The buzzing in his ears, Qian Ge’s coarse, hoarse voice scraped against Qi Ji’s fragile eardrums like sandpaper.
Qi Ji took a shaky, deliberate breath, forcing himself to stay calm: “The contract said nothing about involving family.”
Qian Ge instantly detected Qi Ji’s faltering composure.
He laughed, feigning generosity: “As long as you take part in this exhibition match, the contract still applies.”
Qi Ji gritted his teeth.
Qi Mingyu wouldn’t leave for abroad until next week, and the October holiday was coming. The school would be empty for the break, leaving no safe haven for his brother. If anyone tried to harm Qi Mingyu, he wouldn’t even be able to hide him at school.
Helpless, Qi Ji swallowed his resistance with blood in his mouth and finally agreed to appear in the exhibition match.
The match was scheduled for the October holiday. The venue and route were the same as usual; the only difference from prior rounds was that the exhibition match had no prize money. Qian Ge, however, promised a medal afterward—a token to formally end things—after which Qi Ji could walk away from the arena entirely.
Qi Ji wasn’t interested in the symbolic medal. The only thing he could do was stay alert and protect both himself and his brother.
Because of the match, Qi Mingyu would spend his entire October holiday in pre-match training. Qi Ji wouldn’t be home, and he didn’t plan to take a break either. In the days leading up to the exhibition, he stayed at the company.
Yuntu gave him leave, but holiday overtime pay was triple. Few chose the same, so Qi Ji didn’t stand out.
As the match drew near, Qi Ji’s anxiety grew.
In prior competitions, the arena would release information ahead of time to attract spectators’ bets. Even his early fights had hype like “formidable underdog versus seasoned champion.” While meant to stir betting, they at least revealed some information.
This time, however, Qi Ji received no information at all. He didn’t know the opponent, the venue, or even the rules.
On the day of the exhibition, Qian Ge finally sent a message.
The ride was in the same unremarkable black Santana, blending into traffic, with specially treated windows visible only with matching sunglasses.
Qi Ji had no glasses, and his eyes were covered with a thick blindfold. Once in the car, as usual, he was wedged between two burly men in the back seat.
He couldn’t see, and his sense of direction was useless—the Santana deliberately took circuitous routes. Qi Ji had never questioned this before, wanting no ties to the arena.
But this time, he felt inexplicably uneasy.
His skin sensitivity had worsened recently. Despite the thick coat and keeping distance from the guards, he couldn’t ignore the oppressive, nauseating presence.
Qi Ji worried about the upcoming match, hoping the intensity wouldn’t be too high… just enough to survive.
The journey seemed longer than even the finals.
Finally arriving, his blindfold and wrist bindings were removed. He rubbed his red, sore wrists and realized he was back at the same arena.
Only the match venue itself was unfamiliar.
The first glance at the new venue made him frown. Previous matches had been in underground arenas. Zhang Wu had told him that, to avoid trouble from gambling, all arena activities were underground. The aboveground buildings were unrelated—even Zhang Wu, familiar with the scene, hadn’t been there in years.
But the new venue was clearly aboveground.
Before he could think further, he was led inside to the locker room. Yet what he saw weren’t the familiar loose shorts, but a fitted combat outfit that was obviously not standard size.
Qi Ji froze.
For maximum prize money, he fought bare-knuckle: no gloves, no protective gear. Underground bare-knuckle had even allowed moves banned in official MMA competitions, like knee strike K.O.s, just a few years ago.
Bare-knuckle fighters often went shirtless to show off muscles and intimidate opponents. Arena organizers never provided shirts, so fighters brought their own.
Qi Ji was slender, making him appear fragile next to muscular opponents. He had easily won the first two matches until the third fight, when his opponents finally took him seriously.
He didn’t like the visual advantage—it drew attention. And more attention meant higher risk of being recognized.
This fitted outfit violated his preferences. The white shorts were loose, but the black sleeveless high-neck top was tight, stretching over every contour of his body.
Qi Ji found Qian Ge and asked to switch back to his original gear.
Qian Ge’s reply was curt: “Stop fussing! This is it. Exhibition matches have rules—put it on and don’t waste time.”
The bodyguards blocked the door, knocking every two minutes. Qi Ji had no choice but to wear the fitted outfit.
Once on, he could feel the deliberate tailoring. Loose gear always hung on him, but this one fit perfectly—waistline, hip curves—all accentuated.
The black top made his already pale skin appear even paler. Its elasticity and tightness left no detail of his slender torso hidden.
Qi Ji hated the feeling. He was here to fight, not to show off.
With the guards’ constant urging, he donned his half-face mask. He’d used it in previous matches to conceal his identity.
