Bang Bang Fistfight

"The match, begin!"

Ding!

The bell rang, but neither of them moved.

Jiang Cuo stood on his side of the court, his eyes sweeping over Lin Mo from head to toe.

No guard stance.

No fighting stance of any kind.

He hadn't even adjusted his center of gravity. He just stood there casually, like he was waiting in line at the cafeteria for a meal.

Street fighter.

Jiang Cuo silently tagged Lin Mo with that label.

Lin Mo.

He had known that name since his first day at the academy.

The toughest fighter in Guangba. Excellent at studies, even more formidable in a fight.

During military training, he arm-wrestled the instructors—and beat every single one.

Chased down over a dozen thugs all by himself.

The stories spread, each version more exaggerated than the last.

But Jiang Cuo always took these legends with a grain of salt.

Fighting, when you got down to it, was often just about who was more ruthless.

You charge in, take out their leader—and the rest go weak in the knees, scattering like birds and beasts. That's what they call a one-versus-ten.

But actually trading blows one by one against ten people? Nonsense.

Besides, Lu Xiaochen had mentioned that Lin Mo was incredibly arrogant. He'd been invited to be the president of the boxing club, but he didn't even deign to accept.

Her meaning was clear enough: the guy had no real skill, just naturally gifted strength.

Jiang Cuo was born into a boxing family.

From the age of five, while other kids were playing in the mud, he was already practicing straight punches on a heavy bag.

His father was a boxing coach, and his brother was the national boxing champion.

So Jiang Cuo wanted to follow in his brother's footsteps.

The first thing he did when he arrived at Guangba was look for the boxing club.

What he found was a lifeless scene, more like a retirement home than a club.

He knocked out the original club president in less than three rounds and took over.

Then he organized a sparring match against the taekwondo club to recruit new members.

And of course, he eventually wanted to challenge this so-called Lin Mo, to see if he really was as unstoppable as the rumors claimed.

Jiang Cuo let out a breath, staring at the guy on the opposite side who was half a head taller than him.

"Lin Mo, I just want to figure out one thing—are you really all that, or is it just hype?"

Lin Mo could tell that Jiang Cuo wasn't malicious. He glanced at the indignant boxing club members off-stage.

Those guys were clenching their fists, aching to jump in and help.

Especially Lu Xiaochen—he really couldn't understand why she hated him so much.

What was the big deal if he didn't want to join the boxing club? Did she have to hate him this much for it?

"Words won't get us anywhere. Let's just do this."

"Then I won't hold back."

By the time Jiang Cuo finished speaking, he was already moving.

A quick step forward, left fist flashing out.

A jab.

The fastest punch in boxing, no extra load-up. Its only purpose was speed.

Fast enough to catch the opponent off guard, fast enough to probe their skill level in an instant.

It didn't have much power, but it was enough.

The punch was textbook-perfect—angle, timing, distance—flawless.

But Lin Mo reacted.

A bit slower to start, but faster to land.

A jab of his own, if you could even call it that.

It had no technique whatsoever—just shoving his fist forward.

The two gloves collided head-on.

"WHAM!"

A numbing shock ran through Jiang Cuo’s entire arm, from fist to shoulder. He involuntarily stumbled back three steps before catching his balance.

Three steps.

He looked down at his trembling right hand.

Was that the strength of a human being?

What kind of boxing prodigy was this?

He looked up again. Lin Mo was still in the same spot.

He hadn't even moved his feet, nor did he press the advantage. He just stood there, watching him.

And that look in his eyes wasn't a challenge or contempt.

It was waiting.

Waiting for you to keep going.

Jiang Cuo's blood rushed to his head.

Strong, huh? Fine, you're strong. But in the ring, strength isn't everything.

Boxing is a technical sport—footwork, rhythm, angles, distance control.

And you're not moving an inch? Then that works for me.

Jiang Cuo switched up his footwork.

Forward slide, lateral slide, pivoting steps. He circled around Lin Mo.

His steps carried a clear sense of rhythm—fast and slow, each step adjusting the distance and angle between him and his opponent.

Footwork was the soul of boxing. A fighter who knew how to move could make his opponent's attacks fall short by half an inch, while his own punches would always find the most vicious angles.

Move well, and you can dodge a lot of strikes.

Move well, and you can create countless openings.

A few knowledgeable people in the audience started murmuring.

"That footwork—he's definitely trained."

"No kidding, he's the boxing club president."

From a distance, Xie Yuling leaned over to Jiang Yunlu.

"If it were you, how fast could you take that guy down?"

"Fastest? I could kill him in one second." Jiang Yunlu raised an eyebrow.

"Fair enough." Xie Yuling remembered the time she saw Jiang Yunlu literally kick someone dead.

A few classmates nearby overheard this exchange, looked at each other, and chuckled.

Two pretty girls bragging to each other—it was kinda cute.

None of them took it seriously.

Then they turned their attention back to the ring.

Just then, Jiang Cuo found the angle he'd been looking for.

He threw a right punch first—a feint.

But Lin Mo once again met fist with fist.

The punch he threw was wide and slow, a clear feint to grab your attention.

The real killer was his left fist, hidden behind the right, coming in from below.

This was a combination he’d practiced a thousand times.

The right fist shot out.

Lin Mo raised his hand, glove meeting glove in a straight-on block.

Jiang Cuo’s arm went numb again, but his left fist was already following through.

He swung it out.

Lin Mo’s second fist arrived.

Another head-on collision.

Two dull thuds rang out as one. The impact drove Jiang Cuo back another two steps. A searing pain flared at the base of his thumb, forcing him to shake out his hand.

This fighting style was too brutal.

You don’t dodge? You don’t block? You just take it head-on?

Who taught you to fight like this?

But somehow, it worked.

Because every time he took a hit, the pain in Jiang Cuo’s hands worsened.

This wasn’t boxing—it was smashing a walnut with a hammer.

And he was the walnut.

Jiang Cuo refused to believe it. He reset his stance and launched forward again.

Punch after punch, left-right-left-right—jabs, hooks, uppercuts—he unleashed a rapid flurry.

Lin Mo caught every single one.

Not by parrying—by matching each punch with one of his own.

Every collision left Jiang Cuo stumbling back.

After six strikes, Jiang Cuo’s hands were trembling, from wrist to forearm.

Inside his gloves, he could feel his knuckles throbbing.

He finally retreated several paces, widening the distance, his chest heaving.

It wasn’t exhaustion—his hands simply couldn’t take much more.

He stared at Lin Mo.

That man still stood in the center of the ring, arms hanging naturally at his sides.

From start to finish, he hadn’t moved more than half a meter from his spot.

The arena fell silent for a moment.

Under the ring, the boxing club members’ faces had already changed.

“What?”

Lin Mo finally spoke, his tone as casual as if asking someone if they’d eaten.

“Can’t handle it anymore?”

Jiang Cuo clenched his jaw, saying nothing.

He wouldn’t admit defeat, but his hands were screaming the truth: keep meeting force with force, and his bones were going to give out.

Lin Mo rolled his neck, letting out a pair of sharp cracks from his joints.

“Since you can’t take it—”

He stepped forward.

This was the first time Lin Mo had moved toward him in the entire match.

“—I’m coming for you.”