Chapter 4

There was no referee, no slogan. The free-for-all brawl erupted in an instant.

One man’s fist struck another’s nose first. A miserable scream rang out as the victim grabbed his opponent’s wrist and kneed him in the abdomen.

The wounds on his body and his nearly depleted stamina made Horne react sluggishly, but he could still precisely judge the landing points of these chaotic attacks.

A man lunged at him. Horne’s knife shot out from his sleeve in an instant. Hidden by the sleeve, he twisted the blade inward and smashed the hilt into the attacker’s wrist, causing the man to cry out in pain.

It was utter chaos. Everyone attacked each other indiscriminately, with no way to predict the next strike—who it would come from or from which direction.

Horne had returned victorious from the battlefield countless times and pushed his body to the limit countless times in military training grounds, all for a faint hope.

A figure rushed out. Horne dodged to the side. The man missed and fell to the ground. Horne stepped on his arm and twisted hard. A dislocating crack sounded.

“Ah——!!”

Miserable screams rose and fell one after another, but at that moment—“Bang!”

A metallic crunch exploded from behind. Someone swung a steel pipe and smashed the back of another’s head. The victim staggered and collapsed directly, blood flowing from his head.

Several people paused for a moment.

“How did you bring a weapon up here?” the initial man roared, breaking the silence. Suddenly, he dashed to the side and grabbed a machete from the edge of the arena.

Everyone feared missing out on weapons and rushed to the edge to snatch sharp tools.

Horne frowned and repositioned his small knife so the blade faced outward.

“Ah!” A startled cry.

A whooshing sound cut through the air. Horne dodged instantly. A slashing arc grazed past where he had just been. Following the momentum, Horne kicked the sneak attacker squarely in the chest.

The machete-wielding man was covered in blood on his head. He rolled backward several times before slowly propping himself up with the machete. He grinned, blood in his mouth too. He stared deathly at Horne, then spat out the blood from his mouth and said excitedly, “You’re no pretty boy after all.”

With that, he suddenly turned his head and shouted, “Hold on! I’ve changed my mind. Beat this guy half to death and leave him for me. I don’t want the little girl anymore.”

At his words, the remaining men paused for a second. In an instant, all their weapons pointed at Horne.

The wind shifted abruptly. Horne held his breath, his gaze growing even colder.

This group had some prior connection; one gave orders, and the others obeyed.

They gradually surrounded Horne, making his figure seem even more precarious in the center of the burly men.

The little girl tied nearby cried loudly, “No!”

“Take him down!” the man roared.

Lethal winds whistled in his ears as they all moved at once. Horne dodged immediately. A dagger’s blade grazed his clothing, tearing a gash.

At the same time, in the direction he dodged, another stab came. Horne drew his small knife and thrust it upward through the opponent’s wrist so fast no one saw it clearly.

A miserable scream followed, blood splattering everywhere.

To the right. Horne narrowed his eyes slightly and kicked out. A crisp crack sounded. The sneak attacker crumpled to the ground, face twisted in agony.

But because of that kick, the machete man charged from the left, flipping the machete and smashing the flat of the blade toward Horne’s back.

Horne grunted, his vision going black as he dropped to one knee, vomiting a mouthful of blood.

This body really was at its limit. Moreover, the wounds on his body had all split open.

Horne suddenly thought of the man who had earnestly bandaged him earlier. It seemed his sincerity was doomed to go to waste.

His stamina was draining too severely; he couldn’t hold out much longer. If he couldn’t end it quickly, he’d have to catch them off guard.

Before the next assault arrived, Horne suddenly crouched and rolled out to the side. A massive crash sounded where he had been.

He had thought he could finish it quickly—even if he fought each one individually, he was confident he could take them all down in a few minutes and then take the little girl away. But he hadn’t expected a free-for-all, and one against many at that.

His slightly curly hair was soaked with sweat and blood, hanging limply on both sides of his cheeks, only to fly up with his movements, scattering droplets of sweat.

He was surrounded on all sides. Dodging one attack only brought suppression from another direction.

“Pa!” A crisp smack. The spot on his back that had just been hit hard was struck again. Horne staggered and fell straight down.

