Chapter 567: You

Among the crowd at the side of the arena, Zheng Ziwen watched Da Niu fly past him, his face twisting instantly, a chill of goosebumps rising over his entire body; he instinctively grabbed his uncle Ding Yongguo's arm, lips trembling with excitement, as if he had nothing to say yet wanted to express something, stuck in his throat, neither up nor down.

Ding Yongguo impatiently brushed off Zheng Ziwen's hand and glanced sideways: "Kid, do you know what a true expert looks like?"

"T-this… this is an expert…" Zheng Ziwen felt "expert" was too simple to describe it, but he couldn't find sharper words.

"F-foot, foot-foot, one kick, Dad—just one kick… Brother Zhang used only one kick to kick that huge guy over there to death!"

Wang Zhetao stammered out an explanation of the fight to Wang Guangjun, his hands and feet icy with excitement.

After the disaster broke out, he'd seen zombies devouring the living and humans slashing at each other with knives and guns—many brutal scenes vividly etched in his mind—but to see one person kill another instantly with nothing but fists and feet? This was the first time, shattering his understanding of power.

In ancient times, Lu Tihai killed Zheng Tu with three punches; now, only the King of Hell kicked Da Niu to death…

"Good, good! My brother Zhang doesn't disappoint—he's still as fierce as ever!"

Wang Guangjun tilted his head, squinting, trying desperately to gather more details from the arena, but his abilities were limited.

Meanwhile, Meng Changwei, who like Wang Guangjun had lost one eye, found it far easier—he had normal vision and was naturally hit harder than Wang Guangjun by his son's retelling; he unconsciously touched his chest, face pale, glancing at his companion as if asking: How many kicks could you take?

Among the crowd were children; in the past, parents would instantly cover their eyes and hurry them away from such violent, bloody scenes—but times were different now. The apocalypse had crushed their childhoods; to grow, one had to grow accustomed to blood.

Those near the children urged them: "See? This is what the apocalypse should look like. You must grow strong. Learn from Uncle Zhang. Become someone like the King of Hell!"

Before, such words pointed to great scientists on TV; now, the role models had changed. Scientists mattered, but first you needed the strength to protect yourself!

"Stop watching. You'll all join him soon."

In the arena, Zhang Su shook his numb leg and spoke to the Feilang Gang members still staring at Da Niu.

His actual condition wasn't as easy as the spectators thought.

That kick had been delivered with zero reserve—his physical energy had been pushed to ninety-nine percent, unleashing maximum power, combined with advanced force techniques—it was his current absolute limit.

And it was a fleeting limit, because energy couldn't be sustained at ninety-nine percent for long!

The effect was explosive: a two-hundred-plus-pound man was kicked flying several meters, rolled violently on the ground, then died with a broken arm and collapsed chest cavity, ruptured organs.

Zhang Su himself suffered minor damage—his thigh muscles trembled involuntarily, as if even his bones had gone numb, nearly reaching the upper limit of skeletal endurance; if he wanted to increase power further, it wouldn't be just about strengthening muscles—he'd need to strengthen his bones too.

This was a judgment, and Zhang Su's personal challenge. Zombies were mere corpses, driven only by stupid instincts; living humans had combat awareness. He wanted to test his own limits.

So that kick was just the beginning—he'd still give everything he had next.

If the Feilang Gang members knew what Zhang Su was thinking, they wouldn't know whether to feel honored or doomed…

Qi Dabin turned his head with difficulty. Earlier, he'd assumed Zhang Su's boasts were just empty talk to impress his hundreds of subordinates—but now he understood: it wasn't bluff. It was all true.

Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch…

The eight men who had entered the arena began retreating. They weren't trying to flee—that would only mean quicker death—but they dared not attack either, or they'd die painfully.

"Brothers of the Feilang Gang! He killed Da Niu—look, his leg is trembling, he's finished! Let's fight to the death! Use our old teamwork—don't be afraid! Kill!"

Qi Dabin roared to rally those beside him, knowing shouting alone wouldn't help; he screamed "Kill!" and charged forward—Da Niu had fallen, now it was his turn to lead.

