Chapter Fifty-Eight: Kill Him...

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There is an ancient martial arts manual—though I can’t recall exactly which one, as there are simply too many such manuals in our country—that contains a line: “Strike swiftly, like a lion pouncing on a rabbit.” Perhaps it was by some twist of fate that Johnson, after falling into a ravine, came across this very manual… Now, he was akin to a lion, launching himself with ferocity toward Zhuo Nan.

He had once been a professional boxer; back then, he wasn’t allowed to use his legs. But now, fighting in underground matches, who cared if he used fists or feet? Even if a man’s middle appendage was sturdy enough to swing and kill his opponent, it wouldn’t be considered against the rules. The audience would only be awestruck, worshiping you as a legend. If he ever retired from underground fighting, he could probably get rich selling potency drugs.

The moment the announcer finished speaking, Johnson took a running start, leapt into the air, and aimed a flying kick at Zhuo Nan, hoping to use his weight to land a decisive blow first… It must be said, if he’d been facing an ordinary man, that kick would have left the poor soul with at least internal injuries, if not dead on the spot.

But Zhuo Nan was no ordinary man. He sidestepped swiftly to the right, right foot forward and left behind, settling into a half-horse stance. Swinging his left arm, he met Johnson’s airborne assault head-on—“Bang!” The crowd, who had just been cheering for Johnson’s move, fell instantly silent.

Johnson, weighing over 180 pounds, crashed heavily onto the ring floor, a tremendous thud echoing through the arena.

In slow-motion replay: Johnson leaps, flying at Zhuo Nan. Two seconds before impact, Zhuo Nan steps right and drops into stance; at that moment, Johnson’s lower body is already past Zhuo Nan, but his upper body is still in front. With a mere 0.01 second’s difference, Zhuo Nan’s left arm hammers down on Johnson’s chest.

Johnson, stretched out in mid-air, was smashed to the ground by Zhuo Nan’s brutal blow.

Zhuo Nan retreated two steps to the left side of the ring, gazing at Johnson, who writhed on the ground in pain. He made no move to follow up—an unusual choice for an underground fighter. Normally, they’d rush in for the kill once the opponent was down. But not Zhuo Nan. He waited. He was waiting for Johnson to get up again…

Zhuo Nan’s display had left the audience in astonishment. Every Johnson supporter was silenced. This man called Blood Wolf had toppled Johnson with a single move, and now he stood at ease, as if strolling through a garden. My God, what kind of man was this…

Long Kun’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Everyone knew South Brother could fight, but he also knew exactly who Johnson was. Watching South Brother now, it seemed he hadn’t even warmed up yet. What kind of terrifying strength was this?

Ghostman Chao had already paid the price for underestimating Zhuo Nan, so his current mood was quite calm—he was even starting to calculate how much money he’d make tonight.

After five or six seconds, Johnson struggled to his feet, clutching his chest, desperately trying to catch his breath after that heavy blow. Years reigning in the underground rings, and he’d never suffered such humiliation. Consumed by rage, his beast-like eyes glared at Zhuo Nan as he bared his teeth and roared, “Hybrid, I will kill you!”

Zhuo Nan frowned, clearly understanding the insult. The crowd, seeing Johnson emit another beastly howl, erupted in a frenzy once more, as if they could already see him tearing his opponent apart as he always had.

Johnson charged Zhuo Nan again, shouting in his guttural tongue. His right hand, coiled for a lethal punch, was his signature move—even in the professional ranks of America, few could withstand it. Johnson grinned, confident that his punch was perfect in both strength and speed. Zhuo Nan hadn’t moved yet; Johnson could already picture this masked man being blasted into the air…

But just as Johnson’s fist was about to land, Zhuo Nan moved—quicker than lightning. You might not even catch the movement if you blinked. Johnson’s punch met nothing but air. Before he could react, Zhuo Nan had already shifted to his left side, his right hand rising elegantly from below—his movements light and unhurried, as if this were not a struggle for life and death, but merely a lesson for a wayward child… “Smack!” A crisp slap echoed, landing squarely on Johnson’s face.

The six-foot-three Johnson spun in place from the force of the slap. “Smack!” Another resounding slap—this time with the other hand, but the motion, and the look of disbelief on Johnson’s face, were identical.

The audience was dumbfounded. If the first blow that felled Johnson was a fluke, what about the second? And now the third? Could this short, masked man with the intimidating name truly be stronger than Johnson?

