14: Chapter 14 East District Underground Boxing Ring

Six days of waiting, and Yan Zheng didn't waste a single day.

December 28th, 9:30 PM.

Yan Zheng stood at the intersection of 38th Street and Ninth Avenue. Across the street was that "Dechang Auto Beauty." The rolling shutter door was pulled halfway down, and inside, pale fluorescent lights were on, revealing two young Asian men in blue work uniforms pretending to wipe down a Honda Accord.

But the cars parked on both sides of the intersection were wrong. Three stretched Lincolns, two Mercedes AMGs, and one matte black Land Rover Range Rover. The cars parked in front of the car wash were ten times more valuable than the car wash itself; this made no sense in any city.

Yan Zheng adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and, wrapped in that navy blue suit, crossed the street.

On the side of the car wash, there was an inconspicuous iron door. A short, sturdy Asian man with a shaved head stood at the entrance. A corner of a tattoo on his neck peeked out from his collar, and he held a walkie-talkie in his hand.

Yan Zheng walked up to him and stopped.

The bald man looked him up and down.

"What do you want?"

"To watch the fights."

"Who introduced you?"

Yan Zheng pulled two hundred-dollar bills from his suit's inner pocket, clamped them between his index and middle fingers, and waved them unhurriedly in front of the bald man.

"Mr. Franklin introduced me."

The bald man stared at the green paper for two seconds, then sneered.

"Two hundred? Do you think this is a bar? The minimum is five hundred. Understand the rules before you go in."

Yan Zheng didn't even twitch an eyebrow as he pulled three more bills from his pocket.

"Is that enough now?"

The bald man snatched the five bills, stuffed them briskly into his pocket, and turned sideways to open the iron door.

"Down the stairs, turn left, and don't look around, damn it."

Behind the iron door was a flight of concrete stairs leading downward. The walls were painted with cheap white lime, and a lightbulb covered by a wire mesh hung every two meters, dimming with every three steps. A damp, musty smell mixed with the stench of sweat and disinfectant rose up, growing stronger the further down he went.

After eighteen steps, Yan Zheng turned a corner, and the space in front of him suddenly opened up.

It was much larger than he had imagined.

This was an underground space of at least three or four hundred square meters, with a ceiling nearly five meters high, crossed with exposed steel beams and ventilation ducts. In the very center was a circular iron cage ring with a diameter of six or seven meters, roughly welded, with rust spots on the wire mesh, and some places even had dried, blackened, unidentified stains.

Surrounding the ring were three tiers of stepped spectator seats, built of poured concrete, as rough as an unfinished stadium. At this moment, nearly two hundred people were already seated.

Yan Zheng found a seat in the outermost corner, crossed his legs, and sat as if he were here to watch an ordinary boxing match.

Next to him sat a white fat man in a floral shirt, holding a wad of cash, loudly chatting with a black man wearing a gold chain in the front row.

"What's the main event tonight?"

The fat man looked back at him, his gaze lingering on his gold-rimmed glasses and suit for a second, his attitude becoming noticeably more polite.

"Oh, a new face? You're lucky tonight, it's a 'special match'."

"What's special about it?"

The fat man chuckled and pointed his chin toward the ring.

"You'll see for yourself in a moment. I guarantee you've never seen anything like it in your life. The odds just came out: Iron Fist is one to one point five, and the three challengers are one to six. Sir, do you want to place a bet?"

"Let me watch first."

He didn't place a bet, sitting quietly in the corner and waiting.

Twenty minutes later, the lights dimmed.

Four industrial spotlights above the ring turned on simultaneously, casting pale beams of light into the center of the iron cage, making the surrounding spectator seats look even darker.

A middle-aged man in a black Tang suit walked to the side of the ring, holding a megaphone. He was in his fifties, with a thin face, high cheekbones, long, narrow eyes, and a shrewd smile that always hung on the corners of his mouth.

"Boss Gao." Yan Zheng silently recited the name.

Gao Wenxiong raised the megaphone, his voice not loud but extremely penetrating.

"Friends, thank you for coming. Tonight's finale, same old rules: no recording, no photography. Once you leave this door, nothing ever happened. If anyone can't control their phone, there will be one more person in the East River tomorrow. I mean what I say."

A roar of laughter erupted from the crowd; they were clearly regulars.

Gao Wenxiong waved to the people behind him.

A small door on the side of the iron cage opened, and two burly men walked in, pulling a thick iron chain.

The other end of the chain was attached to a person's neck.

It was a young man, about twenty years old, so thin he was skin and bones, wearing dirty athletic shorts and bare-chested. There was an old scar on his cheekbone that extended from his brow bone to his jawline, as if it had been slashed by some sharp object.

His eyes were hollow, his pupils dilated, and his steps were unsteady; it was clear he had been injected with some kind of sedative drug.

But Yan Zheng's attention was not on his eyes.

