Chapter 17 Drunken on the Battlefield, Do Not Mock

The night was shrouded in mist, and under the cover of neon lights, Ye Tian quietly slipped out of the Tianhua Hotel.

The underground deathmatch arena that Gu Qingcheng mentioned appeared, on the surface, to be nothing more than a sprawling bar. But deep within, behind the revelry, there was an elevator leading down to the basement.

After giving the password, Ye Tian took the elevator and descended into a new world.

What unfolded before his eyes was an underground realm, larger than two football fields, supported by massive steel-reinforced concrete pillars. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and violence. On the stage, surrounded by countless gamblers waving their tickets, the crowd roared, cheering on their chosen fighters.

The entire underground arena spiraled downward. Spectator seats filled the upper layers, and at the very center lay the fighting ring. At that moment, two foreign muscle-bound men, each nearly two meters tall, were locked in a brutal struggle in the heart of the ring.

"Look at that—Smith just bit off William's ear!"

"William’s furious—he’s going for a rear naked choke! He’s got it! William just killed Smith!"

A fierce battle to the death, in this arena without guns or cannons, ended quietly. The victor, clutching his bleeding ear, was carried off on a stretcher.

The loser was dragged away like trash, as if nothing more than refuse to be cleared away.

"Hey, I want to fight too," Ye Tian said bluntly, stepping up to a stubbled, one-armed man.

According to Gu Qingcheng, this man's name was Wang Zizai, the second-in-command of the underground arena.

"Soft and tender," Wang Zizai sneered as he looked Ye Tian up and down. "Probably some young master upstairs, bored with life and here for a thrill."

"Can we just fight or not?" Ye Tian frowned.

"If you’re looking to die, so be it!" Wang Zizai laughed heartily, then raised his head and called out to the crowd with his microphone, "Another fresh-faced boy! Still wet behind the ears!"

"After three matches, I’ll put him up. The draw’s about to begin—place your bets!"

Instantly, all eyes turned his way, followed by a wave of laughter.

"Ha! Another one come to die. Wonder who'll be lucky enough to make a quick buck tonight?"

"Hey, pretty boy, if you’re really that desperate for money, come play with me instead. Sure, I’m a guy, but I’m not short on cash..."

The jeers washed over Ye Tian in relentless waves. If it were anyone else, just the roar of thousands would have left them pale with fear and doubt.

But Ye Tian stood his ground, unshaken. Instead, he seemed genuinely interested and began watching the ongoing match.

"Well, you’ve got some guts," Wang Zizai said, lighting a cigarette with his one hand. "Give yourself a nickname. You’re about to go up there and get yourself killed. At least let them remember you."

"Ye Tian."

"Not your real name."

"Then… call me the Laughless Lord."

To lie drunk on the battlefield, Laughless Lord—how many warriors ever return from war?

Hearing this moniker, a flicker of reminiscence passed through Wang Zizai’s eyes, his voice softening. "I hope you come back."

In the underground deathmatch arena, once you step onto the stage, there is only one rule:

Win by any means necessary, no holds barred!

Of the two who enter, only one can leave the ring on their own feet.

...

Three matches passed quickly, blood splattering everywhere. There was no time to clean the ring before the crowd was already howling for the next bout.

Wang Zizai entered Ye Tian’s nickname into the lottery machine, and the device spun.

At the center of the ring, two names appeared on the display:

Laughless Lord versus Iron Wrist!

"Iron Wrist!"

"Eighty-five wins in a row, fighting from last year to now—he’s taken three million from the deathmatch arena!"

"Yeah!"

"It’s Iron Wrist, he’s a beast!"

The crowd erupted in a frenzy, the cheers growing louder and louder, as if everyone’s hopes were pinned on this man.

"Iron Wrist is a true master. It’s not fair—he keeps fighting here."

"Tough luck for the newcomer, drawing Iron Wrist. He’s as good as dead."

"Another one-sided slaughter. Nothing worth watching..."

...

As Ye Tian strode calmly toward the ring, Wang Zizai said suddenly:

"Too late for regrets now, but you’d better be careful." The one-armed man grinned. "Your odds are sky-high—five hundred to one. I couldn’t help but bet ten thousand on you."

Ten thousand—if Ye Tian won, Wang Zizai would walk away with five million!

Ye Tian chuckled. "If I win, split it with me."

For some reason, he felt a strange fondness for Wang Zizai. Though the man’s skills weren’t remarkable, there was an air of integrity about him, a righteousness that seemed out of place in a place like this.

Perhaps, he thought, there would be time to talk with him in the future.

Amid the roar of the crowd, Ye Tian finally stepped onto the ring.

His opponent approached—a short, utterly unremarkable man. So ordinary, in fact, that Ye Tian struggled to find words to describe him.

"Cut the crap—let’s fight!"

"Iron Wrist, make it quick! Kill him so we can get to the next match!"

The audience jeered and shouted.

"Newbie, too bad for you. You ran into me," Iron Wrist sneered, seeing Ye Tian still glancing around the arena with curiosity. Suddenly, Iron Wrist lunged forward!

His speed was so great that his movements blurred.

"So that’s what a peak master looks like—terrifying!"

"I can’t even see what’s happening. Boring!" The crowd’s words said one thing, but their eyes burned with admiration for the strong.

Iron Wrist’s fierce fist whipped up a gale, hurtling straight for Ye Tian’s face.

But Ye Tian stood motionless, as if oblivious to the attack.

Wang Zizai watched Ye Tian, who seemed lost in thought, and couldn’t help but shake his head.

"Sigh, I really shouldn’t gamble..."

Crack!

A thunderous sound exploded from the ring!

Wang Zizai turned away without hesitation, about to pick up the mic and declare Iron Wrist victorious.

But then he realized—the crowd had fallen eerily silent.

He turned back.

The so-called undefeated master with eighty-five consecutive wins was nowhere to be seen.

Walking closer, Wang Zizai found his body sprawled on the ground.

Iron Wrist lay motionless, and above his neck—nothing. His head was gone, who knew where.

Blood gushed in torrents, soaking half the ring.

"Sorry, I was a bit heavy-handed," Ye Tian said with a calm smile.

The entire arena was silent, so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

Looking at this seemingly harmless youth, Wang Zizai’s understanding of the world collapsed.

"With a single slap..."

No one knew who whispered it.

But like a fuse, the words ignited the crowd:

"Impossible! With one slap, he sent Iron Wrist’s head flying!"

"A single blow and the peak master is dead—who the hell is this young man?"

"Who’s the real Iron Wrist here?!"

The murmurs could no longer be suppressed; everyone began to discuss just who this so-called ‘Laughless Lord’ really was.