Joren finally breathed a sigh of relief after confirming the nerd hadn't followed him.
Finally—I've gotten rid of that chatterbox.
As darkness fell, Joren—intent on cooking himself a well-earned meal once he got home—decided to take a shortcut.
He turned down another street and slipped into a narrow alley.
But after only a few steps, he stopped.
A figure emerged from behind a trash bin ahead.
Then more appeared on both sides.
And behind him, the alley's exit was blocked by three more.
Eight in total.
The leader stepped forward, a jagged scar running down his cheek, lending him a crueler air than his companions. He idly slapped a steel pipe against his palm, clearly impatient.
"Hey, kid—stop right there," he growled. "Hand over everything. That bag too."
Joren's hat brim hung so low his expression was hidden in shadow.
He had no intention of summoning Star Platinum.
Using Platinum Star—or Star Platinum, as it's properly called—on trash like this would be a waste.
At best, it'd just spawn another boring urban legend: "The Ghost Boxer of the Back Alleys."
"I'm in a hurry," Joren said calmly. "Gotta get home to cook dinner. How about we eat together?"
The scarred man blinked, momentarily thrown off. He clearly hadn't expected that.
Then he let out an exaggerated, mocking laugh. "Ha! Kid, you really haven't figured things out yet, have you?"
His thugs echoed him with jeers and snickers.
The leader raised the steel pipe, pointing it at Joren, and took a threatening step forward. "You've got three seconds to think it over! Otherwise, I'll make you drink milk through your own ass!"
Joren's eyes dropped—not to the pipe, but to the man's feet.
There, at the edge of a puddle left over from last night's rain, the thug stood unknowingly.
The instant the scarred man lifted the pipe—
A golden ripple of energy shot silently along the wet ground, striking the soles of his shoes.
"Holy sh—!"
His foot slipped. Balance gone, he crashed backward—and the steel pipe flew from his grip, spinning through the air before clang-ing squarely onto the skull of one of his own men.
"Bam!"
The goon crumpled, hands clutching his head, stars exploding behind his eyes—without ever laying a finger on Joren's coat.
In three swift strides, Joren closed the distance to a dreadlocked thug.
The man swung instinctively.
Joren tilted his head—just enough—and drove his elbow backward in a sharp, precise thrust.
"Oof!"
Another would-be attacker, sneaking up from behind, crumpled to the ground, clutching his ribs and gasping for breath.
Joren didn't pause at all.
With his right hand, he brought his fingers together into a blade—pale golden ripples of energy coalescing along the edge of his palm.
Puff.
The strike landed precisely on the carotid artery of the dreadlocked thug, whose punch had already missed its mark.
No blood spilled. The ripples didn't cut—they constricted, halting blood flow to the brain.
The man's eyes rolled back. His body went limp and collapsed to the ground.
"This guy… is a monster!"
Fear finally seized the remaining four.
The boy before them moved faster than humanly possible. This wasn't a fight—it was an execution.
One thug screamed and yanked a folding knife from his pocket, stabbing wildly at Joren's chest.
Without breaking stride, Joren lifted the shopping bag in his left hand.
Thump.
The frozen sirloin steak inside—infused with ripple energy—became a blunt projectile.
The knife clattered to the pavement.
The thug howled like a squealing pig, clutching his twisted wrist.
Joren remained expressionless. He kicked the man square in the chest.
He flew backward, crashing into the last two thugs who hadn't dared to advance. All three tumbled into a groaning heap.
Less than ten seconds.
The alley was now littered with unconscious bodies or men writhing in pain.
Joren stood amidst the wreckage, glancing down at his shopping bags.
A small tear had opened in one. A round potato rolled out, stopping at his feet.
He bent down, picked up the dust-coated spud, blew gently on it, and placed it back in the bag.
Then he walked toward the scarred man—the one who'd started it all.
The man was struggling to rise, his face a mask of horror and bewilderment.
I didn't even see him move… How did I end up flat on my face?
Joren held the bag in one hand and reached out with the other, gripping the man's collar like he was plucking a chick. With effortless strength, he lifted the 180-pound thug and slammed him against the cold brick wall.
"Who sent you?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about! We just thought you looked like some rich student…"
Joren tightened his grip—just slightly.
A faint, unnatural vibration pulsed through the man's bones.
It felt like ants gnawing from the inside out—pain radiating from his very marrow, sharp enough to shatter sanity.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!" the man sobbed, voice breaking. His pants darkened as he lost control.
"It was Thompson! He gave us five hundred yuan and told us to beat you so bad you'd end up in the hospital! Said he'd teach you a lesson you'd never forget! Please—I swear, we'll never do it again!"
Thompson.
At the name, Joren's expression didn't flicker.
He let go.
The scarred man slid down the wall, clutching his shoulder, eyes wide with terror.
How did he know I'd come this way?
"There's another group waiting on the main road," the man babbled through tears. "No matter which way you go… they'll block you…"
Yeah, yeah.
Joren sighed inwardly.
That's enough.
It's never going to end.