Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 4: Iron Fist

Silence reigned in the cell, broken only by the Black man’s low, pained gasps. He raised his head with all his might, his starkly contrasting black-and-white eyes brimming with malice and hatred. Just moments ago, Zhao Wuji had reduced him to this state—looking like a dead dog—using only ten percent of his strength. “You bastard, how dare you hit me.” The Black man clearly hadn’t yet grasped the situation; trembling, he crawled back to his feet and swung another punch—one that lacked the power of his previous blow. A look of fury grew more and more intense on his face, as if he were already seeing himself knock Zhao Wuji to the ground with a single punch. Zhao Wuji’s eyes remained cold as he cast a brief glance at the fist coming toward him. “Still not giving up!” A mocking smile played at the corner of Zhao Wuji’s mouth. Before the black man’s fist could reach him, Zhao Wuji thrust his knee forward with all his might, slamming it viciously into the man’s chest. A series of crisp cracking sounds rang out as the black man’s ribs snapped one by one under the terrifying impact,He was then hurled violently against the cell wall. A gurgling sound came from the black man’s throat as he coughed up mouthfuls of blood; he was clearly on the verge of death. “You brought this on yourself,” Zhao Wuji said expressionlessly, without even glancing at him. The Black man coughed up several mouthfuls of blood and, trembling, pressed his hand against the alarm bell. Beep… beep… A flurry of hurried footsteps followed, and several prison guards armed with stun batons rushed in. They peered inside from the doorway and immediately saw the black man’s pitiful state. They immediately flung open the cell door. The lead guard stepped inside, signaled for his men to carry the Black man away, then coldly demanded, “What’s going on here? I think you owe me an explanation!” Zhao Wuji noticed the guard’s hand clenched tightly around his baton—a clear sign he was about to attack. “If you want to know the truth, go ask that Black man. Ask me? I don’t know anything.” “Are you looking to die?” The guard swung his baton violently. The surrounding inmates all turned to look at them. Zhao Wuji realized this guard clearly intended to use him as an example to intimidate the others. Realizing this, Zhao Wuji’s anger flared even more. His right hand clamped down on the guard’s wrist like a pair of iron pliers; with a violent jerk, he dislocated the guard’s joint. The baton fell to the ground, and the guard screamed in agony as he clutched his dislocated arm. Seeing their supervisor’s agonized screams, the other guards rushed over and began striking Zhao Wuji with their batons. “Crack,” “crack”—accompanied by the sounds of joints popping out of place—several guards let out screams as piercing as a pig being slaughtered, just like their supervisor. After doing all this, the protagonist coldly eyed the prison guards. The reason he hadn’t killed them was that Zhao Wuji was currently unable to withstand the power of firearms; if he provoked these guards into using their guns, it would spell trouble. Given the circumstances, Zhao Wuji’s actions could at most be interpreted as self-defense, so the guards couldn’t just fire on him at will. However, Zhao Wuji was well aware that he wouldn’t be able to escape punishment this time. Once their howling subsided, the lead guard shot him a wary glance—after all, prison guards feared retaliation too. Facing such a ruthless man, years of experience told him that the only safe course was to follow the rules to the letter; retaliation was best avoided! This clearly demonstrated their tendency to bully the weak and fear the strong. A group of more than a dozen guards quickly arrived. The lead guard pointed at Zhao Wuji and ordered, “Take him to solitary confinement.” This time, Zhao Wuji offered no resistance and was led by the guards to the isolation cell. Solitary confinement cells were set up by the prison to punish inmates. Inside, inmates were allowed only one meal a day; there were no beds, and they were not permitted to sit down. Thus, when tired, inmates could only stand with their eyes closed to rest. With a clang, a heavy iron door swung open, revealing a row of adjoining isolation cells. The entire isolation wing had a gloomy, chilling atmosphere, as if it had stood there for countless years. The guard pointed to one of the cells and said, “You—get