Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 5: Revenge

Just as Ivanov was basking in the crowd’s attention, a discordant voice rang out: “Ivanov, now that you’re done, get down here quickly! Ivanov froze, his gaze following the source of the voice until it finally settled on a spot in the crowd. “Am I seeing things?” Ivanov couldn’t help but doubt his own eyes—it was actually a short Asian man, the sort he could take down with a single punch. Ivanov’s eyes brimmed with contempt as he looked down on the Asian man. He was certain he wouldn’t even need to say a word—his supporters would beat him half to death on their own. Sure enough, furious glances fixed themselves on Zhao Wuji, and rage blazed in their hearts. “You yellow-skinned pig, I’m going to kill you!” “Bastard.” “……” Zhao Wuji watched coldly as the crowd gradually closed in on him. With a soft snort, he swung his two iron-like arms in a wide arc, sending several of the men closing in on him stumbling backward. Ignoring their stunned gazes, he leaped forcefully from the floor of the ring onto the platform. The ring was two meters high; it was virtually impossible for an ordinary person to climb up using only their legs without any tools. Zhao Wuji’s move instantly silenced the jeering crowd. Ivanov was somewhat taken aback; this short Eastern man before him did not seem as weak as he appeared on the surface. He toned down his fierce, malicious glare slightly and prepared to wait and see how things unfolded. Once on the ring, Zhao Wuji couldn’t care less about what Ivanov was thinking. He swept his gaze across the crowd, pausing briefly a few times along the way, then said coldly, “I am Zhao Wuji. My purpose for stepping onto this ring today is simple: revenge—and I’ll fight to the death!” He extended his finger, pointing into the crowd. “You, you, you, and you—come up here!” The ones he pointed at were the very prisoners who had beaten him that day. Zhao Wuji had been pondering how to exact revenge without facing repercussions from prison authorities, and this ring now presented the perfect solution to that dilemma. Today, Zhao Wuji would face them four against one and kill them all in public—first, to settle his personal grudge, and second, to establish his authority. Although he had no desire to be a “boss,” he also didn’t want just any small-time thug to be able to bully him, so intimidating these inmates was absolutely necessary. Three of the four prisoners were white, and one was Black. When Zhao Wuji called them out, they were taken aback at first, then it dawned on them—weren’t these the Asians they’d beaten to death that day? How had they come back to life? A look of bewilderment and suspicion flashed across their faces. Although they’d just witnessed Zhao Wuji show off a bit of his skills, their first impression of him had already taken root, and deep down they still looked down on him. “Yellow-skinned pig, you’ve got to be kidding. You want the four of us to get in the ring, and then you’re going to take on all four of us at once?” A wave of unrestrained laughter echoed through the crowd, grating on the ears. “Since you’re asking for death, we’ll grant you your wish.” The four prisoners climbed onto the ring with savage grins, making sure to curry favor with Ivanov while they were at it. Originally supporters of Ross, they were now at a loss as to how to align themselves with Ivanov’s camp following Ross’s death. Beating this “yellow-skinned pig”—who had disrespected Ivanov—to death was undoubtedly a golden opportunity to prove their loyalty. In his heart, Ivanov had already sentenced Zhao Wuji to death. He was certain Zhao Wuji would never make it off the ring alive, and he saw no point in wasting his energy on a dead man. With that thought, he merely gave the four prisoners a slight nod. But as his gaze swept over Zhao Wuji, a murderous glint shone unmistakably in his eyes—he could already picture Zhao Wuji being carried off the ring, his body mangled and lifeless. Such was the fate of anyone who dared to offend him. “Hmph, you’re going to die a miserable death,” Ivanov thought to himself. Everyone below the ring looked on as if they were in for a show. Just moments ago, he’d dared to insult Ivanov, and now he was brazenly claiming he could take on four men alone—yet he probably couldn’t even handle one! “Stupid yellow-skinned pig,” was the thought that crossed everyone’s mind. “Can we begin?” Zhao Wuji turned his gaze to the prison guard and asked coldly. The guard nodded, a hint of pity flickering in his eyes. The four inmates surrounded Zhao Wuji, their faces twisted into savage grins. “Yellow-skinned pig, looks like we didn’t beat you enough that day. What’s this? You’re volunteering to get beaten by us today? Well, if that’s the case, don’t blame us!” With that, the four inmates swung their fists, ready to attack Zhao Wuji. “Who’s looking to die?” Zhao Wuji sneered inwardly. He’d waited for the right moment—and now was the time! He’d been biding his time, seeking the perfect opportunity to deliver a single, lethal blow that would also serve as a powerful deterrent. He moved, his aura surging rapidly. In that moment, he seemed to transform into a wild beast ready to devour its prey. A chill ran up everyone’s spines and into their brains, and the scene that followed would remain etched in the memories of everyone present for the rest of their