Yan Zheng's gaze was locked on his hands.

The young man's ten fingers, starting from the second knuckle, showed an abnormal grayish-black color, the texture was rough, and under the white light of the spotlight, they faintly reflected the cold luster peculiar to metal.

That was not paint, not a tattoo; it was a qualitative change in the skin and muscle itself.

The system panel quietly popped up a line of text in the corner of his vision.

"[Detected Mutant individual (alive), genetic marker: Tissue Metallization (local type), quality rating: D. Current status: under drug suppression, gene expression rate approximately 40%.]"

"[Note: If the target individual is in a state of complete gene expression, the quality rating is estimated to be upgradable to C-level.]"

D-level, only 40% expressed under drug suppression.

If it were the complete state, C-level.

One grade higher than that bone-spur Mutant in the alley.

"Tissue Metallization." Yan Zheng silently repeated these four words in his heart. "The skin and muscles can be transformed into a metallic texture in a short time, possessing both attack and defense."

"If this gene could be fused into the bone structure of an Undead Creation..."

He didn't let his expression show any abnormality, even nodding slightly to the fat man in the floral shirt next to him, signaling that he was watching the match seriously.

The small door on the other side of the iron cage also opened, and three people walked in one after another.

They were all burly men, weighing at least ninety kilograms, their bare upper bodies covered in tattoos, their fists wrapped in bandages soaked in salt water. They had the build of professional thugs and the experience of street fighting.

Three against one.

The gamblers in the stands became excited, waving cash and roaring.

Gao Wenxiong raised the megaphone.

"Iron Fist versus three challengers, no holds barred, fight until one side cannot stand."

"Begin."

The door of the iron cage was locked.

The three burly men approached simultaneously, surrounding him in a fan shape.

The young man stood in the center of the iron cage, and a glimmer of fluctuation finally appeared in his hollow eyes.

He looked down at his grayish-black hands, his fingers slowly clenching, and the soft sound of metal colliding was almost inaudible amidst the noisy shouting.

The first burly man rushed up, smashing a right hook toward the young man's temple.

The young man raised his left arm to block, and the moment his metallic forearm collided with the flesh fist, a dull, crisp sound rang out.

The burly man's wrist collapsed.

The screams were drowned out by the cheers of the audience.

The second burly man tried a side-on tackle, only to have the young man smash a fist into his shoulder blade, sending him flying two meters away, hitting the wire mesh and bouncing back.

The third burly man got smart; he didn't get close, but pulled a hidden steel pipe from behind his waist.

"Is that a foul?" Yan Zheng asked the fat man next to him in a low voice.

The fat man didn't even turn his head, his face flushed with excitement.

"There are no rules here; even if you beat someone to death, no one cares."

The steel pipe smashed into the young man's back with a crisp clang, like metal hitting metal.

The young man stumbled a step, but did not fall.

He turned around, and a glimmer of rage finally ignited in his hollow eyes.

His hands were completely metallic now, the grayish-black hard shell spreading from his fingers to his wrists, then to his forearms, reflecting cold light under the spotlights.

One punch.

It landed squarely in the third burly man's chest.

The burly man's body traced a short arc in the air, smashing into the other end of the iron cage, and the wire mesh was even dented into a human shape. He slid to the ground, his chest caved in, large mouthfuls of blood gushing from his mouth, and after twitching a few times, he stopped moving.

The stands exploded.

"Iron Fist! Iron Fist! Iron Fist!"

Yan Zheng sat quietly in the corner, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting the white light from the ring.

He didn't shout along, didn't applaud; he just moved his gaze away from the young man and looked at the iron door on the side of the ring that had been closed all along.

After the match, two burly men dragged the young man out with the iron chain again.

Two other subordinates in blue work uniforms walked into the iron cage and dragged the burly man with the collapsed chest out.

Not through the front door.

But through the other side, that iron door that was always locked.

The door was open for less than ten seconds, but it was enough for Yan Zheng to see what was behind it.

A dimly lit corridor, the floor was concrete, and two large black garbage bags were leaning against the corner.

The garbage bags were bulging, and their shape was human.

The iron door was locked again.

Yan Zheng stood up from his seat and straightened his suit jacket.

The fat man in the floral shirt was still counting money and called out to him.

"Hey, sir, not watching the next match?"

"I've seen enough."

Yan Zheng adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and walked toward the exit, his steps not fast, his back blending into the dim passage.

The corners of his mouth curved up, his voice so soft that only he could hear it.

"However, Boss Gao's garbage sorting isn't very good."

"Those gentlemen in the black bags shouldn't be thrown away like ordinary trash."

He walked up the concrete stairs, step by step, unhurriedly.

The cold wind poured in from the gap in the iron door, carrying the bitterness of late December.

He paused for half a second on the last step and whispered to the air.

"After all, in my line of work, that's called recyclable resources."