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1

From the time after the New Year until the weather began to warm up, over several months, I had fought fifteen boxing matches without a single loss. In the circle of low-level fights, the name “Western Venom” was starting to gain some notoriety.

“Ruffian. Height 1.83 meters, weight 89 kilograms. No real technique, just relies on brute force.” Brother Li tossed me a fighter’s profile. “Fight this guy. I’ll invite some bosses from Guangdong to watch. If you win, I’ll talk to them about getting you a match against Microchip. They have the connections for that high-level competition. If you lose, forget about revenge.”

“I’m not just doing this for revenge. I’m doing it for myself.” I corrected Brother Li’s misunderstanding once more and picked up Ruffian’s profile.

Ruffian, real name Han Lietian, from Sichuan. Had been imprisoned twice for assault and robbery. After release, showed no remorse, gathered a gang that specialized in intercepting passenger buses on highways for robberies, often operating in broad daylight. Later, police launched a raid. Ruffian and his gang actually engaged in a fierce firefight with officers using their weapons, resulting in the deaths of three policemen. Ruffian managed to escape the police cordon and fled, drifting between Sichuan and Shaanxi provinces, eventually entering the underground fighting world. With no formal fighting background, but naturally vicious, bloodthirsty, and belligerent, coupled with a powerful physique, he surprisingly thrived in the underground scene. Because he grew fiercer at the sight of blood on the ring, like a rabid dog, every time he fought someone…

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…he would inevitably corner them, displaying a style that wouldn’t stop until the opponent was dead. Hence, everyone called him “Ruffian.”

“A half-baked thug like this can get into high-level fights?” I asked after reading the profile.

“Don’t underestimate him. The weak fear the ruthless, the ruthless fear the reckless, and the reckless fear the suicidal. This guy is the suicidal type. Think about it, he’s done so many terrible things, he’s a wanted man. Getting caught means execution. He knows he should have been dead long ago. Wouldn’t he fight with everything he’s got? Guys like him are the scariest. A lot of bettors are backing him.” Brother Li warned me.

“Hmm,” I nodded. “When’s the fight?”

“Five days.”

Five days later, Brother Li and I arrived at the fight venue. Ruffian was leaning on the ring ropes, staring at me with dead fish eyes. Those small eyes were full of malice, like a butcher eyeing livestock. If it had been me when I first started fighting, that look would have chilled me. But now, I’d seen too many eyes like that.

The venue was crowded. The Guangdong bosses Brother Li had invited sat in the front row, surrounded by other well-heeled spectators. In the locker room, Brother Li said to me, “Western Venom, this Ruffian is no good. Robs homes, commits all sorts of crimes, even rapes old women. If you really finish him off, it’d be doing society a favor.”

I smiled faintly. “Brother Li, you don’t need to tell me that. Whether it’s Ruffian or some saint, I won’t hold back.”

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Ruffian was about my height but much heavier, built like a slab of dense muscle. Just looking at his face, no one would call him a good man. His features were inherently sinister—a born villain. I just didn’t understand why some people had evil written all over their faces. Seeing me enter the ring, Ruffian grinned, revealing a lewd, contemptuous smile, then actually flipped me the middle finger!

I did nothing. I wasn’t going to flip him off. Everything would be settled with fists.

The fight started, and Ruffian charged straight at me. The momentum was terrifying, like he wasn’t boxing but playing football. The collision reminded me of a battering ram cartoon. I met his charge with a powerful rear straight punch!

Thud. A dull impact. My fist landed squarely on his face. I could feel the slightly greasy sensation. Ruffian’s head jerked sideways, but unexpectedly, he surged forward another step, using his combined momentum and weight to slam me onto the canvas!

He unceremoniously sat on top of me. His weight pinned me down, I couldn’t get up. Then, from above, Ruffian started raining wild, indiscriminate hammer blows down on me. I covered my face tightly with my gloves, letting his fists pound my body. His punches were wild but not particularly heavy. Back at the training base, I often held my head and tensed my abs while instructors hit me with padded clubs. I could take a beating. I figured many fighters were overwhelmed by this opening barrage.

After a while, Ruffian’s punches slowed. I spotted an opening and threw a hook at his chin. Thrown from my back, it lacked power. His head just snapped slightly before he swung at me again. He was clearly descending into a…

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…frenzy. His eyes were ferocious, drool dripped from his mouth—like a rabid dog. As he swung, I bucked my hips violently upward, throwing him off me. Using the momentum, I rolled over, grabbed one of his arms, and pinned him to the mat, locking him in an armbar cross lock.

