takedown. He lowered his level, shooting for Danny's legs. A classic wrestler's move.
Danny sprawled and spun, twisting around Dash and locking him in a standing guillotine. Dash dropped his weight, popped his hips, and rolled them both—escaping the hold and slamming Danny into the mat again.
But Danny bounced back up like a spring-loaded raccoon. He darted in with a flurry of strikes—punches, knees, elbows—fluid as a waterbender on caffeine.
Dash blocked most, but one hit his jaw hard enough to make his teeth rattle.
They broke apart, both breathing hard now.
"You were holding back all these years," Danny said, eyes wide with realization.
Dash shrugged, catching his breath. "You were too weak. You would've gotten hurt."
"Yeah, well…" Danny rotated his shoulder. "Surprise. Not weak anymore."
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The gym had never been this quiet. Not even during finals.
Danny stood in the center of the mat, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and probably one or two ribs already registering complaints with the union of internal organs. Across from him stood Dash Baxter—Amity Park's very own golden gladiator—still upright, still grinning, and somehow still not out of breath.
Coach had long given up pretending this was "just a friendly spar." The man was chewing his whistle now.
The crowd was frozen in place, half of them recording with their phones, the other half simply too stunned to blink. Even Sam and Tucker looked like they were watching a particularly intense episode of Super Smash Ghost Brawl 4.
Danny's brain, meanwhile, was doing gymnastics.
Okay... I'm faster. More agile. Trained by a moon-slicing ninja ghost mentor with a six-pack that makes marble statues cry.
BUT—Dash is built like a titanium refrigerator and apparently can eat kicks for breakfast.
And therein lay the problem.
Every time Danny landed a solid hit, Dash just tanked it like he was sponsored by adamantium. And while Danny was landing more, Dash was landing heavier. This was going to end in a draw… or worse.
Unless…
A completely reckless idea zipped through Danny's head like a caffeinated squirrel on a sugar high.
Don't dodge everything.
Now, most people wouldn't call that a "strategy."
But most people haven't had their fighting instincts honed by a literal Hokage Soul Fragment whispering confidence into their mind while they spar in a metaphysical mental dojo.
Danny grinned like someone who had read the "Danger" label and said, "Cool, let's drink it."
"Alright, Dash," he said, bouncing on his toes. "Time to finish this. Someone call the ambulance."
"Worried about yourself?" Dash smirked.
"Nope." Danny cracked his neck. "For you. And maybe me."
The bell hadn't even rung again before Danny charged.
Dash met him head-on, fists swinging—and Danny didn't dodge.
A solid right hook clipped his side. Stars danced in his vision, and somewhere in the back of his head, a warning siren screamed, "BAD PLAN! BAD PLAN!"
But then—Danny spun with the momentum and slammed his elbow into Dash's side. Dash grunted, clearly surprised by the power behind the blow.
Danny pressed in closer, taking another knee to the ribs just so he could land a brutal uppercut that sent Dash staggering.
Now the crowd was screaming.
Danny's cheek was swelling. His lip was bleeding. His vision was slightly double. But Dash was finally on the defensive.
"C'mon!" Danny shouted, voice raw. "I thought you were tougher than this!"
Dash growled and lunged. He grabbed Danny's arm, spun for a judo throw—but Danny planted his foot, twisted mid-air, and flipped Dash onto his back.
But Dash rolled, grabbed Danny's leg, and pulled him down.
Now they were both grappling, rolling, punching, elbowing—fighting like two angry tomcats in a laundry dryer.
Dash landed a body blow that made Danny's vision flash white.
Danny slammed his forehead into Dash's (not his proudest moment, but hey, it worked).
Finally—finally—Dash went for a desperate overhead punch.
Danny ducked low, grabbed Dash's waist, and heaved.
With a roar that sounded suspiciously like "FENTON PAAAAAUNCH," Danny slammed Dash into the mat with every last ounce of strength in his body.
Dash's head bounced once.
And then he stayed down.
The gym went silent again.
Then someone shouted, "HE DID IT!"
Then everyone shouted it.
Sam was screaming. Tucker was waving a homemade "Nerd Rage FTW!" sign.
Coach just stared like he needed a nap and several cups of decaf.
Danny stood over Dash, arms raised, bloodied and bruised and grinning like he just beat the final boss of life itself.
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The moment Danny collapsed like a victorious gladiator who had just body-slammed a Minotaur, the gym exploded.
We're talking nuclear-level shockwaves of teenage chaos.
Phones flew out faster than ghosts fleeing the Fenton Thermos. The entire school had just witnessed the impossible: Danny Fenton, resident punching bag, beat Dash Baxter, the All-American war machine in sneakers.
Even the gym teacher looked like he needed to reboot.
Paulina stood frozen, arms crossed, jaw slightly ajar—like her brain couldn't load the latest software update titled Danny is a Monster Now.exe.
She had watched every punch, every block, every time Danny got hit and kept getting up. He didn't have Dash's muscle or martial arts pedigree, but he had something she hadn't seen before.
Pure, reckless, stupid determination.
And it worked.
Her brain short-circuited trying to compute that the boy she had once dismissed as a background extra was now the main character in his own underdog movie. And worse—he won.
If Danny could change... then what was stopping her?
She clenched her fists, a spark of something—motivation?—twisting inside her. He was weaker than me... and now look. That idiot just flipped his whole narrative.
She looked down at her own perfect nails. "If that nerd can glow up... what the hell am I even doing?"
Star, meanwhile, was on an entirely different wavelength.
"Oh my gods. This is literally that one arc from Fighter Soul X Genesis when the MC stops hiding his aura after months of farming XP under the radar!"
Paulina blinked. "What?"
"Danny's been power-leveling off-screen! I knew it! This is totally why he's been acting weird lately. I bet he's got a secret mentor like that masked kung fu ghost from Episode 13—"
"You need help."
"No, YOU need to accept this is canon development. I'm filing an official complaint with Mom to limit my anime consumption. I think I need a nap and some water."
Meanwhile, Sam and Tucker were already pushing through the crowd, shoving away gawking kids like bodyguards at a concert.
"Danny!" Sam dropped beside him, gently lifting his head. "You absolute lunatic! That was amazing and also dumb and also amazing."
"I think I sprained my face," Danny groaned. "And maybe a kidney."
Tucker flopped beside him, breathless. "Dude. Dude! DUDE. You just broke the laws of gym class. That was like watching a marshmallow evolve into a brick wall."
Danny gave a thumbs-up. "Worth it?"
"Beyond worth it," Sam said. "You just punched your trauma in the face."
"Multiple times," Tucker added proudly.
Sam turned to him. "You're buying him ice cream later."
"Obviously."
Across the gym, Dash's friends finally snapped out of their confusion coma. Mikey and the linebacker twins hauled Dash up like a fallen champion.
"Bro," Mikey muttered, "You good?"
Dash, bruised and dazed, smiled through a split lip. "Heh. Kid's finally got bite."
The twins exchanged glances.
"Respect," one of them whispered. "But also—ow."
"Yeah," the other agreed. "He's gonna feel that in the next life."
They carried Dash toward the nurse's office like fallen royalty, murmurs and awe trailing them like a parade of disbelief.
And in the center of it all, Danny Fenton, Amity Park's favorite background ghost nerd, had rewritten the school's pecking order.
One punch at a time.
Also, possibly a broken nose. But hey—glory hurts.