A filthy room reeked of alcohol.
Changhu held a bloodstained cleaver, looking down at the strips of flesh writhing around his "father."
"Please... spare me."
Two strange eyeballs formed among the strips of flesh. In a deeply unnatural voice, they begged for mercy.
Changhu studied them. "Do you have to parasitize someone's head?"
"No. Just... blood... circulation." The Parasitic Organism didn't dare lie if it wanted to survive.
Changhu nodded, raised the cleaver, and chopped off his left hand.
The pain didn't make him scream. He didn't even furrow his brow.
He held out his bare wrist. "If you don't want to die, come here."
"Changhu will make an excellent deathmatch fighter. He was born for it."
Ever since he entered Deathmatch School, every teacher who had taught him had given him high praise.
In every combat simulation, he consistently ranked near the top.
But he wasn't some simple-minded brute who relied on his strength.
He was just as sharp, knew exactly what he needed to do, and never stubbornly clung to a lost cause.
Those qualities alone were enough to make him an excellent deathmatch fighter.
But that wasn't all there was to Changhu.
He was ruthless by nature.
Not only toward others, but toward himself as well.
Being ruthless wasn't usually a compliment, but for a deathmatch fighter, it fit perfectly.
An open-air food stall.
Someone suddenly flipped a table, drawing the attention of every diner.
Maybe someone had drunk too much; seeing the commotion, they couldn't help cheering.
Brother Changshun's face was livid. He had no time to worry about the onlookers; his eyes were fixed on Changhu.
He'd suspected Changhu's identity, but he hadn't expected a deathmatch fighter to dare attack in broad daylight.
Everyone here had Gold level abilities, after all.
If they