If you want to look cool and effortlessly take down a whole crowd when being ganged up on, you’d have to be either a martial arts master or a heavily armed SWAT officer. Brian Cooper obviously had no such skills, but he was well-versed in handling group beatings—while yanking the mop lackey’s hair, he dragged the guy toward a corner, quickly retreating to a relatively narrow spot to avoid being attacked from all sides. Then he tensed his muscles, braced himself for the hits, and focused on beating the one he had in his grip, going all out.

High school boys have no real fighting technique; whoever is more ruthless, whoever is more reckless, wins.

Whoever gets scared or chickens out first, loses.

A patch of hair, roots bloody, was yanked from the mop lackey’s scalp by Brian Cooper, making him tear up from the pain. Brian Cooper didn’t hold back, hitting wherever hurt or was soft, and the long-abandoned bathroom instantly filled with wailing and howling.

“Grab him! What are you all just standing there for?” Robert Thompson shouted, veins bulging. Brian Cooper kicked over a trash bin in the corner, sending a basketful of used tissues tumbling out and scrambling onto Robert Thompson’s white sneakers.

Robert Thompson: “Fuck you!”

Fuming, he picked up the mop he’d tossed aside earlier, stomped on it to break the wooden handle from the mop head, then swung the stick at Brian Cooper. Brian Cooper blocked with his arm; the stick slid off his arm and grazed his head, making his mind buzz and causing him to let go involuntarily.

After taking that hit, Brian Cooper was instantly enraged, thinking, “I’m going to kill him!”

At that moment, he didn’t care about any group fight rules—he was about to lunge at Robert Thompson and go all out.

The unlucky guy who’d just been beaten fell to the ground, his voice trembling with tears: “Hit him, hit him!”

David Wright snapped back to his senses and ordered his lackeys to go hold down Brian Cooper.

Just then, the locked door was kicked hard from the outside—once, not enough, then again.

The latch was just a small piece of iron, its screws rusted. After two or three violent kicks from outside, it finally gave way—the door flew open, and an old basketball rolled in.

William Carter stood at the doorway, face dark. He ignored everyone else and spoke only to David Wright: “David Wright, do you think this is appropriate?”

Chapter 8: Ill-Fated Ties

David Wright was trying to use someone else’s authority, but halfway through, he realized the “tiger” was quietly watching from the side, and he was instantly embarrassed, left speechless.

The atmosphere in the bathroom froze. The group of attackers looked at each other. David Wright waved for them to wait, then stepped forward to put his arm around William Carter’s shoulder, speaking in a low, submissive voice: “Let’s talk outside.”

William Carter crossed his arms in front of his chest: “No need, let’s talk here.”

Robert Thompson chimed in from the back: “Bro, we’re doing this for you. Isn’t this a bit much?”

“My nose isn’t blocked, do I need you to vent for me?” William Carter lifted his eyelids and glanced at him. “Was I talking to you?”

Robert Thompson hadn’t expected to be snubbed like that; his face changed instantly, and he almost turned his anger toward the door, but someone beside him held him back.

If it came down to a fight, they had the numbers, and William Carter was alone—Brian Cooper definitely wasn’t on his side. The odds were obvious.

But no one wanted to actually fight, because while it might feel good in the moment, how would they deal with the aftermath?

William Carter wasn’t some pitiful nobody—if he said a word back in class, more than half the boys in Class One would back him. Robert Thompson might not care, but David Wright still had to get by in Class One.

William Carter said to David Wright: “Do whatever you think is best.”

David Wright’s face turned from pale to red as he hesitated for a moment, then made his decision. He turned and waved to Robert Thompson and the others: “Let’s go.”

Robert Thompson stiffened his neck: “You…”

David Wright raised his voice: “We’ll talk about it later! Let’s go!”

Robert Thompson took a few deep, angry breaths, shot a vicious glare at Brian Cooper, and left with his buddies, shoving each other as they went.

Only Brian Cooper was left in the bathroom, his expression shifting as he looked at William Carter, who had just burst in. William Carter bent down to pick up the basketball, glanced at him, and thought, “He’s just asking for a beating, serves him right.”

Then he left without another word, dribbling the ball as he went.

Because of this incident, the basketball game was off. William Carter felt in his pocket—inside was the 500 yuan his mom had just given him. With some spare cash in hand, William Carter headed to the school’s education supermarket, bought a bag of ice-cold Mizone drinks, and brought them to the basketball court to share with his teammates. He saved one bottle for Henry Clark—Henry Clark hadn’t joined them for PE on Monday because he had a shift that night and needed to finish his homework first.

Brian Cooper had already returned to class, a bruise forming on his arm from the stick, hurting with every movement.

After the bell rang, he saw William Carter and his group swaggering in from outside, running right into the homeroom teacher, who was in a bad mood and gave them a scolding without naming names: “It’s almost senior year, and some people still don’t know how to be responsible and buckle down. All you know is playing! Is playing basketball going to get you anywhere? Are you going to become Jordan or something…”

The sweaty group slunk back to their seats, each pretending to pull out their books and get to work.