All his wounds tore open—new ones and old.

His stomach churned violently. Horne’s muscles spasmed as he crawled back up and vomited another mouthful of blood.

He shouldn’t have struggled with this intensity. He wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve, his gaze growing even more ruthless.

The man gave a look to someone beside him. Two men immediately came forward and grabbed Horne’s arms, forcing him to kneel on the ground.

“Looks like you’re no good after all.” The man spat a glob of saliva that landed right on Horne’s hair ends.

“Ding!” The man tossed his machete aside with a piercing clatter. He walked up to Horne, squatted down, and gripped his neck, fingers tightening.

Horne couldn’t draw a breath. His lungs felt instantly blocked. The man’s palm forced his head up.

It seemed this was the end.

The man’s gaze slid from his face down his sickly pale neck and into his clothes. His tone was frivolous, his face flushing with growing excitement and a sense of conquest. “So eager to play the hero? Then take her place. Let me think… right here?”

The man tore open his collar, revealing the bandages inside soaked through with blood. Those bandages had been neatly wrapped around Horne’s body earlier, but now they had nearly unraveled.

The man’s fingertips lifted slightly and threaded into Horne’s hair, twirling it around his fingers twice before yanking hard, pulling Horne’s scalp taut.

Horne let out a pained grunt.

“Hoo—” The man sighed in rapture.

A foul breath approached. Horne closed his eyes, knowing the man was greedily inhaling deeply from his hair, refusing to let go.

The man buried his entire face in Horne’s hair, taking deep breaths nonstop.

Horne’s body twitched in disgust, on the verge of vomiting, but the men restraining him wrenched his arms back until he couldn’t suppress the pain even through gritted teeth and cried out.

The man grew more excited the more he sniffed. He simply wrapped the strands around his hand, slowly taking them into his mouth. Saliva gradually moistened the ends, stirring them before swallowing the wetness.

A cool woody fragrance, like the color of his hair.

“You can have this one; you can’t fight over the little girl anymore,” someone beside him said.

The man’s voice was very close to Horne’s ear. Interrupted mid-breath, he irritably spat out the hair. “If I say no, it’s no. I’ll come down later; you divide her among yourselves.” As he spoke, a glistening strand of saliva still stretched between his lips and the hair, swaying up and down.

He had gotten what he wanted. The man straightened up, still gripping Horne’s hair tightly, dragging him right in front of himself. He deliberately blew hot breath onto his face, savoring the expression of utter agony. He loved this—the feeling of dragging someone down from their pedestal.

“Weren’t you so impressive just now? Taking on several of us, lasting a few moves. Now you’re just kneeling.” He laughed, his gaze hungrily licking over that face. “Tch, nice mask. Not cheap, huh? Today, I’ll show you what…”

Mid-sentence, the man froze, the second half stuck in his throat.

One teary eye.

Moisture trickled down his hand—not blood, but tears from the young man before him.

His reddened eye corner from crying blinked slowly. Tear tracks mixed with bloodstains on his dirtied face from the fight, creating a heartbreaking fragility.

That resolute face now wore a touch of pitiful vulnerability. His voice trembled, lips quivering as he softly uttered a few words.

The man suddenly couldn’t suppress his racing heart. He held his breath and leaned his ear slowly toward Horne, drawing closer and closer until he finally made out what those blood-smeared lips were saying.

He said, “Sorry, let me go.”

His pale face, agonized plea, tears pooling in his eyes—not just tears, but blood overflowing from the corner of his mouth, trickling slowly along his jawline.

Suffocation lasted only an instant. The next second, the man’s expression twisted. He roared fanatically, unclear if it was a shout or laughter.

“Come look! He’s crying! He’s crying, hahahahahaha!! Cry more, cry!” The man trembled wildly in madness, gripping Horne tightly, nearly overcome with the urge to kiss him right then.

“Keep crying! Cry! Beg me! Beg me, and I’ll let you go!” he shouted. “Say it quick—say beg me to let you go!”

Horne closed his eyes. More tears slid down, his expression one of humiliation and sorrow, blooming with endless vulnerability in his plea.

The more tears, the more madness.

Besides his tears, the little girl tied nearby was crying too.

