Future Masters in Modern Times

Chapter 46: A Stalemate Between Attack and Defense

Bullets poured from the gun barrels like a torrent, raining down on the cage. They didn’t just strike the wolfhounds—they also… struck the boxers. The smiles on the three boxers’ faces froze, and their eyes gradually turned a lifeless gray, devoid of any spark of life. They were all dead, along with the wolfhounds. Until their very last breath, they could not fathom why Max had ordered the shots fired at them. Wasn’t the deal supposed to be that they just had to hold out until the end? Why? Their eyes wide open, they collapsed to the ground. The guards opened the iron gate, and three or five of them went inside together to clear out all the bodies. Zhao Wuji narrowed his eyes and casually absorbed the lingering souls into his body; he had long since guessed Max’s intentions. Max turned around and surveyed them—this group of bewildered boxers—with a solemn, cold gaze. “You must be wondering why I didn’t keep my word. Perhaps some of you have long since come to view me as a psychopath—a murderous maniac—haven’t you?” No one dared utter a word, terrified that Max might order the guards to open fire and riddle them with bullets. “Actually, it’s quite simple. I now demand that you go in without defending—you’re only allowed to attack—until ten minutes have passed. If the next group of boxers, like them, only know how to defend, then they’ll meet the same fate. As for why I didn’t shoot the first group—it’s simple: I’ve changed my mind.” The few surviving boxers from the first group felt a chill run down their spines; they never imagined they’d had such a close brush with death. The boxers cursed inwardly. What kind of logic was this? Suddenly, one fighter couldn’t help but ask, “If we’re not allowed to defend, is it okay to just do nothing?” Max stared at the boxer who had spoken for a long moment, his gaze as cold as ice. “Did I give you permission to speak?” The boxer’s expression changed as he sensed impending doom. “However…” Mays Peak changed the subject. “I’ll let you off this time. If you’d dared to do that at the Siberian Training Camp, you’d have been sent straight to hell.” The boxer heaved heavy breaths, his body drenched in cold sweat. He cast a fearful glance at the group of heavily armed guards and dared not say another word. “Since you asked, I’ll answer you. Inside the cage, aside from defensive actions, which are not allowed, everything else—such as sleeping or dozing off—is permitted,” Max said with a smile. Max was joking—he didn’t mean it seriously, and naturally, the boxers didn’t take it seriously either. If anyone actually tried that, they’d be asking for trouble. “All right, time is limited. Let’s continue,” Max said, his expression turning serious once more. The third group of fighters stepped forward. Though they were all nervous inside, they were in much better shape than the previous two groups. The iron gate slammed shut as they entered, and the wolfhounds were let in as well. Armed with the experience from the previous groups, they didn’t play defense; instead, they each took a side and launched successive attacks on the wolfhounds. Fast! Accurate! Ruthless! Aiming for a one-hit knockout, the third group truly demonstrated their full potential—after all, they were all highly trained fighters. As soon as each boxer got close to a wolfdog, he seized it by the throat. With their throats gripped, the wolfhounds tried to struggle, but their vital points were already firmly in the boxers’ hands. With a single twist of the wrist, a “crack” sounded. The wolfdog’s neck snapped, and another dog carcass lay on the ground. On closer inspection, it wouldn’t be accurate to say they had no defense. The five of them stood with their backs to each other, forming a circle that had unconsciously created a defensive stance. But to say they weren’t on the offensive would be equally incorrect. Didn’t you see all those dog carcasses being tossed aside? Max gave a faint smile, said nothing, merely nodded slightly, and continued to observe the scene inside the cage. Meanwhile, the third group of fighters in the cage was only now realizing that actually facing these wolfhounds one by one wasn’t really that terrifying. Wolfhounds are formidable, but no matter how formidable, could they really be stronger than the opponents they usually face in the ring? They’d faced equally formidable opponents in the ring so many times—why should they be afraid now, facing a pack of wolfhounds? If it came