Zhou Qiwen lay facedown, his cheek pressed against the cold, rough concrete.
Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped onto the pale gray pavement, spreading into dark patches.
His stomach was still spasming, and every time he managed to draw in a breath of cold air,
a dull pain spread from deep inside his abdomen, blurring his vision.
He made no further attempt to stand. That punch had left his body completely unable to function.
All he could do was turn his head, his bloodshot eyes bulging.
He peered between the legs of the surrounding students, fixing his gaze on a spot beyond the crowd.
His voice was hoarse and broken, seething with venom.
"You... fucking... why are you still just watching?!"
A brief, deathly silence fell over the crowd, broken only by Zhou Qiwen's ragged breathing.
As Zhou Qiwen roared, veins bulged along his neck, and anger and humiliation brought fresh streaks of blood to his eyes.
"Fucking kill him!!!"
The crowd abruptly stirred.
Then, accompanied by heavy footsteps, four men slowly emerged from among the watching students.
The atmosphere changed the moment they appeared.
The first wore a tight black long-sleeved shirt, its sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms to reveal knotted muscles. His hair was cropped into an extremely short buzz cut.
The fourth wore half-rimmed glasses and looked refined, almost scholarly.
But anyone who knew fighting would have felt afraid after one glance at his steps. His gait was identical to the other three men's: toes angled outward, the balls of his feet landing first, his heels always hovering a centimeter above the ground.
It was a gait ingrained in muscle memory through years of actual combat.
The four emerged without a word. Without even exchanging glances, they spread out in perfect coordination.
This was