5

From the boiling din, the opening whistle burst out. In the blink of an eye, Owen threw a straight punch; Number 17 reacted fast, raised his elbow to block, and slipped to the side.

"These gloves are really thin — can't be 8 ounces, probably only 6. Easy to break the metacarpals." He Wei chewed his gum. "But in a place like this, anyone wearing thick gloves usually has something shady going on."

He leaned in, made a fist, and tapped it against Lu Heyang's right-side ribs: "Some people stuff broken glass inside the gloves — right under the ribs, right here — the liver. One punch there and the other guy won't be getting up."

In the underground ring, fighters mostly play dirty, and the spectators don't mind — they even cheer for it. They came for the thrill and the smell of blood, wishing the scene would get wilder and more brutal.

Less than ten seconds in, Number 17 was clearly losing ground. Owen kept using lightning-fast jabs to disrupt his offensive rhythm while continuously attacking his head and lower abdomen. Number 17 retreated step after step, about to be pushed to the edge of the Octagon Cage. Several spectators had already risen from their seats, screaming: "Counter, damn it! Hit him!"

Leveraging his weight-class advantage, Owen began using heavy punches to break through Number 17's guard. In the sustained defense, Number 17's left-hand guard was breached, and Owen seized the moment to throw a straight punch square into his face. Bright red nosebleed spurted out instantly, splashing onto the gray rubber mat beneath his feet.

The shrieks and shouts were deafening. Some had already crowded near the Octagon Cage, like a surging swarm of ants, gripping the wire mesh and yelling at the fighters inside. Whether they were cursing or cheering didn't matter — this kind of match existed only to spike the audience's adrenaline, to let them vent freely through the fighters' combat and blood: rage, excitement, exhilaration… as long as any one of those was stirred up, it counted as a success.

"How many rounds per match?" Lu Heyang asked suddenly, watching Number 17, who had lowered his head and was leaning against the wire mesh, wiping blood with his elbow.

"There's no round system here. It ends when one of them can't get up at all." He Wei propped his elbow on his knee, leaning forward, eyes fixed on the ring. "That's usually how it goes. Sometimes they open it up as an open-ring tournament."

Inside the Octagon Cage, Number 17 slowly straightened up, raised his hands, tapped the two gloves together lightly, then walked back to the center of the ring.

Owen rolled his neck, set up his stance on the spot, waited for Number 17 to come to him, then stuck out his tongue and made a deeply insulting face. The arena erupted again — cursing, cheering — but Number 17 didn't seem affected. He drew his arms back into a ready position, back slightly arched.

Another flurry of lightning jabs; Number 17 was hit in the nose again. Blood ran down his sharp, thin chin, mixing with the oil paint on his face, a complete mess. Owen, arrogant and aggressive, closed in on him, every punch aimed at a vital spot.

Number 17 was pushed to the edge again. Lu Heyang heard the spectators who had bet on Number 17 cursing, complaining about how he couldn't even beat a newcomer… but suddenly those curses turned into excited shouts, because Number 17, who had been purely on the defensive, suddenly ducked and shifted position, then whipped back an uppercut that landed on Owen's jaw.

That punch was solid — it dazed Owen. When he recovered and launched a renewed attack, Number 17 dodged continuously, threw a feint straight punch to the body, then followed with a right hook that landed cleanly on Owen's left cheek. Before anyone could clearly see the sequence, Owen's head had already snapped to one side, his mouthguard slick with bloody saliva, knocked right out of his mouth.

Number 17 was like a snow leopard waking, power bursting — calm, decisive, swift, punches clean, every strike landing. He began pushing Owen back toward the corner. That unhesitating, cold, domineering aggression became punch after punch of straights and hooks, bursting out like lightning striking the earth, igniting the entire venue. The crowd's roar was nearly bursting eardrums.

"Smart! He knew these people eat up reversals like this." He Wei rose from his seat, every muscle in his body taut with excitement.

At the final moment, Number 17 threw a powerful rear-hand punch that landed square on Owen's face. Owen threw his head back and spat blood, his whole body crashing into the wire mesh behind him, then bouncing off it and falling flat on the ground. Blood slowly spread beneath his head. Owen tried to push himself up on his hands but kept falling back down — clearly no longer capable of any counterattack.

"Get up if you're not dead! Fight!"

"Keep going! Hit him!"

"Don't stop! Kill him!"

The spectators waved their fists and screamed. The referee didn't stop the fight or call a count, meaning Number 17 could continue with follow-up punches — no rules applied here. If he wanted, he could beat Owen until he convulsed and passed out on the mat, let more blood flow, satisfy the spectators' cruel, bloodthirsty desires.

But Number 17 simply crossed his hands in a stopping gesture, then removed his gloves and mouthguard, pushed open the Octagon Cage's door, and walked back through the fighter's passage to the backstage. Many people shouted, throwing bottles and cigarette butts into the Octagon Cage, around Owen or onto his back, but soon someone came in with a stretcher and carried Owen away.

The ring was cleaned, new fighters came on, a new match began.

He Wei sat back down. The gum in his mouth had lost its flavor, but he kept chewing: "That was intense. Number 17's abs and pecs are gorgeous — that waist, those legs."

