Chapter Three: The True Strength of the Leading Star

From the perspective of the audience, the result of this match was a foregone conclusion. Baitang Jing’s physique was far beyond the average person. Standing at 1.8 meters tall and weighing nearly 80 kilograms, his streamlined muscles clung tightly to his frame, exuding a sharp, fluid beauty that was apparent even beneath his clothes. His broad shoulders and solid abdominal muscles, even when only glimpsed in passing, were enough to put every man in Kamurocho to shame.

Yet, compared to his opponent—the “Black-Spotted Serpent”—he was lacking in build, experience, and record. In front of the giant man with those disproportionately large hands, Baitang Jing seemed like little more than a youth.

The surrounding spectators watched with excitement, already picturing the satisfying crack as that hand slapped down on the country boy’s head, snapping his neck. That, to them, was the sweet sound of their bets safely won.

But Baitang Jing, throughout his martial arts career, had long grown used to facing opponents who outmatched him in sheer physicality. With a nimble duck and slide, he evaded the attack—his movements clean and precise.

The “Black-Spotted Serpent” seemed to anticipate this; his missed strike was instantly retracted, hand drawn back to his chest as he turned sideways, launching a shoulder charge. “Beneath that rough exterior, is he really someone who plans for defeat before planning for victory?” Baitang Jing mused, acknowledging that there were no fools in the world of combat sports. One hand landed on the charging shoulder to ready himself for the impact, while out of sight, his leg lashed out with a hidden, focused kick, striking at the “Serpent’s” rising knee.

The force wasn’t great, but just as a small stone can trip a person walking slowly, even minor mistakes are magnified during shifts in momentum. In the process of changing his center of gravity, even a minor error would be drastically amplified.

“Hm?” A wave of surprise surged inside the giant. He prided himself on never underestimating his opponents—hence his immediate change of tactics after the failed strike. But to be able to spot and suppress the shift in his footwork while facing a charge like an oncoming car...

“This kid’s composure... Has he really only been fighting for less than half a year?!”

Though surprised, he knew that if two such moves could defeat him—the ace of “Bishamon”—then the organization’s reputation would be worthless. He forcibly stopped his charge; to regain his balance, he had to abandon his offensive. It looked as though the country boy had stymied the giant with just a hand and a foot.

But... he’d never intended to charge all the way through.

His two massive hands, agile as serpents, coiled around the hand and foot that had made contact with him.

“It’s over!” the giant sneered, murderous intent all but spilling over. Along the way to becoming Bishamon’s star, he’d dealt with countless nimble opponents. He would attack first, force them to dodge, then pursue, exposing an intentional opening. The little ones would then pounce like rabid dogs. It didn’t always work, but as long as there was contact, he could always rely on his size to weather a few hits and find his chance.

The moment Baitang Jing was caught by one hand and foot, the onlookers erupted in excitement.

“Well done! It’s over, country boy!”

“Choke him! Choke him!”

A newcomer among the audience was puzzled. He’d seen plenty of underground fights, and to him the situation onstage was far from a dead end. Did the people here always celebrate so early?

An old hand nearby, noticing his confusion, smiled and explained, “If the ‘Black-Spotted Serpent’ catches you with those hands, the match is as good as over. It’s that unbeatable grip that earned him the name ‘Serpent’! I saw it myself last time—his opponent had handprints left on him like he’d been strangled by a python. The bruises turned black, and the shattered bones pierced right through the skin!”

In the ring, the giant’s lips curled into a savage grin. He hoisted Baitang Jing onto his shoulder, gripping hand and foot and pulling down as if he could snap the boy in half in one go—an Argentine backbreaker!

His hands squeezed tighter and tighter; though it was flesh against flesh, the pressure was so great that it made a creaking, grinding sound.

“Do you hear that, kid? They don’t call me ‘Serpent’ for my chokeholds! That kind of feeble technique is nothing compared to these hands—these natural garrotes! Hahaha!”

Believing victory to be his, the giant cruelly smiled at the youth draped over his shoulder, applying more and more force.

But half a minute passed. Once, twice, he increased the pressure... The giant still held the youth on his shoulder, but his smile grew increasingly rigid, until his face was ashen.

Even the laymen in the audience sensed something was wrong.

“What’s going on? Why’s ‘Black-Spotted Serpent’ hesitating? Lost his nerve?”

“Bullshit! When’s he ever held back?”

“So then...?”

Just as the whispers grew louder, a voice reached the “Serpent’s” ears.

“So, basically, you don’t actually have any real fighting technique, do you?”

Locked in a notorious wrestling hold that had crippled and maimed many, one that could snap a spine with a bit of force, Baitang Jing spoke in a calm, unconcerned tone, as if nothing were amiss.

Cold sweat trickled down the giant’s temple. His eyes darted wildly, and a nameless chill crept into his heart.

Before he could locate the source of the fear, an unprecedented surge of strength erupted from between his hands!

The huge hands that had been holding and pulling down on the boy’s hand and foot were being forced upward, inch by inch!

“What...?!”

“I was tempted to match you with technique when I heard your nickname. Turns out... you’re just a brute with this level of strength.”

The “Serpent’s” teeth chattered. Between his once-proud hands, he no longer felt human flesh, but—

A crane...

A gantry crane...

In short, it was not a strength any human could possess! Not the power of mere flesh and blood!

What happens if a mortal is trapped inside a hydraulic press that could start crushing at any moment? For the underground fighting star known as the “Black-Spotted Serpent,” the answer was—he dared not move a muscle.

It was as if the slightest action would trigger some hidden mechanism that would have that machine, capable of crushing tons of steel like dough, turn him into a bloody pulp.

With a casual motion, as if stretching, Baitang Jing broke the completed hold by sheer brute force and landed lightly on the ground.

His handsome face wore the same smile as before the match began.

“As you said, it’s time to end this.”

He was growing impatient.

Boom!

No longer suppressing his strength, he displayed the reserve he reserved only for worthy, skillful opponents. This was a front kick—so fast it defied reason!

So fast, even his pant leg slicing through the air made a piercing sound!

“Ugh!”

Facing Baitang Jing, who no longer considered him a technician, the giant didn’t even have time to react before his lower abdomen took the hit.

A strike with the ball of the foot, penetrating and direct—a blow that could instantly rob a man of all ability to fight.

Mouth agape, eyes bulging, but not a single cry escaped him; he simply collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.

“Yusuke Goto is unable to continue! I declare the winner—Baitang Jing, representing ‘Red Sand!’”

So his name was Yusuke Goto? Only now did Baitang Jing learn it.

He brushed off his pant leg, unconcerned.

The referee, acting swiftly, checked Yusuke Goto’s condition and instantly saw the man was completely incapacitated by pain. The decision was straightforward.

“Please wait a moment, Mr. Baitang.”

As Baitang Jing prepared to leave, a man in a suit approached with the referee, smiling.

“He’s not dead, nor crippled. That should be enough for you, right?”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. “We don’t care about losers like him. In organizations like ours, it’s normal to change the star fighter a few times a year. My purpose here was always you, Mr. Baitang. With your skill, you’re wasted at a place like ‘Red Sand.’ If you’re interested in ‘Bishamon,’ we can work out the contract and compensation—anything you want.”

“My contract with ‘Red Sand’ isn’t that binding. Give me a look at the paperwork. If it’s good, I don’t mind transferring.”

The man in the suit was overjoyed and respectfully handed over his business card.

With a master like this, even as a mere intermediary, he knew he’d profit greatly.