Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 11: The Combat Fanatic

“Please have a seat, Captain Jero.” The warden’s expression remained impassive as he pulled a cigar from an exquisitely crafted box on the table and offered it to Jero. “I don’t smoke that stuff.” ” Jero refused, his face expressionless. The warden nodded as if suddenly realizing something and withdrew the cigar. “Thank you, Captain Jero, for your long-standing contributions to maintaining prison security while leading Delta Force.” Jero’s face remained as still as water. “Mr. Warden, I’m not here to hear that. I just want an explanation—my soldiers cannot have died in vain.” Before coming here, Jero had already contacted the warden to inform him of the situation. “When all the inmates were in their cells, why wasn’t he there, but instead moving freely around the prison? Who gave him that privilege?” At this point, Jero’s voice rose sharply. This wasn’t his fault—Delta Force shouldn’t be suffering losses like this; they belonged on the battlefield. “Captain Jero, I’m already aware of the situation. This prisoner is named Zhao Wuji. He commands considerable respect in Block B and is currently the leader there.” The warden paused. “Well, precisely because he’s the leader, I granted him these privileges.” Jero’s expression turned extremely grim. “What a joke. What rights could a prisoner possibly have? Even if he’s the leader of Block B, so what?” The warden’s face suddenly went blank, and he said in an icy tone, “Captain Jero, this is my prison. I decide what privileges inmates have—it’s not for you to meddle. Besides, how was I supposed to know Zhao Wuji would break into the restricted zone?” Faced with the warden’s rather brazen defense, Jero was at a loss for words. “The matter has already been reported to higher-ups. We’ll see how it’s handled,” Jero said as he stood up. The warden nodded. “Captain Jero, I’ll be taking this into consideration as well.” With that, he extended his right hand. Jero gave it a casual glance, then extended his own right hand to shake the warden’s. “I’ll be going now!” ““You’re welcome, Captain Jero.” The warden waved his hand, signaling that Jero could leave. With a loud “bang,” Jero shut the door to the warden’s office, cast a cold glance at it, and then left. Inside the office, the warden seemed to sense his gaze. He snorted softly, took a deep drag on his cigarette, and exhaled. “Zhao Wuji, you really do know how to surprise me.” The warden didn’t blame Zhao Wuji in the slightest for this incident. After all, a very important figure was coming to the prison, and the sole purpose of that person’s visit was Zhao Wuji. “Having caught the eye of this important figure, what’s killing a Delta Force member, anyway? Hehe…” The warden narrowed his eyes, muttering to himself, and finally broke into a laugh. United States of America. Caesar’s Black Fist Arena. On the ring, two fighters faced off against each other. Below the ring was a frenzied crowd; a large portion of these diverse individuals were societal elites in the outside world, yet those who should have maintained their composure now acted as if they’d gone mad—they shouted, screamed, and some even stripped off their clothes. In addition to the area below the ring, there were numerous VIP suites reserved for the powerful and influential. In one of the top-tier VIP Lounges, a handsome, blond young man watched the match with an air of elegance. He held a glass of premium Lafite in his hand; the wine glowed with the most alluring hue. With a gentle swirl, the seductive red lingered on the glass’s walls, and a rich aroma wafted through the air. The young man took a light sniff, seemingly intoxicated by the scent. “Young Master Adelaide, this is a boxer we sourced from Thailand. His nickname is ‘Fist of Death,’ and he’s an exceptionally formidable fighter.” A middle-aged butler bowed slightly and spoke respectfully. This young man was Adelaide Du Pont, the first in line to inherit the Du Pont family fortune. Though he possessed exceptional business acumen, he had a particular passion for martial arts. Every year, he spent vast sums of money to recruit boxers from all over the world to fight for him. His ambition was not to lead the family to the pinnacle of success, but to train the world’s most formidable boxer. Adelaide nodded, turning his gaze toward the boxer from Thailand in the ring, and said, as if to himself, “I’d really like to scream like that. Amanda, do you think I could do that?” The butler named Amanda bowed again: “Master Adelaide, that is not proper etiquette.” Adelaide chuckled softly, “I knew it,” a hint of resignation in his voice. Housekeeper Amanda clearly saw the resignation in Adelaide’s expression. “Master Adelaide Du Pont, you are the hope of the Du Pont family. Your every word and action represents the Du Pont family’s image.” “Would it be all right if there were no outsiders present, Housekeeper Amanda?” “It should be the same whether there are outsiders present or not, Master Adelaide.” Amanda had been serving the Du Pont family since her grandfather’s time; her family was, in effect, a lineage of butlers. From a young age, she had been instilled with the values necessary to serve the Du Pont family. Reminding her master to maintain his composure at all times was one of her duties. “All right, let me watch the game in peace.” Adelaide resumed the demeanor of a young aristocrat; the look of resignation had vanished