Daily Life

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

He checked the goods, counted them, loaded them into the car, paid up, then handed the owner a cigarette and chatted for a while. That took care of a month's stock. Unless a particular drink sold especially well and he had to make another trip midway through the month, but that rarely happened. Since taking over the apartment building, he had a rough grasp of its consumption levels.

On the way home, Russell detoured to a gym in the city center. He had often come here to kill time after his breakup, but rarely visited after becoming a landlord.

The gym catered to the general public, so its equipment and services were relatively basic. Most of the machines were treadmills, rowing machines, exercise bikes, dumbbells, barbells, and the like.

It was very ordinary, but quite popular. Its aerobics and yoga classes were major draws, attracting plenty of lecherous men. Although they called themselves fitness enthusiasts and argued their case with conviction, their habit of watching without working out, never breaking a sweat, and wearing loose shorts gave away their sleazy motives.

For Russell's current physique, this gym was practically child's play. He had come because there was a Fighting Club next door. It had still been under renovation back then, but it should be open now.

Since it was a Fighting Club, its equipment and facilities had to be more professional than the gym's. Russell decided to take a look first. If it suited him, he would get a membership and come regularly.

The Fighting Club was on the tenth floor of the building. After completing the registration process, Russell went to the locker room to change. His pecs were not especially large, his build was not V-shaped, and his body fat percentage was nowhere near that of a professional athlete. But his overall lines were smooth, his leg muscles were firm, his back muscles well-defined, and his serratus anterior was exceptionally pleasing to the eye.

He looked slim in clothes, but had plenty of muscle underneath. Normally, it was hard to tell how good his physique was!

By chance, one of the club's coaches was also in the locker room. He was an experienced coach and could tell at a glance that Russell had trained before. To keep the clueless little lambs from being discouraged, he immediately raised Russell's client level and brought him to the amateur fighter area.

Yes, only amateur fighters—there were no professionals. Even "amateur" was a bit of an exaggeration; hobbyists and enthusiasts would have been more accurate.

Russell chatted with the coach for a while and gained a basic understanding of the club.

The Fighting Club was a business, and the owner's goal was naturally to make money. Statements like, "I personally love fighting. I didn't open this place to make money, but to promote the sport to the public and let more people understand it," were pure self-deception. Opening a business was about making money. The purpose was perfectly clear.

Fighting was not an easy way to make money because it did not suit the general public, but it was not completely without appeal either. To ordinary people, the word "fighting" sounded high-end and impressive. They considered it dangerous, yet could not help being curious about it.

The important thing was how to seize that curiosity and cultivate it into an interest and habit. If they followed professional standards, then sorry, the customers would vanish by the next day. They came here to sweat, exercise, vent... and chat and brag.

Put simply, they wanted to relieve stress, not get tortured!

Compared to becoming boxing champions, ordinary people wanted something practical. They wanted to learn a move or two for self-defense, or simply show off. As for how to compete, which body part scored higher, or which coach had a championship belt, they had no interest at all. Those things were too far removed from their lives.

To attract customers, the club's coaches mainly taught streamlined, flashy fighting techniques, or fitness routines derived from real combat. Young clients loved them. This was exactly the kind of fighting they wanted.

They could get fit, shape their bodies, and look cool!

That was why the club looked fairly large but was full of amateur fighters.

"Actually, our main clients are from the police department..." the coach said proudly. "It's still early. Our big customers won't come until the afternoon or evening."

The coach looked around, then sidled up to Russell with a furtive expression and whispered, "Our boss has connections in the police department, so we never lack high-end clients. Those cops are full of energy, and besides... they're willing to spend money!"

Russell: "..."

The coach bragged to Russell for a little longer. Seeing that Russell was not much of a talker, he began helping him warm up.

Russell stretched his legs and loosened his waist before starting with the barbells, then moving on to bench presses. But those no longer had much effect on him. The coach huffed and puffed as he guided him for quite a while, exhausting himself in the process, while Russell remained perfectly calm.

"Man, not bad!"