After the third attempt, as Zhuo Nan readied his right hand for another slap, Johnson finally dodged—clumsily, but at least he managed. Zhuo Nan, still composed, glanced left and right with his raised hand and smiled wryly.

Below the ring, Ghostman Chao could tell Zhuo Nan was smiling, though he wasn’t sure how. He just knew the face behind the mask was grinning—happily, but also terrifyingly so.

He began to feel sorry for Johnson. Though he knew Johnson would lose, he felt a certain camaraderie with him. In the presence of Zhuo Nan, they were both ants—perhaps not even worthy of being called ants. While Johnson had dodged that slap, Chao was certain the next ones would be even worse, until finally, Zhuo Nan would beat him to death in the ring…

And indeed, Chao’s premonition was correct. Driven mad after being struck three times—especially by those two slaps, which were pure humiliation—Johnson snapped. In the ring, you could kill a man with punches or kicks, but you couldn’t slap him as if he were a child. At that moment, Johnson was nailed to the pillar of shame…

Beast? No, Johnson was now no more than a rabid dog; and the way to deal with a rabid dog is simple—kill it. Before Johnson could move, Zhuo Nan darted forward. Johnson stood there dumbly, his opponent so fast that, in the blink of an eye, he was right in front of him… “Smack!” Right hand! This time, Zhuo Nan’s right hand landed cleanly on Johnson’s right cheek.

“Smack!” Left hand! As easily as swatting a mosquito, Zhuo Nan’s left hand swung into Johnson’s left cheek. This was true strength: when you give everything to bring down your opponent, only to discover he’s merely toying with you.

“Smack!” The right hand landed again, and blood began to trickle from Johnson’s lips. Dazed from the three consecutive slaps, Johnson’s movements and reactions grew sluggish. This time, Zhuo Nan stopped, retreating two steps and calmly watching Johnson sway on his feet.

“Puh…” Johnson spat out a mouthful of blood, along with two teeth.

The audience’s initial frenzy had long since faded. They hadn’t witnessed the massacre they imagined, but something even more shocking—a slow, methodical torture. Yes, this man called Blood Wolf was tormenting Johnson. Everyone present now accepted that Blood Wolf was leagues ahead of Johnson—perhaps five, ten, or even more levels above. They all realized that Blood Wolf had a thousand ways to kill Johnson, yet he didn’t. He didn’t want Johnson to die so quickly.

No one knew what the face behind the mask looked like—beautiful or ugly, it didn’t matter. What was certain was that Blood Wolf was utterly contemptuous of Johnson. Each slap wasn’t just breaking his body, but annihilating his confidence. Fighters, and those who watch them, all know: never in these brutal matches has anyone won by landing only slaps, never throwing a punch. Both fighters are usually bloodthirsty beasts. No one would simply stand there and let himself be slapped like a target…

“Bitch, I’ll kill you…” After steadying himself, Johnson charged Zhuo Nan again, heedless of everything. It was a repeat of before, as if watching a replay. Zhuo Nan’s every slap landed with just the right force—not enough to kill, but every set of three would cost Johnson two teeth. Then Zhuo Nan would wait, letting Johnson, like a mad dog, attack again…

The vast arena was silent, save for Johnson’s beastly growls, followed by the crisp sound of three slaps. The audience didn’t know what to do—scream? Jeer? Shout for Zhuo Nan to finish Johnson off? There was no need. Zhuo Nan’s display left them too stunned. Never had they seen such a match; who knew underground fighting could look like this…

“Smack!” With yet another slap, Johnson spat out his last tooth.

Staggering, barely able to stand, all his former ferocity and arrogance had vanished. Now, merely remaining upright was a blessing; attacking was out of the question.

At this point, death was only a matter of time… Johnson’s fate was firmly in Zhuo Nan’s hands. Even so, Johnson refused to admit defeat, glaring through swollen eyes, mumbling through broken teeth, “Yellow dog, you’re a hybrid…”

At that moment, Johnson sensed murderous intent at last emanating from the masked man before him. For a fleeting instant, Johnson felt almost relieved. At least it would end now; better a clean death than further humiliation…

“Kill him… kill him… kill him…” No one knew who started the chant, but soon the entire crowd joined in, shouting the same three words. The atmosphere turned feverish once more, exposing the cruelty of human nature…