Daily Life

The process of buying daily necessities and drinks was quick. Russell had sent the order before leaving, and by the time he drove over, everything was ready.

He inspected the goods, counted them, loaded them up, paid, handed the boss a cigarette, and shot the breeze—one month's stock was settled. Unless a certain drink sold exceptionally well and needed a mid-month restock, but that rarely happened. Since taking over the apartment building, he had a good handle on the approximate consumption.

On the way home, Russell detoured to a gym in the city center. During his breakup phase, he used to come here often to kill time, but after switching to being a landlord, he rarely showed up.

The gym catered to the general public, with relatively low hardware and software standards. The equipment was mostly treadmills, rowing machines, exercise bikes, dumbbells, and barbells.

It was ordinary, but packed with people, because the aerobics and yoga classes were a big draw, attracting plenty of wolves. Though they called themselves fitness enthusiasts and argued the point, their habit of just watching without working out, never breaking a sweat, and wearing loose shorts gave away their sleazy motives.

For Russell's current physique, the gym was on par with playing house. He came here because there was a fighting club next door—it had been under renovation back then, but should be open by now.

Since it was a fighting club, the equipment and facilities would definitely be more professional than the gym. Russell decided to check it out first, and if it suited him, he'd get a membership card and come regularly.

The fighting club was on the tenth floor of the building. Russell went through the simple registration process and changed clothes in the locker room. His chest wasn't huge, his build wasn't an inverted triangle, and his body fat wasn't as low as a pro athlete's, but he had smooth overall lines, solid leg muscles, a clearly defined back, and strikingly eye-catching serratus anterior.

Thin in clothes, ripped without—you'd never guess he had such a good physique normally!

A club coach happened to be in the locker room too. An experienced coach, he could tell at a glance that Russell had trained before. To keep the clueless newbies from getting crushed, he immediately bumped up Russell's client level and led him to the amateur area.

Yeah, amateurs only—no pros. Even the word "amateur" was a stretch; "hobbyist" or "enthusiast" fit better.

Russell chatted with the coach for a bit and got a rough idea of the club's situation.

The fighting club was a business, and the boss's goal was obviously to make money. Talk like "I personally love fighting as a sport, I'm not opening this to get rich, but to promote it to the public and let more people understand it" was pure self-deception. Opening a shop was for profit—clear and simple.

Fighting was hard to monetize because it wasn't for the masses, but it wasn't completely without appeal. In the average person's eyes, the word "fighting" sounded high-end, giving an inexplicable sense of awe. While they found it dangerous, they couldn't help but feel curious.

How to grab that curiosity and turn it into a hobby or habit was key. If they went the professional route, sorry—the client would vanish the next day. They came to sweat, exercise, blow off steam... and chat and brag.

In short, it was about stress relief, not getting beaten up!

Rather than becoming a boxing champion, ordinary people wanted something practical—they wanted to learn a couple of self-defense moves, or just show off. As for how to fight in a match, which strikes scored higher, or which coach had a gold belt—they couldn't care less. That stuff was too far from their world.

To attract clients, the club's coaches mainly taught streamlined, flashy fighting techniques, or fitness routines derived from real combat. These were a hit with younger users—exactly the kind of "fighting" they wanted.

Get fit, shape up, and look cool!

That was also why the club seemed decently sized but was all amateurs.

"Actually, our main clients are the police..." the coach said proudly. "It's still early now. By afternoon or evening, our big clients will show up."

The coach glanced around, then sidled up to Russell with a shifty look and whispered, "Our boss has connections in the police force, so we never lack high-end clients. Those cops have tons of energy and... they're willing to spend!"

Russell: "..."

The coach shot the breeze with Russell a bit more, and seeing he wasn't talkative, started helping him warm up.

Russell stretched his legs and back, then started messing with the barbell, followed by the bench press—but none of it did much anymore. The coach huffed and puffed guiding him for a while, exhausting himself, while Russell was still cold.

