Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 6: The Shortest-Lived Gang Leader in History

It took Zhao Wuji just one fight to transform from a weakling who was constantly bullied into a figure no one dared to look in the eye. In the days to come, whenever any inmate mentioned Zhao Wuji, they would recall that fight—and the four inmates whose heads had been smashed into their chests—and lie awake all night, grateful they hadn’t crossed paths with that devil. The atmosphere today was somewhat unusual. In small groups, inmates were whispering among themselves, and without exception, the topic of their conversations was Zhao Wuji—especially since they’d learned that he’d once been bullied day in and day out, and his sudden rise to prominence had caught everyone off guard. As a result, the attention surrounding his fight with Ivanov was extremely high, tugging at the hearts of nearly everyone. As people passed the cell in the corner of Block B, everyone treaded carefully, yet couldn’t resist stealing a peek inside. With a click, the door opened, and Zhao Wuji walked out with a calm expression, showing not the slightest hint of tension despite the impending battle. His gaze swept over the group of furtive inmates, startling them as if a catastrophe were about to strike—their faces turned ashen in an instant. Zhao Wuji paid them no mind and stepped out of the cell; today’s battle with Ivanov was merely a minor interlude in the course of the day. He walked unhurriedly through the morning light along the long corridor. There wasn’t a single soul in sight; the area around him seemed to have become a vacuum. It appeared that yesterday’s demonstration had achieved its intended effect. Zhao Wuji couldn’t care less whether these inmates feared him or harbored any other emotions toward him. As he’d always said, as long as they didn’t provoke him, he wouldn’t even bat an eye if they turned the prison upside down. It’s worth noting that the guards’ attitude toward him had improved somewhat. Though their faces remained expressionless, they actually gave him a slight nod as he walked out. Then, Zhao Wuji noticed the lead guard approaching him. “Zhao, I’m Kerry. I’m the guard in charge of your section.” Zhao Wuji nodded, looking Kerry straight in the eye. His intuition told him Kerry had something to say. ““All right, Zhao. I’m here to tell you something: winning this match is very important to you.” After saying that, he turned and walked away. Clearly, when Kerry said this match was important, he wasn’t referring to a matter of life and death—though, of course, if Zhao Wuji lost, he would indeed lose his life. But the “importance” Kerry mentioned seemed to imply something else. Could it be becoming the boss of Block B? The truth would only be revealed if he won this fight. Almost all the prisoners had gathered in front of the ring, their faces filled with anticipation. How would this duel turn out? Ivanov arrived. The moment he appeared, a huge number of prisoners below the ring began cheering, their voices roaring like wild beasts, stirring the passion in everyone’s blood. Ivanov’s face was contorted with fury. Today’s battle was of the utmost importance to him; he had to win. Only by tearing that Eastern kid to shreds could he vent the hatred burning in his heart. With that thought, his gaze turned to Zhao Wuji, who, aside from his usual cold expression, showed no sign of any unusual emotion. Sensing Ivanov’s gaze, Zhao Wuji met his eyes, staring straight at him with nothing but indifference. This indifference drove Ivanov nearly mad—how dare he ignore him? Who did he think he was? Ivanov’s hatred for Zhao Wuji reached its peak; “Tear him apart, tear him apart,” a voice screamed relentlessly in his mind. Zhao Wuji’s appearance also sparked a wave of cheers from the audience. Many of those cheering were the weak who were usually bullied, and Zhao Wuji’s sudden emergence gave them a huge sense of relief. “Zhao, I’m rooting for you. Beat that self-important Polar Bear to a pulp.” The words came from a frail white man with a bandage still wrapped around his head—clearly not one known for his physical strength. His remarks drew some agreement from the crowd but infuriated Ivanov’s supporters. What a joke—how could this Eastern kid possibly defeat Ivanov? After all, Ivanov was a former drill sergeant at a Siberian Training Camp—a natural-born killing machine. Dealing with this Eastern kid would take no more than a single finger. They had automatically ignored Zhao Wuji’s performance from the previous day—whether intentionally or not, who knows. The commotion in the audience didn’t faze Zhao Wuji or Ivanov. Ivanov was the first to remove the prison uniform that had been tightly bound around his torso, revealing a body of steel-like muscles. Those muscles seemed to hold boundless explosive power—a true symbol of strength. Seeing Ivanov’s physique, the supporters below the ring raised their arms and chanted,“Long live Ivanov! Send that Eastern kid packing—this isn’t his place to run wild!” “……” Zhao Wuji’s supporters naturally fired back, and the chaos below the ring reached a fever pitch. Who was Zhao Wuji? How