Qi Ji was sandwiched between two bodyguards, one in front and one behind, as they led him up a narrow corridor to the backstage waiting room.
The waiting room was close to the stage, and he could faintly hear the sounds from outside. It seemed the opening ceremony was underway, and the voice speaking sounded familiar—like Jiang Sha, the man Qi Ji had just met.
Through the muffling walls, Jiang Sha’s voice was indistinct, but he seemed to be expressing gratitude to the assembled guests. The grandeur of the occasion was evident; there were clearly influential people present whom even Jiang Sha had to treat with courtesy.
The opening concluded, yet Qi Ji was not called to the stage. Instead, he heard what seemed like a host speaking as if at a large auction hall. Listening closely, he realized that an auction was taking place outside.
This explained why the match had been moved to a surface-level venue: the exhibition match was likely just a warm-up for the auction, meant to energize the atmosphere.
The auction proceeded in rounds. Though Qi Ji couldn’t see the items, the host’s descriptions and the bidding shouted back from the hall conveyed the rarity and value of the goods. The auction was immediate, with payments made on the spot, and the host’s voice was charged with persuasion, exposing the flow of massive sums of money.
After the first five lots were bid on, a brief intermission was announced, and Qi Ji was finally called to the stage.
He ascended via the side staircase, noticing the stage lighting had shifted. As soon as he stepped out, intense spotlights struck him, bathing him in stark, white illumination. Dust particles glittered in the beams, and the boy’s slender form seemed to shine.
The white light was blinding, causing him to squint instinctively and tilt his head. The harsh brightness reminded him of the massive stage lights from past arenas, but aside from this, the similarity ended.
Once on stage, Qi Ji realized how different this venue was from any he had fought in before.
There was no ring, no cage, no resonant opening gongs. Compared to a typical fighting platform, this was a sophisticated exhibition hall. The podium had been removed, leaving only a massive HD screen behind to showcase the items in the auction.
Qi Ji frowned. He knew an auction was underway, but the stage—a vast expanse tens of meters wide—showed no trace of boxing. This elegant banquet hall and the bare-knuckle match were worlds apart; simply standing there made him feel out of place.
Looking down from the stage, the scene was unlike anything he’d seen. The hall was spacious and lavish, dozens of snow-white round tables filled with well-dressed, poised guests, all looking up at the stage.
Looking at Qi Ji.
The indifferent gazes were colder than any arena crowd. He had faced roaring audiences, jeers, and insults before, but here, the silence and the frozen stares were far more unsettling than any shouting crowd. He could feel the piercing eyes pressing down on him, more oppressive than the glaring spotlights.
He turned his gaze to the stage center. The only indication that a match was to take place was a referee—a tall, muscular man whose suit barely contained his frame, more like a controlling bodyguard than a judge. The entire scene radiated a strange peculiarity.
Qi Ji clenched his mouthguard and took a slow breath to steady himself. Trap or not, this was bound to be a tough fight.
And his instincts proved right.
From the opposite side of the stage came his opponent—someone Qi Ji recognized. The man was muscular, broad-shouldered, and bronze-skinned, his every step seeming to shake the floor.
Qi Ji had seen the man’s photos: his name matched perfectly—“Bear.”
He hadn’t faced Bear directly before, only hearing stories and seeing stats, but the fighter had a fearsome reputation: after the notorious “Mad Fist” incident ended in death, Bear had become the new top contender, nicknamed “the human killing machine,” a fearsome presence in the ring.
Yet in person, Bear’s movements were surprisingly relaxed, his aura far less aggressive than his reputation suggested. If not for his official fight uniform, Qi Ji might have thought he had walked into the wrong place. Bear didn’t look like someone ready to fight; he looked more like he was headed to a victory party.
Even in an exhibition match, someone at his level wouldn’t move like that if he were careless—but Bear exuded no lethal intent, and his gaze toward Qi Ji carried a subtle, unsettling amusement.
Qi Ji’s brow furrowed, sensing something off.
When the referee signaled the match start, the unease intensified. Qi Ji found his body uncontrollably reactive. Normally, he could handle physical contact and sharp impacts from previous bouts, but now, each touch felt amplified, sending electrical shocks of pain and soreness through his muscles.
Even the first collision with Bear nearly made him cry out. The sensation lingered painfully, slowing his reflexes, delaying his ability to adapt and defend.