from his eyes as he waved his hand and said “Yes, young master.” In the ring, the boxer from Thailand, nicknamed “Fist of Death,” faced the undisputed champion of Caesar’s Underground Boxing Arena, “Satan the Ripper.” No one had ever survived a fight against him, and those who did met gruesome deaths. He enjoyed immense popularity in this top-tier underground boxing arena. “Fist of Death,” with his hands wrapped in bandages, shielded his chest with one hand while holding the other in an attacking stance, his eyes fixed intently on Satan. Satan gave a contemptuous smile, his face contorted in a ferocious grimace; even the slightest movement revealed the sheer power of his muscles. “You’re the fiftieth, kid. Enjoy being torn apart by me!” Satan bared his teeth, his eyes brimming with bloodlust. The crowd below grew even more frenzied; Satan’s every move sent the crowd into a frenzy. “Satan, tear him apart just like you used to!” “Send him to hell, Satan!” Fist of Death sensed the pressure and decided to strike first. Muay Thai has always been known for its ruthlessness; once an enemy is within close range, they face the most devastating blows. He picked up his pace, moving with remarkable agility—a quality often lacking in Western boxers. In the blink of an eye, Fist of Death had closed in on Satan and launched a fierce knee strike. The attack was so powerful that it could have severely injured an ordinary person. With a “thud,” the knee struck Satan’s abdomen, but Fist of Death felt as if he’d hit a wall. His expression changed, and he immediately retreated—“If the first strike misses, retreat immediately” was his creed. Satan rubbed his stomach; he hadn’t suffered a single scratch. “Are you just tickling me, you little boxer from Thailand?” Satan’s words were an insult to the “Fist of Death.” His expression instantly darkened—Thai boxers have a strong sense of pride and will never tolerate being insulted. And Satan’s contempt and disdain clearly enraged the Thai boxer. In the VIP Lounge, Adelaide’s eyes betrayed a hint of disappointment. “It seems this Muay Thai fighter is no match for Satan.” He seemed to have already foreseen the outcome of the match. In the ring, the Hand of Death unleashed blow after blow against Satan, yet not a single one managed to land a solid hit. Finally, Satan was enraged by the Hand of Death’s relentless barrage. How could he allow himself to be toyed with time and again by such a weakling—no better than a crawling insect? He was sick of it. Finally, as “Fist of Death” lunged forward once more, Satan delivered a straight, heavy punch—without any flashy moves. The sheer power of the blow was evident in his muscles, which bulged like an explosion. “Boom!” The punch slammed into Fist of Death’s head, sending him crashing to the ground, already knocked unconscious by the blow. The frenzied chants from the crowd below the ring began again: “Tear him apart! Tear him apart…” Satan let out a savage laugh as he looked down at the unconscious Fist of Death, approaching him step by step, truly resembling a deadly demon from hell. He spread his massive palm, grabbed the back of Death’s Fist’s neck as if pinching a chick, then hoisted his entire body into the air. With a “thud,” he slammed him onto the ground, then repeated the motion—slamming him again and again. In this way, Death’s Fist was knocked awake only to be knocked unconscious once more, now on the verge of death. His head and face were covered in blood. Finally, Satan grabbed him by the throat, a look of madness flashing in his eyes. His massive hand tightened violently, clenching down—and tore! A jet of blood spurted out; in his hand, he was clutching a chunk of flesh and skin, still connected to the carotid artery and a small section of the trachea. Death Fist convulsed violently, blood from his neck splattering all over the ring, and then, just like that, he died. Another soul claimed by Satan. Satan clenched his fists and raised both hands in a gesture to the audience, who responded with wild cheers. “I still lost,” Adelaide said calmly, though his eyes were as cold as ice. He didn’t spare the corpse on the ring a single glance. Having been high above everyone else since childhood, he didn’t care about the lives of these minor figures. But he did care about the outcome of the match. “Master Adelaide, this is my failure,” Housekeeper Amanda bowed her head, admitting her dereliction of duty. In fact, Amanda held a fairly high position within the Du Pont family, even though she was merely a housekeeper. Adelaide, of course, understood this and said indifferently, “Butler Amanda, this isn’t your fault. I was the one who asked you to find a fighter from Asia. It seems my choice was wrong—there’s too great a physical disparity between Eastern and Western races, and he was clearly at a disadvantage in the ring.” “Young Master Adelaide, there’s something I haven’t told you yet,” Housekeeper Amanda said suddenly. “Hmm? What is it?” Adelaide asked, somewhat curious. “It’s like this: I once asked Dolan—the one who serves as warden at Lobestan Prison—to keep an eye out for any inmates skilled in combat. Just a few days ago, he recommended an inmate to me.” “Oh?” Adelaide’s interest was piqued. He knew Lobestan Prison—it was said to house the world’s most dangerous criminals, so the fighters there were bound to be formidable. “Where is he from?” Adelaide asked. “He’s from Huaxia. I think his name is Zhao Wuji.” “Huaxia?”