(Sorry for the delay, guys)
Special Long Chapter - 3260 Words
Café Meeting - Invite
School was officially out for the break, and the air carried that strange mix of freedom and restless energy. Bruce had been spending his afternoon at a quiet corner café, enjoying a slice of blueberry cheesecake and the rare feeling of not having homework looming over his head.
The door's bell jingled and Tao stepped inside, his usual easygoing grin missing. He spotted Bruce immediately and made a beeline for the table, phone clutched tightly in his hand.
"You're early," Bruce said, raising an eyebrow. "Something up?"
Tao slid into the chair opposite him, leaning in. "Got the Invite" He tapped his phone awake and turned the screen toward Bruce.
Location: Hillcrest Mansion.
Time: Saturday night, 9:00 p.m.
Bruce read it twice, his brows lifting. "Hillcrest Mansion? That's not a fight club venue…."
"It's more like a battle ground" Tao said, his voice low. "I asked around and found out the owner's name is Eric Hillcrest, holding the second position in the Shadow Ranking. He not only likes to fight, but also organize so he is more like the administrator for the current Shadow Ranking. This Saturday, he is hosting the end of year Highschool party at Hillcrest Mansion and the combat will be the entertainment."
Bruce leaned back, considering. "So… fighting in front of people sipping champagne and laughing from a balcony? Sounds like a weird arena, but fine. What's the catch?"
"The catch," Tao said pointedly, "is that this isn't just a fight—it's a show. They'll expect you to put on one and Feng Jinhai's supporters? They're gonna be loud, and they're gonna be against you as he is in the ranking and you are just a middle schooler!"
"Just a middle schooler..huh" Bruce's lips curled into a faint grin and took a bite."Then I'll make sure they give a show worth remembering."
Tao groaned. "You're impossible."
Bruce stabbed the last bite of cheesecake with his fork. "No, just motivated."
He leaned back in his chair, sipping the last bit of his iced tea. "So… is everyone coming?" he asked, curious if the whole group would be there for the fight.
Tao's expression dimmed a little as he set his phone on the table. "Nah… the invite's only for you. The others can't come—it's a high school party. Next year, all of us can attend."
He frowned, leaning forward with his elbows on the café table. "I don't like this, Bruce. You'll be there alone. If something goes wrong… no one will be there to help you." His tone carried more worry than he probably intended.
Bruce just replied with a reassuring smile. "Relax, Tao. I'll be fine. Besides, I need you to be my alibi. If Uncle or Jackie calls you, I'm at the movies with you and the others."
Tao let out a slow sigh, still not convinced. "You're really set on this, huh?"
Bruce nodded firmly. "Completely. And you know me—I'm not walking in without a plan."
That earned a reluctant grin from Tao. "Fine. I'll cover for you but if you come back with even a scratch, I'm telling Uncle."
Bruce chuckled. "Fair enough."
Saturday Night
Bruce stood by the door, jacket zipped, hands in his pockets. Uncle glanced up from his tea. "Eh, don't stay out too late, ah? Movies can wait, but sleep cannot."
Jackie grinned from the couch. "And don't eat too much junk. Popcorn is fine, but if you come back smelling like fried squid, Uncle's going to make you drink herbal tea for a week."
Bruce chuckled, trying to keep his voice steady. "Got it. I'll be back before it gets too late."
Inside, the words felt heavier than they should have. He hated lying—especially to his family, but if he told them the truth, there was no way they'd let him go and this fight… it wasn't something he could back out of. Not now!
Uncle waved him off. "Have fun. And remember—One more thing… ah, forget it. You're already late."
"Go, go," Jackie added with a laugh
Bruce forced a smile. "Alright, see you later."
He stepped out into the cool night air, the sound of the shop's door closing behind him. As he walked toward the bus stop, a knot tightened in his chest.
He told himself it was just for one night—just for this match. After that, no more lies.
The bus pulled up with a hiss, and he climbed aboard, taking a seat by the window. As the city lights blurred past, his mind was on the fight waiting for him.
Bruce stepped off the bus at a quiet stop, far from the city's bustle. The streetlamps here were sparse, and the road stretched into darkness with only the moon to guide him.
His sneakers crunched over the uneven gravel as he walked, the night air cool against his skin.