"Bro, not bad!"

Seeing Russell not even flushed or out of breath, handling two dumbbells like toys, the coach took him to the octagon. The ring was taken—a few girls with nice figures were playing at no-holds-barred fighting... well, that was an exaggeration. It was more like a flurry of wild punches and rolling around on the ground. They didn't care about rules, just having fun.

A crowd of onlookers surrounded them, all male. Whenever the girls grappled and fell, they'd let out laughs that were definitely destined for censorship.

After putting on protective gear, the coach realized Russell wasn't a newbie. He emphasized a few rules and started testing Russell's level. According to the coach, he'd fought in competitions before and even placed, but he couldn't break into the top tier, so he switched to coaching.

"Watch out—I'm going to kick to the right. Block it!"

They squared off, and the coach gave a warning before shuffling toward Russell with small steps. His expression was focused, and his footwork wasn't amateurish. The moment he closed in, he lifted his leg and kicked at the guard on Russell's right arm.

Thump!

Russell blocked it easily. Honestly, he felt lifting dumbbells was more effective than this, but the coach was so serious, he didn't want to discourage him.

"Your turn now. Use your dominant foot and just kick straight—don't worry about hurting me!"

The coach got into a defensive stance, shifting his feet slightly to adjust position. Judging by Russell's shoulder movement, he predicted a right kick and quickly raised his arm to parry.

The kick landed square on the guard. The coach nodded inwardly—the form was nice to watch. But the next second, a massive force traveled up his arm, his legs gave out, and he slammed into the octagon cage.

Who am I? Where am I? What just happened? Was I asleep?

The coach lay there, dazed. He knew he'd run into an expert, but he wasn't angry. He could tell Russell had held back, with no intention of hurting him. He stood up with a smile, hopped in place a few times, then charged at Russell.

A high roundhouse kick swept toward Russell's shoulder—fast, powerful, with good rhythm—but Russell blocked it effortlessly.

The coach nodded at Russell, signaling him to attack, but Russell shook his head and settled into a defensive stance. The coach didn't hold back. He stepped forward, lunged, and threw a punch—fast—but it was still blocked.

Over the next minute, the coach stopped pulling punches, unleashing every technique he knew: hooks, sweeps, jabs—a rapid, forceful barrage.

All blocked!

Russell wasn't even breathing hard, while the coach was leaning on the cage, out of ideas. He finally got it—the gap in level was too big. The guy hadn't taken him seriously at all.

They left the octagon, and the coach asked enthusiastically, "Your reflexes are insane. I've never met anyone more freakish than you. So, ever thought about going pro?"

Russell shook his head. The coach sighed inwardly at the missed opportunity but didn't push it, giving himself an out: "Yeah, figured. You don't look like you're short on cash, and you're past the right age anyway..."

After that, the dejected coach went to the locker room to brood alone. Russell headed to the equipment area. He wanted to find his limits in strength and endurance, starting what looked to others like a crazy, self-destructive training session.

Two hours passed. Russell hadn't found his limit, but he'd collected several fragrant business cards—left by a few girls who'd come over to chat him up before leaving.

Most of these girls were well-off heiresses, there to learn self-defense against creeps. They wouldn't look twice at ordinary guys, but someone like Russell, with his impressive "stamina," was different.

Good-looking, fit, and enduring—if he couldn't be a boyfriend, he could be something else.

Men and women, driven by desire—they saw no need to hide it.

Russell thought the same, so he accepted all the business cards. Two of the girls had well-trained pectoral muscles—he had to ask them for tips.

The coach, who had barely managed to shake off his gloom and forced a smile as he walked out of the locker room, silently watched all this, then turned and went back inside, this time grabbing a towel.

"Which one should I start with..."

Failure Diary

In the Failure Diary group, some people, after writing just a few thousand words, would ask everywhere if they could cut their story if they hadn't received a site notification.

I told him, yes!