Chapter 10: Chapter Ten: The Arena, the Betting Ring

Wang Yan rested all afternoon; apart from some pain in his wounds, he had mostly recovered.

He didn’t go to the canteen—ate dinner in the infirmary and returned to his cell.

Notably, the three of them returned too. Naturally, Wang Yan hadn’t gone all out; even their weak bodies would’ve healed after two days.

Wang Yan sat on his bed watching them. Amid the guards’ curses, the three reluctantly shuffled in, dragging their feet.

After spending the whole afternoon together, the three didn’t need to ask what Wang Yan had done—they understood just by hearing the guards yell. This time, they realized how stupid they’d been to provoke him.

After long hesitation, forcing himself forward under Wang Yan’s gaze, he offered a nervous smile: “Big brother, what’s your name? We were foolish before—can you give us a chance?”

“Come on, line up,” Wang Yan ignored him and called to the other two.

The two had accepted reality now; they shuffled up and stood before Wang Yan.

“Introduce yourselves. Tell me how you got here and how long your sentences are.”

The leader said: “I’m Zhang Biao.” He pointed to the one Wang Yan had knocked out: “This is Zhao Fang.” Then to the one he’d kicked across the room: “That’s Chen Zhiye.”

After introducing them all, Zhang Biao added: “We three robbed and injured someone on the road, got caught, and got one year.”

Wang Yan was stunned to hear only one year—but then realized it made sense. Hong Kong was returning in just a few years; the foreigners wanted it chaotic.

“Alright, I get it. I’m Wang Yan. From now on, I run this place. Any problems?” All three shook their heads.

Seeing them nod, Wang Yan said: “Everything has a price—I won’t beat you. But go, stand against the wall, facing it, until bedtime.”

Their faces dropped instantly. Two hours until sleep—they shuffled reluctantly to the wall and stood.

Watching them slouch and sway, Wang Yan barked: “Stand straight. Do I need to teach you how?”

Fearing another beating, the three snapped upright at once, rigid as poles.

Wang Yan stopped paying attention to them, lay on his bed, and opened his panel to check his stats.

Wang Yan

Attributes: Strength 13

Agility 12

Constitution 14

Spirit 13

Unallocated points: 4

Seeing his Constitution and Strength each increased by one point, Wang Yan felt satisfied: “Indeed, real combat is the fastest way to improve.” His stats had been at the threshold—this single fight pushed him over. If this was the rate, he’d need to fight more. The effect was too good—he looked forward to tomorrow.

Wang Yan didn’t know how to meditate or sit in stillness, and couldn’t exercise—he needed to conserve energy for tomorrow’s fight. Sitting idle was pointless.

He thought about asking Zhang Biao if he had any money—but then remembered: those three? Not worth it.

He abandoned the idea, closed his eyes, and mentally reviewed the martial knowledge he’d learned.

Time passed quickly—it was almost bedtime.

“Alright, get ready for sleep,” Wang Yan told the three, still standing stiffly.

At once, their bodies sagged; they rubbed their legs, dared not groan, and forced cheerful smiles: “Thank you, Brother Yan.”

Sighing, Wang Yan ignored them, warned them to sleep quietly, and lay down.

Wang Yan slept soundly; after brief contact, he knew they lacked the courage to attack him while he slept.

The next day, after breakfast and a short rest, work resumed.

During work, various gangs kept coming to recruit Wang Yan—he refused them all. He didn’t want to be anyone’s lackey. He wanted to be the boss.

They said nothing, just shook their heads and walked away. Without their protection, he might not even survive to get out.

At break time, a large crowd surrounded Wang Yan. This time, the guards didn’t watch—they weren’t fools. Even if they were trash, killing someone would be a nightmare. A squad of guards rushed over and dispersed the mob.

Wang Yan stared at the sea of people—he was scared. Thank God the guards intervened; otherwise, he’d be done for.

Now that they’d scattered, Wang Yan felt worse. If he didn’t solve this, he was certain they’d find a way to kill him. Last night’s actions had challenged Hung Hing’s authority. If they didn’t crush him, they’d lose face—and every gang cared more about face than anything else.

