America: Starting from collecting corpses, leveling up to godhood

The fat dealer reluctantly counted out several stacks of hundred-yuan bills and slammed them onto the folding table.

"Take the money and get out of here," the fat man said, chewing on his half-smoked cigar.

"Johnny must have already kowtowed; you're lucky."

Jack quickly swept all the cash into his canvas bag and was about to call Chen Ming to retreat when he discovered that Chen Ming hadn't even headed towards the iron gate.

"I just asked, and the winner here can continue to defend their title and get an extra appearance fee, right?" Chen Ming asked Jack through the barbed wire fence.

Jack was stunned.

"Chen, we should know when to stop!" he said in a low voice.

"The worst thing you can do in underground boxing is to be greedy. Even an undefeated champion will run out of energy after fighting several matches in a row..."

"Don't worry, I haven't even broken a sweat yet," Chen Ming interrupted him.

"The odds are still stable, keep betting and go all in on me."

Jack looked at Chen Ming's calm breathing, gritted his teeth, and turned to push the money he had just won back to the fat dealer.

"All in, continue."

The next hour turned into the most bizarre one-sided massacre in the history of this underground arena.

In the second match, Chen Ming's opponent was a Salvadoran covered in MS 13 tattoos.

The match had barely begun, and before his opponent could even throw a punch, Chen Ming delivered a powerful and precise side kick to his ribs, the bone piercing his lung. He collapsed to the ground, coughing up blood, in just six seconds…

The third character is a white skinhead who has just finished smoking marijuana.

Chen Ming dodged the heavy punch by sidestepping, then pointed his fingers like a knife and precisely struck the opponent's carotid artery, knocking him to the ground in just five seconds...

In the fourth round, the bookmaker personally dispatched his top-tier, heavily armed henchmen.

Chen Ming deliberately created an opening, taking a sweeping kick from his opponent before closing in, locking his opponent's right elbow joint, and breaking it in just eight seconds...

After the four games were over, the audience was completely silent.

If you turn off the music, this basement, crammed with hundreds of thugs, drug dealers, and gamblers, becomes as quiet as a study room in the Los Angeles Public Library…

The audience who had been waving banknotes and shouting "crush the monkey" were now all like they had been choked, unable to utter a single swear word.

Several henchmen responsible for carrying people stood outside the iron fence with stretchers, looking at Chen Ming but not daring to open the door and go in.

Aside from breathing a little heavier, Chen Ming's hairstyle remained perfectly intact.

"Don't just stand there, collect the money."

Jack snapped out of his daze and frantically stuffed the mountain of cash on the table into his canvas bag, filling it so much that the zipper was almost impossible to close. Then he started using his phone to collect the money...

A few minutes later, he squeezed to the doorway carrying a heavy bag, handing Chen Ming his coat while wiping the cold sweat from his forehead and speaking in a low voice.

"Chen, we have to get out of here. Including our initial investment, the two of us have already embezzled nearly 100,000... Your odds have dropped to 1 to 5, there's no profit left to be made."

Jack glanced around nervously.

"Look at those gangsters over there, they've probably lost all their money for next week's leaf purchase. Their hands are all over their backs... If this keeps up, they'll definitely ignore the rules and just pull out their Glocks and riddle us with bullets."

Chen Ming glanced around.

Indeed, several black men in oversized jerseys were staring at him with sinister eyes, the outline of gun handles vaguely visible under the hem of their jackets—Los Angeles street gangs don't have the spirit of contracts based on winning or losing.

"Okay, take the money and let's go."

Chen Ming took the coat and put it on, then decisively pushed open the iron gate. The crowd immediately moved aside, making way for the two of them.

But just as the two of them quickly walked to the concrete staircase leading to the ground, they suddenly heard footsteps behind them.

"Wait a minute, Jack Chen."

The fat man pushed aside his two henchmen, then stood in front of the stairs, a cigar dangling from his lips.

"You made me lose a lot of money tonight, but I have to admit, your skills are a complete waste in this muddy cesspool full of drug addicts and street thugs."

The fat man pulled a piece of black cardstock from the pocket of his floral shirt and handed it to him.

"Interested in playing at a higher level?"

Chen Ming did not immediately accept the business card.

"High-level?"

"There are no poor people on welfare, nor are there any street thugs who can't take a loss and pull out a gun; the audience consists of big shots living in Beverly Hills or Malibu Beach..."

The fat man grinned, revealing his teeth, which were stained yellow from smoking.

"The opponents are all top-tier killing machines sourced from around the world, with appearance fees starting at ten times higher than here. Do you dare to play?"

Chen Ming glanced down at the black card in the fat man's hand.

The card has no markings on its surface, only a string of minimalist gold-stamped numbers.

He reached out, took the card, and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Since it's starting at ten times the price, it does sound like the air is better than in this basement," Chen Ming said calmly.

"Of course, the corresponding rules will be even more ruthless, kid," the fat man sneered.

"But I have faith in you. Call the number above anytime you think it through."

Jack clutched the canvas bag tightly, warily watching the restless gang members around him, fearing someone might shoot him from behind. He practically dragged Chen Ming away.

A few minutes later.

After the pickup truck had completely driven out of the slum neighborhood, Jack finally let out a long breath and slumped into the driver's seat.

"My God... we actually managed to bring the money out alive."

Jack wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and turned to stare at Chen Ming, who remained unmoved in the passenger seat.

"How did you do that? Those guys were at least seasoned street fighters, and you managed to take down four of them in a row."

"If I wanted to, I could take on ten more without a problem." Chen Ming rolled down the car window, letting the night wind carry away the smell of blood from his body.

"Four consecutive wins plus high odds, after deducting my cut, you've netted nearly 40,000 yuan tonight." Jack swallowed hard, looking at Chen Ming as if he were a walking gold mine.

"But seriously, Chen," Jack said, his tone turning very serious.

"You'd better not touch the black card that fat guy gave you at the end... I've heard about the high-class games for the top billionaires in Los Angeles. They're not boxing matches at all, but modern Roman gladiatorial arenas."

Jack made a throat-slitting gesture.

"The fighters on the field are all retired mercenaries or outlaws hired from the black market. Sometimes they are even allowed to use melee weapons. To give the wealthy people in the stands a thrill, there is no option to surrender. They often fight until the other side is completely dead."

Chen Ming took out the black card from his pocket and casually played with it for a couple of moments under the streetlight.

Beverly Hills: A big shot, a killing machine, a twisted sense of humor...

The image of Viktor, the old Russian man who had been staring blankly at a room full of corpses at his private estate during the day, flashed through his mind.

Sean was right during the day; those people in Los Angeles' high society certainly know how to have a fancy way of doing things.

"I understand." Chen Ming put away the card and immediately changed the subject.

"Take me home first."