Kayden Scott nodded slightly, seeing Coleman Vincent speak so seriously. “Alright,” he said.
On the ride, Coleman Vincent started explaining what had happened. It was some sort of martial arts exchange event they had set up with a foreign boxing association, all under the banner of “friendly competition.” They came to Inassea under the pretense of sparring and learning from each other.
But it wasn’t just some friendly match-this was about national pride, the honor of a whole people. Everyone in the world knew that Seclela’s martial arts had been passed down for thousands of years, and Bruce Lee himself had put Seclela’s style on the world stage. Foreigners had a lot of respect for Seclela’s martial arts.
Originally, it was agreed upon that it’d just be sparring, no one getting seriously hurt. But to everyone’s shock, the foreign boxing association kept escalating things, injuring fighters from the Seclela Martial Arts Council. One by one, they were beaten down, losing match after match. And it didn’t stop there-several had already been killed in the ring.
Seeing things spiral out of control, and knowing that Seclela’s martial arts reputation was at stake, Coleman rushed to find Kayden. He couldn’t reach him at first, but he got through to the Atkinson family, found out where Kayden was headed, and tracked him down.
“Defender, I know this kind of small-time fight doesn’t interest you, but I have no one else to turn to. If Seclela’s martial artists weren’t hiding away, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Coleman said, his eyes welling up with tears.
Looking at Coleman’s devastated expression, Kayden gently patted his arm. He understood how Vincent felt right now. The man had a deep love for his country, and it tore him up to see Seclela’s martial arts being trampled like this.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” Kayden said calmly.
Hearing this, Vincent’s confidence returned, and he nodded eagerly.
Before long, they arrived at the venue, a local boxing gym under Inassea’s sports bureau. The place was already packed, the air buzzing with shouts and roars. Testosterone filled the room, making the atmosphere electric.
Seclela Martial Arts Council had been hyping up this so-called “cultural exchange,” so it had drawn a lot of attention. As soon as they walked in, the loud, aggressive cheers assaulted their ears.
On the stage stood a bald, heavily tattooed man with bulging muscles. His chin was inked with a green tattoo, and even his eyes were covered in tattoos. From his chin down, his entire body was a canvas of ink.
But surrounding the tattoos were countless scars, evidence of years of brutal battles. Even his face and bald head were marked with the deep lines of violence. This wasn’t just some guy in a fight-this man lived for it. Even looking at him makes people feel daunted.
His massive frame, chiseled muscles, and sharp physicality screamed professional fighter.
And there, balanced on his shoulders, was another man-covered in blood, completely limp. It was clear the man had already been knocked out cold.
The tattooed fighter lifted the body high above his head, shouting triumphantly at the crowd. He beat his chest like a wild animal, letting out guttural howls that echoed through the gym, sounding more like a ferocious beast than a human.
This guy was beyond cocky. He was on a power trip, his arrogance written all over his face.
Then came the moment of horror. With a single, brutal motion, the tattooed fighter slammed the limp body down onto the ring floor.
The sickening sound of the impact echoed, and the man’s body bounced off the ground. The crowd felt the agony of the crash in their bones. Some in the audience closed their eyes in fear, others were on the verge of vomiting from the sheer brutality. It was too violent, too bloody-this wasn’t a fight, it was an execution.
As the man’s body lay still on the ground, twitching, blood oozed from his mouth. His eyes gradually lost their spark. In a matter of seconds, he stopped moving altogether.
He was dead. From the moment he hit the ground, life had left him.
This wasn’t a match; it was a murder.
Seeing his opponent die seemed to only excite the tattooed man even more. Killing appeared to be his drug of choice, his adrenaline skyrocketing as he pounded his fists against his chest, roaring at the crowd. He looked like a monstrous gorilla, his every move driving the audience wild. They cheered louder, more frenzied than before, caught up in his raw savagery.
No one in the crowd seemed to care about the life that was just snuffed out. Instead, they reveled in the violence, intoxicated by the chaos.
In the front row, a group of elderly men sat with grim expressions, staring at the lifeless body in the ring. Their faces were full of sorrow as they shook their heads in despair. It was heartbreaking-this was the fifth person to die like this.
It was like the Seclela fighters were made of paper. None of them had even managed to land a solid hit before being utterly destroyed.
The foreign fighter barely even had to try. He won every match without breaking a sweat.
“What now, Chairman?” one of the elderly men asked, turning to a bearded old man sitting beside him.
The Chairman, wearing a simple old cloth robe and clutching a string of prayer beads, looked completely helpless. His deeply wrinkled face, usually so full of wisdom, was now clouded with uncertainty.
“Chairman, if we keep sending people up there, it’s just going to be more deaths. That foreigner, he’s not just fighting-he’s trying to kill. It’s deliberate murder, not competition. Maybe it’s time to-”
“Shut up!” the Chairman barked, cutting the man off before he could even finish his sentence.
Swallowing hard, the man shrank back, the words “give up” dying on his lips.
The Chairman took a deep breath, letting the prayer beads fall from his hands. His eyes hardened with resolve. “We’re not giving up! Can’t you see? They’re trying to crush our national pride, trample all over Seclela’s martial arts! Seclela’s traditions have lasted for thousands of years. If we let it fall on our watch, we’d be the ones responsible for the death of our legacy. We’d be damned!”
“But-”
“No more buts! We keep fighting! Coleman Vincent said he knows a warrior. Once he arrives, that brute up there will meet his match, I’m sure of it,” the Chairman declared, his voice full of righteous anger.
“Who are we sending next?” one of the elders in black asked.
The Chairman hesitated for a moment, then, as if making a difficult decision, said, “Send Wade Knox up.”