Twenty-Three

Friday night, Number 17 arrived at the backstage. After completing all his preparations, he opened the locker and stuffed his bag inside. He rarely left any trace here — every time he came, his bag invariably contained a pair of boxing gloves, a pair of athletic pants, a can of oil paint, and some basic medicine; after finishing, he took everything away again.

Like an employee ready to resign at any moment, never placing extra items at his workstation.

Several other fighters were still sitting in the room, drinking or smoking, but no one spoke. When Number 17 stood up from the locker, one fighter finally said: 'Fighting Eride, you really aren't afraid of death.'

Number 17 closed the locker door, tore open the Velcro at the wrist of his gloves, his head slightly lowered, standing in the corner's shadow where no one could see his expression. Number 17 said: 'When I'm scheduled, I have to go fight.'

The fighters had always held a complicated attitude toward this seventeen-year-old Alpha — they didn't like that he had matches every week, didn't like his silence and his coming-and-going in haste, but they also had to admit that he had indeed fought his way up, punch by punch, on his own strength.

Here, there were people who could cripple their sworn brothers from outside the ring, people driven mad by revenge who would take drugs before stepping up; compared to that, the 'false mercy' and 'hypocrisy' Number 17 had once been sneered at for had never disappeared — instead, they had become something people believed in.

Perhaps it could be called the un-dying conscience of a young person, but clearly, this kind of thing didn't apply here — it was even jarring.

Everyone knew why Number 17 had been scheduled to fight Eride this time. Tang Feiyi had many ways to torment a person; if Number 17 really had some unspeakable relationship with him, this match could easily have been avoided.

But Number 17 had simply accepted the match arrangement in silence, without raising any objection.

'I'd advise you to be careful,' another fighter said. 'Eride just arrived at the Underground Club, and he's exactly at the moment when he wants to make a name and establish his dominance. You're still young — don't ruin yourself, lose an arm or a leg, for a match like this. It's not worth it.'

Number 17 listened quietly, put on his gloves, raised his head, and said: 'Thank you.'

When Lu Heyang and the others arrived at the venue, the second match had just ended. The three sat in the first row; within a minute, Xiao Feng came over, crouching with drinks in hand, handing them out while saying: 'Number 17 is the fourth match. That Eride is notoriously vicious — far fewer people bet on Number 17 today.'

'Is Number 17's pay calculated by number of matches or by bet amount?' He Wei asked curiously.

'By number of matches. His pay per match is actually the lowest here,' Xiao Feng said. 'He only gets a cut when the bets exceed 800,000, but that rarely happens — only occasionally when the Boss comes to watch and places a bet on him.'

'800,000?' He Wei thought it was absurd. 'Most people who come here are just looking for a thrill — even if they bet, they don't bet much. 800,000 per match is clearly exploitation.'

Xiao Feng immediately made a 'shh' gesture: 'This kind of place has no fairness to begin with. Human life isn't worth anything.'

After saying this, he slipped away. He Wei opened his drink and took a sip, then suddenly said: 'Is either of you interested in Alphas? Could you take care of Number 17?'

Gu Yunchi said: 'If you're sick, go get treated.'

He Wei 'tch'ed, then turned to Lu Heyang. Before he could speak, Lu Heyang said flatly: 'Watch the match.'

Having asked for nothing but rejection, He Wei rolled his eyes and turned his gaze toward the arena.

The third match ended in just a few minutes, and then the names of Number 17 and Eride flashed on the big screen; the audience's cheers immediately rose. Soon, two Alphas walked out of the player tunnel, one after the other.

This was the first time Lu Heyang and the others had seen Eride here — dark-skinned and powerfully built, astonishing whether in weight class or reach. The distance between his brows and eyes was very close, making those eyes look deep and narrow, betraying a wild, bestial threat.

Number 17 walked behind Eride, looking no different from his usual matches, the old, peeling, mottled, thin gloves on his hands.

Stepping into the Octagon Cage, Number 17 raised his head and glanced toward the first row of the audience seats directly opposite.

The audience seats were dimly lit, but Number 17 looked with unerring accuracy toward a certain position among them.

Amid the roaring noise and the full crowd, Lu Heyang silently met his gaze — just for a brief instant. Number 17 turned around, facing Eride.