A powerful punch came his way. Qi Ji barely dodged, leaving massive gaps in his defense. His chest and abdomen were exposed, vulnerable to a potentially rib-breaking strike.
Just then—a whistle. The tall referee, mirroring Bear’s size, stepped in, stopping him.
Qi Ji stumbled back, stunned. Why would the referee intervene mid-fight? Bare-knuckle matches rarely saw such interference unless a fighter was down and defenseless.
Yet this stranger—someone not in the regular referee roster—had stopped Bear. And Bear did not argue; he retreated silently.
When Bear noticed Qi Ji’s shock, he smiled. It was a malicious grin, almost identical to the one Jiang Sha had worn before leaving.
Qi Ji’s unease only deepened.
Qi Ji’s heart skipped a beat.
That ominous premonition only grew stronger.
The match continued, and the following rounds unfolded almost identically—each exchange left Qi Ji incapacitated by the abnormal reactions coursing through his body, while the overwhelmingly dominant Bear was repeatedly stopped by the referee just as a knockout seemed imminent.
The choice of such a physically imposing referee made sense—no ordinary person could have halted Bear’s attacks. Yet after repeated rounds, Bear seemed to adjust on his own, pulling back at the right moment, making his punches increasingly casual.
The exhibition match, relocated to this bright stage, had lost all sense of life-or-death struggle. It had become a one-sided display, a show of dominance and manipulation.
No one called the fight over. In exhibition matches, unless a fighter was rendered defenseless, there was no declared winner—only a time limit. Exchanges were meant to be dynamic; the visual spectacle mattered more than the outcome. Qi Ji had not been aware of these rules beforehand, nor even who his opponent was.
Bear, however, was clearly prepared. He deliberately slowed his attacks, giving Qi Ji moments to catch his breath, all while prolonging the fight to leave more marks on him.
This, evidently, was what the audience craved.
From where he stood, Qi Ji saw the guests at dozens of tables remain composed, conversing politely, but their gaze toward him grew hotter, almost as if their eyes were following Bear’s blows. The fresh bruises and cuts on his pale skin felt like dry tinder, ready to ignite in the heated atmosphere.
The expansive, luxurious hall had become a hunting ground; the most beautiful stag—Qi Ji—was under siege, and the hunters watched eagerly, savoring his suffering under the merciless whip of Bear’s fists.
As the exhibition neared its end, a three-minute countdown sounded from the side of the stage. Qi Ji could barely stand; pain from his wounds radiated along his spine, stabbing his brain like molten agony even while he stood still.
He panted heavily, throat catching a metallic, sweetish taste, unable to swallow, each breath tormenting his nose and windpipe anew. Bear had just clamped onto his throat, and even after releasing it, the pain still burned around his neck.
Bear initially intended to loosen his grip after pinching Qi Ji’s vital, but the audience’s low, excited murmurs—and the referee’s subtle prompt—encouraged him to prolong it. He lifted Qi Ji slowly, like a dying deer struggling in his hands, fragile and delicate, inviting pity and provoking sadistic delight.
The boy’s desperate, beautiful eyes glistened with moisture, magnified by the giant screen for every spectator—impossible to ignore.
Yet even when Bear finally released him to avoid asphyxiation, he did not see tears fall.
The referee’s whistle sounded. Bear returned to his defensive zone, and the three-minute countdown continued. Qi Ji’s opponent was pale, drenched in cold sweat, incapable of defending himself properly—one punch could send him flying.
But Bear did not strike directly; that would have violated the “performance” rules he had been given. Instead, he intended to seize Qi Ji’s arm and force him to kneel before the audience, or lift him by a leg in a humiliating display—this was the true purpose of today’s “performance.”
Two options, both easily executed, and Bear chose the latter. It promised the greatest audience reaction and extra reward.
The plan went smoothly. Qi Ji, exhausted from previous rounds, offered little resistance even when Bear back-threw him to the ground. Bear stretched, loosened his muscles, and reached for Qi Ji’s leg to lift him.
He grabbed the ankle, fingers circling snugly. The young man’s skin was smooth and cool, more delicate than the twenty-year-old model Bear often kept nearby.