in there!” As he stepped inside, the door slammed shut with a clang. Zhao Wuji surveyed his surroundings: moss grew on the floor, and most of the wall plaster had peeled away, exposing the interior structure of the walls. A nauseating, musty stench filled the isolation cell. Zhao Wuji’s confinement lasted two full days, but that was nothing to Zhao Wudi. So he simply narrowed his eyes and began to rest. Time flew by, and a day passed in the blink of an eye. During that time, a prison guard brought him a meal—a few hard pieces of bread and a small cup of water—the taste of which, naturally, left much to be desired. After an unknown amount of time, Zhao Wuji, with his keen hearing, suddenly caught the sound of two people talking. “I hear that a few high-security inmates in Section A have set up a fighting ring this time. Anyone can volunteer to step into the ring to settle their grudges with others in public—no holds barred. Rumor has it that even the warden has approved this method of resolving disputes through combat.” “It’s not just Block A—I’ve heard there are similar arenas in Blocks B and C as well.” Hearing this, Zhao Wuji’s mind stirred, and he formed a plan. Time flew by, and in the blink of an eye, Zhao Wuji’s two-day solitary confinement came to an end. “Your confinement is over. Come with me!” Accompanied by the click of the lock, the iron door swung open, and a prison guard walked into the isolation cell and said. Zhao Wuji opened his eyes, which shone brightly—he no longer looked like someone who’d been locked up for two days. Seeing how alert Zhao Wuji appeared, the guard couldn’t help but feel a bit puzzled. Stepping out of that sunless, dark, and gloomy place—though he was still inside the prison—the brilliant sunlight gave him a warm feeling. Outside the solitary confinement cell, inmates were everywhere. It was, after all, their recreation time. After being returned to Block B, Zhao Wuji was told he could move about freely within the designated time and area. Recalling the conversation he’d overheard earlier, Zhao Wuji realized these inmates were all heading toward a specific spot. So he casually grabbed a prisoner hurrying past him. “Who’s looking for trouble?” It was a burly white man who, upon realizing he’d been grabbed, turned ferocious and was about to fly into a rage. Zhao Wuji raised an eyebrow. Without wasting words, he snapped the man’s elbow joint with a sharp crack. “Ah…” The white man let out a scream, looked up, and his eyes clearly betrayed fear—he was a classic wimp. “Excuse me, what do you want?” It was funny, really; even though his joint had been dislocated and he was clearly in pain, he forced a smile—though it looked worse than a cry. “I’m asking you—are you guys going to watch some kind of cage fight?” The white man nodded repeatedly. “Then lead the way.” Zhao Wuji spoke in a tone that brooked no refusal; the white man didn’t dare utter a single word of protest and obediently led Zhao Wudi to the cage in Zone B. And so, a white man with his arms hanging limply at his sides led an Asian man down the hallway, drawing the curious glances of many inmates. “We’re here. This is the place. Look, isn’t it…” The white man, whose joints had been dislocated, looked miserable. He shook his limp arm and asked cautiously. Zhao Wuji cast a brief glance at him but said nothing. He simply gave the man’s joint a casual tap—another crisp snap—and the prisoner was delighted to discover that his joint had been reset. Still shaken, he stole a glance at Zhao Wuji, then shuffled away, keeping a safe distance, afraid that this demon might take his frustration out on him again if he wasn’t satisfied. Outside the prison cell was an open area, and by now, a large crowd had already gathered there. At the front of the noisy crowd stood a makeshift ring, built by the prisoners themselves. Though it didn’t look like much, it was definitely sturdy. Two prisoners were already standing far apart on the platform. Both were Caucasians; one was extremely well-built and, judging by his facial features, appeared to be from Russia, while the other was also quite tall but clearly not as imposing as the Russian—he appeared to be a white man from Europe or America. Both had taken off their shirts, revealing their well-developed muscles. Whispers rippled through the crowd; clearly, both prisoners preparing to fight were quite notorious. Ivanov, a Russian, had once served as an instructor at the Siberian Training Camp before