The sharp whistle sounded. The match began.

Almost the instant the whistle ended, Eride shot out a swift left hook; Number 17's evasion wasn't wide enough and was grazed on the jaw, his whole body swayed. Using the twist of his body, he drew power from his waist, then threw an unexpected spinning punch that landed squarely on Eride's left cheek.

But Eride merely tilted his head slightly; the muscles of his body and face were extremely developed, so even when struck, that amount of pain wouldn't have much effect on him.

Even the finest boxing technique would have its weaknesses found; the gap in muscle and weight class was often the hardest to break through. In a regulated match, a size difference like Number 17's and Eride's would never appear, but this was an underground boxing ring — no rules applied.

Eride began ferociously launching a series of jabs. Although Number 17 had blocking movements, he couldn't cover both head and abdomen; his lower abdomen took several punches. Fortunately, the attack power of jabs would weaken somewhat with speed, but jabs were mostly there to set up the timing for the heavy punches that followed — sure enough, Eride's left arm drew back deep, the fist aimed directly at Number 17's right-side ribs, the liver area.

'If he gets hit like that, Number 17 will die,' He Wei's expression was unusually serious. 'Why arrange it this way? Did Number 17 offend someone?'

'Tang Feiyi,' Gu Yunchi said. 'Did you forget what happened at the hotel last time?'

The audience's shouts suddenly rose — Eride had thrown two consecutive heavy punches. Number 17 dropped low in time to block with his arms, but those two punches carried too much force; when the second one landed, Number 17 was knocked backward into the fence, both hands so difficult to lift.

Eride's ferocity and cruelty were as expected; at the moment when Number 17's strength was at its weakest, he used a vertical elbow strike with an extremely high crippling rate. If it hit the skull, even if Number 17 survived by luck, he would be left with permanent damage.

His elbow tip drove straight down toward the top of Number 17's head. He Wei was already unable to stop cursing. Lu Heyang stared at the Octagon Cage, his lips pressed very tight.

In the last half-second, Number 17 strained to push himself forward off the fence, tilted his head, and used his shoulder to take the hit instead. Eride's elbow finally hammered into the area from his back shoulder to his spine. Like a bird struck down, Number 17 lowered his head and spat out a mouthful of blood, falling toward the ground — but halfway down, Eride caught him, twisted Number 17's left arm behind his back, then pressed his knee into Number 17's back, adding his own body weight, and forced Number 17 down hard onto one knee!

Number 17's left arm was twisted backward at an unnatural angle. From pain, his body instinctively tried to curl up, but Eride's knee was still pressing into his back; Number 17 was pinned to the ground, unable to move. The harsh spotlight fell on his face. Number 17 kept his mouth tightly closed, never letting out any scream from beginning to end; only blood kept flowing from the corner of his lips.

Eride grabbed Number 17's hair, trying to smash his head into the ground — a whistle blew, the referee stepped in and stopped the match.

The audience was still screaming and shouting, not knowing for whom, like a group of numb, bloodthirsty machines.

Eride stood up, raised his arms and walked a circle inside the Octagon Cage, then exited. Number 17 lay motionless under the fence, making one wonder if he had already stopped breathing.

After a dozen or so seconds, two Alphas carried a stretcher onto the stage and took Number 17 away.

He Wei frowned. Number 17 was roughly the same age as them; seeing him beaten like this was somewhat hard to stomach. He said: 'Number 17's hand is definitely dislocated.'

As he spoke, he turned his head and found that the seat beside him had somehow become empty — Lu Heyang was gone.

'Where's Heyang?' He Wei turned to ask Gu Yunchi on the other side.

'Don't worry about it so much,' Gu Yunchi said.

'I... I'll take you there!' Xiao Feng shouted the moment he saw Lu Heyang come out.

Lu Heyang just kept walking forward, neither answering nor looking at him. Xiao Feng was still shaken by the match just now; following beside Lu Heyang, he said: 'Don't worry too much. There are doctors — they'll look at Number 17.'

The corridor was crowded with people coming and going; Lu Heyang silently brushed past them. After a few minutes, he arrived at the backstage. The moment he entered the corridor, he ran straight into Tang Feiyi.