But perhaps due to the slipperiness, as Bear tried to lift the right leg, it slipped downward. He instinctively reached to catch it, lowering his body slightly, straining.
Then, a surge of realization: the reason he bent was not his own—force from the back of his neck pressed him down, preventing him from straightening.
“Bang!!”
“Ah—ahhh!!”
Before he could react, a blood-charged punch struck his eye socket. Bear roared in pain, tightening his grip on Qi Ji’s slender leg, but the unexpected strike ignited true rage. All pre-fight instructions were forgotten; the blood in his eye had shattered his composure. He wanted nothing more than to snap this person’s leg, to crush him on the stage.
The firm grip caused Qi Ji’s leg to blush from restricted blood flow, but before any bones cracked, a sudden jolt of pain shot up Bear’s right arm, forcing him to release his hold.
In the next instant, Bear’s vision blurred, his jaw audibly creaking.
A cold, precise force locked onto his throat. Before he could react, Qi Ji’s scarred, muscular legs wrapped around him, knees pressing down onto the most vulnerable spot of his neck with a sharp “crack.”
“Ugh—ughgh…!”
The leg scissor was devastating, leaving Bear powerless. Qi Ji leveraged his hips, twisting upward, cradling Bear’s head with one arm, palm pressing against his temple, while his legs and arm locked Bear’s head and neck firmly.
Bear struggled for air, his tower-like body weakening, collapsing to his knees with a thud against the hard floor.
“Bang!”
“Heh…heh…ghhh…”
The once-mighty fighter knelt, face red, temples veined, throat unable to scream—only gasping weakly. His hands clutched Qi Ji’s legs, leaving red marks, but could not budge him an inch.
Only when the piercing whistle sounded and the referee intervened did Qi Ji release him, landing roughly, legs trembling atop Bear’s thighs.
Qi Ji’s legs were now covered in bruises and red finger marks, a stark imprint of the previous struggle, yet still strikingly beautiful.
Exhausted, Qi Ji leaned on Bear’s body to steady himself, standing at last. Bear, still gasping from the chokehold, toppled flat with a muted thud.
The lavish hall fell silent, shocked by the sudden reversal.
The referee quickly checked on Bear, while Qi Ji stepped back, coughing and breathing heavily.
Bear would be fine—at most, temporarily unconscious from choking. Qi Ji knew he fought to incapacitate, not kill; the choke was powerful but not lethal, and he had no training to break a neck.
Sure enough, the referee confirmed Bear was unharmed, though his gaze remained wary as he looked at Qi Ji.
Not just Bear—almost everyone present had failed to anticipate that Qi Ji still had the strength to strike back, much less deliver a finishing blow.
In reality, even though Qi Ji had a clear advantage in leg techniques compared to most opponents, he couldn’t have been certain he could subdue Bear outright. His body was in no condition, and the gap in their strength, while significant, was not insurmountable.
But in the previous rounds, Bear’s overwhelming dominance had lulled him into a false sense of security. He never expected this seemingly frail, submissive opponent to have the ability to fight back. One moment of carelessness, and Qi Ji struck a decisive counterattack.
Qi Ji coughed again, blood surging through his throat, each hoarse syllable wrapped in it.
“Seconds,” he said coldly.
At his prompt, the referee seemed to remember and started the countdown, but it was purely a formality—Bear had already passed out and couldn’t possibly rise in ten seconds.
The match ended with Qi Ji as the victor.
The referee announced it in a tone utterly devoid of warmth. In an underground ring, this detached style would have gotten him dismissed immediately—such fights thrived on excitement, passion, blood and screams; the louder and more desperate the shouts, the more popular the referee. Here, however, his impassive delivery fit the atmosphere perfectly.
The hall remained silent. No cheers, no applause, no ecstatic screams—just cold, impassive eyes, sticky with attention, almost tangible in their intensity.
Qi Ji clenched his fists and pressed them to his lips, coughing.
His throat had been injured; his entire body burned with pain. Injuries from the boxing finals and the alley fight at Huating’s side gate hadn’t yet healed, now compounded by new wounds.
Slow blood clotting, anemia, a lingering concussion—all combined to leave him utterly drained. He had barely the energy to stand.
He longed to leave but heard the referee say, “Go change your clothes.”
The words weren’t meant for the microphone—only Qi Ji could hear them.
“What?” he muttered.