down to a fight, it would be over in just a punch or two. With the five of them working together, the number of wolfhounds steadily dwindled. In the end, only a handful of wolfhounds remained, still struggling. “Time’s up!” Max’s voice rang out, calm and devoid of any hint of meaning. Max glanced at them; the fighters in the cages looked a bit nervous. But to their surprise, a smile suddenly appeared on Max’s face. He clapped his hands and said with a faint smile, “Open the doors. Let them out.” The iron doors swung open. Not a single fighter from the third group was missing; they all walked out. With a faint look of joy on his face, Max glanced at them but didn’t call them out on it; he simply told them to step aside. “I trust you’ve all understood my point by now! The Siberian Training Camp is brutal, but that doesn’t mean we won’t give you a glimmer of hope. For you rookies, I’m still willing to give you a chance. Look—those wolfhounds may seem ferocious, but they’re not invincible. The key is whether you dare to take that first step, dare to launch an attack against them—and when you do attack, whether you can land a single, decisive blow,” Max Youyou said slowly. All the fighters suddenly understood, and a sense of relief washed over them. The performances of the next few groups followed a similar pattern. Aside from a few fighters whose skills weren’t up to par—who were bitten on the neck by the wolfhounds and died from excessive blood loss—the losses in these groups were minimal. “Number 105, wait a moment—let these six go in first,” Max suddenly said. Judging by their numbers, the remaining fighters were Nos. 2531 through 2536, plus Zhao Wuji, No. 105. However, Max left Zhao Wuji out and had the remaining six enter the cage together. What was Max up to? Did he want Zhao Wuji to go in alone? Since six people were entering this time, Max had the guards add a few more wolfhounds to the cage. Even though there were six of them, they didn’t have much of an advantage. Alan followed the other six, preparing to enter the cage. Berken cast a brief glance at Zhao Wuji, his eyes brimming with undisguised contempt. It was Alan, however, who offered Zhao Wuji a word of comfort as he passed by him: “Zhao, don’t worry! When it’s your turn to go in alone, they’ll definitely only put a few wolfhounds in there. You’ll be able to get through with ease.” Zhao Wuji didn’t seem to take the prospect of entering the cage alone at all seriously; his expression was extremely relaxed and natural. Even Max, when his gaze fell on Zhao Wuji, showed a look of puzzlement. “Could it be… he’s really not afraid?” Alan and the others entered the cage, and the few extra wolfhounds were also let inside. Their strategy was no different from that of the previous teams. As it turned out, this strategy proved quite effective. Standing back-to-back, they began a one-sided slaughter of the wolfhounds. Alan’s expression was calm as he observed the wolfhounds, launching a sudden attack the moment he got close to one. One, two… Quite a few wolfhounds fell at Alan’s hands, each killed with a single strike. Berken’s attacks were brutal and fierce; as he struck the wolfhounds, the savagery on his face was unmistakable, and his expression was twisted with cruelty. A wolfhound lunged at Berken. Berken gave a cruel smile, grabbed the wolfhound by the neck, and slammed it into the ground once, then twice, until the animal was completely lifeless. Working together, they were quickly wiped out. In less than ten minutes, only a few wolfhounds remained. Berken suddenly broke away from the group and walked toward the remaining wolfhounds. “You little bastard,” Berken said, clenching his fist until it cracked, a cruel smile on his face. “Die!” Berken clenched his fist and brought it crashing down. The wolfhounds had long since lost their fighting spirit, and with the drug’s effects wearing off, they were nowhere near as ferocious as before. Facing Berken’s attack, they could only howl in vain. Their howling ceased abruptly. Berken stood triumphant, his hands covered in blood. His chest and lungs were brimming with a violent rage; unless he vented it, he wouldn’t feel satisfied. In that very moment, he imagined the wolfhound at his feet as Alan, as Zhao Wuji. No one knew what went on inside Berken’s mind. Extremely narrow-minded, extremely selfish; toward the weak, he was jealous, tyrannical, cruel, and deeply envious. In short, he was a man with a deeply twisted psyche. It’s not his power that’s frightening—it’s his depravity.