I didn’t know many ground techniques, but I was proficient at the armbar. I gripped his wrist and crossed my legs tightly around his shoulder joint. If things went as planned, I’d hold him like this until he tapped out or I broke his arm.

Intense pain made Ruffian scream. He actually bit down hard on my leg! That bastard! The searing pain ignited my fury. All my pent-up rage against this scum exploded! I wrenched his arm upwards with all my strength. Crack. Something snapped. I scrambled on top of him and started raining down hammer fists!

Ruffian couldn’t resist anymore. His facial features distorted under my fists. Gobs of blood sprayed from his nose and mouth. But I didn’t stop. I wanted to obliterate his face! In that moment, I didn’t know why I hated him so much, or who I imagined him to be. The only sounds were the crowd’s gasps and the sickening thuds of my fists on his skull.

When I finally stood up from Ruffian’s body, I had no idea how many punches I’d thrown. Ruffian lay rigid on the canvas, limbs splayed, his face a mask of blood—nose, mouth, eyes indistinguishable. His body twitched sporadically. No applause, no cheers. I raised my head and scanned the audience. They stared at me, wide-eyed, expressions unreadable.

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Suddenly, I was filled with hatred for these spectators fixing their gazes on me! These onlookers! This is the scene you wanted! You crave blood? You love the thrill? Then big brother gave you something even more thrilling today!

I raised my heel high and brought it down viciously on Ruffian’s already ravaged face!
Squelch. Blood splattered in a radial pattern across the surrounding canvas, some splashing onto my own face. Someone screamed, muffled by their hand.

Damn it. Satisfied now?

There was no referee, no announcement of my victory. Covered in blood, I walked off the ring with the bearing of a victor. I understood this was just one battle in my fate. The road wasn’t over yet.

Where there’s an audience, there will always be underground fighting.

In the locker room, Brother Li said, “Those two Guangdong bosses thought you were good. They’re arranging a fight with Microchip soon.” His tone was flat, betraying neither joy nor worry.

I didn’t reply. I sat on the bench, leaning back against the wall, and let out a long sigh.

“Oh, is your leg okay?” Brother Li looked down.

I lifted my leg. Two rows of teeth marks were visible, blood slowly seeping out. The name ‘Ruffian’ wasn’t undeserved. Damn it, he bit hard.

As we left, I overheard two men coming out behind us: “Ruffian stopped breathing…”

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“Let’s go,” Brother Li pulled me along. “Get a tetanus shot.”

2

Not long after the fight with Ruffian, Brother Li told me the date for the Microchip fight had been finalized—in half a month. The fight would be in Guangzhou. The guys surnamed Qin and Chen would be there too.

I said, “Brother Li, don’t let Xiaoyao and the others know about this. I don’t want them to worry.”

Brother Li sighed and said he understood.

In July 2006, the last semester of my “fifth year” was ending, but I couldn’t attend the graduation ceremony. By then, I would be somewhere in Guangzhou, standing on the ring to confront my murky destiny. I told Wang Hui beforehand to handle my school affairs. Wang Hui asked where I was going. I just said I was taking a trip with Brother Li and didn’t know when I’d be back. Wang Hui said okay, he’d take care of things. Then he added, “Yang Meng called me the other day. She asked about you.”

I thought for a moment. “Next time she calls, tell Yang Meng… tell her to forget about me.”

Before leaving, A Guo and I went to see another movie, our second time at the cinema together. We watched Innocent Steps starring Moon Geun-young. Afterward, A Guo leaned on my shoulder and cried.

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The first time we went to the movies, I was the one who cried uncontrollably coming out. This time, it was A Guo sobbing on my shoulder. I smiled and asked, “Why are you crying? The ending was happy, wasn’t it?”

“Movie endings are always happy. I don’t know if ours will be like that.”

“It definitely will,” I said, holding her. “It definitely will.”

Half a month passed in the blink of an eye. When she saw me off, A Guo stayed silent until the very last moment. Then she grabbed my clothes, forced a smile, and said, “Ouyang, come back soon.”

That smile cut into my heart like a knife.

A Guo, did you know? You look so beautiful when you smile.

Brother Li, two of his close associates, and I—four of us—flew to Guangzhou for the fight against Microchip. That match was organized very formally, definitely high-level. The venue was a private sports club, the attendees all wealthy or influential people. According to Brother Li, this single fight involved over a hundred million yuan in cash flow. The organizers would make a huge profit regardless of the winner.

This fight was different. They used “Kard Chuek” rules, popular in the border regions of Myanmar and Thailand. Kard Chuek, or rope-bound Muay Thai, is an ancient, brutal form of ring combat. This now-rare form of fighting is exceptionally bloody. Fighters wrap their hands in hemp rope, soak it in water…

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…to make it stiff, then dip their knuckles in crushed stone and lime, making the fists rough and hard. A punch from such a fist often tears the skin and flesh, a gruesome sight.