could he possibly be swayed by Ivanov’s seemingly powerful physique? He had seen through Ivanov’s true strength at a glance; in this contest, victory would undoubtedly be his. This wasn’t mere confidence, but the calmness that comes from an absolute advantage—he viewed this contest with detachment, for victory lay entirely within his grasp. Zhao Wuji also removed his prison shirt, and the crowd’s eyes lit up. Although Zhao Wuji’s muscles didn’t appear as explosively powerful as Ivanov’s, his physique was nothing short of perfect—every muscle was just the right size, and their proportions across his body were perfectly balanced. If one were to apply strict principles of biomechanics, one would discover that such a physique actually maximizes the expression of one’s own strength. Ivanov looked at Zhao Wuji, a flash of contempt crossing his eyes, as the prison guard below the ring shouted, “One last confirmation: are you entering this duel of your own free will, and do you accept full responsibility for all consequences?” Ivanov let out a loud, defiant laugh. “Eastern boy, I’ll give you one last chance. It’s not too late to concede defeat now. Just kneel down and beg for mercy, then cut off one of your own hands, and I’ll spare you this time. Otherwise, I’ll make your death a gruesome one.” Ivanov stared intently at Zhao Wuji, as if trying to detect even the slightest trace of fear, but he failed. Faced with Ivanov’s brazen words, Zhao Wuji met his gaze impassively. “I’ll return the favor. If you kneel before me and beg for mercy, and sever the major tendons in all four of your limbs, I might just spare your life.” Zhao Wuji’s flat tone kept provoking Ivanov. His opponent could fly into a rage or be filled with fear, but he simply couldn’t tolerate Zhao Wuji’s indifference—it felt like being looked down upon from the very depths of his soul, and that feeling was excruciating. “Arrogant!” Ivanov roared in fury. The prison guard waved his hand, signaling the official start of the duel. Right from the start, Ivanov unleashed a powerful punch, intending to end the duel cleanly and decisively with brute force. Yet, the moment he threw the punch, Zhao Wuji firmly grasped his hand. Zhao’s grip was like an iron vice, leaving Ivanov unable to move. Realizing he couldn’t free his hand,Ivanov launched a lightning-fast kick. His leg possessed astonishing power—few could withstand it—and he was certain Zhao Wuji wouldn’t be able to block it. To his astonishment, however, Zhao Wuji raised his own leg and blocked the attack. Feeling the steel-hard impact against his leg, Ivanov’s expression changed—he had clearly underestimated his opponent! He couldn’t help but regret his carelessness, but what good would that do now? The only thing that mattered at the moment was winning this match. With that in mind, Ivanov unleashed a barrage of attacks that rained down like a storm. Zhao Wuji parried them with unhurried precision. Though the moves seemed numerous, to the prisoners watching from below the ring, it all happened in the blink of an eye. The crowd was dazzled by the frenzy but couldn’t make out the details. Finally, someone shouted, “Look! “That Oriental kid is no good at all—he’s been too busy parrying the whole time. Looks like he’s about to lose.” “Shut up, you bastard! Can’t you see that Ivanov hasn’t managed to land a single real hit on Zhao Wuji?” On the ring, Ivanov inwardly groaned. His attacks felt as if they were hitting a pile of cotton—not a single one had landed effectively. It seemed as though Zhao Wuji was merely parrying his strikes, but in reality, Ivanov had already been forced into a defensive position. Why hadn’t Zhao Wuji launched an attack yet? First, he didn’t want to make his advantage too obvious; second, he wanted to see what kind of techniques the martial arts masters of this world possessed. After a moment, sensing that Ivanov’s attacks were gradually weakening, Zhao Wuji decided he would wait no longer. Suddenly, Zhao Wuji created distance between himself and Ivanov, then leaped high into the air. In that instant, his legs unleashed an uncountable number of kicks, each one striking Ivanov’s chest with tremendous force. Zhao Wuji’s legs delivered a full 4,000 jin—a full two metric tons—of force. No matter how powerful Ivanov’s muscles were, he couldn’t withstand such a ferocious assault. He stood frozen on the ring, his eyes vacant, a trace of astonishment still lingering. Then his chest heaved violently, his throat spasmed,and with a “waah,” he vomited up large mouthfuls of blood mixed with fragments of internal organs. When not a single trace of life remained in him, his body seemed as if its soul had suddenly been ripped out, and he collapsed with a thud. Zhao Wuji stood there quietly, as if none of this had just happened. The moment Ivanov died, he absorbed his life essence—an amount that accounted for a full two percent of the total. It seemed Ivanov was indeed much stronger than most. The area below the ring fell into dead silence. The crowd stared blankly at the scene, as if they hadn’t yet come to their senses. After quite a while, a thunderous roar erupted from the crowd.