The gangster with the single beard hair smirked and crossed his arms. “You’re tired. I’m sure when my people arrive, they’ll just bury you,” he taunted.
Julyan shrugged, unfazed. “We’ll see who gets buried,” he replied, pausing to check his watch. “Oh, and by the way, a lot of time has been wasted. Your debt’s interest has quintupled. Tell your people to hurry if you don’t want it to increase further.”
The gangster grinned, “Don’t worry, we won’t be paying anything, not even for your grave,” he laughed.
Julyan remained calm, his expression unchanged. “Confidence is good, but overconfidence can be dangerous,” he said, his voice steady.
The gangster’s smile faded slightly, irritation creeping in. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” he snapped, his patience wearing thin.
“I’m just stating the facts,” Julyan replied, his tone even. “It’s up to you how you want to handle them.”
The gangster’s frustration grew, his face reddening. “You won’t be so smug when my guys get here,” he threatened, his voice rising.
Julyan simply nodded, maintaining his composure. “I’ll be right here, waiting,” he said calmly.
The gangster, now visibly agitated, cursed under his breath. “You’re going to regret this,” he spat, his anger boiling over.
Julyan met his gaze, unflinching. “We’ll see,” he said, his calm demeanor unwavering, further infuriating the gangster.
At that moment, dozens of gangsters wielding machetes entered the room, looking like bandits. They swaggered in, ignoring the unconscious bodies scattered on the floor. They also noticed the boxing champion sprawled on the table, unconscious, but paid him no mind. They confidently approached the gangster boss with the single beard hair, greeting him respectfully as they arrived. “Boss, we’re here,” they announced firmly and loudly.
The gangster boss with the single beard hair laughed at the quick arrival of his men, then glanced at Julyan, who remained calm. “You’re finished now; your grave diggers are here,” he boasted.
The armed gangsters turned in the direction their boss was looking. “Boss, is this who we’re burying? Such an easy job for so many of us,” the leading man said arrogantly.
The gangster boss nodded. “That’s right, I want you to bury him. I want you to cut his body into pieces and bury each piece in different directions-one in the North, South, East, and West. So his soul will struggle to find where to haunt!” he laughed.
“Boss, I’ll handle it,” the leading man volunteered.
The boss nodded but reminded him, “He’s skilled in fighting. You need to be careful; he defeated ten pro boxers, including the champion.”
The man grinned, raising his machete and licking it. “What chance does a fist have against a blind weapon? Can his fists fight my sharp blade?”
Julyan, growing impatient, interjected, “Is your strategy meeting on how to bury yourselves going to take much longer? Have you chosen a cemetery yet?”
The leading man turned to Julyan, responding sarcastically, “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll find a nice spot for you.”
Unfazed, Julyan scratched his head in boredom. “Well, if you’re ready, come at me. Let’s not waste any more time.”
The leading man nodded, “Fine, but don’t blame me for being ruthless and merciless,” he said before charging at Julyan.
As the man lunged forward with his machete, Julyan deftly dodged, moving with precision and grace. Each swing of the blade was met with a swift sidestep or a quick duck, as if Julyan was studying every move the man made. The room echoed with the sound of the machete slicing through the air, but it never found its mark.
Julyan’s eyes were focused, analyzing the man’s patterns and timing. He moved fluidly, almost as if he were dancing around the attacks, waiting for the perfect moment to strike back.
“Tch!” The gangster realized his opponent was indeed skilled. “I didn’t expect you to be this good at fighting,” he admitted.
“I’ve heard that a few times before. Can you step it up a bit? I get bored easily,” Julyan replied casually, continuing to dodge effortlessly.
“Arrogant!” the man retorted, swinging his machete with renewed vigor.
The blade struck tables, walls, and anything else in its path, but never Julyan. Each miss only fueled the gangster’s frustration. Seizing an opportunity, Julyan delivered a swift knee to the man’s chest, sending him staggering back in surprise. He couldn’t believe Julyan had found an opening, dismissing it as mere luck. Charging again, he was met with precise counters from Julyan, who landed successful hits with each attack.
This continued until the gangster’s mouth was bleeding. He wiped the corner of his lip, his eyes still defiant but now tinged with fear.
“You’ve got my respect,” he said, trying to maintain a facade of calm and bravery.
Julyan, growing impatient and uninterested in conversation, taunted, “Just come at me. You talk too much. You can always call a time-out if you’re tired and need a break.”
The gangster hesitated, feeling the sting of Julyan’s words, but his pride pushed him forward once more.
“I’m impressed by your skill, but you’re so arrogant!” the gangster shouted, charging at Julyan once more.
The three gangster bosses watching were stunned. “What’s happening? Wasn’t that Mr. Hawk just out of breath a moment ago?!” exclaimed the gangster with deep-set eyes.
“I thought the champion had drained this guy’s energy. How is he still fighting like this? Is he a robot, never tiring?!” Baldy added, bewildered.
“Tch! I don’t know what’s happening either, but only one of my guys has attacked so far. Let’s wait and not get impatient,” said the gangster with the single beard hair.
Meanwhile, the fight continued, and the gangster with the machete was getting more battered. Julyan unleashed a punch that struck the gangster in the chest, causing him to stagger back and vomit blood. He fell to one knee, clearly defeated.
Julyan glanced at the machete-wielding gangsters who were watching in shock. “This is getting boring,” he remarked, before walking over to the side and picking up a stick. He tested its sturdiness before returning to the center. Looking at the gangsters, he extended his hand, “Entertain me more, come on,” he said, beckoning them with a wave.
The gangsters exchanged glances before rushing at Julyan, attacking him simultaneously.
As the armed gangsters rushed in, Julyan met them with a grin. He dodged the first gangster’s wild swing and kicked him in the chest, sending him flying backward like a ragdoll. The next two gangsters tried to attack together, but Julyan was ready. He spun around, avoiding their blades, and tapped one on the head with his stick. The gangster’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled back, looking like he had just seen stars.
As Julyan danced through the gangsters, delivering playful yet precise hits with his stick, he began to offer advice like a father teaching his kids.
“Remember, boys,” he said, tapping one on the knee, causing him to hop around, “flexibility is key! See how you’re dancing now? That’s good practice!”
Another gangster, spinning from a shoulder tap, heard Julyan call out, “Always keep your balance! Or you’ll end up like a top, spinning out of control!”
As he ducked and dodged, Julyan continued, “And don’t forget, teamwork is important! But maybe try not to trip over each other next time.”
One gangster, trying to regain his footing, shouted back, “We’re trying, boss, but you’re too fast!”
Julyan laughed, delivering another light tap, “Speed comes with practice, my friend. Keep at it, and maybe one day you’ll catch up!”
Despite their attempts at coordination, the gangsters were no match for Julyan’s training. He had spent weeks under Tiger’s brutal regimen, enduring hellish drills that honed his skills to perfection. This intense training was why he seemed tireless, his stamina a testament to the grueling sessions Tiger had designed for him.
As the fight went on, Julyan’s moves were quick and funny. He ducked, dodged, and swung his stick, each hit making the gangsters react in silly ways. One by one, they dropped, their plan to overpower him failing as Julyan turned their attack into a comedy act. The gangsters, who thought they had the upper hand, found themselves outmatched by a single man who made their serious fight look like a funny show.
After a few moments, none of the gangsters wanted to fight anymore. They were all clutching the sore spots on their bodies where Julyan had hit them with his stick. Julyan smiled, looking relaxed. “A sharp machete is no match for a blind stick,” he said, stretching the stick out toward the three gangster bosses who were staring in disbelief.