Chapter 289: The Boss

Wu Chang withdrew from the vision of resentment, his gaze turning to where the crimson resentment had scattered.

The owner of the resentment didn't just want Kent dead—he prescribed the exact method of death, and he relished this desire for revenge unique to Deep Abyss players.

Your final regrets before death were weak—so who will supply me with the blood-colored last words I'm missing?

While he observed the surrounding resentment, the punk head had already completed the gang registration and boxing application for him.

The punk head returned holding a ribbon marked D44; Wu Chang took it and, imitating the other boxers, hung it vertically on his belt.

The punk head exclaimed excitedly:

"Big guy, you're lucky—new fighters like you are supposed to start from the basic matches. But today, Scar had an accident—he was attacked by some dumb rookie from who-knows-where, and they say he got seriously injured, his car and all his cash stolen."

"Scar's spot needs filling, and since you look like you can fight, they've put you in the spotlight match."

Wu Chang forced his face to stay serious, suppressing any sign of amusement.

Without thinking, he knew the rookie who attacked Scar was definitely one of the players.

Great minds think alike—among the solo players, some clever ones quickly realized the overlap between robbery and legality: target gang members.

Those who walk the underworld value their reputation—no one in a high position would dare report it to the police.

The punk head glanced around, then spotted his target; he tapped Wu Chang's arm and signaled with his eyes:

"See that guy? That's your opponent today—Gray Wolf. Record: seven wins, three losses. Fighting style is brutal—either he KO's others, or he gets KO'd. He's the gatekeeper of the spotlight matches. You confident you can beat him?"

Wu Chang didn't answer; instead he asked: "How much money do you have right now?"

The punk head froze for a moment, then pulled out several crumpled bills—two 20-federal notes were the highest denomination, totaling less than a hundred.

Wu Chang frowned: "Borrow it. Borrow as much as you can. Take out a high-interest loan. If you can't get it, pawn your organs. Just get at least ten thousand federal dollars—and bet it all on me."

The punk head: "Huh?"

Although Bai Lao always acted wildly and mercilessly, this was the first time he'd ever told someone to pawn their organs just to borrow money.

Wait, bro, why are you making me pawn my organs for your money?

The punk head glanced at Wu Chang's fist, the size of a boulder, his lips twitched, but he dared not refuse.

"Aren't we playing a bit too big? Maybe we should start with a smaller bet?"

Wu Chang: "How small?"

The punk head: "One hundred federal dollars?"

Wu Chang replied softly: "Say another word, and I'll take your organs to the loan shark myself."

The punk head immediately shut up, wearing a meek expression.

Wu Chang shook his head: "I'm not using your money for free. After this is done, we split the profit nine-five."

Hearing he'd get five percent, the punk head was overjoyed—he didn't believe Wu Chang would lose to Gray Wolf; with no one knowing Wu Chang's true strength, this was free money.

He was about to go place his bet when he suddenly felt something was off: "Nine-five? That doesn't add up to ten."

Wu Chang said matter-of-factly: "I take ninety-five, you take five."

The punk head clenched his fists tightly, looked up at Wu Chang—and when he met Wu Chang's kind gaze, his anger instantly melted away.

Whatever. Ninety-five is still five.

Half an hour later, a fat man, one point nine meters tall and weighing over one hundred and ninety kilograms, grabbed his opponent's neck, lifted him high, and slammed him against the cars surrounding the ring; the audience erupted in wild cheers and whistles.

As the fat man raised his arms in triumph and took the thousand-federal-dollar appearance fee from the referee, the warm-up match ended, and the spotlight match began.

While the loser of the previous match was being dragged away, the punk head rushed back, wearing a worn-out backpack slung over his chest; when he reached Wu Chang, he quietly unzipped it, revealing rolls of federal bills tied into small cylinders with rubber bands.

"Twenty-five thousand federal dollars total, big guy—this is the money I borrowed by mortgaging my mom's house. If you lose, she'll kill me."

Wu Chang asked: "Didn't you pawn any organs?"

"No!" The punk head shook his head violently—he didn't understand why this guy kept fixating on his organs.

Wu Chang sneered: "You'll regret it."

Before the match began, the ring announcer entered the ring to hype the crowd and announced that Scar was absent due to injury, replaced by a rookie boxer for the first spotlight match.

