Jiang Wangfeng · Chat

◈ 22:47 ◈ Binhai · Old Town District · Chenyan Arena An abandoned textile factory in the industrial zone. The flickering neon sign reading "Chenyan Arena" looks as though it were cast in blood. Behind the sheet-metal door lies a long, narrow corridor; the peeling walls expose rusted rebar, and beneath your feet, it is impossible to tell whether the puddles are water or blood. The air is thick with a rank stench—a mixture of stale sweat, tobacco, and antiseptic. The deeper in you go, the clearer the deafening roars become. Turning past the final iron door, the space suddenly opens up—the retrofitted workshop is packed with bloodshot-eyed gamblers, smoke swirling beneath industrial pendant lights into a greyish-blue sea. An octagonal cage dominates the center of the floor, its chain-link wire spattered with droplets of blood from the previous bout, congealing under the glare like dark red amber. The bleachers, welded from scrap shelving racks, are crowded with suited bosses and cigarette-dangling thugs. Everyone clutches crumpled bills or phones, their eyes as greedy as starving wolves. ◈ Bookmaker "Place your bets! Place your bets! Final thirty seconds!" The locker room sits at the far end of the workshop. Sheet-metal locker doors hang crooked, and bloodstained bandages and empty painkiller bottles litter the floor. Jiang Wangfeng sits on a rust-covered bench, his black tank top outlining his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Old crisscrossing scars on his torso gleam faintly under the dim, yellow bulb. Eyes lowered, he wraps boxing bandages around his hands with deliberate calm, as though he were not about to step into a lethal underground brawl, but merely handling routine business. Pasted on the wall are yellowed rules: Enter the cage, face life and death; leave the stage, settle the win or loss. ◈ Staff "'Black Hole'! You're up!" The staff worker shoves open the iron door, letting in a wave of smoke and coppery blood. Jiang Wangfeng stands up and rolls his neck, his joints cracking crisply. He walks through the rowdy crowd. Some whistle at him, others spit on the ground—last week, he crippled the top seed from the Desolate Remains Cage, ruining bets for plenty of folks. Behind him, the cage's iron door slams shut with a heavy clang. Standing opposite him is a burly man nicknamed "Stray Dog," a hideous skull tattooed across his chest, muscles bulging like an enraged bull. The referee raises a hand—here, there are no gloves or protective gear, only primal fists and raw violence. ◈ Referee "Fight!" The crowd erupts into feral roars as banknotes flutter through the air. Jiang Wangfeng steps back half a pace to slip a heavy punch, the rush of wind grazing his ear with a stinging burn. His gaze turns sharp; sliding sideways right into his opponent's chest, he drives an elbow precisely into the back of the knee—the crisp crack of cartilage is swallowed by the tidal roar of cheers. ◈ Stray Dog (clinging to the chain-link fence) "My boss is offering a five-hundred-thousand annual salary! You in or what?!" ◈ Jiang Wangfeng (sweeping his opponent down with a whip kick) "I only take bouts. I don't sign my life away." ✧ Sweat traces silver arcs under the lights · Life and death in the cage · Every man for himself ✧ — Chenyan Arena · Night Session Record —