He thought for a moment, then shouted across to the Hung Hing boys: “Hey, send someone who can make decisions.”

Before the other side reacted, nearby guards grew angry. Yesterday, Wang Yan had fought—even though he hadn’t started it, he’d escaped punishment. The guards didn’t like him. Now this shout? “Oh, so you’re ignoring us, are you?” Two guards exchanged glances, cursed, and marched over. Without warning, they swung their batons. The batons were made of special material—each strike sent searing pain. Wang Yan curled into a ball, covering his head, rolling to avoid vital spots.

When the guards finished, exhausted, Wang Yan painfully rose, limped forward, and spoke. He hadn’t spoken earlier—not because he didn’t want to, but because he hadn’t been given a chance.

“Gentlemen, calmed down yet?” Wang Yan approached.

“You dare come closer? Didn’t hurt enough, did I?” One guard, enraged, stepped forward to hit him again.

Wang Yan grabbed his wrist: “Officer, don’t get angry—let me speak.”

The guard yanked his arm—couldn’t pull free—gave up.

Seeing he’d stopped, Wang Yan continued: “You two don’t earn much, do you? Even if some inmates bribe you, how much can it be? Don’t you need to support families too?”

“What are you getting at?” the guard snapped.

“Would you like another source of income?” Seeing their silence, Wang Yan pressed on: “These are all gangsters. I propose we partner with Hung Hing to set up a fighting arena—and betting. It gives these restless bastards an outlet, reduces trouble, makes your job easier, and lets you pocket extra cash. Win-win. What do you think?”

The two looked at each other, said nothing.

Seeing their hesitation, Wang Yan kindly added: “I’ll talk to Hung Hing first. I’m sure their boss will contact you soon.”

Watching them leave, Wang Yan turned back to the Hung Hing crowd watching nearby.

After a while, a thickset man in his thirties approached.

Seeing Wang Yan talk to the guards for so long, he was unsure—stepped forward and said: “What’s your meaning? You humiliated Hung Hing—you can’t just walk away.”

Wang Yan explained: “Brother, look. Your guys came to teach me the rules—I fought back. I didn’t start it, right?”

The man had no patience: “Don’t BS me. Just tell me how you’ll fix this.”

Wang Yan was speechless at the reaction. You’re a lackey? Can’t even think for yourself? Brain full of muscle—he had nothing to say.

Wang Yan sighed: “Better to make peace than hold grudges. We’re all here for money.”

“I have an idea: we partner to run an arena and a betting ring here.”

“Better to sit and make money than fight.”

“Of course, Hung Hing can’t take it all—we need two more partners.”

“You got all that?”

Seeing the man nod, Wang Yan said: “Good. That’s it. Go tell your boss—let him handle it.”

They were professionals at this. These gangsters had ironclad ties with the guards—everything was arranged smoothly.

Wang Yan stopped the man before he left: “Oh, one more thing. I don’t care how you arrange it—I want half a percent. That’s my fee for the idea. My sentence is only one year—I take one year’s share. Everything after is yours.”

“Deliver my message to your boss. Go.”

Watching the man walk away, Wang Yan casually sat down to rest.

He never asked the man’s name—not out of arrogance, but why remember a guy who won’t last three episodes?

The man went straight to his boss. The guards? Already arranged—no problem.

His boss couldn’t decide, so he passed it up to his boss’s boss—the Crown Prince.

The Crown Prince, the boss of Tsim Sha Tsui and one of Hung Hing’s top leaders; at this time, Chan Ho-nam hadn’t risen yet—he was Hung Hing’s undisputed top fighter.

Upon hearing the news, the Crown Prince couldn’t sit still. A betting arena? In prison? With a bunch of trash? This could make serious money.

As a top boss, the Crown Prince had the stature—he acted immediately.

First, he called Jiang Tian-sheng, Hung Hing’s boss; family business—you consult before acting. Jiang Tian-sheng, as boss, had vision—he wouldn’t touch this. He replied: “You’ve worked hard, Crown Prince. This venture is yours—consider it my reward.” The words were masterful—the Crown Prince had to thank him profusely.

