Chapter Thirty-Five: Another Victory (Part One)

As soon as he saw that sinister grin, Zhao Li knew something was wrong. But it was already too late. Sanders, not holding the baton in his left hand, moved like a venomous snake and seized Zhao Li’s right wrist, the one gripping his weapon. At the same moment, Sanders bent forward and slammed his head toward Zhao Li’s own.

This man was an instructor for special forces—how could he possibly fall into a rage so carelessly? Only now did Zhao Li recall Sanders' identity before he was imprisoned. All that anger and fury just moments ago had been a façade, a clever act meant to deceive someone like Zhao Li, who had just left the recruit training center and barely had any combat experience.

Indeed, the trick had worked. Zhao Li hadn’t realized it was a trap at all; he naively believed Sanders’ attack rhythm had been disrupted and that he was making mistakes. Zhao Li thought he’d spotted a weakness and could strike, never expecting he’d fallen right into Sanders’ plan.

To be fair, Sanders was a ruthless opponent. To lure Zhao Li in, he was willing to take a heavy blow to his chest and abdomen. But he’d already figured it out: better to endure one hit if it meant he could restrict Zhao Li’s movements. Now, he’d achieved his goal—Zhao Li’s wrist was caught, and Sanders’ head was coming down hard.

From Zhao Li’s attack to the revelation of Sanders’ scheme, it was all over in a flash. When his wrist was grabbed, Zhao Li’s mind went blank for a split second, but he quickly regained his composure.

At this point, escaping Sanders’ grip was impossible. But not entirely hopeless. Zhao Li’s mind raced like countless supercomputers firing at once, analyzing every detail.

Sanders, with his long arms, had rushed in. The opponent’s baton had lost its leverage, forcing Sanders to use a headbutt. No matter how tough Sanders’ body was, at such close range, Zhao Li didn’t believe the man could take a blow and feel nothing, nor that his movements would remain unaffected.

The headbutt was Sanders’ most convenient weapon here, but perhaps his body was instinctively bent from Zhao Li’s earlier strike—that was the opening. The counterattack came as Sanders endured pain, using his body’s natural reaction rather than full strength.

Determined, Zhao Li relied on his training in basic fitness techniques to absorb some of the impact. He gritted his teeth, steeled himself, and raised his forehead to meet Sanders head-on.

It was a move no one, not even Sanders or the onlookers, expected. When Sanders had pretended to lose his temper, many spectators had watched with amused silence, waiting to see how Zhao Li would handle it.

When Zhao Li fell into Sanders’ trap, everyone wore expressions of certainty, as if nothing about the exchange surprised them. In truth, Zhao Li’s performance had already exceeded expectations. For someone just out of the recruit training center to hold his own against a battle-hardened special forces instructor—it was impressive.

Most were content to watch the anticipated outcome unfold, but Zhao Li’s counterattack sent a ripple through their calm.

Zhao Li's deduction was right: Sanders’ attack was a mix of his control and his body’s instinctive response to pain. Still, it wasn’t entirely under his control. Zhao Li’s strike had caused significant pain; Sanders didn’t spit up blood on the spot only because his extensive training had made him somewhat immune to suffering.

Sanders was a little surprised by Zhao Li's reaction, but he was convinced Zhao Li couldn’t match his own physical strength. If they headbutted, surely Zhao Li would be knocked out. That was Sanders’ belief, and the others thought so too. Zhao Li’s abilities were unfamiliar to most, but they knew he wasn’t stronger than Jiang Hao. Sanders’ skills were well known; no one expected any surprises.

The collision of two foreheads occurred just as everyone predicted, but the unexpected happened in that instant. Zhao Li’s forehead struck Sanders right between the eyes—not the forehead itself.

A dull thud sounded, as if a small explosion had gone off between their heads, sending both recoiling to opposite sides.

Even with mental preparation, Zhao Li’s head felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer, his sense of balance suddenly gone. His ears rang with nothing but a buzzing sound, devoid of any other noise. But Sanders felt even worse.

The spot just above the nose, between the eyes—the glabella—was far more vulnerable than a tough forehead. Zhao Li’s deliberate strike, no matter how resilient Sanders’ skin and flesh, left him reeling with pain and his ears ringing. In a contest of brute force, neither gained much advantage, but Zhao Li’s well-placed blow gave him a slight edge.

Sanders had already taken a punishing blow from Zhao Li earlier. Now, with these two attacks combined, he seemed to forget even his own assault. Only his left hand still gripped Zhao Li’s wrist, binding them together.

Both men bounced back, wrists still locked, and began to react violently. Sanders’ right hand raised his baton, but Zhao Li was already curling his body and darting forward again, his movements slick as oil, slipping beneath Sanders’ left arm.

Somehow, Zhao Li’s baton had once more pinned Sanders’ arm, and with the momentum of his charge, Sanders was inevitably subdued again by a shoulder-locking move. Zhao Li always managed to entangle Sanders’ legs at the same time, making it impossible for him to roll forward and escape.

Caught once more in this seemingly shameless technique, even Sanders, with his thick skin, couldn’t help but rage. In his fury, he ignored the pain and forced himself upright.

A cracking sound—Zhao Li pressed down hard with his baton, and Sanders’ left arm suddenly hung limp from the shoulder. He’d dislocated his arm to break free from Zhao Li’s lock. His face twisted with genuine ferocity.

Zhao Li couldn’t help but step back. To have reached this point, and for Sanders to still respond like this—their reputation for ruthlessness was truly well deserved.

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I think there’s a misunderstanding here. I never said the genius would be dissected—why would everyone assume that?

Saturday, I woke up a bit late. Please forgive me!

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