becoming a hitman. He was responsible for dozens of deaths and was captured by Interpol five years ago; it was said that Interpol suffered heavy losses in the operation to apprehend him. Ross, an American, is a notorious international thief who has stolen several priceless jewels. He is highly skilled in martial arts and was arrested four years ago while committing a crime in the United States. The two men had each gathered a group of inmates as their followers in Block B. They had been engaged in open and covert struggles for a long time to vie for the position of boss. This arena fight, however, gave them an opportunity to settle the matter once and for all in a single bout on the ring; the winner would become the boss of Block B as desired, while the loser would lose his life. Several prison guards stepped up to the ring and asked them once more if they were voluntarily participating in this fight—with no regard for life or death. Ivanov let out a savage laugh. “Of course, Ross. Get ready to be torn to pieces by me!” “Tear Ross apart! Take him down!” the supporters in the crowd roared. Ross sneered, “Stop talking big. Today, I’m going to turn you, this Polar Bear, into a dead bear.” “You dead bear, go crawl back to the Arctic!” “FUCK!” Instantly, a cacophony of curses erupted from the crowd below the ring. Supporters on both sides of the ring began shouting that they would tear the other side to pieces. The prison guards quickly stepped in between the two groups, separating the brawling crowds, and announced that the fight was officially underway. Zhao Wuji watched the two men coldly from the sidelines; in just a moment, he had already determined the outcome of the fight in his mind. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the ring, including the prison guards maintaining order. The fight began! Ivanov fixed his gaze on Ross, slowly closing in on him before suddenly slashing out with his right palm, aiming to strike Ross’s neck and render him incapacitated. Clearly,his attempt failed. Ross blocked the strike with his elbow and immediately thrust out his knee, slamming it hard into Ivanov’s abdomen. But suddenly, his pupils contracted as he realized with horror that his knee had been seized by Ivanov’s massive hand. A savage glint flashed in Ivanov’s eyes as he slammed his elbow into Ross’s chest; the impact instantly knocked Ross off balance. “It’s almost over,” Zhao Wuji guessed Ivanov’s intention. Ross was knocked to the ground. Ivanov immediately pressed his knee against Ross’s chest, preventing him from getting up, then delivered another heavy punch—like a hammer—to Ross’s temple. “Ugh…”Ross’s eyes widened suddenly, his gaze growing increasingly unfocused. Blood flowed heavily from his nostrils and mouth—Ivanov's powerful punch had caused serious injury to Ross's head. A trace of reluctance still lingered in Ross’s eyes, but the reality was clear: if he couldn’t win the match, the only option left was to die. “Cheer on! Long live Ivanov! The United States citizen has gone to meet Satan!” Thanks to Ivanov’s overwhelming strength, he emerged victorious from this fight. And from this moment on, the forces in Block B would face a purge. Wave after wave of cheers erupted from the crowd below. Ivanov’s supporters wore smug grins, in stark contrast to the prisoners who had backed Ross—a deathly silence hung over them, and every face was ashen. With their leader, Ross, beaten to death, their future status in this prison was all too clear. Even if they sided with Ivanov, they would remain second-class citizens. They could already envision the miserable lives that lay ahead. Ivanov waved to his supporters. The prison guards who had been watching from the sidelines stepped onto the ring and lifted Ross’s body. At the same time, they all smiled at Ivanov to show their goodwill. On their own, these guards were no match for these vicious criminals, so building a good relationship with their boss was undoubtedly a wise choice. Zhao Wuji still wore an impassive expression; who won or lost between these two on the stage had nothing to do with him. As long as they didn’t provoke him, it didn’t matter to him who became the boss. As the corpse passed by him, Zhao Wuji casually absorbed Ross’s living soul into his body. Although the accumulation of living souls was still far from enough for his second enhancement, even a mosquito is meat—he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to build up his reserves.