This reignited the last scraps of courage in those around him. Everyone knew hesitation meant death. Fear at its peak turned to rage. Whether you ducked or not, you'd get a knife—better to fight and maybe survive.

Qi Dabin charged forward, appearing as reckless as Da Niu—but his strategy was all about evasion. As he entered Zhang Su's attack range, he abruptly changed direction; his seemingly furious iron fist transformed into a treacherous low sweep.

Dust erupted—but when he swept where Zhang Su had stood, he hit nothing! "Shit!"

Qi Dabin's heart lurched—then he heard a series of dull thuds beside his ear: his comrades were already fighting Zhang Su. Before he could rise from the dust, a piercing scream pierced his ears.

A figure flew sideways in a clumsy arc, spinning midair like a kite with a broken string, its right arm dangling uselessly, its shoulder crushed and limp—making even spectators feel their own buttocks go numb.

Zhang Su's assault hadn't ended—he unleashed his full body like a storm, white mist swirling around him, blood surging through his veins, violent power coursing along tendons and bones, punches like thunderclaps, kicks like lightning.

If fists and feet were his only weapons, they'd be insufficient. When his fist struck one man, he used the recoil to slam his shoulder into another—even if he knew he'd take a punch, he didn't care.

Likewise, while taking hits, he exploited openings in his enemies' attacks to inflict horrific damage—not trading injury for injury, but trading minor wounds for major ones, even death! His eyes, guided by the white mist's perception of motion, tracked seven living figures—each cunning, impulsive, reckless, or fearless.

To win without a scratch was fantasy. All he could do was avoid the worst, keep injuries within manageable limits—effectively no injury at all. And every wound he took was meant to inflict greater harm—he never made a losing trade.

Bang, bang, bang… Puff, puff, puff…

Fist against foot, within a minute after Da Niu fell, three more men lay on the ground, twisted and broken—two already dead, killed swiftly, without pain.

Real life-or-death combat isn't slow like in movies—it's over in an instant…

Of the nine Feilang Gang members, five remained—but one already had a leg he couldn't use.

Qi Dabin hadn't fallen. As their leader, he had his strengths: his direct attack power was weak, but his evasion was exceptional—all his attribute points had gone into agility.

Relying on his comrades' brute-force clashes, Qi Dabin danced through the battle. Five of his men had fallen, yet he'd only swallowed a mouthful of dust—Zhang Su's thunderous attacks had never touched him.

Not only had he avoided blows, he'd even landed a few surprise strikes—but he dared not overreach, fearing his escape route, so his power and accuracy were poor, doing nothing but scratching the surface.

The biggest nuisance had been throwing a handful of dirt—it had actually hit Zhang Su's face, leaving him covered in grime. He'd thought this momentary blindness might create an opening—but Zhang Su, eyes closed, showed no weakness. He didn't attack, but his defense was impenetrable. The terrifying combat awareness chilled Qi Dabin to the bone—he felt he was facing something not human. Thud! A heavy punch to the chest sent the burly woman's eyes bulging; she staggered back, face contorted in pain, then spat a mouthful of blood and collapsed, convulsing wildly.

No one came to help. Death awaited her.

Immediately after, another middle-aged man spun twice in midair, then collapsed face-down, eyes rolling, convulsing once more before breathing his last.

Now only three remained in the arena: Qi Dabin, the skinny monkey, and Zhang Su. From the moment Da Niu flew away, barely four or five minutes had passed.

Yet in those four or five minutes, Zhang Su's full energy gauge had dropped eight percent—to ninety-one percent!

Normally, two hours of intense training consumed only fifteen percent. Imagine how massive the consumption was in real combat—every muscle contraction drained energy, every use of the white mist, every rapid mental prediction—all burned energy. As if by unspoken agreement, the three men halted, standing still.

The brutal, bloody, raw, primal, and powerful beauty of fist-to-flesh combat had stirred the blood of hundreds of Tianmayu members—scene after scene slammed into their nerves, flooding them with hormones. Many grew so excited they felt overheated despite the minus-twenty-degree cold, removing their hats and unbuttoning their collars.

Those who worshipped the King of Hell wore fanatic expressions. Unable to shout, they raised their arms and waved them back and forth. Someone started a low, rhythmic "Hu, hu," and others quickly copied it—soon the crowd echoed the chant: "Hu, hu!"

