Scarface danced through the storm with unnerving ease, her thin frame weaving between hulking bodies. A grin stretched across her scarred face as her fists cracked jaws and her boots buried into ribs.
One by one, men collapsed like sacks of grain, only to be dragged aside and flung into untidy heaps, bodies stacked like butcher's scraps.
By the time the tenth fighter hit the dirt, the crowd realized something was wrong.
The arena grew quieter—not silent, but uneasy. Fighters who had moments ago been tearing each other apart now spared glances at the small figure in their midst.
Recognition dawned. This was the scarred girl summoned to Boss Li's office earlier. Now, she was moving like a predator loose in a pen of livestock.
Scarface caught one of them staring at her.
She stopped mid-step, cocked her head, and flashed a grotesque smile—too wide, too sharp, almost childlike in its glee. Then she licked a smear of blood from her knuckles as if tasting wine.
The man looked away first.
Horrifying. And yet… provoking.
One against one was suicide; they could see that clearly now.
So, for the first time that day, rivals put aside grudges. Brawlers who had been intent on tearing each other's throats out moments earlier now tightened their ranks, forming a jagged ring around Scarface. They circled her like wolves closing in on something they did not fully understand.
Scarface rolled her shoulders loose, raised her hands lazily, and gave a theatrical sigh. "Oh good. You finally noticed I was here. For a second, I thought I'd have to knock out the whole lot of you before someone grew a brain."
Her grin returned—warped, mocking, daring.
The hunters had become the hunted.
Scarface moved like a nimble cat inside the encirclement, her scar pulling taut across her cheek as her lips curved into a playful grin. With a sudden giggle, she brought her small hand down sharply onto the neck of the man closest to her.
The large fellow collapsed headfirst into the dirt with a sickening thud. Scarface clapped once, delighted, as if she had just won a game of tag. The encirclement wavered, their formation splintering.
One by one, they toppled pathetically—like dominos pushed by invisible hands.
Each time one fell, Scarface tilted her head and cooed, "Oopsie-daisy!" or "Down you go!" in a singsong, childish tone. Her voice carried across the arena, far too sweet for the carnage she left behind.
They were unwilling, deeply humiliated, but utterly helpless. None of them could touch her, let alone restrain her.
The two masked guards, who had mistakenly allowed Scarface to barge in, now stared intensely. Her small figure darted among the candidates like a skipping child, knocking out anyone in her path.
But it wasn't skill alone that unsettled them. It was her mannerisms—her actions resembled a sweet girl frolicking through a flower field, snapping stems in gleeful mischief.
Except these "flowers" were grown men, dropping unconscious in the dust.
The guards glanced at each other, a chill running down their spines, then back at Scarface—who had already laid out more than twenty opponents. Not a single one had so much as grazed her clothes.
Her small hands carried an unnatural strength, terrifyingly out of place on her fragile frame.
They had seen many oddballs and prodigies before… but none like this ugly little deviant, whose laughter rang like a child's while she left a trail of broken bodies behind.
Boss Li, along with the Supervisor and a few men in suits, sat at the high gallery observing the fight in the arena.
A man dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit with dark shades perched on his high nose bridge surveyed the scene below with thinly veiled disinterest. Even seated, his tall and well-built frame carried a quiet authority.
Beside him lounged another man, long hair spilling past his shoulders, his sinister air made sharper by the disdain etched into his features.
The fighters below, clashing with all their strength, failed to stir even a flicker of interest on the viewing platform. Their subpar skills were like children playing at war, laughable to the seasoned eyes above.
The usually stoic and stern Boss Li appeared strangely absentminded. He didn't even register when the long-haired man spoke to him. Only when the steaming tea spilled over his hand, scalding his skin, did he blink back into focus.
He turned to see the two men watching him. Clearing his throat, he addressed them politely.
"Master Caldwell, Master Quirin. See anyone that caught your eye?" Boss Li sipped from his cup, his tone steady and even.
"These pathetic weak ants—my dog would turn his nose at them. Boss Li, is this your idea of a joke?" the long-haired man, Tobias Quirin, sneered in a wicked tone.
The man in shades did not bother to reply. Only the faint crease in his brows betrayed his growing impatience.