“Hurry, beg me!” the man urged.

After a moment, Horne’s clenched teeth parted to reveal faint syllables. “Please, please.”

“Hahahahaha! Beg me for what?!”

“Please, let me go.” His voice carried a sob and a stuffed nose.

“Hahahahaha!!!” The man went utterly berserk. He stood and stomped, his throat emitting roars more beast than human. “Perfect, perfect. I love this so much—the sight of a cold, aloof little treasure begging me before I fuck him to death. Baby, I’ve got it all planned. I’ll make you feel an unprecedented climax, and right when you do, I’ll stab through your heart with a knife.”

He dropped to his knees abruptly, hand clamping Horne’s neck again, vicious enough to nearly tear his voice. “How’s that? Nod! Nod for me!”

Horne didn’t move. Air was cut off. The man watched tears fall from the agony before him until he finally nodded faintly.

“Hahahahahahaha!”

The grip on his neck loosened slightly amid the man’s crazed laughter. Overexcited, the veins bulged in the hand clutching Horne’s hair.

Horne slowly parted his lips. After a long moment, he forced words from his throat with difficulty. “Killing, is illegal.”

Even the surrounding men burst into laughter. People below the arena laughed too, but most were indifferent—passing by, glancing, and moving on.

Only Ye Shu paced in place, making one phone call after another, anxiously muttering to herself, “Where’s You Wenjie? Where did he go? Where did he go with Hels! Why haven’t they come? Help! My five thousand is flying away!”

Besides her, in a safety zone booth not far below the arena, a man in a wide-brimmed hat watched everything unfolding on the stage. His mouth hung slightly open, body rigid, shock lingering for nearly five minutes.

After a moment, he shot up quickly and headed toward the arena, walking faster and faster. As he went, he pulled up his Resident Chip terminal and sent a message: [I think I’m hallucinating. Though I don’t believe it’s possible, but this fighting style… you definitely want to know who I saw in the Red Light District.]

On the arena, the man finished laughing and blew a breath toward Horne’s face. “Poor little thing, first time in the Red Light District, huh? Don’t you know? Here, killing… isn’t illegal.”

Horne slowly opened his eyes. His vision was a blur of teary haze. That pool of moisture shimmered under the lights like a flowing galaxy, stirring pity in the heart.

Horne’s lips brushed lightly, emitting a bewildered sigh. “Ah.”

Before the sound fully faded, the man felt the tension in his fingertips slacken. He blanked for an instant, then heard a violent scream from the right.

A crisp crack. The man on the left screamed too.

The man’s face changed. His smile still frozen on his lips. Looking down, he saw only a lock of neatly severed reddish-brown hair in his hand.

At the same time, a small knife thrust rapidly toward his throat. Without a second’s pause, the instant the tip touched his skin, the entire blade plunged into his throat, piercing his Adam’s apple and upward through the root of his tongue.

The man’s eyes bulged. He didn’t react to what had happened in that instant. His mouth couldn’t drop the smile. Only a hot surge flooded into his lungs nonstop. He gaped, unable to utter a syllable.

Horne gripped the knife in his hand—and the man impaled on its blade. With one hand, he rose from kneeling to half-kneeling, then slowly stood, lifting his arm until the man’s feet left the ground.

“Gurgle—gurgle—” The man struggled to speak, but his limbs only twitched mechanically. Asphyxiation—terrifying asphyxiation.

Horne tilted his head up, gazing at him in confusion. The tears not wiped from his eye corner trailed down his cheek to his lips, then dripped from his chin, shattering softly on the ground.

Blood flowed from the man’s throat down to the knife handle, onto Horne’s raised hand and arm, along the bulging veins, soaking downward all the way.

The people nearby froze in place. No one dared to move. Even everyone in the Red Light District looked over.

The white incandescent light shone on the back of the man’s head, like a halo around a priest, concealing his horrified expression in the shadows.

Suddenly, no one spoke. No one knew how this had happened, how the situation had reversed. Thus, Horne’s gentle voice, laced with a smile, reached every ear.

“Not illegal, huh?

“Why didn’t you just say so earlier?

“I put on quite the performance.

“Ah, right—does my hair smell good?”