Chapter 103: Don't Come Any Closer! (Third Update)

“Oh my God!” The audience cried out in unison. Inside the octagon, Aoki Satoru’s neck was locked by Death Spider, yet he turned the situation to his advantage, crashing forward with force into Death Spider’s chest.

Thirty-eight seconds into the first round, Death Spider was slammed against the side netting of the cage, producing a loud clatter. The specially reinforced mesh bulged noticeably from the impact. Death Spider felt a metallic taste rise in his throat, his breath faltering for a moment.

At that instant, Aoki Satoru sensed the hands restraining him lose much of their strength.

“Die!” he growled through his mouthguard, voice muffled and angry, as he pressed down on his opponent’s neck, wrenching free from the hold.

A left jab to the eye, a right hook to the chin, then a left uppercut to the liver—after this vicious trio, Death Spider's resistance was utterly broken.

Aoki Satoru finished with a final, brutal right hook. Death Spider, slumped limply against the net, collapsed heavily to the floor like a ragdoll battered by an unstoppable force. Blood spattered through the air, landing in crimson droplets on Aoki Satoru’s cheek as his adversary convulsed and fell unconscious.

Aoki Satoru gazed coldly at Death Spider, who lay on the ground, face covered in blood and eyes shut tight. He refrained from striking further, simply removed his mouthguard, and leapt onto the edge of the cage. Balancing flawlessly, he stood barefoot atop the net, arms suddenly thrown wide open.

His pronounced muscles, highlighted by sweat and blood, gleamed with a metallic sheen, as though forged from steel. With arms spread wide at the cage’s edge, he resembled an eagle unfurling its wings; every fine muscle fiber stood out like the feathers on a mighty bird of prey. Blood and sweat trickled slowly down his austere face, and under the glaring lights, his shaven head reflected a faint glow, evoking the image of a war god.

“Aoki Satoru!” The ringside crowd, staff from the fighting club who knew him, shouted themselves hoarse.

“Aoki Satoru!” “Aoki Satoru!” “Aoki Satoru!”

The audience below the cage roared his name with fanatic fervor. Standing atop the net, Aoki Satoru lowered his gaze, surveying the social elites who, in daily life, were refined and composed, but now called his name like madmen. He couldn't help but curve his lips into a slow smile.

Matsuyama Iwa, half-kneeling, checked Death Spider’s injuries. Looking up, he could only see Aoki Satoru’s back, arms spread wide. The exaggerated latissimus dorsi looked like wings sprouting from his body, shining brilliantly under the lights.

“This kid... Unreal…” Matsuyama Iwa murmured, a trace of envy flickering in his eyes.

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When the music ended and the crowd dispersed, and Matsuyama Iwa declared Aoki Satoru the victor and summoned the ambulance for Death Spider, the third floor of the bustling fight club finally returned to tranquility. The spectators donned their designer clothes once more, having vented their stresses, slipping back into their ordinary, mundane lives. No one spoke of the previous frenzy as if nothing had ever happened.

Aoki Satoru sat in the locker room, a towel draped over his head, relaxing as he watched a drama on TV and unwound the bandages from his hands.

He heard the door open with a soft thud, and turned to see Matsuyama Iwa enter, his face serious and thoughtful. Aoki Satoru greeted him with a faint smile, “Boss, are you here to give me a raise?”

“Don’t even think about it until you beat Aaron!” Matsuyama Iwa snorted, sitting beside Aoki Satoru. Watching his calm demeanor, he opened and closed his mouth several times before finally voicing his thoughts. “How did you do it, kid?”

“Huh?” Aoki Satoru tilted his head in confusion.

Matsuyama Iwa furrowed his brow. “I mean, how did you suddenly get so strong?”

“Watching you today, your movements, your power, your skill—honestly, it’s like you’ve advanced by leaps and bounds.” Matsuyama Iwa sighed. “I really can’t understand it… Could it be that geniuses really can do whatever they want?”

Aoki Satoru merely smiled lightly. “No, no, it’s all the power of money.”

“With money, you can do whatever you want,” Aoki Satoru raised his brows at Matsuyama Iwa, “Ha ha ha!”

Watching Aoki Satoru laugh, Matsuyama Iwa sighed helplessly and patted his shoulder. “If you’re serious about going pro, you could make more than just this. The money you could earn would be far beyond what you see now.”

He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Aoki Satoru. “These two hundred thousand were meant for your tuition, but in the end, I paid for my own lessons. Take it. It was a match with spectators—even if it was billed as a training bout, you deserve a bonus.”

Aoki Satoru accepted it with delight. “Huh? That guy Spider’s medical bills must be pretty steep.”

“If you don’t want it, give it back to me,” Matsuyama Iwa shot him a look. He didn’t mind Aoki Satoru’s ruthlessness in the ring; after all, only one can stand at the end—that is the cruel reality of mixed martial arts, the fate every fighter must face. He was just annoyed by Aoki Satoru’s smugness after the fact.

“I’ll take it,” Aoki Satoru stuffed the envelope into his locker. He had no qualms about accepting money from someone as wealthy as Matsuyama Iwa. Even if Matsuyama Iwa lost all his money and the club went bankrupt, he’d just be forced to inherit his multibillion-dollar estate.

Tsk, thinking of that, Aoki Satoru glanced at Matsuyama Iwa, only for Matsuyama Iwa to glare back as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. “If you’re willing to make this your career, when you hit your peak, earning tens of millions of dollars a year isn’t impossible. So, what do you say, want to consider it?”

Aoki Satoru chuckled. “Forget it. If I really became some fighting superstar, I’d have reporters hounding me every day, always having to be careful—it’d be a pretty dull life.”

Come to think of it, Aoki Satoru wasn’t particularly materialistic. Fancy cars? He found driving a hassle. Mansions? Too big and unsettling. As for designer labels, he didn’t care; as long as it fit and was comfortable, that was enough.

He didn’t even know how to spend the two hundred thousand. He had plenty saved from previous earnings.

“You…” Matsuyama Iwa shook his head with a wry smile, sighing softly before waving his hand. “Alright, get to training! You didn’t look tired after that match, so don’t think about slacking off.”

Aoki Satoru let out a sound of protest—he had indeed planned to sneak away…

But remembering his own weaknesses in stamina and strength, and thinking of the tremendous potential for improvement his extraordinary agility and intelligence must bring, he obediently went back to sweating it out.

He trained until nightfall, finally dragging his limp arms to the bookstore near his home. From afar, he spotted a black-haired girl about to close the shop.

“Kuroneko-san, wait!” Aoki Satoru called out urgently.

Kuroneko turned her head and saw a bald figure running toward her. Under the sparse streetlights, she couldn’t make out his face, only his black sportswear and vaguely fierce features. Her legs gave out in terror; she sat down abruptly and shouted nervously, “Help! Stay away from me!”