The Tiger Form

Professional fighting is not a cruel field—not if it's legitimate competition, but underground fighting is another story. Due to his circumstances, Bai Lang couldn't necessarily step into those brightly lit rings—they knew he came from the north and lacked a true identity, so wasn't such a person naturally the fresh blood needed for underground fighting? And if one wanted to control an underground fighter, the simplest means would be money and violence, along with addictive substances.

However, Bai Lang wasn't interested in any of that—he'd be transmigrating back in nine years, so what use was money? He didn't want to fall out with them yet either—as for addictive substances? Anyone who dared bring that around would be suicidal.

"I'd say it's useless," Bai Lang thought as he sat in the lounge after knocking out his opponent yet again. It was indeed useless; the opponents he faced were already quite formidable, with several even having records of killing people in the ring, yet they couldn't even last one move against him. Bai Lang had even tried not attacking initially, letting them unleash their martial arts for a round, but he found their martial arts were merely combat techniques with no reference value for his own Martial Arts.

"As for the killer's bloodlust? I've had that for a long time," Bai Lang thought, and he acted accordingly. The Martial Arts he cultivated were inherently inclined towards form-emulating techniques, requiring him to think like a tiger or leopard while striking, ensuring his energy flowed seamlessly through every attack, channeling his entire body's strength. Thus, he cultivated the Tiger Form, and now possessed the Golden Bell Form—though his internal energy wasn't yet substantial enough to form a great bell.

Muay Thai was consistently brutal, with fists, feet, knees, and elbows all being deadly weapons. The protection in underground fighting was even worse; the gloves were practically so thin they offered no protection, and fighters wore only shorts, with no groin or mouth guards—the spectators wanted to see a bloody spectacle. Bai Lang had already fought over ten matches, always emerging victorious, yet he seemed unable to incite the audience's fervor.

His fights lacked explosive moments; he'd usually just lunge forward, then with a palm or fist strike, his opponent would fall unconscious to the ground—and usually without any lasting injuries, just knocked out. This wasn't bloody enough and didn't appeal to the audience. However, his hundred percent win rate was starting to annoy the underground gambling syndicates—it made it difficult to set odds. But this person seemed rather unremarkable and lacked audience appeal, so perhaps they should sideline him or try to control him with addictive drugs? If possible, no one wanted to resort to brute force.

This is how the situation arose. Bai Lang looked young, around eighteen or nineteen. As for his appearance, when he was a little beggar, he was dirty, but after joining the Changle Gang, he could finally clean up. Then, he became a leader of thugs in the real estate agency and became engrossed in practicing martial arts, rarely going out to fight. So, even though he looked eighteen or nineteen at fifteen or sixteen, he was surprisingly handsome. In fact, once Bai Lang's features matured, he was quite handsome—with bushy eyebrows, phoenix eyes, a nose like a hanging gallnut, well-defined and strong lips, and a square face, he would undoubtedly be a distinguished-looking man in his twenties.

Thinking of such a man, they figured they could certainly introduce him to a life of pleasure, and through that, they could control him with lust and drugs. If his strength declined due to this, with his skill level, it wouldn't decline that quickly. Besides, who expected to fight underground until old age? If they could make a profit of even a few tens of thousands of dollars from one staged bet, this person had already paid for himself. As for Bai Lang's life or death afterward, these people didn't care at all.

One day, after Bai Lang finished his training—his Martial Arts were unlikely to progress further in this world, but he wouldn't skip his daily tempering of strength, circulating his internal energy, and absorbing that breath of purple energy at sunrise—this was something he had to decide for himself, and he knew he had to be responsible for himself. His assistant, who usually handled his affairs, brought several young girls and a few friendly-looking young men. "Let's go out and relax together," the assistant said.

In this short period, Bai Lang had also learned some Thai—after regaining some of his English proficiency, learning other languages in this tourist country by comparison wasn't too difficult. "Go out and relax," Bai Lang looked at the girls and smiled, "If it's the beach and the sea, that sounds nice too."

"Huh? What's the fun in that? Let's go to a bar, or karaoke, those are places young people should go," the leader said. Bai Lang was indifferent; he didn't dislike socializing, and besides, with his current Martial Arts and internal energy, drinking a little wouldn't affect him at all—with his liver function so active at this level, plain alcohol, unless mixed with something special, would be completely ineffective.

"Perhaps meditating and cultivating the Lesser Heavenly Cycle amidst the pulsating music might have some unique effects?" Bai Lang thought, and followed the others. "All I hear is decadent music, and all I see are dissolute women." A smile played on Bai Lang's lips as he looked at the noisy scene in the bar—they were seated in a booth, and after the girls repeatedly invited Bai Lang to dance, he declined. Eventually, the girls simply leaned on him or sat directly in his lap.

Bai Lang remained unfazed, a picture of composure, holding a soft drink instead of alcohol and sipping it occasionally while bantering with the girls. They all spoke English, which he understood perfectly. Of course, sometimes he'd indulge the women's requests and touch them—yet Bai Lang's eyes remained calm and collected, and his body showed no reaction. Only the corner of his mouth held a faint, curved smile. "To joke and banter freely while my True Qi can circulate the Lesser Heavenly Cycle undisturbed—this is indeed quite effective," Bai Lang said to himself.

"Come on! Let's liven things up! Here, something good!" One of the young men playing with him produced a packet of pills—Bai Lang had noticed them exchanging glances before this. "Oh?" Although Bai Lang had a good idea of what was going on, he played along with a feigned "Oh?" "What is this?" Bai Lang asked knowingly, "Something great to get you high! Relax, big brother, have one."