However, to enhance the spectacle this time, fighters only used specially treated hemp rope wraps, without any stone or lime. For timing, they used a referee and rounds: three minutes per round, one minute rest in between. The only feature highlighting its underground nature was the absence of a round limit. The fight continued until one fighter surrendered, was knocked out, or killed.

Clearly, this meticulously planned fight was an appetizer for the upper crust.

After arriving in Guangzhou, we were sequestered in a hotel, forbidden from leaving until after the fight. The organizers were thorough, assigning me a team doctor—a dark, skinny Malaysian aptly nicknamed Mosquito—to handle any discomfort during preparation and injuries during the fight.

After all my training, I felt remarkably calm on fight day. I carefully wrapped my hands in the hemp rope, applied some liniment, warmed up briefly, and was ready. Brother Li gripped my shoulder from behind. “I just saw them both in the arena.”

“Them?” I turned. “Those bastards Qin and Chen?”

“Yeah, those two. They’ve placed heavy bets on Microchip again. He made them a fortune last time; this time they’ve wagered their principal. Western Venom, fight well. Make those bastards lose their shirts!”

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I looked at myself in the mirror: fearless eyes, clearly defined muscles. I nodded. “Got it.”

When I entered the ring, some people actually chanted my name. I hadn’t expected fans here. But compared to the famous Microchip, almost the entire audience had come for him.

Finally, I saw the legendary Microchip. Strong, agile, ice-cold composure, near-impenetrable offense and defense. He sat in his corner, wearing black shorts with red flame patterns, staring at me expressionlessly. His gaze was frigid. His face held a hint of the vast Mongolian steppe.

Strangely, at this moment, I felt no hatred towards Microchip. I wasn’t standing on this ring fueled solely by anger. Honestly, I didn’t even know why I was here. To challenge my fate? To uphold my beliefs?

Or had I finally come just to confront the entire world of underground fighting? But now that I faced it, I didn’t know what to say.

Team doctor Mosquito gave me a final check. He held out a mouthguard. “Use it?” I shook my head. “No. It hinders my breathing.”

Ding. The fight began. I walked to the center of the ring and extended a friendly left fist.

Microchip paused for a split second, then extended his own fist, touching mine. This was probably the first time he’d ever touched gloves with an opponent in an underground ring.

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The instant our fists touched, I unleashed a powerful roundhouse kick aimed straight at his head. A probing strike—I wanted to test his legendary defense. Predictably, he blocked it perfectly; my shin slammed into his solid forearm.

As my leg landed, I immediately pivoted and launched another heavy kick, targeting his ribs. His defense high for the head kick had left an opening. But by the time my kick arrived, he’d already lowered his guard, blocking my strike with a hard left elbow. My leg landed again, I prepared for a third kick, but Microchip didn’t give me the chance. Whoosh. A punch came flying.

3

Microchip’s punch was blindingly fast, exploiting the opening flawlessly. He threw a hook the instant I lifted my leg. Luckily, my attack was just a probe; I wasn’t fully committed. Instinctively, I leaned back. His fist grazed my cheek; the rough hemp rope scraped my cheekbone, burning hot.

I stepped back immediately, resetting my stance. The name “Microchip” wasn’t for show. Just one exchange, and I felt the pressure he exerted. Defense, speed, composure—this guy was terrifying on multiple levels. Just this first contact told me he was stronger than anyone I’d ever faced, including Naikun.

No pressure before stepping onto the ring, but now, it descended invisibly.

Microchip showed no condescension because I was new. His caution revealed exceptional fighter discipline. Winning one or two fights might be luck, but standing undefeated in over a hundred life-or-death matches…

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…absolutely required skill. He shifted his footwork subtly, constantly controlling the distance between us. I moved to my own rhythm, searching for any fleeting weakness. We were like two old men playing chess, calmly opening the game, utterly ignoring the impatient shouts from below.

This kind of fight was clearly underwhelming for spectators used to immediate, white-hot savagery—no flying flesh and blood to satisfy their perverse emptiness. But only fights like this held true beauty. The clash between two fighters could fully express the essence of combat. Fights that erupted into blind fury from the first second were no different from dogfights.

I stopped throwing heavy kicks, instead using light jabs and feints to probe for openings. Microchip’s tactics mirrored mine: point attacks seeking opportunities, occasionally mixing in a heavy strike. We exchanged symbolic blows through a few offensive and defensive sequences. The first round ended.