Tang Feiyi's expression was somewhat dark. He looked at Lu Heyang; Lu Heyang looked directly at him, then brushed past him shoulder to shoulder. After walking a few steps, Tang Feiyi turned his head again, watching Lu Heyang's back, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if pondering something.

After Tang Feiyi walked out the main door, Xiao Feng, who had been hiding in a corner, darted out again. Lu Heyang had been walking too fast just now; Xiao Feng hadn't had time to tell him that the Alpha walking out was Tang Feiyi, that he should stop and hide.

Outside the room at the end stood several fighters; one of them, an Alpha smoking, was the one Lu Heyang had seen last week when he came to find Number 17. He pinched out his cigarette and said: 'Your friend's bones are really tough.'

His tone sounded somewhat mocking, but more than that, it carried an unclear meaning — he wasn't truly ridiculing.

Lu Heyang walked past them and pushed open the door.

The room's lighting was still so dim, the air filled with the smell of blood and medicine. Lu Heyang saw Number 17 sitting against the wall on the ground; his dislocated arm had already been set, and blood-stained cotton and tissues were scattered around his legs. An Alpha was pressing on the back of Number 17's head, injecting a syringe into his gland; Number 17's head hung low, a folded towel bitten between his lips, his eyes tightly shut.

'What did you give him?' Lu Heyang asked the Alpha — he was probably the doctor Xiao Feng had mentioned.

'Inhibitor, to prevent Pheromone Disturbance triggered by excessive pain.' The doctor pulled out the syringe, stood up, quickly packed his things, and left just like that.

Number 17 loosened his mouth, spat out the towel, slowly raised his head, and leaned back against the wall.

His face was nothing but oil paint and blood, his cheek swollen, his lips pale. From the moment he heard Lu Heyang's voice, he had wanted to open his eyes, but he was too weak to manage it.

Number 17's lashes moved; he finally, with difficulty, opened his eyes. He looked at Lu Heyang weakly, his lips parting and closing once. Lu Heyang crouched down, leaned close to him, and asked: 'What?'

'I...' Number 17's voice was very hoarse. He said: 'I lost.'

Last week, when Lu Heyang had given him the gloves, he had said they were to celebrate his next victory — but today he had lost. Although this outcome had been obvious from the start, he still felt some regret.

There weren't that many dramatic counterattacks and reversals in the world; what there was, over and over, was a blow to the face. He couldn't resist it — he could only try to pick himself up a little faster.

He actually didn't want Lu Heyang to see him like this, but it was all right — he was Number 17 right now.

Lu Heyang looked at him and said: 'It's okay.'

'Do me a favor.' Number 17's throat rolled. 'Help me... get my bag.'

'Okay.' Lu Heyang stood up, walked to the locker beside them, and took Number 17's bag from the second-to-last row of compartments — he remembered that last time, when Number 17 returned his wallet, he had taken it from this compartment.

'The outermost one, the small pouch,' Number 17 said.

Lu Heyang pulled the zipper and took the thing out from inside.

It was a roll of crumpled bills.

'Last time, thank you for taking me home, and for buying the medicine,' Number 17 looked as if he might fall asleep at any moment, his breath already very weak. 'Last week... when you came, I forgot to give you the money.'

Lu Heyang was silent for a long time. Number 17 felt the surroundings were very quiet. He tiredly closed his eyes, silently hoping in his heart that Lu Heyang could stay a little longer — a few seconds would do, so he could rest for a moment with a little peace of mind.

'I'll take you to the hospital,' Lu Heyang finally said.

'Just sitting for a bit will be enough,' Number 17 shook his head, his voice getting lower and lower. 'It's always like this.'

There wasn't much difference — for him, it was only a matter of bleeding more or less, being hurt lightly or heavily. The way of handling it was the same; this time, the recovery period might just be a little longer — he had long been mentally prepared.

'Don't sleep. Go to the hospital.' Lu Heyang set down the bag, bent close to Number 17 on one knee, his fingers catching his chin and lifting it slightly, not letting him fall unconscious.

But Number 17's eyes were closed, his whole body seeming to have no strength to move even one bit more.

Lu Heyang called him: 'Xu Ze.'