The deafening roar of engines mingled with the crowd's feverish shouts, filling the air above the boat-racing stadium.
The air reeked of cheap cigarettes, cheap alcohol, and the sour sweat people gave off over their wins and losses.
Yet in the back rows of the somewhat crowded spectator stands, there was a jarringly conspicuous "empty zone."
The black-haired man named Toji Fushiguro, who had a scar at the corner of his mouth, sat in his seat with an outrageously arrogant, languid air.
He wore a tight black T-shirt, his heavily muscled arms folded across his chest. His long, powerfully explosive legs were brazenly propped on the seat back in front of him, letting him effortlessly monopolize enough space for two.
Partly, this was because it was not a weekend and there were few spectators at the stadium to begin with. But the other, more important reason was the dangerous, "keep away" aura this man constantly exuded, like an apex predator.
Even thugs who had spent years frequenting gambling dens would instinctively feel a chill down their spines if they happened to meet Toji's unruffled, indifferent eyes, which looked at them as though they were dead objects. No one dared get on his bad side.
As the racing boats moved up to the starting line one after another, the most thrilling race was about to begin.
Just before the referee lowered the starting flag, the old flip phone in Toji's pocket suddenly vibrated and rang. He impatiently pulled it out, the contact name "Shiu Kong" flashing on the screen.
The caller was a professional broker active in the underworld, primarily responsible for connecting curse users or assassins with clients. Broadly speaking, he and Toji Fushiguro could just about be called "business partners."
But theirs was not a simple employment or superior-subordinate