Arguments are inevitable.

"Can anyone explain the current situation!?"

"No no no, don't convince me, convince the board. The branding department is putting pressure, if that little fish doesn't beat the mercenary, we're all gonna be screwed!"

The expressions of the board's secretaries were the calmest.

The faces of the members at the tech port looked grim, as they repeatedly compared the existing data.

"The data parameters are normal, the issue is with that mercenary..."

"What model?"

"The feet are from Raqi Industry's Silencer."

A cold laugh echoed in the crowded room, followed by a question suppressing rage.

"SO... the crap you tinkered with couldn't keep up with the Eastern People's old model!?"

"It's impossible, the foot and muscle bundle data is overwhelming; the issue is... aside from the two known models, his alloy skeleton, Sianweistan model, and the processor are unknown."

"Which company?"

"Don't know."

"A street mercenary, not recruited by any security department, where did the experimental prosthetic body come from? Don't give me that arena product protection agreement crap, call the Black Gold Gang, place an order with the middleman, I want to know his source!"

...

The temperature in the VIP suite was just right.

The circulation system allowed the biotech-infused aromas to keep spreading, amidst the scent of "elite," increasingly mixed with anxiety, anger, and tension.

Ryan stood silently in the corner, witnessing everything.

He was Reagan Patrick's agent, nicknamed "Ticket," a boxing scout without a signed company, occasionally taking small middleman jobs.

Crocodile was his luckiest find in this lifetime.

This VIP room had been his goal for the past seven years.

He was the smallest character in this room, unnoticed, with those towering big shots above his rank, tearing each other apart over a boxer.

The most ridiculous thing:

No one here cared about Reagan.

They clung to parameters, products, and personal data.

Two secretaries from the board left silently.

Ryan followed suit.

He saw an executive in the hallway loosen his tie, revealing a neck full of slots, sighing with relief, arranging the third round with the boxing coach waiting outside.

Ryan held expectations for crossing social layers.

Yet standing here felt inexplicably congested.

The decadent upper class, the status-symbol hovercars, seemed all tied to heavy costs.

Ryan surveyed the room.

No one had the freedom they desired.

"Really boring."

He left the suite, without needing to report, unnoticed, walking down the soundproof carpeted hallway, drowned by the atmosphere ignited by thousands of spectators.

Ryan walked along the wall.

Holographic projections swam below knee height across the dome.

He saw a Black Gold Gang leader standing by the railing, overlooking the arena from above, occasionally spitting at the audience with his high-end cigar.

Thinking about it...

Was this mercenary brought in by the Black Gold Gang?

Professional instinct made him glance more at the arena.

John no longer dodged.

The spotlights in the Central Arena were still blazing.

Reagan Patrick's skin was glowing.

Cooling fluid from the spine mixed with secretions seeping out from the synthetic leather forming a thin film of oil.

The white smoke from the heat vents indicated:

The load on Crocodile's prosthetic body was high.

He seemed tireless, his punches still fierce, capable of moving a 400-pound sandbag, but only tearing through the air, creating an unsatisfied "howling" sound.

This high-tech set allowed him to have the upper hand for a long time in the past, he'd almost forgotten—that in the ring, every mistake in movement, every failed attempt, comes at a cost.

Bam!

A stinging pain came from the rib.

A familiar sensation. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Reagan seemed to return to the wild boxing site on Shanglang Road, enduring days of being beaten with a tattered body before signing a contract.

He gritted his teeth, fighting through injury, trying to entangle with his opponent.

"John's" dodging moves were faster than holographic projections.

He didn't retreat mindlessly, but instead shuttled close to the body, often having muscle contact without locking together.

Bam!

Meanwhile, every space Crocodile rushed into was fiercely attacked by elbows, knees, or fists filled with force.

Bam!

If they leveled the prosthetic body difference, they were evenly matched.

No.

The continuous pile-up of pain gradually awakened Crocodile.

His scalp tingled a bit; he had to admit—not only in other situations, he couldn't beat this mercenary in the ring either.

Hu—

A swing punch missed again.

John disappeared in front of Crocodile, lowering his body, Igdrasir catapulting forward, hitting the same rib.

Making a heart-wrenching crack sound.

A few streaks of crimson appeared in Crocodile's eye sockets.

He found his breathing rhythm disrupted, the intense pain spreading from the injured area in all directions.

Bam!

Before he could recover, another solid punch landed.

The situation was really reversed.

Reagan became the tougher sandbag.

John reappeared in the field of vision, no longer dodging, starting to thrash the opponent from the front.

Again and again!

He seemed to be doing a move demonstration.

The arm stretch was complete, the posture was full of tension.

The sound of fists hitting flesh was solid, like heavy metal bats striking a sofa.

Bone Shards stood silently before the tempered glass.

Jilead leaned against the railing, the cigar in hand untouched for a long time.

Macao clenched his fist and roared, stomping continuously, biting his teeth while breathing!

Gino covered his mouth with one hand, hugging himself with the other, staring at the thrilling screen of brushing past each other.

The audience was going crazy!

They loved the collision of flesh and bone.

Every screen showed John's figure.

Every mutual brawl detail was captured, magnified, replayed!

John stirred the smoke, rose up, the [Silencer] prosthetic limb's knee hit Crocodile's alloy chin.

He raised his head, lips trembling, the soft metal chin underwent wave-like deformation.

High-definition cameras slowed down multiple times, displaying in front of the audience.

Drop-shaped sweat scattered by John's punch, Crocodile's muscles caved in, white smoke subtly rising from both under the spotlight.

John performed unilateral beatings, like Crocodile did in the last round, just more professional, more glorious, with no repetition in moves and patterns.

If any experienced player were present, they would definitely feel the same.

Kenichi Sora like a long-repressed heavy enthusiast, constantly merging his skills, repeatedly trying each move, enjoying each unique collision!

Crocodile was solid.

Pain blockers did not alleviate his stress.

Because injuries affected the combat rhythm, the beatings John imposed on him accumulated into disturbing numbers, eventually collapsing at a breaking point.

For instance, now:

Crocodile had exhausted all means of resistance, once again staggering back by the flying punch.

His body began reflexively counterattacking.

The behavior chip's action commands had already overridden his sluggish consciousness, bypassing the high-level nervous center, directly "controlling" this tech-driven body to move independently.

Crocodile jolted awake, but it was too late.

The heavily burdened ankle locked with a snap.

His knee froze in mid-air, twitching constantly, red warning messages flashed in the prosthetic eye.

"Ah-ha!"

John, drenched in sweat, burst into a smile.

It was a very youthful smile.

Carrying a sort of untimely innocence.

John stepped forward, agile and graceful, using Crocodile's knee to leverage up.

He twisted in the air, like a released taut belt, carving a perfect semi-circle, the knee filled with momentum hitting Reagan Patrick's temple.

The impact was fierce enough to be visible to the naked eye!

This muscle monster shifted two steps to the right.

His pupils lost focus, red liquid oozed out, a few strands of yellow-blue interwoven arcs burst from the impacted temple, exploding in the air!