Upon hearing this, the audience erupted in loud boos.

They'd come for the spotlight match—replacing Scar with a rookie was an insult.

The announcer knew he was in the wrong, but forced himself to say: "Don't underestimate this rookie—he goes by…"

As the announcer checked the rookie's name, Wu Chang stepped onto the ring by climbing over the cars surrounding it, snatched the microphone from the announcer, and addressed the audience:

"My name is Peace."

With Wu Chang's appearance, eighty percent of the boos vanished; everyone simultaneously thought the same thing.

This new guy… how huge is he?

In Bai Lao, where muscle culture and strength worship ruled, Wu Chang's physique was striking—and worthy of respect.

Maybe this guy really has spotlight match caliber.

Though the audience's skepticism had lessened and they now acknowledged the rookie's potential, most still showed regret and schadenfreude in their eyes.

If this big guy had started from the beginner matches, he would've dominated, winning streak after streak.

Too bad he faced Gray Wolf—a seasoned fighter whose record didn't reflect his true strength; the big guy was doomed to learn a lesson from Gray Wolf.

The audience's mood was reflected in the betting odds.

Odds on Gray Wolf: 1 to 1.40. Odds on Wu Chang: 1 to 3.0.

Wu Chang watched the punk head place his bet, then turned to Gray Wolf and waved: "Shall we start right away?"

In response, Gray Wolf cursed.

Watching Gray Wolf leap over the cars and land in the ring, Wu Chang returned the microphone to the announcer and gestured for him to leave.

Wu Chang looked at Gray Wolf—true to his name, his body was covered in thick, coarse hair, pale gold streaked with gray, nearly obscuring the skin of his chest and arms. Combined with his scarred, disfigured face—repeatedly broken from bare-knuckle fights—he looked exactly like a werewolf from a movie.

Gray Wolf was truly powerful: his three losses were against two players and one fighter ranked #1 in bare-knuckle.

One of the two who beat Gray Wolf was the owner of the blood-colored last words.

Facing other focal match opponents, Gray Wolf had never been at a disadvantage, and even defeated the current third-ranked boxer in the early days.

This alone shows the audience's recognition of Gray Wolf's technique was not blind.

The moment Gray Wolf leapt onto the ring, the spectator stands erupted in excited shouts.

"Kill him, Gray Wolf!"

"Make him know boxing isn't just about being big!"

"Kill dead muscle, long live live muscle!"

……

The referee arrived, confirmed both fighters had no objections, and the match began.

To be fair, Bai Lao's bare-knuckle fights were highly competitive; the average skill level of focal match boxers equaled that of Level 7 players.

With Level 7's bonus attributes, combined with their already high starting stats, these boxers possessed roughly fifteen points each in strength, agility, health, and endurance; for a powerhouse like Gray Wolf, with no significant reduction in the other three stats, his strength could reach around twenty.

If this were Wu Chang before his training with Zhao Yan, with these current stats, he wouldn't have been able to beat Gray Wolf without using skills.

But now, with Wu Chang possessing Combat Proficiency, his technique was a dimensional crushing over Gray Wolf.

After all, you can't expect a bunch of bare-knuckle death-seekers to spend their free time hiring professional teams to design scientific training regimens and constantly study advanced techniques.

If they truly had such skill and awareness, they'd enter official combat tournaments instead of risking their lives underground.

Along with their technical inferiority, Wu Chang had also uncovered Gray Wolf's weaknesses through two instances of resentment.

Gray Wolf had an injury on his left knee—he moved slowly when shifting left, and he was overly eager to trade punches, neglecting defense.

Ding-ding-ding.

The bell rang to start the round; Gray Wolf, as shown in the resentment visions, immediately surged forward with full aggression.

Wu Chang walked slowly toward Gray Wolf, no guard stance, posture relaxed.

Gray Wolf felt disrespected and immediately threw a left hook, ready to show Wu Chang what salt and pepper tasted like.

But the instant Gray Wolf's shoulder tensed, Wu Chang dodged a step ahead, initiating movement first—his agility appeared extraordinary.