After thirty minutes, the faint glow of lights ahead grew stronger, and soon the massive Hillcrest Mansion came into view.
It was a striking sight even from a distance—a sprawling, three-story estate of pale stone and grand architecture, its tall columns and arched windows giving it an air of wealth.
The driveway leading to the front was lined with perfectly trimmed hedges, while wrought-iron gates stood as the first line of defense, their black metal bars twisted into elegant, swirling designs.
Luxury cars—sleek sports models, polished sedans, and even a limousine—purred past him, their tinted windows hiding the partygoers inside.
The drivers barely glanced at him, but Bruce didn't mind. He kept walking at his own pace until he reached the gates.
Two professional-looking security guards in black suits stood by, earpieces glinting under the gate's lantern light.
One of them held a tablet, scanning each person's name and photo before letting them in. The other kept his eyes sharp, silently sizing up everyone who approached.
When Bruce stepped forward, the guard's gaze flicked to him.
"Name?" the guard asked curtly.
He gave his name without hesitation. The guard tapped the tablet, his brow lifting slightly.
"First time here, huh?"
Bruce nodded.
"Alright, listen up—no phones, no pictures inside. This isn't some social media circus." The guard's tone was firm, almost rehearsed.
The second guard stepped forward, giving him a quick pat-down.
"No phone," he confirmed.
"Good. Go through the main door, straight through the mansion, and you'll find the backyard near the pool. The ring's set up there."
He simply nodded and stepped past the gate.
The driveway curved toward the mansion's grand entrance, where guests were being dropped off by sleek black sedans and sports cars that gleamed under the porch lights.
The front steps, wide enough to fit a small crowd, led up to tall double doors framed by marble columns.
Bruce walked toward them, his sneakers scuffing against the smooth stone path. He couldn't help noticing how out of place he looked—his worn jacket and casual black pants stood in stark contrast to the expensive watches, tailored suits, and designer dresses worn by the others.
As Bruce approached, a few of the guests glanced his way. Their eyes swept over his plain jacket, casual pants, and scuffed sneakers.
A couple of them whispered to each other, the faint curl of their lips giving away their various thoughts and the most prominent one was cheap, out of place.
Bruce didn't bother returning the looks. Let them think what they want. He kept walking, passing between them with the steady stride of someone who had no time for petty judgments.
He kept his head high. He wasn't here to impress anyone with wealth. He was here for the fight.
The heavy double doors opened as another pair of guests entered, and Bruce slipped inside with them.
Warm golden light spilled over polished marble floors and towering ceilings. A grand chandelier sparkled overhead, casting fractured glimmers across the room. The air was rich with the scent of wine, perfume, and money but Bruce's attention didn't linger on the wealth or the stares—he had one destination in mind.
Without a pause, he made his way deeper into the mansion, toward the sound of loud music and chatter that hinted at the backyard beyond.
Stepping through the glass doors at the rear of the mansion, he was hit by a wave of noise and a completely different atmosphere from the polished elegance inside.
The backyard was alive—wild and chaotic. Girls in bikinis laughed and splashed in the crystal-blue pool, chased by guys who looked like high school seniors.
Music from massive speakers thumped in the air, the bass so heavy it buzzed in his chest.
Clusters of people leaned around tall beer kegs, red cups in hand, the scent of alcohol mixing with the smell of chlorine. Groups danced and moved to the beat near the DJ booth set up at the far side, lights flashing in rhythm.
It looked less like a formal high school gathering and more like one of those college parties he had only seen in movies—loud, reckless, and dripping with chaos.
Beyond the glittering pool, Bruce's eyes locked onto the real reason he was here—a makeshift fighting ring set up on the neatly trimmed grass. Bright floodlights illuminated the space, drawing a crowd like moths to a flame.
The people gathered around were an odd mix—some still dripping from the pool in bikinis or board shorts, others in athletic gear clearly here to fight, and a handful in suits and cocktail dresses, watching like it was some exclusive sport.
He wove through the noisy, restless crowd, ignoring the smell of alcohol and the bursts of laughter around him.
He made his way to the drinks table, grabbed a cold bottle of water, and twisted it open.
Taking a slow sip, he stepped back toward the edge of the crowd, eyes scanning the ring. The air was electric with anticipation, but Bruce simply stood there, calm and waiting, blending into the sea of strangers.
