"You, you, hey—" Fatty's mouth twitched for a few seconds, then he suddenly caught sight of that faded jacket on the coat rack and couldn't help but cry out in anguish: "You greedy bastard! Are you planning to take all that money you made to the grave? Living like there's no tomorrow, may your greed be the death of you!"

Logan Clark lifted the curtain with one hand and glanced back at him.

Fat Boss: "…"

The bar owner had seen plenty of fighters. This line of work was thrilling and brought in quick money; there were plenty who indulged in drinking, whoring, gambling, and living in a drunken stupor. Many outstanding fighters had spent years in the ring, ending up battered and broken, yet unable to save a single cent.

But this young man in front of him was different.

Logan Clark's gaze was neither sinister nor fierce; most of the time, it wasn't even threatening—one could even call it laid-back. But for some reason, though everyone said this Buddy had a good temper, the bar owner always felt there was something heavy deep in his eyes.

"—Hey! Listen to my jinxed mouth!" Fat Boss pretended to slap his own round face. "Pah! Pah! Kids' words don't count, let the wind blow them away, kids' words don't count, let the wind blow them away, ha!"

Logan Clark pointed a finger at him, while the noise from the ring nearby was deafening:

"Your business is getting bigger and bigger, be careful or you'll attract the police. Know when to quit."

Fatty: "Hey—are you trying to out-jinx me? With all those murderers, arsonists, corrupt officials, and robbers out there, why would the cops come after me, huh, why me? There's no way those cops could ever catch me…"

Logan Clark ignored him, turned, and walked straight through the backstage area toward the restroom at the end of the hallway.

In a corner below the ring, the Vietnamese fighter's sullen and vicious gaze was fixed on Logan Clark. Only when he saw him enter the restroom did he look away, snorting contemptuously.

"Watch out for that guy, he's been brought in by the house." His coach, standing nearby, directed someone to massage him and bring water. "I've looked into it—this guy usually keeps to himself, but whenever outsiders come and rack up too many wins, that Fatty will pay big money to have him fight. He must be tough; nobody can find out much about him, and the low odds show the house has confidence in him."

"…"

The Vietnamese fighter took the towel, then casually tossed it onto the ring post with a loud smack.

"Good-looking, but just a pretty face," he sneered, then, ignoring his coach's disapproving look, leapt onto the ring.

Ding—!

The heavy bell sounded, the referee quickly stepped back, and a wave of sharp boos and cheers erupted from the crowd. The Vietnamese man flung off his red cape, revealing an exaggeratedly muscular upper body, spat twice into his palms, and looked at his opponent with ill intent. Logan Clark stood where he was, in a short-sleeved T-shirt and athletic shorts, lowering his head to loosen his shoulders, a few strands of black hair falling over his forehead and swaying before his eyes.

"Go! Go! Hit him!"

"Come on, Red Cyclone! Kick his ass!!"

…

Logan Clark lifted his eyes, his gaze icy bright. In an instant, the roar of the crowd faded away, and the air around him seemed to freeze.

"Little lady," the Vietnamese man sneered, then charged like lightning!

In this kind of underground ring, the only rule was that there were no rules. No gloves, no protective gear, head shots and groin kicks allowed, biting and clawing—anything for the thrill and blood. A few years back, when things weren't so strict, many rings didn't even care about life or death. It was only because this bar's Fatty had some scruples that no one had died here yet, which was why the place kept growing, even attracting underground fighters from other Southeast Asian countries to come and make money.

Logan Clark leaned back slightly, the fierce punch grazing his face. The Vietnamese man hadn't expected him to dodge, grunted in surprise, spun around, and grabbed Logan Clark's elbow with a smack, swinging him up into the air!

"Whoa—" The crowd's screams suddenly stopped.

Bang!

With a vicious over-the-shoulder throw, the Vietnamese man slammed Logan Clark down hard, his back hitting the ground with a dull thud!

"…!" In that instant, Logan Clark felt as if all his organs had shifted, as if twenty ribs had shattered at once, a rush of blood surging to his throat. At the same time, his body, propelled by the huge force, bounced upward—right into the path of the Vietnamese man's iron fist coming down from above!

"It's over!" someone blurted out.

Fatty stood with his arms crossed by the backstage door, calmly uttering two words: "Not yet."

At the critical moment, the Vietnamese man's punch suddenly stopped, as if it had hit a wall of cotton and couldn't move forward an inch—Logan Clark, still lying on his back, twisted his arms in a bizarre and cunning move, locking the Vietnamese man's arm, then with a sudden force—crack!

The Vietnamese man's mind went blank.

His arm bent backward to the limit, the elbow joint forcibly dislocated!

It happened so fast that not only the naked eye, but even watching at double speed in reverse might not catch Logan Clark's move. He rolled up from the ground, and before the Vietnamese man could even lift his head, his neck was locked—there was a sharp "pop!" from his neck; the nearest spectators saw a blur, and somehow Logan Clark twisted his knee, neatly tripping his opponent to the ground, hooked his arm from behind around the Vietnamese man's throat, and in the blink of an eye, choked him out!

From ground grappling to a sudden reversal, the whole thing took no more than three seconds. After a brief silence, the crowd erupted: "Bravo!!"