lives. “Thud,” “thud,” “thud,” “thud”—four muffled sounds, with not even a moment for a scream to escape. It was all over. The four prisoners, who had been acting so arrogant just moments ago, were now… Zhao Wuji had, in that single instant, violently smashed their heads right into their chests! Now they looked like headless ghosts, still standing without collapsing. A moment later, they staggered and fell one by one, blood gushing from their necks and staining a large patch of the ring red. With his vendetta avenged, Zhao Wuji felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. He then cast a contemptuous glance at the prisoners below the ring who hadn’t yet regained their composure. None of the prisoners dared to meet his gaze. “Is there anyone else who dares to defy me? Come on up.” His tone was flat yet icy. Today, he intended to establish his authority in front of all the prisoners; he wanted every one of them to look at him and feel fear deep in their hearts. After casually absorbing the life essences of these four men, his gaze locked with Ivanov’s. He could clearly see the complex mix of emotions in Ivanov’s eyes; Ivanov’s inner self was struggling, wavering. The guards, trembling with fear, carried away the four prisoners, who were now barely recognizable as human. What kind of strength would it take to smash a person’s head into their chest like that? He wasn’t human at all—he was like a demon. Compared to Zhao Wuji’s ferocity, the other inmates looked like docile little lambs. “I’m challenging you.” Just as expected, Ivanov, in order to maintain his authority as the boss, had no choice but to step forward. His mind was in a complete turmoil—who knows where such a fierce fighter had suddenly come from. “Time’s up. Recess is over.” Just as Zhao Wuji was about to respond, recess ended. The guards urged the prisoners to return to their cells one by one. It seemed Ivanov’s plan to challenge Zhao Wuji today had come to naught. Standing tall on the ring, Zhao Wuji pointed at Ivanov with a cold expression. “At this time tomorrow, you’ll be carried off just like them.” Ivanov’s facial muscles twitched violently as he glared at Zhao Wudi with eyes brimming with venom. It was this man right in front of him! He had completely ruined Ivanov’s plans for the day. Ivanov had finally managed to become the boss of Block B, only to now find himself facing this predicament. “You despicable Oriental, you dog’s bastard.” His words were filled with the utmost venom, his hatred for Zhao Wuji reaching its peak—unaware that every move he made now was nothing more than a death throe. Zhao Wuji narrowed his eyes, a faint yet dangerous glint flashing within them. “Go ahead, keep cursing! Tomorrow will be the day you die.” Ivanov was far more formidable than the other prisoners, but compared to Zhao Wuji, he was nothing. Sensing the accumulated life essence within him—as much as five percent—he knew there was still a long way to go before his second enhancement. Once he underwent that second enhancement and his physical strength was boosted again, his power would double from its current level. On the way back to the cell block, most inmates kept their distance from Zhao Wuji, that fearsome specter, terrified that a single outburst of his might send their heads crashing into their chests. In stark contrast, however, were a few shrewd, opportunistic types with sharp eyes who kept fawning over Zhao Wuji along the way. Among them were prisoners who had previously supported Ross; they had been torn over whether to join Ivanov’s faction, and the appearance of this formidable figure undoubtedly presented them with an opportunity. Meanwhile, some of Ivanov’s supporters also wanted to become Zhao Wuji’s subordinates—perhaps because they had realized that Ivanov’s strength paled in comparison to Zhao Wuji’s. Of course, Zhao Wuji paid no attention to these people. He wasn’t yet powerful enough to fear nothing; his top priority now was to speed up his strengthening process—after all, one day he would have to leave this damned prison. Back in his cell, Zhao Wuji lay on his bed, listening as the commotion outside gradually subsided. He closed his eyes, preparing to get some sleep. Just then, a prison guard was hurrying toward a certain location. This was the Center of the prison. At its center stood a building, distinctly separate from the rest of the facility. The guard approached the building, presented his ID, and entered. The interior of the building was resplendent, in authentic European style. The guard walked across expensive Persian carpets, passed through a long corridor, and finally stopped beside a room. “Knock… knock,” he knocked on the door. “Come in!” A deep, authoritative voice called out. The guard pushed open the door, and the rich aroma of cigars hit him immediately. He stepped inside and bowed his head slightly. “Warden, I have a report to make.” The swivel chair behind the mahogany desk turned toward the guard. A white man in his fifties removed the cigar from his mouth and casually tapped the ash into a jade ashtray. “Go ahead.” “It’s like this, Warden. You asked me to keep an eye out for inmates skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and today I discovered one…” A moment later, the guard left the warden’s office, while the warden, after a moment of contemplation, made a phone call. The subject of that call was none other than Zhao Wuji.