Chapter 10

Pei Yusheng stood at a distance, and with his counter-surveillance skills, there was no way the six men surrounding Qi Ji would even notice him. That made observing them all the easier for him.

All six were hulking men, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, with muscles bulging and temples prominent—clearly trained fighters. They had chosen their positions perfectly, completely blocking any escape routes. The warning about Qi Ji being targeted had been accurate.

Under the pale streetlights, Pei Yusheng squinted at the boy, whose thin frame was elongated and fragile-looking. From their first meeting, he had noticed the boy had potential—his posture, his movements—but a closer look revealed just how skinny Qi Ji was. His upper arms were almost small enough to wrap around in one hand; even in someone’s grip, he was only a tiny bundle of a person. There wasn’t much flesh to squeeze.

Moreover, the boy’s skin was thin; a simple gust of wind would flush his ears red. Physically, he seemed ill-suited for violent confrontation. In terms of raw strength, Qi Ji had no advantage. This was clearly a street brawl, far harsher than controlled sparring. Pei Yusheng hadn’t seen Qi Ji fight directly before, but his stance and movements indicated formal training; he carried himself as if drilled in military precision.

For ordinary opponents, that would be more than enough. Against these street fighters, though, the odds were slim. With six men, Qi Ji’s chances looked grim.

Pei Yusheng observed carefully. The boy seemed to notice the danger; his steps slowed, though he hadn’t yet met the men’s gaze. Despite being in a dark, narrow alley behind the high-end Huating Club—normally empty at this late hour—the deliberate muffled approach of the six men was unsettling.

Qi Ji suddenly stopped and reached into his pocket. Pei Yusheng thought he might be pulling out a cigarette to steady himself. But when the boy withdrew it, Pei Yusheng realized—after a slight delay—that it wasn’t a normal cigarette. The paper wrapping contained larger, coarser tobacco fragments.

And then came the shock: Qi Ji wasn’t lighting it. He was chewing it.

Chewing tobacco was far harsher than smoking, its potency shooting directly up the nerves, sharpening reflexes. Ordinary people would collapse under the intensity; only seasoned veterans or those accustomed to danger could handle it. Pei Yusheng, despite his wide experience, never expected this seemingly delicate, obedient-looking boy—who appeared perfectly suited for a desk job and student awards—to be capable of such a thing.

The six men, closing in, were massive compared to the slight boy. Their forearms were thicker than his thighs. Before any words or threats, the imbalance in sheer size and force was terrifying.

Pei Yusheng climbed atop a nearby wall, hidden from the streetlights, observing from above.

At the center, Qi Ji was no longer the fragile boy he appeared to be. Even as blows rained down, he struck back with equal ferocity, trading damage for damage. His movements were sharp, precise, and unexpectedly brutal.

Beyond his striking skill, Pei Yusheng noticed another advantage: Qi Ji’s agility and speed. He could anticipate the men’s attacks, evade, and counterstrike almost preemptively. Within less than a hundred moves, Qi Ji had already mapped out their basic tactics.

As one man lunged, Qi Ji ducked and twisted out, delivering a flying kick to another’s chest. Pei Yusheng raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise and interest.

This kind of adaptive, instinctive response was rare—even in elite soldiers. It suggested long-term combat training and real-world experience. This was no ordinary intern from a tech company; this boy had been forged in a far harsher environment.

Pei Yusheng’s curiosity was piqued, his mind racing: where had this seemingly delicate, compliant boy learned such lethal techniques, and how had he cultivated this deadly composure?

The autumn wind swept through the street, cold enough to make anyone shiver, yet it seemed to stoke a fire in Pei Yusheng’s interest.

Qi Ji’s opponents were strong individually, but their coordination was flawed. More men didn’t help them; in fact, it constrained their movements. Qi Ji, small and fast, had become the perfect target to exploit their missteps.

Soon, several of the attackers were already injured, some from friendly fire, while Qi Ji remained unscathed. The leader, frustrated, shouted to two men to fall back.

At that precise moment, Qi Ji, like a coiled predator, launched a flying kick. It struck the leader square in the face, sending blood and a tooth flying, and knocked over another attacker who hadn’t had time to react.

Even Pei Yusheng, three-time champion of his special forces combat team, couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer power, precision, and timing of the strike.

This was the advantage of speed. A leg strike carried immense power, but it was equally risky. In any martial arts style, extending a leg left large openings in the body, creating deadly opportunities for opponents—a fact so notorious that there was even a saying: “Raise your leg and lose half your home.”

But Qi Ji’s strikes were lightning-fast, delivered with force and pinpoint accuracy. Before the leader could react, he had already landed a kick squarely on the strongest man, sending him flying two meters away. The most formidable fighter among the six was instantly taken out.