After reporting back, the Crown Prince contacted East Star and Wo Sheng—two gangs as powerful as Hung Hing within this prison. Though they clashed and hated each other, the same rule applied: what’s the point of the underworld if not money?

Without Wang Yan saying it, the Crown Prince knew he couldn’t handle this alone. No matter how small the profit, someone would covet it; to prevent rivals from eyeing it, he’d have to share.

East Star sent Smiling Tiger. Wo Sheng sent Big D. After fierce negotiations, they split the profits and mobilized their connections to pressure prison officials.

Together, their power was immense. With Hong Kong’s return looming, many in the police force feared being purged—panic ruled. Everyone grabbed what they could—save enough to emigrate, damn the flood. The guards were easily bought off.

As for Wang Yan’s half-percent demand, they said nothing. In all their years, no one had ever thought of this kind of operation. Besides, Wang Yan was smart—and reportedly a fierce fighter. A good connection to make.

Three days—actually, two and a half. Profit split, all links secured. Wang Yan hadn’t expected such speed.

You had to admit—gangsters had talent. Wang Yan had only suggested the idea—the rest was crafted by their geniuses. Rules for fights, services offered—it was all comprehensive. In two days, they brought in more fighters, loan sharks, even professional doctors to the infirmary. Everything was crystal clear. Wang Yan was stunned—this was insane.

This revealed the true nature of society.

As the prison arena grew, word spread by prisoners’ mouths—its fame swelled. Gangs sent their best fighters in. Betting rings opened outside the prison. More and more people joined the fights and bets. Correspondingly, wealth exploded—at least for gangsters. Wang Yan didn’t care.

The faster it grew, the louder the noise—bringing gang rivalries, attention from police leadership, and ICAC investigations into the guards.

They used unknown methods and spent untold money—some guards were reassigned. The process was dirty, the outcome universally pleasing.

Wang Yan’s half-percent share? Gone. Hung Hing sold it to others—maybe other factions? Wang Yan got his first money in Hong Kong: five hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars. Along with it came countless families ruined, wives divorced, children scattered. Wang Yan comforted himself with Mencius: “When poor, cultivate oneself.”

Wang Yan sold early—had he waited months, he’d have made more. But money wasn’t easy to take. He knew if he hadn’t sold, he’d be dead within three days. These bosses weren’t fools—they saw the potential and used threats and bribes to force him to hand over his share. They sincerely promised to protect him in prison.

At this time, most gang bosses earned only two hundred thousand a year—good ones. Many earned less.

Soon after, Wang Yan’s life settled into routine. As the originator, the guards gave him privileges—he didn’t have to work. He had money now—every day he fought in the arena, ate, drank, trained. The rest of the time he read, books bought for him by friendly guards.

With his system backing him, Wang Yan fought with ferocity.

At first, he fought one-on-one against gang fighters—mostly street brawlers, but some were disciples of masters, truly skilled.

Because of his system, his bone and muscle density far exceeded normal humans—his endurance and pain tolerance were superhuman. He fought every fighter without a single loss.

With this flood of real combat, his martial skill rose to Level 3: Professional.

Then Wang Yan consciously trained for lethality and control. At first, his control was poor—his opponents suffered. The weakest needed two months to recover.

The betting ring stopped taking odds on Wang Yan. When he fought, no one bet on his opponents. If he refused to cooperate, they couldn’t force him—what was the point of betting?

His martial skill and physical strength surged—he grew bored with one-on-one fights.

He began fighting multiple opponents at once, with mixed results. Every day, Wang Yan left bruised and swollen.

His fame exploded. Inside and outside the prison, across Hong Kong’s underworld, Wang Yan became known. His nickname: “Yan Wang.”

Partly from his name, partly because his strikes grew crueler—now, no three fighters could be found to face him.

Some tried to retaliate—but with more combat experience, Wang Yan protected his vital spots better. Combined with his strong spirit and tough body, none succeeded. Instead, they got beaten worse—often hospitalized for half a year. Eventually, no one dared bother him again.