Bruce let his gaze wander over the chaotic backyard, the noise of laughter, music, and splashing already starting to feel repetitive. He tipped back his water bottle, half out of thirst, half out of nothing else to do.
Then, movement on the mansion's second-floor balcony caught his attention.
Up there, above the restless crowd, stood a cluster of people in suits and elegant dresses—clearly the VIPs of the night but what stood out wasn't the glamour; it was the empty space around two figures who seemed untouched by the party's chaos.
The first was the school queen herself–Qin Yue, perfectly dressed, hair catching the light, holding a chilled water bottle as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Her gaze was fixed on the fighting ring below, calm and assessing and beside her stood a good-looking guy, suit jacket off, crisp white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, a black tie hanging neatly in place. He leaned against the balcony railing, arms resting comfortably on it, a bottle of water in one hand.
There was no flirting, no forced smiles—just a quiet, comfortable silence between them, the kind that said they didn't need to fill the air with words out of necessity.
Even from here, Bruce could feel the subtle weight of their presence… and the unspoken rule that no one else dared intrude
Qin Yue's eyes swept over the crowd, then paused. She spotted Bruce. For a few seconds, she just looked at him—expression unreadable.
Following her gaze, the man beside her also turned his head toward Bruce. Qin Yue gave a small nod, and Bruce returned the gesture as usual.
It was their usual, almost wordless form of acknowledgment.
Bruce's attention shifted to the man beside her. He wondered for a moment if their quiet exchange had stirred any irritation or jealousy because he definitely looks like her boyfriend but instead of the sharp edge of rivalry, the man's look carried something else entirely—curiosity, as if he'd just stumbled upon something unexpectedly interesting.
Bruce's attention shifted back to the fight area. The heavy bass of the music cut off abruptly, replaced by a sharp crackle from the speakers.
An adult man in black martial arts attire stepped into the ring, a microphone in hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice boomed, instantly pulling the backyard's chaos into silence,
"Welcome to tonight's main entertainment!" His eyes swept across the crowd with a showman's grin. "You all know why you're here. The school rankings have… vacancies."
A ripple of laughter and murmurs passed through the crowd.
"This year, more than a few high school fighters have passed out of Wanshan High" He let that hang in the air before continuing. "Which means… tonight, ten matches will decide who earns the right to claim those empty ranks."
Excitement began to build. Drinks were set down, conversations cut short, and bodies shifted closer to the ring.
"But," the announcer said, raising a finger, "the second match of the night… is unique and never happened before" The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles, the air buzzing with anticipation.
"Now—let's start with the first bout! Fighting for Rank 28!"
The first challenger stepped forward—a sharp-faced, athletic young man with a Chinese look, wearing crisp martial arts clothes. His movements were light, controlled, the walk of someone used to the mat.
From the opposite side, his opponent appeared—tall, broad-shouldered, with the rugged look of an all-American athlete.
He casually shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it aside, loosening his tie before rolling his white shirt sleeves to his forearms. With a flick of his shoes, he stepped into the ring barefoot, every motion slow, deliberate, as if to say 'I don't need to rush to beat you'
"The fight begins!" the man in black shouted, stepping back from the center of the ring.
The American—Cole Harris, broad as a doorframe—took a half-step forward, his shoulders loose, but his eyes locked on his opponent.
Across from him, the Chinese fighter–Liu Fen dipped into a low, balanced stance, arms slightly extended, palms open.
Bruce could immediately tell—two different worlds of combat were about to collide.
"Classic MMA versus traditional martial arts," the announcer's voice cut over the mic. "Cole Harris—known for explosive takedowns and brutal ground control. Versus Liu Fen—sharp footwork, clean strikes, and the patience of a snake."
The first exchange was almost a dance. Cole lunged in, hands darting for a clinch, but Liu slid back with a sharp sidestep, his palm snapping forward to strike Cole's forearm.
It was a deflection, not an attack, but it bought him space. Cole came in again, and this time Liu countered with a quick front kick—just enough to make the big man step back.
"See that? Liu's keeping him at range. No brawling, no wrestling—he's controlling the space!" the announcer hyped, his voice feeding the crowd's energy.
Liu 's style was fluid, each step a measured retreat into a sharp counter. He circled, weaving left and right, dropping low to send a sweeping kick toward Cole's lead leg. The American grunted, but stayed on his feet, shrugging off the sting.
