Tension coiled around the arena like a living thing. Scarface was not here for leisure—her scars and tattoos, her fragile frame, her smaller stature meant nothing in the face of the sheer will beneath her skin.
It was her presence, her audacity, the sharp, dangerous intelligence behind her eyes, that made every man feel like a fool for underestimating her.
As the only female candidate competing against veteran men who has seen the darkest of the humanity, the wise men dared not underestimate her.
But there will always be arrogant fools who would go knocking for trouble, only to shoot themselves in their feet.
Some of the men had tried attacking her secretly in the days before, hoping to humiliate her behind the supervisors' watchful eyes.
Each returned with bloody faces and bruises, the memory of failure etched deep into their skin. They returned with the walk of shame and dread. For the wicked female demon who leisurely beat them up without even breaking a sweat.
She had laughed then—quietly, coldly—because every attempt to break her had only revealed the weakness of their own arrogance, and their lack of skills thereof.
Scarface stepped fully into the arena. Shadows from her hooded jacket clung to her like a cloak, accentuating the deadly curve of her tattooed snake and the scars that ran across her face. Her eyes scanned the arena, narrowing, calculating.
The air seemed to thicken with the pulsating tension, charged with electricity. Every heartbeat, every breath of the crowd felt like a drum, calling her into action.
Her fingers trembled. Excitement coursing through her veins.
And somewhere in the crowd, the tension snapped. A man lunged forward with a crude blade, aiming for her ribs, and the scene exploded into motion.
Scarface was no longer an indolent spectator. She moved like a shadow unleashed—quick, fluid, precise. The oversized jacket flared as she twisted, dodging the attack effortlessly. In a single motion, her fist met the attacker's jaw, sending him sprawling into the crowd. Shouts erupted again, but this time, they were laced with disbelief, shock and confusion.
For some reason, Scarface seemed to delight in punching people square in the face. Like a bad habit. Like breathing.
Little Scarface didn't talk much. But when she did, her words were like knives dipped in sewage — they made people instantly furious, irrational, ready to murder her for just opening her mouth.
And tonight was no exception.
"BITCH! Who the fuck do you think you are!?"
"Presumptuous little maggot!"
"Ridiculous — fucking ridiculous!"
"Say that again! Say that again so I can rip your throat out!"
"Ugly brat!"
"Eat shit, you arrogant cunt!"
"Look at her scars, hah, probably got her face chewed by pigs!"
The shouts overlapped into a storm of incoherent rage. The mob seethed like a pit of snakes, their curses stabbing the air, drawing in even the guards who stood tensely at the edges.
The dark-skinned man who had first called her out clenched his fists so hard the bones cracked. Scarface, however, just tilted her head, chewing on a blade of grass like a cow bored at a festival.
That smug disinterest only enraged the men further.
The more impatient ones muttered threats under their breath, itching to rough her up, to crush the tiny disfigured girl who mocked them without fear.
A burly, sleazy man with scars splitting his lips and oil dripping off his skin finally snapped. He licked his cracked mouth, his eyes glinting with perverse hunger, and lunged forward with greasy fingers.
"Bitch! I'll fuck that smugness out of you! I'll break you down till you whimper like a dog! Let's see how ugly your cunt is when I split it wide open!"
His words detonated the crowd.
"HAHAHA! You'd stoop that low?"
"Even dogs wouldn't sniff that slit!"
"She's so ugly her pussy probably has teeth!"
"At least she's got a hole! HAHAHA!"
"Bet she pisses acid — touch her and your dick'll rot off!"
They jeered, they howled, they laughed themselves red. The mob became drunk on its own cruelty, some men egging the sleazebag on, others mocking him for even wanting to touch her.
A few men who had once been beaten bloody by Scarface cackled in glee, chanting:
"Rip her clothes! Tear her apart! Show us the monster pussy!"
In their frenzy, they forgot the guards. They forgot the rules. They forgot that inside the Li's territory, fighting meant disqualification.
"HAHAHA! Maybe she doesn't even have a hole — just a tiny meat stick dangling!"
"HAHA! Who knows, she's half a man already!"
The vulgar chorus shook the ground.
The sleazebag's hand stretched closer, trembling with anticipation. Scarface's half-shadowed face didn't twitch. Her eyes were empty, void of even contempt.
Then—
A crack like snapping branches.
"AAGGHHHHH!"
The man's scream ripped through the air, silencing everything. His arm bent backward — grotesquely, unnaturally — twisted until it looked like a rag doll's limb spun too far.
It dangled wrong. Creepy.
Like a toy made to hug someone behind its back.
The man dropped to his knees, squealing like a slaughtered pig as his shoulder popped and his veins bulged purple.
Everyone froze.
Scarface spat out her blade of grass and dusted her hands. She looked like a farmer brushing off dirt, not a child who had just destroyed a grown man's arm.
The sleazebag's other arm jerked in the wrong direction — another snap, another scream. His eyes rolled back as foam frothed from his mouth.
He collapsed at her feet like a dying insect.
A minute ago, the mob was certain she'd be the one begging, whimpering, stripped bare. Now their brains struggled to process the reversal — that the predator lay twitching at her feet like roadkill, and the prey stood calm, expressionless.
Scarface yawned.
Then —
CRUNCH.
Her boot came down on his leg. His bones shattered like dry twigs. The sleazebag bolted upright from unconsciousness, shrieking, his face drenched in snot and tears.
Some of the men gagged. Some clenched their fists, imagining the pain, feeling phantom needles stabbing into their own sockets. Even the veterans — the ones who'd survived torture chambers, been burned and cut and beaten bloody — paled.
They would rather take a bullet, a blade, anything… than have their limbs twisted and snapped while still alive.