Those who saw Zhang Su as a role model, a goal to chase, felt complex emotions—his devastating power sent waves of excitement through them, yet the gap kept dousing their hearts with cold water. One moment exhilarated, the next crushed—ice and fire, back and forth, ending in frustration.

"Too… fucking… awesome!"

Qi Xiaoshuai, lips crooked, eyes filled with awe, murmured: "God, I don't ask for much—just half of Brother Zhang's strength would be enough!"

The three men in the arena had stopped, giving the crowd time to breathe—and finally release the emotions they'd held back.

"The sky's gray, not black—what dream are you having?"

Wang Xin beside him shot back bluntly, then smiled: "I'd be happy with a third."

"No ambition!" Pang Dakun snorted upon hearing them, puffing out his chest: "I'm going to become like Uncle Zhang—then I'll fight ten!"

"Alright, fine, I believe you."

"Mm-hmm, good luck."

"Idiot…"

Hearing Pang Dakun's boast, the others rolled their eyes. At his age, they'd been just as reckless—but age had taught them reality: effort meant nothing against talent. Clearly, Zhang Su was a prodigy—exceptionally gifted.

Jiang Wuying had the most authority on this. She'd known Zhang Su only briefly, but had witnessed his most astonishing growth.

"Xiaoshan, hurry and prepare the medicine…"

Zheng Xinyu's face showed concern and pity. Unlike others, who focused only on Zhang Su's explosive attacks, she saw the bruises on his face, the countless punches and kicks he'd taken. The bulletproof armor made from petrified-skin zombies could stop bullets—but not fists. A punch still hurt. A kick still swelled. To everyone, Zhang Su's wounds were medals—but to Zheng Xinyu and Zhong Xiaoshan, they were injuries: painful, swollen, bruised.

So did Su Xiaoya, her small figure hidden in the crowd, watching through gaps, drawn to Zhang Su's heroic form, feeling his pain as if her own. She wanted to do something—and when she saw Zhong Xiaoshan leave, she hurried after her.

Another person stepped forward—but seeing Zhong Xiaoshan and Su Xiaoya move, she stopped, returning to the crowd. That was Zhao Xue. Since someone else was doing it, she didn't want to compete.

"Uncle Zhang is incredible—so strong! I want to be like that too!"

Tian Fan's figure was unremarkable. Even with only one arm, he couldn't look away from Zhang Su's wild battle—his heart surged with admiration, imagining how glorious it would be if he could fight like that. But when he noticed his own broken body, sorrow washed over him.

Yu Wen walked up to Zhao Dezhu, who was chanting "Hu, hu!" along with Lu Yubo. He clapped him on the shoulder.

"Don't fucking—uh, Uncle, what's up?"

Zhao Dezhu opened his mouth to curse, then saw it was Yu Wen and switched to a smile.

"Take a few men and dig nine graves at the cemetery in Village Two."

Yu Wen subtly pointed toward the distance.

"What? These guys… deserve burial?"

Zhao Dezhu looked displeased.

Yu Wen didn't scold him. He explained patiently: "Hundreds are watching. Do you want the Yanluo Army to be seen as killers who don't bury? They're people. The enemy is people too. The Yanluo King is merciful. The Yanluo Army is righteous. Understand?"

"Got it. I'll go now."

Zhao Dezhu nodded slowly. He'd planned to drag Lu Yubo along, but changed his mind and walked toward Liu Yao.

Poor Liu Yao, who'd been enthusiastically cheering for Zhang Su, was yanked away by Zhao Dezhu to help dig graves…

"Hey, you can't do this out of spite! I don't want to go—I'm cheering for the Yanluo King!"

Liu Yao didn't want to go—but facing the "invitation" of a Yanluo Army elder, he felt weak in argument.

Zhao Dezhu grinned: "Dude, you think my brother would lose without your cheering?"

"No no—" Liu Yao waved his hands frantically. This misunderstanding couldn't stand. His eyes darted, then he pointed at Yang Xinqi: "How about we bring Old Yang along too?"

"Sure thing!"

Zhao Dezhu nodded in full agreement.

(End of Chapter)