Chapter 21: Chapter Twenty-Two

The realm of professional fighting isn't actually brutal—if it's regulated combat, that is; but underground fighting is another matter. Because of his status, Bai Lang might not be able to step onto those lit rings—and those people know he came from the north with no real identity, so isn't this kind of person exactly the fresh blood that underground fighting naturally needs? And if one wants to control an underground boxer, the simplest means are money and violence, plus addictive substances.

However, Bai Lang had no interest in any of that—he'd be going back in another nine years, so what use would money be? As for violence, he didn't want to break ties just yet—and addictive substances? Whoever dared bring those his way would be like an old man hanging himself for complaining his life is too long.

"Really, it's useless..." After knocking down another opponent, Bai Lang thought this while sitting in the lounge. It truly was useless; the opponents he faced were already quite formidable, a few even had records of killing people in the ring, yet against him they couldn't land a single move. Bai Lang had also tried the idea of not attacking first, letting those people unleash their specialties in a round, but he found their martial arts were merely killing techniques, offering no reference value for his own skill.

"As for the killer's aura? I've had it long ago, alright." Bai Lang thought that, and acted accordingly; the martial art he cultivated leaned toward shape‑based techniques, and in practice he imagined that, like a tiger or leopard, his casual strikes should flow in one continuous breath, with power penetrating section by section to unleash his full bodily strength. Thus he had developed Tiger Form, and now he even possessed the form of a Golden Bell—only his internal force wasn't yet thick enough to become a great bell.

Muay Thai is inherently vicious—fists, feet, knees, and elbows, eight striking points, are all weapons; and the protection in underground fighting is even worse, the gloves can be said to be so thin they hardly protect either side, while the fighters wear nothing but a pair of shorts, no groin guard, no mouthguard—those who come to watch and bet just want to see flesh flying. Bai Lang had already fought ten or so bouts there; although he was a constant winner, he seemed unable to stir the crowd's frenzy.

Because his fighting really lacked an explosive point—usually just a sudden lunge forward, then a palm or fist strike, and the opponent would collapse unconscious on the spot—basically no lingering injuries, just a knockout. That's too bloodless, not appealing to the audience. Yet his win rate is a perfect hundred percent... which the behind‑the‑scenes gambling syndicate finds a bit awkward—hard to set odds that way. Still, this guy is so plain he hardly draws any fan following, so maybe just keep him on ice... or perhaps try to control him with addictive drugs? If possible, nobody wants to resort to violence to force him.

That's how things came about—Bai Lang looks no older than eighteen or nineteen. As for his looks, when he was a little beggar he was rather dirty; after joining the Changle Gang he could clean up, and then, as a enforcer‑chief in a pawnshop who devoted himself to martial arts practice and rarely went out to beat people, he grew to look eighteen or nineteen even though he was only fifteen or sixteen, yet his features were already clear and handsome. In fact, once Bai Lang's eyebrows, eyes, nose and mouth had matured he was quite handsome—regardless of the silkworm‑brow phoenix‑eyes, nose like a hanging gallbladder, lips distinct, thick and strong, plus a square face, by the time he reached his twenties he would certainly be considered dignified in appearance.

A man like that, those people surely thought they could take him out to sample the flashy world—after all, using women and drugs to control him would be easy, right? If they claimed his strength would decline because of that... given his level, there's no way it would drop that fast, and besides, who expects an underground boxer to last a lifetime? They could profit from a well‑planned gambling match—even if it's only a few tens of thousands of dollars, this guy would already have recouped their investment; as for Bai Lang's life or death thereafter, it simply wouldn't matter to them.

That day, after Bai Lang finished his training—his martial arts were probably stuck at this world's level and hard to advance further, but daily he would temper his qi, circulate his internal force, and absorb that breath of purple qi at sunrise, a practice he wouldn't skip—whether to practice or not was entirely up to him, and he would know when to take responsibility for himself. The attendant who usually looked after him brought along a few girls and several good‑natured boys, saying, "Let's go out and relax a bit."

In that short span Bai Lang also picked up some Thai—after recovering part of his English ability, learning another language in this tourist country by comparison wasn't too hard. "Let's go relax." Bai Lang glanced at the girls and smiled, "If it's the beach and seawater, that sounds nice."

"Eh? What's fun about that? Let's go to a bar, go to KTV—that's where young people should be." The leader said; Bai Lang was indifferent either way, anyway he didn't dislike socializing, and besides, with his current martial arts and internal force, drinking a little would actually have no effect on him—at this level his liver function is vigorous, so ordinary alcohol, unless mixed with something special, could not get him drunk even after a thousand cups.

"Could meditating and cultivating the Microcosmic Orbit to the beat of thumping music perhaps have some special effect?" Bai Lang thought that, and followed the group. "All that reaches the ears is licentious sound, all that meets the eyes is wanton women." Bai Lang also curled the corner of his mouth in a faint smile, watching the noisy scene in the bar—at that moment the party was in a booth, those girls kept pulling Bai Lang to dance, but he refused each time, so eventually they just leaned against him or simply sat in his lap.

Bai Lang behaved as if nothing were happening—truly sitting with arms around him yet remaining unmoved; he held a cup of drink, not alcohol, sipping it intermittently, and occasionally he would joke with those girls—he spoke English, which they understood perfectly, and of course sometimes he had to meet their demands, touching them here and there—but his gaze stayed calm and composed, and naturally his body showed no reaction. Just the corner of his mouth kept a faint, wavering smile. "To laugh and jest without restraint while the true qi can still run the Microcosmic Orbit undisturbed—this indeed works quite well," Bai Lang thought to himself.

"Come on! Let's liven things up! Here, good stuff!" Among the youths playing together, someone produced a packet of pills—Bai Lang caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye and had already noticed they'd been exchanging looks earlier.... "Huh?" Bai Lang, though he basically knew what it was, still went along with an "Oh." "What is this?" Bai Lang asked, feigning ignorance, "Sky‑high happy stuff! Relax, big brother, take one."