"Not just that," Lu Heyang said.

"What?"

"His back muscles are nice too." With that, Lu Heyang stood up and walked out.

"Not watching anymore?" He Wei asked him.

"Going out for some air."

Past eleven at night, the two left the Underground Club. He Wei was driving when he suddenly said: "Since Number 17 is S-Class, if there's a record on file, the Preparatory Academy should have approached him. Even if he couldn't afford school, they'd waive tuition and give subsidies — why would he come to fight underground?"

Lu Heyang leaned back in his seat: "Maybe he's just too broke."

"Actually, you can't make much money in a place like this. If you really want to make money, going pro is where it's at — the commercial value is completely different." He Wei said, "Looking at Number 17, I'd guess he's had professional training before. Wonder why he's mixed up in this place."

"Maybe —" Lu Heyang looked at the road ahead, his right hand resting on his knee, his index finger tapping lightly a few times against it. He continued, "Number 17 is at the Preparatory Academy."

He Wei froze, turned to look at him, then laughed: "No way. How could that be."

"Mm." Lu Heyang responded, "I think so too."

Monday, after the last class ended, Lu Heyang went to the Swimming Pool to wait for He Wei. The sky was overcast, like it was about to rain, so stuffy it was hard to breathe. Lu Heyang walked around the flower bed, heading up the Swimming Pool steps, when he ran into an alpha coming out, carrying a plastic bag in his hand, head lowered, walking quickly.

Xu Ze had already stepped down one stair before he noticed someone. There was no time to dodge — at the moment of collision, the other person's cold, indifferent face flashed close before his eyes. Too close. Xu Ze could even see his distinct eyelashes, long and black, his pupils also very black, and when he looked up, there was no warmth in his gaze.

He felt his upper arm gripped for a moment by a hand. Logically, after being steadied like that, he should have been stable on his feet — but Xu Ze stumbled even more flustered, one foot stepping into the grass beside the steps. The things in the plastic bag fell out, making the sound of glass clinking.

The dark clouds hung heavy, as if about to press down. Xu Ze glanced up at Lu Heyang — a hurried glance — then quickly looked away, bent down to pick up the things on the ground, saying as he picked: "Sorry."

His ears were a little red; he really did look extremely apologetic.

"It was my fault, I didn't step aside in time." Lu Heyang bent down to help him pick things up. Xu Ze's voice was low and hoarse, his breathing somewhat rapid — naturally making one assume he was sick, coming to the medical office.

But Lu Heyang also noticed that Xu Ze had gauze taped to his nose, with a small patch of purplish skin showing at the edge, and his mouth corner was a little swollen. If you only looked at his appearance, it seemed more like he'd come to get medicine after a fight.

But what had fallen on the ground wasn't cold medicine or bruise ointment — it was several disposable syringes and vials of medication. When reaching for the last vial, both of them reached out at the same time, their fingertips accidentally touching. Xu Ze pulled his hand back instantly; Lu Heyang picked up the vial and saw the words 'Alpha Inhibitor' printed on it.

Lu Heyang wasn't very familiar with Alpha Inhibitors. S-Class Alphas had a natural advantage in self-control over their pheromones — under normal circumstances, without severe stimulation, they wouldn't go into heat. Even if they occasionally experienced one or two Susceptibility Periods a year, it would only be mild feverish symptoms, nothing serious.

For an S-Class to need an Alpha Inhibitor was a very rare situation.

Lu Heyang said nothing, handed the vial of Inhibitor over. Xu Ze reached out and took it, immediately stuffing it into the plastic bag, saying quietly: "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Lu Heyang finished, lifted his foot onto the steps, and entered the Swimming Pool.

As he walked, he turned the setting on his Wristband up, to completely block out the unfamiliar, oppressive S-Class Alpha pheromone.

Xu Ze's pheromone.

An Alpha's pheromone becomes more intense when the Susceptibility Period arrives, and Xu Ze's old Wristband clearly could no longer suppress pheromones at that concentration.

Xu Ze had left through the special passage. His pheromone had already begun to spread; if he walked through the student crowd, it would affect other AOs. He hurried forward while pulling a suppression patch from his pocket, bit off the coating layer with his mouth, and pressed the patch onto the back of his neck.

At the end of the special passage was a dedicated rest room. Xu Ze did a facial scan at the door, then pushed it open. He was gasping for breath, didn't even have time to make it to the sofa, just slid down the wall to sit on the floor, and dumped the contents of the bag out. His hands were shaking. Xu Ze pried open the cap of an iodine swab bottle with his teeth, pulled out a swab — he was too frantic, the swab bottle tipped over when he set it down, but Xu Ze just glanced at it, no time to care. Gripping the swab stick, he swabbed hard a few times on the inside of his arm, then tore open the syringe packaging, snapped open the vial, drew out the Inhibitor, and injected it into his vein.

He had originally been able to hold out until he got home to do all this, but a sudden, intense emotional fluctuation in a short period would promote pheromone secretion, thereby accelerating the arrival of the Susceptibility Period.

And the cause of that sudden, intense emotional fluctuation — Xu Ze closed his eyes heavily, gasping, forcing himself not to recall.