The people around gradually dispersed, leaving the wide “river channel” to Zhang Shan and Qiao Jiajin.
The two of them moved slowly, taking positions on either side of the “channel,” forming a standoff.
For them, whether on the left or right, there should have been plenty of people coming and going at this moment. Yet the “channel” was eerily quiet—so quiet that only the sound of their breathing could be heard.
Their breaths were like cheering applause and shouts, welcoming this no-rules, no-limits, no-protection, no-referee fight to the death.
The usual scenario in a ring, where pinning an opponent’s arm could secure victory, no longer applied here. Unless one side surrendered, this battle would only end in death.
Moreover, calling this a “ring match” would be unfair, given the significant difference in their weight classes.
Qiao Jiajin estimated his current weight to be around seventy kilograms—less than a hundred and sixty pounds—while the towering Zhang Shan before him easily surpassed two hundred pounds.
Fighting above one’s weight class was already unwise even in a regulated ring with gloves, rules, soft mats, and referees. How much more so in this hard, narrow room where death was the only outcome?
Qinglong and Dilong, seated at the edge of the spectator stands, also noticed the two men at the center of the “channel.” They stood in the middle of the entire chessboard, their feet planted on the words “Chu River and Han Border.” Though battle intent surged through them, neither moved.
“Brilliant,” Qinglong said.
The petite Dilong grinned at his words. “They’re just standing there. How is that brilliant?”
“A vague kind of brilliance,” Qinglong replied. “Neither of them actually wants to fight here—one misstep could mean death. But the weight of ‘responsibility’ on their shoulders forces them to make this decision. Humans are always like this. Whether in large-scale wars or small conflicts, they’ll say, ‘I have to kill you not because of what you did, but because circumstances demand it.’ That vague, self-contradicting reasoning is what I find exceptionally brilliant.”
“Put simply, they shouldn’t be dying,” Dilong chuckled darkly. “If they’ve been pushed to this point, then the ones who really deserve to die must be someone else.”
“Hah!” Qinglong laughed wildly. “Amusing. You know you won’t survive, so you’ve lost even the most basic fear of me.”
“Does telling the truth mean I deserve to die too?” Dilong shot back. “You and Tianlong are the same. The punishments you inflict on all the ‘participants’ and ‘zodiacs’ here—it’s not because they’ve done anything unforgivable. It’s simply because you want to, so you do it.”
“The ‘contradiction’ I mentioned only applies to mortals,” Qinglong replied. “When they face beings far stronger than themselves, that logic no longer holds. The gap in power is so vast that they can only be slaughtered at will.”
In the “channel,” Qiao Jiajin took a deep breath and slowly closed his eyes.
Under normal circumstances, how should a fight with such a weight disparity be approached?
—That’s right. It shouldn’t be fought at all.
But now, if he didn’t topple this mountain, the situation ahead would only grow worse.
So, to win this battle, there were three crucial points:
Technique. Technique. And technique.
When outmatched in size, height, reach, and strength, he couldn’t afford to blink once the fight began. Not only would he need absolute focus, but he’d also have to push every ounce of his skill to two hundred percent.
“A-Jin.” A voice echoed in his mind. “Skip training this afternoon. Rong-ge gave us two hundred bucks—let’s go play arcade games.”
The voice was both familiar and strange, as if he’d heard it just a few years ago, yet also as if it had been absent for decades.
“Can’t, Jiu-zi,” he replied in his memory. “You go ahead and play. I’m really no good at that stuff.”
“You train so hard, it’s exhausting!” Jiu-zi said. “Fighting in the ring all day, then street fights at night—even I’m tired just watching. You gotta learn to take a break, man.”
“But if I fall, you’ll fall,” he answered. “If you fall, Rong-ge will fall.”
“Don’t make life so hard!” Jiu-zi laughed. “Gold-Tooth’s place just got the new ‘Fatal Fury’ machine. You really don’t wanna try it?”
“‘Fatal Fury,’ huh? Jiu-zi, it’s fine. If you play it, it’s like I played it too.”
Back then, just like now, nothing had really changed.
If he fell, Chen Junnan would fall. If Chen Junnan fell, Qi Xia would fall.
He wasn’t a mountain or iron—just an ordinary man of flesh and blood. To stand in front of everyone without crumbling, he had no choice but to temper his body into something resembling steel.
Now, though his muscles and strength had diminished, his technique remained. It was his only weapon left.
“Big guy…” Qiao Jiajin opened his eyes, steadying his breath. “You ready for this fight to the death?”
“I’ve never let my guard down for a second,” Zhang Shan replied.
“Then here I come,” Qiao Jiajin said.
Before Zhang Shan could respond, Qiao Jiajin’s figure shot forward like a gust of wind. Before Zhang Shan could even settle into a stance, Qiao Jiajin’s right fist was already mid-swing.
Zhang Shan steadied himself, lifting a leg to intercept with his knee while raising both arms to guard his chin.
But Qiao Jiajin seemed to have anticipated this. He stomped down on Zhang Shan’s rising shin, using the leverage to leap into the air. Mid-flight, he adjusted his center of gravity, swinging his legs back and leaning his torso forward—launching a full-force punch.
In combat sports, this was called the “Superman Punch”—committing all of one’s weight and momentum to strike the opponent’s face. A clean hit could mean an instant KO, but it also left the attacker vulnerable if they missed.
Despite his size, Zhang Shan reacted swiftly. Before his foot even touched the ground, he twisted his upper body, dodging just enough that Qiao Jiajin’s desperate punch only grazed his forearm.
The next moment was brutal. As Qiao Jiajin landed, Zhang Shan immediately shifted and swung a crushing elbow toward his face.
Qiao Jiajin barely managed to raise his arms in time, but the sheer force still sent him stumbling back several meters.
After that brief exchange, both men’s expressions grew even grimmer.
Zhang Shan now understood—this tattooed man was no ordinary street brawler. His combat skills matched, if not surpassed, his own. And unlike in martial arts movies, real fights rarely lasted dozens of exchanges without a winner.
Had that punch landed squarely on his chin, he’d have been dazed within seconds. A follow-up guillotine choke, and the fight would’ve been over in under twenty.
With that in mind, he reset his stance, shielding his face with his arms.
Meanwhile, Qiao Jiajin shook out his stinging arms and rolled his neck before settling into a boxing stance.
Squinting, he glanced at Zhang Shan’s forearm—where his punch had scraped off skin, leaving a streak of blood.
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