The remaining men hadn’t even processed what had happened before they saw their leader hurled through the air. With the strongest down and another trampled in the process, the remaining four stood no chance; Qi Ji quickly dismantled them one by one.

From his vantage atop the wall, Pei Yusheng could observe every detail of the chaotic fight. The boy’s lean frame flowed like liquid, each movement pleasing to the eye. There was a perfect harmony between his delicate form and the raw force behind each strike. Amid the blood and violence, there was a startling, almost aesthetic beauty.

The night wind scattered the clouds, and the moonlight poured softly over his features. In that instant, Qi Ji was like a moonlit night-blooming flower—ephemeral, breathtaking. Yet to Pei Yusheng, this display was a hundred times more vivid than any pristine blossom.

Just as hours earlier, when the same person had opened a bottle of liquor: pure, focused, yet inadvertently igniting a blaze in the witness’s heart.

Under the night sky, the boy moved with the grace of flowing water. Elbows struck, knees rammed, joints locked. Heavy punches, throat-grappling, high sweeping kicks. Blood and force rose in a violent wind, infused with a dense, intoxicating aura. Like a thick, white mist, it lingered silently, and when Pei Yusheng came back to his senses, the air seemed steeped in the boy’s ferocity.

After a long moment, the final scream lingered, and the alley lay strewn with fallen bodies—except for that slimmest figure, still standing.

The dim light left only the moon to highlight him. The boy, soaked in crimson blood, breathed heavily, brushing away drops from his long lashes. On his wrist was a flat, coarse cord, soaked and darkened in blood, more like a black shackle than an ornament, pressing against his pale, bruised wrist, binding it tightly. One could almost wish to cradle him in their arms, to hold him captive forever.

The night thickened, and Pei Yusheng’s gaze grew darker than the cold evening.

Though he hadn’t participated in the fight, his chest felt as though it had been struck—exploding with a deafening roar. A howl of desire surged from his core.

…To hold him, to bind him for life.

“Ha…”

Qi Ji’s heavy breaths echoed in the now silent alley, like a worn bellows. After felling all six attackers, he struggled to catch fresh air through the iron-tasting blood in his mouth. His previous concussion hadn’t fully healed; the violent exertion had brought dizziness crashing back. Old injuries compounded with new, and after this brutal battle, even walking was unsteady.

He coughed, the blackness before his eyes slowly dissipating. With difficulty, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and carefully placed the chewed, blood-tinged tobacco inside, rewrapping it. The taste lingered fiercely, mixing the harsh tobacco with metallic blood, clawing at his throat.

Weakly, he coughed again, surveying the area. He then skirted the fallen men and debris, tossing the paper into a tall, ineffective trash bin by the wall. Despite its ineffectiveness, the accumulated waste reeked of rot and dampness, assaulting Qi Ji’s already acute senses, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

The dim streetlight faded entirely, leaving only darkness and the pounding in his temples. He pressed a hand to his sharp, throbbing forehead, gasping through the pain.

Then he heard it: the whistle of a deadly swing, filled with malice and brutal intent.

“Whoosh!”

Followed instantly by a scream.

“Ah—ahhh!!”

The wail pierced the cold night, causing Qi Ji’s pupils to constrict. Less than a handspan above his head hovered a long, black, spiked iron rod, as long as an arm. The corroded metal gleamed ominously at its sharp tips. One more second, and it would have struck his skull.

The leader wielding it grimaced, veins bulging on his forehead, jaw locked. Amid his roar came a sharp crack—the sound of a joint dislocating. His hand could no longer grip the iron rod. With a clang, the weapon hit the ground, and the leader collapsed like his spine had been drained of strength.

Standing behind him was a man who had stopped the swing with just one hand. Moonlight washed over his handsome face like a silver god.

Qi Ji froze, eyes widening. He watched the snarling, nearly two-meter-tall man collapse, toppling onto the filthy ground, unable to sit upright.

With a tap of his heel, the man sent the fallen rod bouncing into the air, kicking it away with precise force. The iron rod, whistling through the night, struck another would-be attacker rising to ambush, crushing his skull and sending him sprawling into a row of trash bins.

Two assailants neutralized without effort.

After the noise faded, Pei Yusheng adjusted his sleeves, then looked down at the boy.

“Little one,” he said, his voice low, lazy, and teasing, “be careful after a fight—don’t let anyone hit you from behind…”

Before he could finish, the boy suddenly wavered.

“…?!”

Instinctively, Pei Yusheng reached out. The slender boy collapsed into his arms, and he caught him firmly, holding him completely against his chest.