Feeling the blood splatter across his knuckles, Sett watched the convulsing form of Razor Field with detached boredom. "What... what did you say? You think you're my opponent?" The bluster had drained from the big man's face, replaced by a flicker of something else—fear, perhaps, or dawning realization.
Even a clay figurine has three points of fire, let alone a fighter with pride. Anger and the will to compete began to flood back into Razor, pushing against the bone-deep fear that had paralyzed him moments ago.
Sure, the guy in front of him had an aura that didn't seem human—cold, predatory, like nothing Razor had ever faced. But fighting wasn't about auras! What mattered in a real fight was technique and power!
The way this skinny bastard stood there, his footwork, his complete lack of guard—everything screamed amateur! And look at those pathetic muscles—even a random guy on the street had more definition.
To any normal observer, Sett didn't look like a fighter at all. He looked like some venomous insect lying by the roadside, something no one would ever notice.
In the span of a few seconds, Razor's years of experience instantly analyzed the strengths and weaknesses of both men. The conclusion was inescapable: this guy had nothing. Nothing at all.
His trembling legs began to steady. The anger on his face twisted into a sneer. He opened his mouth to laugh—
Sett's right fist crashed into his face.
Blood sprayed. Before Razor could even process the impact, Sett's foot connected with his curled-up body, sending him tumbling across the sand.
Sett flicked the blood from his hand dismissively. "If you're going to fight, then fight. Why all the useless chatter?"
The crowd, which had been chanting Razor's name nonstop, fell silent. They stared at the stranger—this face no one had ever seen in a ring before—who had just flattened their local hero.
The silence lasted only a moment. Then a new name rose from the stands, echoing Sett's own.
"Sett! Sett! Sett!"
Listening to the enthusiastic applause, Sett spread his arms in a bored acknowledgement. He couldn't care less about any of this. The system had no popularity functions. His only interest was in finding new giants to challenge.
He looked down at the big man still twitching on the ground. His eyes, once wide with surprise, now narrowed in assessment. This guy couldn't even be called a real fighter.
Even stripped of everything, reduced to Level 1, Sett was still running on a champion's template. Fighting这些小兵 was like crushing insects. The difference in stats alone ensured a brutal victory.
"What? Are all the people here this pathetic?" Sett's voice carried through the suddenly quiet arena. "If there's no one stronger... then I'm going home."
He waited. No response. No one stepped forward claiming to be stronger. Sett sighed, bored out of his mind, and began to turn away. He needed to find somewhere quiet to figure out what the hell had happened to him.
A roar stopped him in his tracks.
Razor Field was on his feet again, swaying, his eyes bloodshot and wild. A vivid red welt marked his stomach where Sett had kicked him.
"You're not leaving!" Razor bellowed. "The winner hasn't been decided yet! I'm Razor Field! I can't lose to the likes of you!" He charged forward, all reason abandoned, driven by nothing but wounded pride.
Sett watched him come. Slowly, he raised his right hand again. "I told you... If you're going to fight, why talk so much?"
Razor, blinded by rage, didn't hear a word. He just kept coming, covering his head with his arms. He had tricks, this one. They called him Razor for a reason. Even with gloves on, his strikes could cut like sharp weapons. Get close enough, strike the joints—victory would be his.
Sett simply watched him close the distance. His right hand stayed raised. When Razor breached the two-meter mark, entering striking range, they both moved at once.
Razor's left fist lashed out, impossibly fast. Three lines of blood opened across Sett's left arm in rapid succession. Then another strike, and another—more blood bloomed on Sett's body.
Blood flowed freely. His arms began to feel heavy. But Sett's expression never changed. He didn't seem to feel the pain at all.
And then his right hand came down.
Power transferred from the soles of his feet, through his legs, up into his waist—his entire body behind the blow. It exploded across Razor's face.
Bones ground together. Razor's eyes rolled back, showing white.
Up in the stands, the man in charge of Razor was slapping his own forehead in despair. "If I'd known... I would have used the other guy... Who recommended this idiot? Razor's about to break... What do I do now..."
Regret flooded his mind. His entire operation was crumbling. This was supposed to be an exhibition match for Razor—a showcase. And now this thorn shows up, this Sett...
But this was a bloodsport exhibition for the big names... The situation was a disaster. The man in charge saw his future going up in smoke. He reached for the microphone to call the fight—
A hand, old and wrinkled, closed over his wrist.
"Don't call it so early," Tokugawa said, a smile playing at his lips. "Keep watching."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Down in the ring, Sett's right hand suddenly gripped Razor's head. In a normal match, you'd stop when your opponent was incapacitated. But this was far from a normal match. No one would stop him if he kept going.
But Sett wasn't grabbing Razor to indulge some sadistic impulse. He was demonstrating power. For the kind of people who ran these shows, a guy who could just beat people up? They were a dime a dozen.
But a guy who could make people explode with a single punch? That was valuable. The kind of valuable that let you name your price.