For the first minute, Liu's game plan worked. Cole's grabs found only air, and the strikes he took were light, but accumulating.
Bruce could see it—Liu was dictating the fight, using distance and timing to keep the MMA fighter off balance, but then… Liu's breathing changed.
His footwork slowed just a fraction. The sweat beading on his forehead wasn't just from heat.
The announcer caught it too. "Ohhh… Liu's gas tank might be dipping, folks and Cole Harris is still fresh."
Cole's next lunge was faster, harder and Liu tried to pivot away, but this time, Cole's hand clamped around his wrist. In one fluid motion, the American closed the distance, his other arm wrapping behind Liu's back, driving him toward the grass.
The crowd roared as Cole landed in a dominant position, pinning Liu's torso with his weight. A short, brutal right hand slammed into Liu's ribs, followed by another to his jaw.
Liu twisted, trying to escape, but Cole shifted his grip and trapped the Liu's arm in a tight lock.
The announcer's voice cut sharply: "That's a Kimura lock—hyperextension incoming—he'll break it if Liu doesn't tap!"
Liu grimaced, his free hand slapping the ground twice. The ref stepped in instantly, prying them apart.
"Winner—Cole Harris! Rank twenty-eight is his!"
The crowd erupted, half in cheers, half in groans, while Bruce watched in silence, already measuring what he'd just seen.
Bruce analyzed the last fight in his head, picking apart Liu Fen's movements and pinpointing where the Chinese fighter could have turned the match in his favor—or at least countered Cole Harris's grappling.
He was midway through visualizing a counter when the commentary for the next match cut through his thoughts.
The announcer's voice boomed with excitement. "And now, ladies and gentlemen… history in the making. For the first time ever in the Wanshan rankings, a middle schooler will face a high school senior!"
That drew a ripple of murmurs and laughter from the crowd.
Qin Yue's attention sharpened instantly, her eyes fixed on the ring. The man beside her—clearly her boyfriend—mirrored her focus.
"In this corner," the announcer continued, "Feng Jinhai, entering his final year of high school, staking his rank to humble a junior!"
Feng Jinhai stepped into view, Zhao Lifen on his arm. She looked smug, scanning the crowd until her gaze locked on Bruce. Her lips curled into a mocking smile, and she tossed a sarcastic comment. "Oh, look who finally showed up. I thought you'd run away."
Bruce didn't respond—his face was unreadable, his mind already deep in the coming fight.
"What happened Big talker, Cat got your tongue? Guess the nerves finally hit you." She asked with a grin but again, he didn't respond and his silence seemed to irk her even more.
She turned her cheer toward her boyfriend, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. Feng smirked at her encouragement, projecting the confidence of a man certain victory was already his.
Feng Jinhai stepped into the fight area wearing crisp white martial clothes, the back embroidered with a fierce tiger in gold and black. The image almost seemed to roar under the lights.
Bruce moved forward without hesitation. He slipped off his shoes at the edge of the ring and shrugged off his jacket, revealing a black, oversized, long-sleeved T-shirt.
The Wanshan uniform is two-layered, making it difficult for anyone to gauge Bruce's actual physique. He never removed his school jacket while on school grounds, and the first time he had taken it off—outside of school—his friends had been stunned by what they saw.
Beyond that small circle, no one had the faintest idea of the strength hidden beneath his loose clothes
Right now, the loose fitted t-shirt made his lean frame look smaller—almost puny—concealing the muscle beneath.
The crowd didn't hold back.
"Is this a joke?"
"That kid's gonna get flattened."
"Middle schooler against Feng Jinhai? Over before it starts."
"That oversized shirt's a good choice—it'll hide the bruises after Jinhai's done with you." Zhao Lifen didn't miss a chance, yet no reply from Bruce which infuriated her.
Bruce ignored them all. His gaze never left Feng.
They took their positions, standing opposite one another.
Bruce's face was calm but sharp. Eyes locking onto his opponent with a predator's stillness.
Feng stood relaxed, chin slightly raised, wearing the look of a man who believed the fight—and the win—was already his.
The commentator's voice rang out over the crowd. "Are both fighters ready?"
Bruce and Feng Jinhai each gave a firm nod.
"Then—begin!"
-----END-----
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