Chapter 29

Cao Yang stepped into the octagon. His opponent, Liang Feng, was already standing in the center. The two measured each other carefully.

From physique alone, Cao Yang was half a head taller—if this were an official match, they wouldn’t even be in the same weight class.

But in these no-rules underground fights, size didn’t matter. All that counted was who stayed standing.

A voluptuous beauty in nothing but a skimpy bikini stepped onto the stage, holding up two placards—one with Cao Yang’s name, one with Liang Feng’s.

She swayed her hips as she circled the cage, raising the boards high for the crowd to see. The message was clear: time to place your bets.

Cao Yang’s record was simple: name, height, weight, fight record: zero. A total newcomer.

Liang Feng’s record was different: ninety-nine fights, ninety-two wins, seven losses. This would be his hundredth bout.

And everyone knew—those seven “losses” weren’t real. He had thrown those fights for business reasons, surrendering early on purpose. He had never once been knocked out. Plenty of people were furious about his fixed matches.

Tiexiong and Jim were among those burned—when they bet on Liang Feng to win, he’d lose; when they bet on him to lose, he’d win. Didn’t even bother hiding it.

They knew the Guangxi gang had set them up, but they were powerless to fight it.

In the ring, it was hard to guarantee someone could win, but it was all too easy to make sure someone lost.

And they weren’t the only victims—other bosses had tried sending in supposed experts, betting on Liang Feng to lose. All of them had been fleeced.

“Cao Yang! Go! Kill that dog bastard!” Tiexiong shouted from below, waving frantically—obvious he had wagered heavy on Cao Yang.

Jim, by contrast, was calm, puffing on a cigarette and sipping his drink, waiting quietly.

Around them, the audience and bosses rushed to place bets. Almost all went on Liang Feng—after all, apart from the obvious fixed fights, he had never lost.

To them, this Cao Yang kid might look tall, strong, and muscular, but he was nothing. They had seen a two-meter-tall Russian who looked like a bear nearly beaten to death by Liang Feng in the same ring.

A bell rang. Betting closed. The room went quiet.

The sexy ring girl stepped between the fighters, shouted: “Start!”

The moment the word fell, Cao Yang felt danger coming.

Instinctively, he jerked his head left—Liang Feng’s fist whooshed past his cheek.

So it’s started?

Now he understood what the “light signal” meant. These people played dirtier than anything he had seen on TV.

But he had no time to think—Liang Feng’s follow-up attack came instantly.

His kick shot straight for Cao Yang’s crotch. If it landed, it would be catastrophic.

Cao Yang didn’t dare take it lightly. One hand shielded his groin as he stepped back, his right leg shooting forward—his knee slammed into Liang Feng’s ankle, forcing him back two steps.

A faint smile curved Liang Feng’s lips, as if acknowledging Cao Yang’s skill.

But he gave no breathing room—springing up, diving down, knees aimed at Cao Yang’s chest, elbow aimed at his forehead.

A vicious move—double strike from above and below, a sure kill for most.

But Cao Yang wasn’t “most.” His reflexes were lightning. As the elbow neared, he spun like a top, slipping past it.

At the same time, his right fist hammered into Liang Feng’s knee.

The crowd roared—most cheering for Liang Feng to crush him. Only Tiexiong and a handful of long-shot bettors yelled for Cao Yang to kill Liang Feng.

By Xida’s side, a bodyguard watched, amused. Seeing Cao Yang punch against a knee, he shook his head—it’s over. To him, the outcome was already decided.

But things didn’t go as he thought.

Cao Yang’s fist collided with Liang Feng’s knee—Liang Feng felt like he had slammed into steel, not flesh.

Shockwaves rattled him backward several steps. He stared at Cao Yang in disbelief.

He had thought the same as his bodyguard—fist against knee was suicide. Leg power dwarfed arm power; the kneecap was far harder than hand bones. With the added force of body weight and momentum, no punch could withstand it.

He expected Cao Yang’s hand to be shattered.

But instead, Cao Yang only shook his fist, smirked: “Not bad.”

It was praise. He had never lost a fight in his life, never even been hurt. But this Liang Feng had made him feel pain for the first time.

To Liang Feng, though, the words sounded like mockery. Rage burned in him, but he didn’t dare attack recklessly now. He studied Cao Yang warily, unable to make sense of him.

By rights, anyone who could withstand that blow must be a true martial artist—yet what kind of expert would use such a “stupid” move? If Cao Yang had applied his strength more cleverly, Liang Feng might already be gravely injured.

So far, they had exchanged barely two and a half moves. Cao Yang had only defended. Now, with Liang Feng hesitating, Cao Yang didn’t push either. He simply waited, watching, ready to learn.

Three minutes crawled by with no action.

The fighters could wait. The audience could not. Shouts and curses filled the hall, urging them to fight to the death.

Tiexiong’s voice was the loudest—he jumped to his feet, screaming, practically needing a megaphone.

Cao Yang shot him a displeased glance. On the way here, that guy had told him Liang Feng was a descendant of Southern Shaolin Buddhist boxing. But from what he saw, that was complete nonsense.

He didn’t know much about Shaolin boxing, but Liang Feng’s moves looked far more like Muay Thai—just like in the movies.

Distracted by this thought, he gave Liang Feng an opening.

Liang Feng sprang again, this time with both knees aimed at Cao Yang’s chest, left elbow and right fist striking together—a three-pronged assault with all four limbs.

Cao Yang bent low, his body a blur dodging the knees, then mimicked the move—driving his own elbow hard into Liang Feng’s side.