Seeing that Russell was neither flushed nor out of breath, casually handling two dumbbells as if they were toys, the coach brought him to the octagon. The ring was occupied by several pretty girls playing at no-holds-barred fighting... though that was an exaggeration. They were really just throwing wild punches at each other, then grappling and rolling around on the floor. They did not care about the rules as long as they were having fun.

A group of people watched from the side, all men. Whenever the girls took each other down in a clinch, they let out laughter that was bound to get censored.

After putting on protective gear, the coach knew Russell was no beginner. He emphasized a few rules, then began testing Russell's level. According to the coach, he had competed before and even placed in some events. His skills just had not been good enough for the top tier, so he had switched careers and become a coach.

"Watch out. I'm kicking from the right, so block it!"

The two took their positions. After giving the warning, the coach closed in with quick, small steps. His expression was focused, and the rhythm of his footwork showed he was no amateur. The instant he got close, he raised his leg and kicked at the protective pad on Russell's right arm.

Bang!

Russell blocked it easily. Honestly, he felt that lifting dumbbells had been more effective than this, but the coach was taking it so seriously that he did not want to discourage him.

"Your turn this time. Use whichever foot you're most comfortable with and kick directly. Don't worry about hurting me!"

The coach took up a defensive stance, shifting his feet slightly to change position. Seeing Russell's shoulder move, he judged it to be a right kick and quickly raised his arms to block.

The kick landed squarely on his protective gear. The coach nodded to himself; the form was very pleasing to watch. Then, the next second, tremendous force surged through his arms. His legs went weak, and he crashed straight into the octagon cage.

Who am I? Where am I? What just happened? Did I fall asleep?

The coach lay there with a bewildered expression. He knew he had encountered an expert, but he was not angry. He could tell Russell had held back and had no intention of hurting him. He got up with a smile, bounced lightly in place a few times, then attacked Russell.

A high roundhouse kick swept straight toward Russell's shoulder. Its speed, power, and rhythm were all strong, yet Russell blocked it with ease.

The coach nodded at Russell, signaling for him to attack. Russell shook his head and refused, instead taking up a defensive stance. The coach did not stand on ceremony. He stepped forward, rushed in, and threw a punch. It was fast... and was still blocked.

Over the next minute, the coach stopped holding back and unleashed every technique he knew. Hooks, roundhouse kicks, straight punches... his attacks came in a rapid, forceful barrage.

Every one of them was blocked!

Russell was not even breathing hard, while the coach was already leaning against the octagon cage with no idea what to do. He had finally realized that the gap between them was too great. The other man had not taken him seriously at all.

After leaving the octagon, the coach asked enthusiastically, "Your reflexes are incredible. I've never met anyone more monstrous than you. So, have you ever considered going pro?"

Russell shook his head. The coach inwardly sighed at the waste, but could not force him, so he gave himself an excuse. "That makes sense. You probably don't need money, and your age isn't quite suitable anymore..."

After that, the thoroughly discouraged coach went to sulk alone in the locker room. Russell headed to the equipment area. He wanted to know the upper limits of his strength and endurance, so he began what looked, to others, like a self-destructive training frenzy.

Two hours passed. Russell did not find his limits, but he did receive several fragrant business cards left behind by a few girls who had come over to chat him up.

Most of those girls were wealthy young women from well-off families. They had come to learn self-defense techniques. They looked down on ordinary men, but Russell, with his impressive "endurance," was different.

Handsome, well-built, and strong endurance too. If he could not be a boyfriend, he would still be good for other things.

They were men and women driven by appetite and desire. They saw no reason to hide it!

Russell thought the same, so he accepted all the cards. Two of the girls had trained their pecs very well. He definitely had to ask them for a few pointers.

The coach, who had finally managed to crawl out of his gloom and emerged from the locker room with a forced smile, silently watched it all. Then he turned around and went back inside. This time, he also took a towel with him.

"Which one should I start with..."

Failure Diary

In the Failure Diary group, some people had only written a few tens of thousands of words before asking everywhere whether they should cut the story if they had not received a site message.

I told him, yes!