As he slipped past Gray Wolf's left hook, he delivered a brutal kick to Gray Wolf's injured left knee; with a crisp crack, Gray Wolf's left leg bent unnaturally, and he stumbled to the ground, howling in pain. Wu Chang always believed kicking the healthy leg of a cripple was an inhumane cruelty; as a martial man who understood restraint, he always targeted only the injured leg.

Wu Chang nodded to the dazed referee and pointed at Gray Wolf, sprawled and unable to rise, signaling the referee to end the match.

The referee hesitated briefly, then announced: "The winner of this match is, Peaceful Fighter!"

The cheers from the previous match did not sound; the arena fell silent as quiet as a library.

Everything happened too fast—some spectators had merely lowered their heads to grab a chip, and when they looked up again, the Gray Wolf they had pinned their hopes on was already lying on the ground.

Only when Gray Wolf was carried away by staff and the referee tiptoed to raise Wu Chang's arm did the audience finally react.

The audience's first reaction upon regaining their senses was not "This newcomer is terrifying," but "What Gray Wolf? More like Trash Wolf!" They had always assumed his actual strength exceeded his record, but now they realized he was truly weak.

The gamblers who had placed heavy bets on Gray Wolf were collectively shattered, shouting "Water Wolf!" and "Waste!" while some accused the match of being fixed.

In any world, shattered gamblers all wear the same face.

Among the gamblers, the one most shattered was the punk head.

As Wu Chang had said, his current feelings were two words: regret.

!

If he'd known the big guy was this strong, he wouldn't have just mortgaged his own organs—he'd have mortgaged all five of his siblings' organs too and gone all-in.

Unfortunately, after Wu Chang's performance in this match, there would never again be a 1-to-3 odds.

After winning, Wu Chang took the five-thousand Federal Dollar prize from the host and did not leave; instead, he asked:

"To be honest, I haven't even warmed up—can I fight another match?"

Bare-knuckle fights weren't official matches; requesting a chain fight wouldn't disrupt the event flow—it would actually heat up the atmosphere.

Hearing Wu Chang's request, the audience immediately shouted: "Let him fight! Let him fight!"

The host stepped down, studied for ten minutes, then arranged a second focal match for Wu Chang.

This time, his opponent was the boxer who had once lost to Gray Wolf and now ranked third: the Meat Grinder.

The Meat Grinder's style differed from Gray Wolf's—he was an agile boxer, 1.85 meters tall, lean, with long limbs.

He excelled at using nimble footwork to control distance, then unleashing a storm of punches—low in individual damage but relentless—that wore down his opponent's body.

Fighters who had faced him usually bore full-body injuries, as if they'd been run through a meat grinder.

Before the match, the host whispered to Wu Chang: "If you win this match, the boss will give you an extra ten thousand Federal Dollars as a bonus."

Wu Chang nodded, tossed the previous five-thousand Federal Dollars to the punk head, telling him to bet it all on him, including his earlier winnings.

With the groundwork of the previous fight, the odds for this one were far more conservative.

The Meat Grinder's odds were 1-to-1.40; Wu Chang's odds were 1-to-1.90.

To the audience, the Meat Grinder's footwork was agile, his fighting style cautious—he wouldn't lose from underestimating his opponent, so Wu Chang shouldn't pull off an upset.

In reality, Wu Chang's match against the Meat Grinder was equally swift.

He used his transmutation skill "Knights Never Die Empty-Handed" to block the Meat Grinder's punch with his shield, then, during the Meat Grinder's brief stun, ducked low and slammed him to the ground.

What followed was a gruesome scene—simply put, the Meat Grinder met a hydraulic press.

Had the referee not been prepared this time and halted the match promptly, two more punches from Wu Chang would have rendered the Meat Grinder beyond repair—ready for disposal.

This time, cheers erupted in the arena; the audience shouted Wu Chang's name.

"Peaceful!"

Yet the bloodied, mangled Meat Grinder exiting amid chants of "Peaceful!" felt bitterly ironic.

Just as Wu Chang, still eager, wanted another match, the host quickly stopped him, saying the boss wanted to see him.

As Wu Chang left the arena, he saw the punk head still carrying his original travel bag—only now, the Federal Dollar bills inside had changed from 20s to 100s.

Guided by bodyguards, Wu Chang reached the VIP lounge on the third floor and met Kent, Bai Lao's boss.