The referee, expressionless as at the start, repeated, “Change, then receive your prize.”
Qi Ji remembered what Qian had said before the match: obtaining the medal would allow him to sever ties with the ring completely. He just needed to endure a little longer, and it would all be over.
A headache threatened to split his skull, his unhealed concussion now at its worst. Blood-streaked lips, pallid skin beneath his mask—he looked ghostly.
He followed the event hostess to a small changing area at the side of the stage, a cramped space without even a mirror, but conveniently close.
The hostess handed him the white champion’s robe, instructing him to remove his shirt before wearing it. The black sleeveless top from the fight contrasted oddly with the white robe, but Qi Ji complied, locking the door behind him.
The robe concealed his gaze from the faint reflective glint in the upper right corner of the wall.
His arms bore visible injuries from defending against Bear’s attacks. Beneath the shirt, the bruises and contusions on his flat abdomen and taut lower back were even more pronounced against his pale skin.
Removing the shirt alone caused an involuntary shiver, the friction sending uncomfortable sensations across his hyper-sensitive skin.
Suppressing the strange feeling, Qi Ji heard faint commotion outside but couldn’t focus on it. Pain from his wounds still throbbed as he slipped the robe on.
Fortunately, the loose, lightweight robe, secured only with a sash at the waist, minimized contact with his injuries.
Stepping out, Qi Ji noticed something wrong. The lighting in the backstage changing area had been dimmed for stage effect. Only when he entered the edge of the stage lights did he realize the robe was semi-transparent.
Thin as gauze or silk, subtly patterned yet sheer, it revealed his skin and the faint blue and purple marks beneath.
With just his shorts, the robe, and a mask, the strong stage lights made the upper half of his body appear nearly exposed. A strange, uncomfortable sensation washed over him.
He hesitated, but the hostess’s sweet voice urged him forward, “Sir, please proceed to receive your prize.”
The referee also turned his gaze toward him. Qi Ji had no choice but to move forward.
Receiving the award would allow him to leave immediately—he didn’t want to stay a second longer.
Although called a prize presentation, the atmosphere remained as awkward as during the exhibition fight. The audience showed no excitement.
Qi Ji barely registered the unusual intensity of the gazes below; he lacked the energy to care.
The hostess brought forward the prize, passed it to the referee, who handed it to Qi Ji. In the underground ring, champions received gold belts; here, the prize was a pair of golden bracelets.
Under the stage lights, they gleamed, delicate filigree three-finger-wide bands—more like luxury jewelry than fight trophies.
The thin robe accentuated Qi Ji’s unease. He frowned, noticing the two bracelets were connected by a fine gold chain.
A chill ran down his neck. The bracelets looked less like a prize and more like exquisitely crafted restraints.
The referee placed them on his wrists without waiting for Qi Ji to react.
Qi Ji’s skin, already hypersensitive, recoiled even through the gloves. But it was the positioning of the referee and two hostesses—forming a subtle pincer—that unsettled him most, as if preventing his escape.
Once the bracelets were on, the referee stepped back, letting Qi Ji face the audience.
The golden cuffs clasped his pale wrists, lending him an aura of fragile nobility. A delicate chain draped over his hand and ring finger, flowing along the wrist like a golden stream over smooth white skin.
The gleaming light softened the bruises on his forearms, transforming the boy into a picture of innocent beauty, a little prince untouched by the world.
The referee, voice still monotone, announced, “Congratulations, z011, you are victorious.”
No applause followed. Then he continued, “Now, the winner’s parade begins.”
In underground rings, a parade brought victors close to their supporters. Here, a runway extended along the stage into the audience, replicating that tradition—but among suited spectators, the gesture felt unnatural.
Even exhausted and dazed, Qi Ji noticed the oddity. More unsettling, the referee retrieved a golden neckpiece from the hostess, identical in design to the bracelets.
Thin sheets of gold, with delicate chains hanging at the sides—though exquisite, it resembled a collar. Paired with the bracelets, it formed a complete set of restraints.
Qi Ji refused immediately. “I don’t need it,” he said.
His voice, hoarse and weak from exertion, barely carried. He was at the limit, incapable of straightening fully, every fiber of his being fatigued.
Yet this feebleness didn’t make his instincts any less sharp.
