—

The spotlight caught Number 17 and his opponent. Lu Heyang paid no attention to the other fighter; he saw only that Number 17's upper face was still painted in oil colors, but beyond that, a black lace blindfold was bound across his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.

A collar circled Number 17's neck, and from its front hung a silver bell, neither too large nor too small, swaying with his steps, glinting each time the light swept over it. This bout was MMA. Beneath his fingerless gloves, Number 17 wore a pair of black silk gloves, long ones, stretching all the way to his elbows.

His upper body was wound round and round with black rope — a binding style that carried its own particular meaning. Below the waist he wore not the old sweatpants but a black pleated skirt, leather, shorter than the previous pair by a margin, ending at mid-thigh, which made his legs look long and slender — and at his ankles, a pair of cuffs.

There was nothing on Number 17's body that wasn't a piece of intimate apparatus, saturated with suggestion.

He Wei was stunned. 'I knew Tang Feiyi was a pervert, I didn't think he was this much of a pervert, in front of everyone like this…'

Even as he cursed the man a pervert, he was already pulling out his Mobile Phone and opening the camera, still muttering, 'No, I want to be a Boss too someday, book the whole venue and have someone play with me.'

'You can do that now.' Lu Heyang took the phone from his hand, turned it off, and said, 'Why photograph this.'

'I just suddenly understood where the fun of playing with Alphas lies…' He Wei clicked his tongue a few times. 'Lake Rock Manor's performances are perverted too, but they're so cloying — nothing like this.'

After all, one was a performance to please the guests, and the other a livelihood endured in humiliation — the difference was fundamental.

Number 17's face showed nothing. After entering the Octagon Cage, he glanced once toward the first row, then lowered his head.

That look of his — at once calm, and quietly enduring.

Lu Heyang dropped his gaze to adjust the setting on his Wristband, only to find it was already at maximum — he had adjusted it half a minute ago, and now had completely forgotten, his hand performing the motion again.

The referee blew his whistle; the surrounding cheers gradually subsided, and the two fighters stood face to face inside the Octagon Cage. Number 17's opponent wore a few small things as well, but in comparison it was plain to see that those were merely symbolic, while Number 17 had been deliberately dressed up.

An Alpha carried a DSLR over to Tang Feiyi's side, leaned in to listen to a few words from him; that Alpha nodded, climbed straight onto a nearby table, aimed the lens into the Octagon Cage, and began recording.

'Filthy pervert, recording video too.' He Wei cursed again, as if the one who had just tried to take photos with his phone were not himself.

Lu Heyang glanced once at the Alpha with the camera, then turned his eyes back to the Octagon Cage.

From the moment Number 17 threw his first move, everyone knew he would win. Unlike the previous two bouts where he had opened passively, prioritizing defense, this time he went straight on the offensive — clean, decisive — and a single punch drew blood.

'Looks like Number 17 wants to end it fast,' Gu Yunchi said.

But Number 17's opponent kept dodging and retreating, refusing to engage head-on, as if deliberately making Number 17 wear himself down on the stage. He circled the Octagon Cage, throwing out various provocative gestures and expressions. Number 17 stood at the center, shoulders, back, and limbs all taut, his lean, smooth muscles bound beneath the black rope, rising and falling together.

'That opponent isn't professional,' He Wei noticed too, his brow furrowing. 'He's basically been sent by Tang Feiyi to toy with Number 17.'

Lu Heyang's ten fingers laced together; his left thumb rubbed, on and off, against the back of his right hand. He stared at the Octagon Cage, lips pressed shut, a sharp, almost severe line drawn from chin to jaw.

On stage, Number 17 seized his moment — a straight punch to the opponent's nose. As the other man wobbled, searching for his balance, Number 17 turned and followed with a spinning back kick; the opponent flipped to one side and slammed hard against the Octagon Cage fence.

The crowd roared. The opponent slumped half against the fence, sitting on the ground — too humiliated by the beating, perhaps — his face twisted as he spat three words at Number 17, saliva and bloody foam flying from his mouth.

First row, too close to the Octagon Cage — Lu Heyang saw the shape of the opponent's mouth clearly.

He Wei saw it too. He rose from his chair and cursed, 'Shit — whoever can't accept losing is the cheap one!'

But Number 17 was extraordinarily calm. He walked over, seized the opponent by the hair and dragged him to the center of the arena, swung a leg over and straddled him — one hand clamping the opponent's throat, the other swinging punches toward the corner of his mouth. In that position, Number 17's skirt rode up, revealing the lining beneath, and the leg cuff bound close to the fair skin of his inner thigh, its lace fastening tied into a small bow, half-hidden, half-revealed under the hem with every movement of the fight.

He Wei's fury immediately dropped eighty percent at the sight. 'Looks like he's being ridden…'

The opponent coughed without cease from the beating, his mouthguard bouncing onto the ground — and yet he laughed through the blood in his mouth, raised a hand, extended index and middle finger, bent them and straightened them again, and made an obscene gesture.

Number 17's chest rose and fell a few times. Then he stood, gripped the opponent by the throat and hauled him up, walked a few steps, and hurled him hard against the fence — smashing his face into the wire mesh, pressing him there motionless — with that single hand wearing both the black silk glove and the fingerless glove. At last the immobilized opponent spat out a mouthful of blood, spraying straight through the fence and out onto the floor beyond.

Number 17 rarely struck this hard; the spectacle was, undeniably, intensely stimulating. Amid the audience's screams, Tang Feiyi's expression and gaze could no longer be called excitement — it was something closer to a neurotic frenzy. He blew a kiss toward Number 17, laughing loudly and applauding, as though he were relishing the sight of him driven to such ferocity.

It was over. Number 17 released his grip, did not glance toward the audience, pushed open the Octagon Cage door without looking back, and walked through the fighters' corridor back to the backstage.

His figure had only just vanished into the mouth of the corridor when Tang Feiyi rose from the VIP seats and walked back along the same small path he had come by.

'Definitely going to find Number 17.' He Wei's face was full of regret. 'I can understand Tang Feiyi — look how cool, how sexy Number 17 was just now on stage, even if he is an Alpha.'

Lu Heyang was still looking at the Octagon Cage, where the blood-spewing Alpha was being lifted onto a stretcher.

'Even with his face painted like that, Number 17 has to be good-looking.' He Wei rambled on. 'And an S-Class Alpha — Tang Feiyi really hit the jackpot!'

'And Number 17 just finished a fight that fierce — his Pheromone must be unstable right now, perfect for that sort of thing… He dressed like that, come on! Who could hold back, right?'

With a small click, the cap of Lu Heyang's water bottle fell to the ground and rolled under the seat, out of sight. He stared at the floor for a moment, then took a sip of water.

He Wei was about to open his mouth with some still more outrageous speculation when Lu Heyang suddenly stuffed the remaining half-bottle of water into his hand and stood up.

'What are you doing now? Going out for some air, or making a call?'

'Looking for the bottle cap,' Lu Heyang answered.

'?' He Wei had not yet processed it when Lu Heyang was already in the aisle. All He Wei could do was shout after his retreating back, 'Be careful, don't go anywhere too out of the way!'