Chapter Thirty-Five: Another Victory (Part Two)

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However, Sanders' act of crippling his own arm did not mean his fighting ability was diminished. On the contrary, the pain and humiliation spurred him into an even greater ferocity. At this moment, Zhao Li absolutely dared not give Sanders the chance to reattach his dislocated left arm, and could only press his hard-won advantage with relentless attacks.

Is it forbidden to target an injured opponent? Such a rule had never been taught in Zhao Li’s recruit training, and he doubted special forces training included it either. Though his head still throbbed and spun, Zhao Li’s judgment remained sharp.

Sanders’ inability to use one hand severely impaired his balance, and the standard police weapon he wielded was ill-suited to his physique. These flaws spelled his defeat. An ordinary man would have already conceded, but Sanders could not afford to lose. If Zhao Li had sealed his martial skills and still managed to batter Sanders like this, what did that say about the competence of this special forces instructor? At the very least, his fighting spirit was utterly lacking.

In the earlier matches, Sanders could excuse defeat by Zhao Li’s latent power; now, no such pretext remained. Sanders was truly mad—his attacks wild, his expression fierce, muscles bulging, evoking the legendary berserker of Western fantasy.

Berserkers, famed for ignoring their own wounds, sometimes losing track of friend or foe, driven only by the urge to kill. As Sanders raged, everyone but the old warden, who sat calmly in his chair, instinctively retreated, making space for his fury.

His balance compromised, Sanders’ agility suffered further. Already slower than Zhao Li, now he was even more hampered. When Zhao Li’s police baton failed to strike elsewhere, it landed on Sanders' left shoulder and arm, provoking cries of agony.

One hand could not defend his whole body. A lapse in concentration, and Zhao Li’s baton slammed into the back of Sanders’ right hand—a blow to the bone so excruciating that Sanders nearly dropped his weapon.

All were astonished. With such an opening, Sanders still failed to seize victory. A head-on clash had cost him an arm. Observing the scene, even those who had maintained stoic expressions began to shake their heads. Sanders’ stubborn resistance could not alter the inevitable outcome—unless a miracle occurred.

But no miracle appeared for Sanders. Zhao Li, now playing it safe, refused to give him any chance, marking Sanders’ injured arm or his other hand with precise strikes. At last, Zhao Li’s deft blow forced Sanders to relinquish his police baton.

Unarmed, no matter how imposing or strong, Sanders was helpless against Zhao Li’s skilled baton techniques. The baton excelled at both grappling and defense. Without the support of internal energy, Sanders’ attacks landed only on the baton, causing agonizing pain.

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Another heavy strike crashed down on Sanders’ shoulder, nearly blanking his mind. Stunned, his functioning right hand was quickly locked by Zhao Li.

The outcome remained unchanged, only the angle differed—an elbow lock and shoulder press, the same technique, applied for the fourth consecutive time.

This time, Sanders ceased struggling, pinned hard to the ground by Zhao Li. Resistance was pointless; further efforts would only dislocate his other arm. If both arms were disabled, there was no reason to continue.

Yet Zhao Li felt no thrill of victory. Somehow, he found the experience unsatisfying—perhaps because the confrontation was so one-sided, or perhaps because he had not suffered a few fierce blows himself.

“Do you concede?” Zhao Li, pressing Sanders’ arm, growled fiercely.

“No! You tricked me, used a weapon I’m not familiar with! If you have guts, fight me bare-handed!” Sanders’ face was buried in the ground, but he shouted loudly.

The spectators, still savoring the previous clash, heard Sanders’ defiant challenge and frowned subtly. At this point, did he really have any grounds to demand another fight?

Zhao Li, eyes bloodshot, glared fiercely at Sanders beneath him, as if trying to pierce his very soul. He said nothing; only the heavy, bellows-like breathing of the two combatants could be heard.

Everyone watched Zhao Li, waiting for his reply. Zhao Li, face stern, stared at Sanders as if he were the old warden seated in the chair, or as if he longed to land a few hard punches on that face.

“Fine!” Zhao Li straightened, stood up, picked up Jiang Hao’s police baton from the ground along with his own, and tossed both aside. He then began to limber up, waiting for Sanders to rise.

Sanders, seemingly possessed, stood up, twisted a bit, his left arm still uncomfortable. Glancing around, he found a suitable wall, raised his left hand with his right, placed his palm on the wall, and with a forceful twist, a series of cracks sounded. Sanders then raised his left arm freely, swinging it up and down several times.

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The man was surprisingly adept at resetting his dislocated arm. Clearly, Zhao Li’s aggressive tactics had been absolutely correct—had Sanders been given any time, he would have restored his arm, and the outcome might have been very different.

Zhao Li’s actions puzzled the old warden. From previous behavior, Zhao Li had never seemed so ostentatious; his low-profile record in recruit training had never suggested such a showy character. Had something changed within him? With this thought, the warden’s gaze shifted, a mysterious smile appearing at his lips.

“I’ll give you time; you can rest a bit,” Zhao Li said coldly from his corner, his calm tone so unfamiliar that Jiang Hao nearby felt bewildered. Zhao Li hadn’t been like this yesterday—what had changed so suddenly?

Zhao Li’s words struck Sanders like a stimulant, causing his facial muscles to twitch. But as an expert, Sanders knew what he had to do: he watched Zhao Li coolly, quietly seizing the opportunity to recover.

Everyone speculated—without internal energy or weapons, surely the seasoned instructor wouldn’t lose to a rookie fresh from recruit training?

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To clarify once more: geniuses will not be dissected; the protagonist’s childhood trauma is merely a shadow left by his father’s misunderstanding. In fact, geniuses are treated well, receiving the best education at the academy, though their freedom is somewhat restricted—after all, joining the school is akin to becoming a soldier. Of course, they must cooperate with researchers for physical data collection and cultivation studies. The protagonist was misled by his father, hence his fears.

This issue has drawn much attention—Ren Yuan is especially grateful for everyone’s support! Three chapters completed; striving for the top of the charts, please vote and recommend, thank you all!