Yogan tuned out the noise of the crowd. His eyes were calm, like still water, as he scanned the underground arena.
This was his starting point.
The most primitive, the harshest, but also the most real struggle.
He felt his blood begin to boil, slow and steady, like an engine warming up.
Coach Zhang Lei patted his shoulder, his face unusually serious.
"Don't be nervous. Remember what I told you—control him with your speed and sense of distance. Don't try to match his strength head-on."
"Understood," Yogan nodded.
His opponent had already stepped forward.
A huge man, at least one meter ninety, weighing no less than ninety kilos. His scalp gleamed under the harsh lights, a blue leopard tattoo sprawled over his left shoulder. His eyes were wild, predatory.
He was the head bodyguard of a notorious nightclub, infamous for his brutal fighting style. The crowd called him "Bao Ge."
The odds appeared on a nearby board:
Bao Ge: 1:1.3
Yogan: 1:5
The difference told the story. In the eyes of the bettors, the fight was practically decided.
Bao Ge stepped onto the stage, pointing a thick finger at Yogan's chest with a smirk.
"Son, it's not too late to regret it. Don't make your mother cry later."
Yogan didn't answer. His gaze locked on the man as if he were already a corpse.
A deafening gong echoed through the factory.
The fight had begun.
---
The First Round
Bao Ge didn't waste a heartbeat. He roared like a beast and charged, a human tank in motion. His massive fist swung in a brutal arc toward Yogan's head, the strike so heavy it cut a gust of wind across the stage.
The spectators leaned forward, ready for the inevitable sight of a teenager sprawled on the floor.
But a heartbeat later, their eyes went wide.
Yogan's body swayed to the left—just a tiny, ghost-like step. The enormous fist skimmed past his nose, the wind it created stirring the ends of his hair.
Bao Ge blinked in surprise. He'd missed. Instinctively he whipped a right hook at Yogan's ribs.
Again, Yogan's body bent like a willow in the wind. He leaned back at exactly the right angle, the punch missing by mere centimeters.
For the next thirty seconds the ring became a stage of shock.
Bao Ge unleashed a storm of attacks—swings, straights, hooks—each one heavier than the last, each one splitting the air with a whistle.
And Yogan danced through it all.
He moved inside a tight circle, using the smallest shifts of his body to slip past every blow. A step to the side, a subtle lean, a sway, a backward glide—every dodge precise, effortless, minimal. Bao Ge's fists missed by a hair's breadth again and again.
The big man's frustration mounted. Each time he felt sure of his strike, the boy was gone like a fish slipping through his fingers.
The jeers from the crowd died into stunned silence.
This wasn't just fighting anymore. This was art.
Zhang Lei stood ringside, palms sweating but eyes blazing. He knew he'd found something rare. A true genius.
The gong rang to end the first round.
Bao Ge was panting like an ox, sweat pouring down his bald head. His furious barrage had drained most of his stamina.
Yogan, on the other hand, stood relaxed and steady, breathing evenly. Not a drop of sweat marked his forehead.
"Kid, do you only know how to run?" Bao Ge sneered between gasps, trying to provoke him.
"No," Yogan's voice was calm, almost bored. "I'm just waiting for you to wear out."
---
The Second Round
The gong rang again.
Bao Ge roared and charged, but his speed and power were already a shade weaker. In Yogan's eyes, his movements slowed; flaws appeared like flashing targets.
Now.
As Bao Ge launched another full-force right strike, his center opened wide.
Yogan moved.
No longer retreating, he stepped forward, slipping inside the strike zone. His knees bent slightly, hips driving forward as every ounce of power gathered in his right fist.
It wasn't a headshot. It wasn't brute force.
It was a lightning-fast uppercut angled perfectly at Bao Ge's right ribs—his liver.
Boom.
A muffled, meaty sound echoed, the kind that made experienced fighters wince.
Time froze.
Bao Ge's massive body stiffened, the smirk freezing on his face. Then his features contorted, veins bulging as an overwhelming pain shot through him from the liver outward, like an electric shock. His strength, his breath, his consciousness all seemed to drain at once.
He let out a strangled groan. His legs buckled. The giant collapsed to the mat like a sack of concrete.
He clutched his ribs with both hands, curling into a ball, twitching like a shrimp thrown into boiling water. Not even a scream would come out.
One hit.
One shot.
A liver punch, accurate to the millimeter.
The factory fell into deathly silence.
Everyone stared at the slender young man still holding his punching stance, and then at the giant writhing at his feet. The contrast was electric, searing itself into their memories.
Seconds passed. Then the crowd erupted.
"Oh my God—he's knocked out!"
"One punch! Just one punch!"
"Where did it hit? How can it be so strong?"
"Kung fu! This is real kung fu!"
Yogan slowly drew back his fist, eyes cool as he looked down at Bao Ge writhing on the floor.
There was no joy on his face, no triumphant roar.
For him, this had been only a test—and the results pleased him.
He turned and walked off the stage under hundreds of stunned gazes, heading straight for Zhang Lei.
"Coach," he said evenly, "I'm done."
Zhang Lei's lips trembled. His eyes were bloodshot with excitement as he punched Yogan's shoulder.
"Well done, kid! Well done! You're a true… genius!"
That night, Yogan received a cash prize of two thousand yuan.
The crowd also gave him a temporary nickname—"Kung Fu Kid."
Yogan didn't like it. Wasn't that Song Yadong's nickname? And what part of his fighting style had anything to do with traditional kung fu?
Couldn't they at least come up with something original?
He pocketed the money, expression unreadable, already thinking about the next fight.
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