Why buy a place only to leave it empty and rent elsewhere instead?
Ken felt his very first sentence had already answered that, but since Yang Rui pressed again, he elaborated. "If I live there, my daily commute will take more than twice as long. That means I'd lose at least half an hour of sleep every day."
"Then why did you buy a place on the outer ring in the first place?" Yang Rui asked again.
"Because that was all I could afford," Ken replied frankly.
"You could live on the outer ring and drive to work every day. You've already bought the apartment—buying a car on top of that wouldn't be such a big deal, would it?"
"Driving myself wouldn't necessarily save time compared to public transport," Ken said calmly. "And maintaining a car is expensive. There's no real need."
"Then doesn't buying the apartment become pointless?"
"Not at all. The price per square meter has already gone up by at least eight thousand since I bought it. And the rent is higher than what I'm paying now, so it helps offset my mortgage."
"Have you found your new job yet?"
"Not yet."
"Do you want Nana and me to help introduce you to something?"
"Thanks, but no," Ken said. "I'm not planning to look for work right now. I want to take a break."
"You used to practice martial arts, didn't you? You're not actually some kind of warrior monk, are you?"
"I didn't," Ken replied helplessly. "I shaved my head because I started going bald, not because I wanted to become a monk."
"Then were you always getting into fights before? The other day, with that wanted criminal—you threw him flying in one move, and he was holding a knife. And in that video too, you just kicked someone away with a single blow…"
Zhu Ke'er cut her off. "Enough. Focus on driving. You almost ran a red light just now."
After getting in the car, Ken answered Yang Rui's rapid-fire questions honestly, so long as they didn't touch on the secret of his physical mutation.
Whether it was being unemployed, the financial strain when he bought the apartment, or his receding hairline, he concealed nothing and offered no embellishment—his replies were blunt and direct.
In the past, faced with a potential romantic interest, he would have weighed every word carefully, trying to leave a good impression, reluctant to expose his more dismal side.
But now, he truly didn't care whether Zhu Ke'er or Yang Rui approved of him at all—if anything, their disapproval would be preferable.
His thoughts were not in the car, not on this hiking trip, and not on Zhu Ke'er.
They were fixed on the "self-mutilation training" he had carried out the previous night.
Last night, he had gone beyond simply cutting himself with a blade. He had experimented with fire. He discovered that burns healed far more slowly than knife wounds, taking fifteen minutes and over forty seconds. Yet even when the flesh was charred black and carbonized, it still recovered completely after those same fifteen minutes and forty seconds.
He had also clenched his teeth and smashed one of his pinky fingers. It took eighteen minutes for it to recover to the point of being completely pain-free and freely movable again.
And he was certain of one thing: his bones were far, far harder than those of an ordinary person. He had needed two attempts to break it.
But none of these were last night's greatest discovery.
The most shocking revelation came when he sliced off a piece of flesh from his pinky, no larger than a grain of rice.
The wound on his finger healed perfectly after thirteen minutes, without leaving even the faintest scar. Yet the tiny piece of severed flesh had transformed into a patch of oxidized gray ash.
His blood behaved the same way. Once it coagulated, it too turned into a pale gray powder that scattered at the slightest touch.
Although he had long harbored suspicions, it was only at that moment that he became completely certain: the composition of his body was growing more and more different from that of a normal human being.
…
They drove onto the highway and traveled for an hour and a half, then spent another hour after exiting before finally reaching the rendezvous point for the hike.
Zhu Ke'er and Yang Rui were part of a group that often went hiking together. This time, besides the three of them, there were more than a dozen other men and women.
When Ken got out of the car and took a look, he realized that among those who had arrived earlier, there were two familiar faces.
One was a coach from the gym Ken had been frequenting lately—the very same Coach Shen who had struck up a conversation with him on his first day there and challenged him to compare bench press numbers.
The other was also a coach, though not from the gym itself, but from a boxing club located downstairs.
Ken had visited that boxing club just the day before, intending to sign up for a short-term course in Sanda, boxing, or some other form of combat training.
However, after listening to the staff's introduction, he realized that over the course of two months, most of the training focused on general physical conditioning—strength and stamina—while actual combat techniques and technical instruction were relatively limited.
So Ken stated plainly that he wasn't interested in basic physical training. He only wanted to learn concrete fighting techniques and technical movements, preferably in an advanced-level course.
That remark happened to be overheard by a nearby coach. The man turned around, sized Ken up a few times, and immediately sneered.
"You work out a lot, huh? You've got some size, muscles look decent. I hear people like you say this all the time—that your strength is already enough. But your gym muscles are nothing like real Sanda muscles. Come on, come on—hit me. Use all your strength. Right here. Go on, put some power into it."
As he spoke, the coach stepped in front of Ken and patted his own waist and abdomen, signaling for Ken to strike.
In truth, he had already been listening to Ken's conversation with the receptionist for a while. From the way Ken spoke, it was obvious he was a complete novice with no systematic training. The coach decided to step in, show off a bit, and demonstrate the boxing club's "prowess."
He himself still competed from time to time and maintained regular training. His ability to take hits was far beyond that of an ordinary person. On top of that, he cleverly controlled the distance, making it difficult for Ken to throw a truly heavy punch. When Ken did strike, he planned to adjust his angle and meet the blow with his abdomen—since most untrained punches lacked proper force, they would simply bounce off.
Unfortunately for him, the person standing in front of him was Ken.
Over the past two weeks, Ken had deliberately trained his strength, endurance, and agility. After drinking blood three times, his control over his muscles had grown increasingly refined. Even with the distance constrained, he could still generate force through a subtle twist of the hips and a slight roll of the shoulders.
Thus, a punch that appeared small and understated sent the coach collapsing to the ground like a shrimp, unable to speak for a long while.
Ken, of course, had not used his full strength. After two previous physical confrontations, he now had a very clear understanding of just how powerful he had become.
The coach's fall quickly drew the attention of the other trainers and students in the boxing club, who swarmed over in a rush. The receptionist, who had been standing nearby the whole time, hurriedly tried to explain the situation.
After a moment, the fallen coach struggled back to his feet, his face flushed crimson, veins bulging across his forehead as he grabbed at Ken, trying to drag him toward the ring.
"Damn it! I misjudged you! Playing the pig to eat the tiger, huh? Which gym are you from? Come on, come on—get in the ring and fight!"
Ken neither refused nor argued. He took the gloves the coach threw at him, slipped them on, removed his shoes and socks, and climbed into the ring.
The coach had clearly taken Ken for someone deliberately pretending to be a novice, here to cause trouble and challenge the club. Once in the ring, he showed no restraint at all, launching into a ferocious assault—combination punches and kicks crashing down in relentless waves.