I returned to my corner. Brother Li’s associate gave me water. Brother Li leaned over the ropes. “How is it?”

“Okay. His strength is as expected. Tricky.” Disgruntled shouts rose from below: “What the hell are you two doing? Fighting so soft, like a couple of fags!”

Brother Li shot them a contemptuous glance. “Idiots.”

Round two began. I realized this opponent wouldn’t give me any openings; his icy eyes said it all. Dragging it out also played against me. Microchip was Mongolian; his genes meant he likely had greater stamina reserves than me.

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I changed tactics. I’d use jabs to tear open his defense, then land heavy blows.

This tactic didn’t work. Microchip also launched his offense this round. We immediately exchanged blows, but both remained intensely focused. Someone in the audience couldn’t contain themselves: “Fight! Fight!”

Who didn’t want to fight? But against a calm opponent, agitation only cost you everything. It clouded judgment and blinded you to openings. Seemingly ferocious, it was useless. The KOs that decided fights came from just a few critical blows, the rest was filler. And those critical blows belonged to the calm one.

Neither of us broke through the other’s defense, but I felt Microchip’s power clearly. His explosiveness was near perfect; powerful fighting muscles laid the foundation for heavy strikes. Watching videos before, I couldn’t believe Naikun stayed down forever after taking three heavy punches and two kicks from him. Now I understood: if I left an opening, I’d suffer the same fate as Naikun.

I wasn’t giving my all; neither was he. It wasn’t time for the life-or-death struggle yet. We probed each other’s style and rhythm through constant exchanges, trying to impose our own tempo. Whoever controlled the rhythm controlled the fight. Unfortunately, we each stayed locked in our own pace, neither dominating the other, until the end of round two.

This was a slow-burning fight. Many spectators watched while cursing. I was puzzled. Weren’t these supposed to be respectable people? Why such low class?

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By round three, the cursing subsided. Both Microchip and I gradually increased the pace; the fight was heating up. Microchip’s kicks started landing. When I raised my knee to block, sharp pain shot through my shin.

His kicks were incredibly fast. When I leaned back, a kick whistled past my face; I felt the wind it kicked up. The force of such a kick landing on the head would be terrifying. People had asked me: where do you look during a fight? The eyes? The shoulders? For someone who hasn’t fought, any answer is inadequate—they think eyes are windows to the soul, but an opponent’s cold stare is a stagnant pond; they think body movement telegraphs from the shoulders, but by the time you see the shoulder move, the kick is already at your head. A real fighter sees the whole opponent in their peripheral vision. Fixating on one spot only gets you knocked out faster.

Over the next two rounds, Microchip pressed his advantage. His precise timing and powerful strikes posed a serious threat. A kick to my solar plexus nearly knocked the wind out of me. Microchip’s technique was relatively simple—a few punches combined with low and high kicks—but his timing was impeccable. The simpler the technique, the deadlier when executed perfectly.

Faced with his onslaught, I had to fight fire with fire, trading blow for blow. Pure defense would quickly shatter under his power. During the exchanges, I wasn’t sure if my hits landed effectively, but two of his hooks connected with my face. My entire left cheek burned as if torn open. Damn that hemp rope!

Round four ended. I sat in my corner, breathing heavily. Brother Li leaned over the ropes. “Western Venom, stamina okay?”

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“Yeah, no problem,” I nodded. Microchip sat opposite me, also breathing hard. His stamina was draining fast too.

Round five began, and Microchip launched a ferocious assault, catching me completely off guard! His fury finally erupted. Relentless, unstoppable blows drove me into the corner. Punches and kicks savagely tore at my high guard. Excruciating pain shot through my ribs—a punch? A kick?—nearly buckling my knees. Brother Li’s shouts filled my ears: “Western Venom! Guard! Guard!”

But I couldn’t hold. A pinpoint uppercut snapped my head back. As my head tilted up, his hemp-wrapped fist appeared before me!

Blinding pain shot to my core. Darkness swallowed me. When my eyes snapped open moments later, the referee was crouched before me, counting.

His face was a blur. I couldn’t hear his words, but instinct made me grab the ropes, trying to rise. The referee gripped my arm. “Can you continue?”

I finally heard him. I nodded quickly.

The fight resumed. Microchip advanced swiftly. God, I prayed for this round to end.

He backed me into the corner again. I desperately protected my head. No matter what, protect the head. If one of his kicks landed clean, it would be lights out.

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The round finally ended in agony. As I slumped onto the stool, barely conscious, team doctor Mosquito immediately cradled my face, examining it. I could only gasp for air. So tired.

“He can’t continue,” I heard Mosquito say to Brother Li. “Nasal bone broken.”

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