Underground Palace Divided, Each Enters the Arena

The sound of the wind filled their ears, and the five of them fell into the darkness like dumplings being dropped into a pot.

Colossus's roar was drowned out by the impact of steel.

During his fall, he reached out a hand, trying to grab Li Qianhuan, who was closest to him.

"Big guy, catch me!"

Li Qianhuan tumbled wildly in the air.

Before he could even touch the girl's fingertips, several airtight isolation gates descended from the sky.

Bang!

The first gate separated Colossus and Li Qianhuan on opposite sides.

Bang! Bang!

The second and third lanes followed closely behind.

Mr. Zhou!

Mondo cried out in surprise, his chubby body tumbling in mid-air as he instinctively lunged toward the nearest gate, attempting to use his ability to soften the metal.

But the moment your palm touches the gate, the high-frequency electromagnetic oscillation pulses on the gate's surface send you flying.

Mondo's palms were charred black, and he screamed as he fell into another side path.

After the final, muffled thud, the isolation wall completely severed the passage into several isolated iron cages.

Sing Sing was trapped alone in a corridor that was about 30 meters long and less than 3 meters wide.

"Hey! Little Chubby! Silver Fox!"

Sing Sing patted the left gate, but only a dull metallic resonance responded to him.

"Fireworks Girl! Bro! Can you hear me? Reply if you get it, over!"

Well, we're completely cut off from each other now.

"That old Sugar Man is really dirty-minded. He doesn't want to participate in team fights, he just insists on playing 1v1 duels in the jungle, huh?"

Footsteps echoed from the other side of the passage. A grotesque, deformed man with dark green skin and bulging eyes stood before him, accompanied by a dozen heavily armed men.

The strange man had the words "Number 1.2" branded in red on his chest.

As he breathed through his open mouth, wisps of white mist were still escaping from between his teeth.

More than a dozen gun barrels were simultaneously pointed at Sing Sing.

"Tsk tsk tsk, looks like I'm in luck today, caught a lone Little Monkey."

Number 1.2 grinned maliciously, pulled his thick arm back, and two barbed bone blades popped out from between his knuckles.

"Your face is so beautiful that it can ward off evil spirits if pasted on the door during Chinese New Year, and prevent pregnancy if hung above the bed."

"Did you dye your skin green yourself, or did life make it green? Should you wear a matching green straw hat with it?"

Number 1.2 paused for a moment, then roared, "Shut up! You dare to be stubborn even when you're about to die!"

Sing Sing gave him a disdainful look, took out half a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, pulled one out, put it in his mouth, and lit it.

I took a deep breath, and a wisp of smoke drifted out of my nostrils.

"Everyone, we all come out to work just to earn a living. Judging by the number on your chest, you don't even have a proper nickname at the company?"

"Think about this carefully. You're working for that exploitative class of Sugar Man, and you're forced to work overtime in the middle of the night. Do you get triple pay? Is there a taxi allowance? Do you pay for your social insurance Five Insurances and One Housing Fund? If your osteoporotic blade breaks, does that count as a work injury? Can you get reimbursed for your medical expenses?"

The militants opposite them exchanged glances, and their gun barrels involuntarily lowered.

One of the underlings even whispered, "Boss, what he said seems to make some sense. We don't even have a midnight snack..."

"Shut up! I'm a noble genetically modified warrior! What are you talking about salary for!"

Number 1.2 brandished its bone blade in a fit of rage, as if its sore spot of poverty had been struck, its eyes bloodshot.

"You glib-tongued monkey! Open fire! Turn him into a sieve!"

Gunfire erupted.

"Stubborn and unyielding, you deserve to be a slave at the bottom of society for the rest of your life."

Sing Sing lightly stomped his right foot on the ground, transforming into a shadow that bounced wildly on both sides of the corridor.

What would be a dead end for an ordinary person has become a natural parkour track for Director Zhou.

"Where did they go?! Where did they run off to?!" Number 1.2 turned its head wildly from side to side.

"Where are you looking? Your father is right here."

A cold, mocking voice came from above.

Number 1.2 Head tilted back.

Sing Sing had one hand attached to the ceiling, while his right hand had somehow produced a crudely made cylindrical device.

A label was affixed to the casing, with four hastily written characters: High-powered flashlight.

Number 1.2, after seeing that thing clearly, burst into unrestrained laughter:

"Haha! What are you trying to do with that crappy flashlight? Give me some light so I can aim properly! Brothers, fire upwards!"

The button is pressed.

"Take this—the physical version of Solar Flare: Absolute High-Beam Dog Punishment!"

A Nova shone brightly in the narrow corridor, filling every inch of space with its intense light.

"Oh no! My eyes! I'm blind!"

"I can't see anything! It's all white!"

"Don't shoot! Who the hell shot me in the thigh?!"

Screams echoed through the corridor, and crimson blood oozed from their eyelids.

The panic of losing their sight made them instinctively pull the trigger, their guns firing wildly, and several people were immediately taken down by stray bullets from their own teammates.

In the white light, Sing Sing flipped and landed, the guns being cleanly sliced off wherever the Blade passed.

The wrist and knee bones snapped inch by inch with a crisp cracking sound.

In the blink of an eye, more than a dozen armed guards lay dead in pools of blood, writhing and howling on the ground, clutching their severed limbs.

The guns in his hands were all reduced to scrap metal parts, scattered all over the ground.

Number 1.2 leaned against the wall, both arms broken off at the base, a knife wound slashed across its chest, green blood flowing down the wall.

He stared in horror at the man in the black trench coat, a cigarette dangling from his lips, who was walking towards him step by step.

"You... you're not Mutants... what kind of monster are you?!"

Sing Sing didn't answer. He gently lifted the bloodstained identification dog tag on the chest of the person with the number 1.2 with the tip of his knife and turned it over to look at it.

"Let me introduce myself."

Sing Sing Chow grinned, took a deep drag on his cigarette, and flicked the ash that had been accumulating for a long time onto the trembling shoulder of No. 1.2.

"Director of the Overseas Special Talent Introduction Office of the China 749 Bureau, Stephen Zhou. By the way, the deputy director level treatment will be replaced if it is fake."

Sing Sing's smile faded, "Now, let's move on to the rapid-fire Q&A. My companions, and that girl named Illyana, where is your boss keeping them?"

Number 1.2 gritted his teeth, turned his head, and tried to appear tough. "I... I would rather die than betray Sugar Man!"

"Oh? He's a loyal subject."

The knife tip moved up two centimeters, pressing against his Adam's apple.

"Don't force me to do a free tonsillectomy for you, bro."

"The very... bottom level! B4 Zone... the core of the teleporter!"

Number 1.2, his face ashen, raised a trembling finger and pointed to the pipe above his head.

"There's a maintenance access point inside the pipes... it leads directly to..."

Sing Sing looked in the direction he was pointing.

The ceiling ventilation ducts are large enough for an adult to crawl through, and there are clear markings at the welds.

"Why didn't you just cooperate earlier? You had to waste my time smoking."

After saying that, Sing Sing raised his hand and waved it, and number 1.2 was split in two.