The referee ignored his refusal, moving to fasten the collar. Instinctively, Qi Ji assumed a defensive stance, scanning for escape routes.
It was too late.
A faint electric hiss emerged from the golden bracelets—barely audible, but cruelly present to the wearer.
“Ugh…!!”
Qi Ji bit his lip, suppressing a scream as a whip of electricity lashed at his already hypersensitive nerves, sweat instantly soaking him.
Trembling, eyes raw and tearing, Qi Ji’s tears rolled over the mask, mixing with the blood at his lips, dropping onto the polished floor in tiny pink specks.
A strong force locked onto his delicate neck like a swan offering its throat.
“Click.”
The golden collar clasped firmly around his neck.
The referee, skilled and fluid in movement, avoided the microphone and whispered a warning only Qi Ji could hear: “Behave. The collar is electrified too.”
The cruel shocks lasted half a minute, continuing at five-second intervals every minute, completely nullifying any chance of escape. Qi Ji’s body went numb; only with support from the two hostesses behind him did he avoid collapsing, utterly drained and restrained.
The full set of bindings was now in place: bracelets, collar, body chain, leg cuffs, and ankle cuffs.
The golden restraints paired with the loose white robe gave him an aura of sacred elegance, ethereal and unattainable, as if he had fallen into the world by mistake, untouched by mundane affairs.
The carefully adorned boy was finally secured in a wide, cushioned winner’s chair, which was then hoisted high and carried along the elevated runway cutting through the audience.
The bearers’ steps were steady but excruciatingly slow, allowing every spectator to examine the victor, who should have been proudly receiving cheers, in painstaking detail.
The customary champion parade had been transformed into an exhibition.
As the chair drew near, the audience’s restrained civility shattered, revealing raw desire. Gazes clung to the young champion, pressing down so heavily that even the thin white robe seemed like a mountain crushing his spine, cruelly grinding at his body.
They sought to break his bones, extinguish his vitality, to reduce him to the most fragile, delicate golden canary.
The circuit around the hall revealed every lecherous intent.
The parade, long and tormenting, finally ended. Qi Ji was returned to the stage—and only then did true despair reveal its savage face.
The long-absent auction host appeared at the side of the stage, brimming with enthusiasm, voice booming: “Ladies and gentlemen, the sixth item of today’s auction, one of the highlights of this event, the ‘White Mask,’ has been fully displayed!”
His voice reverberated through the banquet hall, causing the exhausted boy’s eyelashes to tremble.
Sixth item.
Fully displayed.
Qi Ji shivered uncontrollably.
Both the recent parade and the earlier exhibition match had been nothing more than meticulous showcases for the item before auction.
The piercing announcement drilled straight into his mind—
“Now, the thrilling bidding begins—who will claim this beautiful mask? Let us watch closely!”
A drumbeat surged, urgent and intoxicating, while the host loudly declared a living death.
“Starting bid—one hundred thousand!”
Sweat and blood blurred his already strained vision, yet Qi Ji struggled to keep his eyes wide, desperately seeking a flaw in the oppressive encirclement.
He could not…
He could not just—
After all his effort, he could not collapse here in such a wretched state.
Yet Qi Ji was only a nineteen-year-old boy.
He felt pain, shed tears, and met the crushing limit of his body.
He had reached his extreme limit, hope and life extinguished, left only with the cold laughter of the referee holding him.
“Don’t waste your strength, Item Six,” the referee said, voice mechanical and icy, sarcasm the only trace of emotion.
“You’ve been drugged since the second round. Every stage received the dosage flawlessly. Before today’s opening, we doubled it.”
The words drifted like flakes, infiltrating Qi Ji’s mouth, nose, ears, eyes—gradually suffocating every ounce of vitality.
In the fog of confusion, the recent anomalies finally connected into a sinister pattern.
Why had his skin become increasingly sensitive in recent days, unable to tolerate even accidental contact?
Why had the mouthguard tasted so strange before the exhibition match?
Why had his body reacted so intensely during the fight with Bear?
By the second match, two months ago, it had already begun.
The referee leaned closer, voice dropping almost to a whisper, yet piercingly sharp.
“You’ll enjoy it… you’ll shiver in excitement, begging for more.”
“After so many days, with such potent effects, your body will betray you more honestly than you imagine.”
“You’ve been soaked through for a long time.”