CHAPTER 35: CHAPTER 26: SOLVING PROBLEMS WITH MORE THAN JUST FISTS

"Fack, take him out, darling." Swang shouted, his angry gaze cutting my face like a knife, "You actually deceived me."

"I will, baby. He messed with the wrong person, kid. I’m going to break your legs."

The white young man swung a bat, a grim smile on his face.

"Are you serious?"

I looked at him calmly. His stance showed he hadn’t undergone combat training; gripping the bat with both hands might increase power, but swinging requires a wind-up, taking longer. Just watching his shoulders can predict his attack direction. At this moment, the white young man stared at my shoulder, aiming to incapacitate me in one hit, to break my collarbone.

Even though he has a weapon, this is indoors; in tight spaces, a bat is less lethal than a dagger.

ROOKIE! I laughed. If it was before, I might worry facing two strong men, but now, I only feel ease. With enhanced constitution, my reaction, speed, and strength have improved.

"Sweetheart, don’t let him get away. The phone is our money." Claire clenched a vase on the dining table, staring at me, waiting for an opportunity to ambush me.

"I know, baby, he’s dead, I’ll make him regret it." The black young man’s knuckles cracked. He grabbed his vest and pulled hard.

Rip, immense strength shredded his clothes directly, tossing torn cloth on the floor, the black young man flexed his shoulder joints.

This guy is strong, with solid muscles, a tall body. It’s not like someone who exercises with protein powder at the gym. His muscles are suited for combat, even with resistance training, possessing a certain degree of striking endurance.

His hands clenched into fists, one front, one back, it’s not a boxing stance. From his posture, with the left foot braced, I can tell he’s studied striking.

Left foot’s toe touches the ground, right leg exerts force instantly, left foot serves as a pivot to kick.

It should be kickboxing or Thai boxing.

He’s not a boxer!

"Go get him, baby."

Claire blew a kiss to the black man.

"I’m gonna take him down." The black man locked eyes on me, flexed his shoulders, a feint to make me think he’s going to punch.

This guy is professional.

"I believe you, baby. Swang, my boyfriend will handle it. He’s learned fighting, and his coach sees potential, hopes he joins mixed martial arts competitions to become a professional fighter."

"Really?" Swang grinned at me, sliding his thumb across his throat, signaling he would take me out.

"What do you call confidence beyond prowess?"

I took off my short sleeve and tossed it on the floor, keeping a calm expression.

"What is it?" the white man laughed, walked near me, gauging attack distance.

"That’s called stupidity!"

"Fack!" The white man raised the bat to swing at my shoulder.

I merely stepped back, bang! The bat hit the ground; the recoil made the white young man’s wrist ache slightly.

"Damn it!" The youth looked up at me. I had quickly stepped forward to his front. My palm to his chin, pushed hard.

Bang.

The chin is a soft spot on the body, easy to dislocate, and not so sturdy. Using a palm strike, the power is stronger, the counterforce won’t break my bones.

Impact to the chin can also cause unconsciousness.

Thunk, the white young man fell to the ground.

"Damn bastard." The black man immediately charged at me.

Left foot stomped the ground, right leg pushed. I watched him, knowing his real attack shifted from kicking to thrusting punches.

In boxing, thrust punch speed is quick, hard to defend, but has a drawback—its power is weak. Trained fighters often aim for the opponent’s nose, because that area is cartilage, hard to defend.

His hasty strike, the rhythm was disrupted by me.

I immediately twisted my neck, tilted my head to the side, bang.

The fist grazed past my ear.

The black man couldn’t believe it, his eyes wide open, in his view only my damn smiling face.

Fack!

Looking at my shoulder rise.

The black man immediately raised his left arm, assumed a defensive posture; he was a seasoned pro.

Knowing his attack failed, the opponent would counter.

Sadly, I’m not a fighter. My right hand with four fingers clasped together, second joints bent, odd fist shape like a leopard retracting claws.

Bang, I punched his throat; same thrust punch, but the destructive power was entirely different.

My fist took such grip to shrink the attack area, easier to strike the body’s weakest spot.

The throat, a move from Maga skill, not for mere knockdown but a lethal strike.

If I exert force, I can easily tear the soft cartilage in the opponent’s throat, causing suffocation and death.

This is the difference between contestants and warriors; for me, there are no rules, no habits.

Surviving is winning.

"Ahh!"

The black man knelt on the ground, clutching his throat, gasping painfully, feeling unable to breathe.

I turned and kicked the white young man’s skull as he got up, bang, he lay prone again.

I placed my hand on the black man’s shoulder.

"Understand just how foolish you are? Is this your prowess? Idiot!"

"Impossible, how could this happen? Baby, get up and hit him." Claire screamed.

The black man cursed that bitch, I feel like dying, you want me to hit him? Damn Fack!

"Get up darling, you’re a soon-to-be professional."