The room held five gunmen; the instant Wu Chang entered, all five pairs of eyes locked onto him.

The back of each gunman's left hand was tattooed with a K—not the K of Bai Lao, but the initial of Kent's name.

Kent trusted no outsider, only these gunmen he had taken from orphanages and raised from childhood.

Their shelter, thoughts, lives, even the meaning of their existence, were all given by Kent; without Kent's orders, they could hardly decide what to do themselves.

If Kent died, these men wouldn't even know why they were alive; only such people were truly worthy of trust.

Wu Chang didn't need to observe these gunmen—he had seen enough of them in his resentment.

These gunmen were utterly loyal, more like fanatics than death seekers.

Their strength was only around Level Five Player, far below the bare-knuckle fighters in the Focus Tournament, but each one's focus was intense, and all were enhanced for firearms; each man's draw-and-shoot speed rivaled that of the most seasoned cowboy.

Now is not the time to act—not to mention whether he could even beat Kent, let alone the sniper aiming at him through the window; even the combined fire of the five gunmen in the room would overwhelm him.

In the realm of cursed fate, guns are truly accurate and fast.

Now is not the time to act.

Wu Chang suppressed his urge to strike and said to Kent: "Boss, you wanted to see me?"

Kent was fifty-two years old, stout and bulky, with fat-covered muscle; his round face smiled with warmth and wisdom.

This smile was specially designed by Kent—he paid ten million Federal Dollars just for the design, and on the honor wall of Westgove City's great philanthropists, he used this very face.

Kent gestured for Wu Chang to sit, then asked:

"Peace, I've never seen you in Westgove City before—did you just arrive?"

Wu Chang's expression didn't change; he knew Kent was probing his background, so he repeated what he had told the punk-haired pair.

"Boss, I really just arrived in Westgove City. I got into trouble before, just got out, and came here to join my cousin, hoping to find work with him."

"But after I arrived, I found my cousin had started a family and wanted a quiet life. I didn't want to bring him trouble, so I went out on my own to find something to do."

Kent nodded without comment, then asked: "I watched your match—your fighting skills are good. Were you a professional boxer before?"

Wu Chang shook his head. "I used to solve problems for people—the permanent kind. I never fought in matches. My fighting skills were all taught by my cousin."

This piqued Kent's interest. "Who is your cousin?"

Wu Chang hesitated for a moment, then under Kent's gaze, forced a reluctant expression:

"My cousin is Xiao En, a former combat athlete, now a physical education teacher at an elementary school. Boss, if possible, I don't want to bring him trouble."

Upon hearing the answer, Kent's face lit up with sudden understanding.

"Xiao En? He really is as strong as a monster. I'm actually his fan—I was there in person when he killed his opponent."

"I never expected Xiao En came to Westgove City!"

Watching Kent's excitement, Wu Chang looked embarrassed. He said: "Boss, my cousin…"

Kent waved his hand to cut him off, speaking in a calm but unyielding tone:

"Tonight, I'm meeting a client—a major one. We share a mutual passion: watching fights. Every time we meet, we arrange for our fighters to compete."

"The Grinder you just disabled was supposed to be one of tonight's fighters. You took him out, and I was already worried about who to put up next—then I find out your cousin is Xiao En."

"Be here at nine-thirty tonight, bring your cousin with you."

Seeing Wu Chang about to speak again, Kent's face turned serious, his voice low:

"Don't rush to refuse. Just tell Xiao En it's Kent who invited him. If he wins tonight, the money will be enough to support him as a PE teacher for life—he'll see reason."

Wu Chang broke under Kent's gaze, lowering his head, gripping his pants at the knees with both hands, using all his strength to maintain his act.

He had been worrying how to get the original body here—yet Kent himself had come knocking.

He had planned to lie low for two days, learn the inner workings of Bai Lao K, then find a way to strike at Kent.

Instead of waiting, Kent was rushing straight into the gun barrel. How could he not take this chance to kill Kent? It would be an insult to Kent's kindness.

Kindness!

He would risk his life to elevate Kent—Kent's favor could never be repaid!

After a deep breath, Wu Chang raised his head, wearing an expression of resolution.

"Boss, since you've said it this way, I'll definitely help you convince my cousin!"

(End of Chapter)