Ready, he left the locker room. This time, he wasn’t led to a pre-match waiting room but received a new instruction: someone wanted to see him.
Aboveground venues had better ventilation and lighting, but Qi Ji barely had time to notice. The guards led him through a narrow, winding passage, impossible to discern direction.
Eventually, he reached a brightly lit area, ascended stairs, and navigated several bends before arriving at the main hall. Qian Ge stood at the entrance, urging him forward.
Inside, the hall was lavish. On a redwood sofa sat a young man, arm around a striking woman in red. He held a wine glass, scowling: “Damn, if that idiot falls into my hands…”
At Qian Ge’s voice, the man, Jiang Shao, stopped mid-sentence and glanced impatiently toward Qi Ji.
His gaze bypassed Qian Ge, fixing on Qi Ji.
The boy wore a black fitted top, making his pale skin even whiter.
A faint aura of fighting energy clung to him—not aggressive, not bloody—but seductive, almost erotic.
Jiang Shao pushed the woman aside, stood, and strode toward Qi Ji. She tried to grab his arm but was thrown down mercilessly, silenced by fear.
Jiang Shao circled Qi Ji, scrutinizing him from head to toe. His stare was invasive, clinging like leeches. Qi Ji was uncomfortable but couldn’t evade him due to Qian Ge and the man’s status.
Jiang Shao smiled: “You’re the one fighting tonight?”
Qi Ji, expression neutral, frowned inwardly: “Yes.”
Qian Ge jabbed him sharply from behind.
“Talk properly! Call him Jiang Shao!”
Qi Ji bit his lip, pain radiating from the jolt Qian Ge gave him, and replied: “Jiang Shao, yes.”
Jiang Shao smiled, unbothered. “Your voice is sweet.”
Qi Ji clenched his palm. The unease deepened.
Jiang Shao tilted his chin, intrigued: “Take off the mask.”
Qi Ji frowned. He didn’t know this man personally, only remembered Zhang Wu mentioning that a few years ago, after a fatal knee K.O., the arena had a new owner—a second-generation Jiang with an unfathomable background. Qian Ge’s obsequious behavior confirmed this.
But Qi Ji didn’t understand why the boss would meet him personally, let alone act so familiar.
Jiang Shao urged again: “Hurry up.”
Qian Ge hissed behind him: “Do as he says, move it!” Then apologized to Jiang Shao: “He doesn’t understand the rules.”
Reluctantly, Qi Ji removed his mask.
Using his peripheral vision, he noted every doorway was guarded, each with stun batons and radios. No weak points were visible.
He lowered his eyes. Jiang Shao stared unblinking, his breath moist and repulsive. Qi Ji felt faint and nauseous, reminiscent of being touched before.
Jiang Shao’s hoarse voice asked: “How old are you?”
Suppressing discomfort, Qi Ji answered quietly: “Twenty.” (He was nineteen but always claimed twenty.)
“Twenty?” Jiang Shao laughed. “You look sixteen.”
He reached to touch Qi Ji’s face. Qi Ji, aware of the man’s position, instinctively tilted his head away. Jiang Shao’s expression darkened.
Before he could act, a voice announced from the doorway: “Jiang Shao, the guests are almost all here. Ceremony will begin soon. When will you go down?”
Jiang Shao swore, annoyed, and silenced the speaker.
He glanced at Qi Ji once more, then asked gruffly: “How many arrived?”
“Fang family members are here,” the messenger replied carefully.
Jiang Shao spat. “Fine, I got it. Bring my coat.”
As he left, he patted Qi Ji’s back and deliberately squeezed his shoulder.
“Little beauty, have fun.”
Jiang Shao departed. Qian Ge hurried after him, murmuring threats: “Perform well tonight. This is the last match. Think of your brother.”
The guards escorted Qi Ji to the pre-match waiting room. Qian Ge called another person, instructing quietly.
“Double dose? The previous one was already enough…”
Qian Ge interrupted: “Go. No more nonsense.”
The person hurried away.
The guards led Qi Ji along another winding path to the waiting room, which was unlike the underground ones. No equipment, just tea tables and sofas—more like an office lounge. His belongings were placed on the table.
Qi Ji sat, wrapping black boxing hand wraps around his fingers, fidgeting nervously and rewrapping several times.
Soon, a guard knocked, urging him to the backstage.
Qi Ji took out his mouthguard—the rare protective gear allowed in bare-knuckle fights—bitting down on it. The strange, slightly bitter taste mixed with a faint metallic tang, perhaps from his own blood.
He didn’t dwell on it, already accustomed to the injuries he carried.
He took a deep breath and followed the guards out.