In just thirty minutes of warm-up, the underground fighting arena commenced with a fiercely brutal battle at exactly nine o’clock. Among the three hundred or so contestants, diverse in skill and capability, the brawling proceeded with impressive efficiency and speed. Even apart from the goal of securing a ticket, the bouts were intensely engaging and bloody.

The audience, including many sons and daughters of wealthy families, along with their companions and escorts, gradually became caught up in the frenetic pace of the quick battles, their shouts and screams adding to the electric atmosphere. This frenetic intensity spurred the fighters on, flooding them with adrenaline.

“Damn, this is so intense! That guy called the Tyrant is insane, lifting over 200 pounds of the fat Bear!” someone exclaimed.

In front of their amazed eyes, the heavyweight wrestler known as the Bulldozer of Japan was lifted overhead by a Westerner with a European face, then violently slammed down onto his own knee. Under this brutal impact, the wrestler's fat defenses and heavyweight status became irrelevant. The Bulldozer’s three-match winning streak was finally stopped.

“Tyrant, Tyrant, Tyrant,” echoed throughout the arena, the chant of his name growing louder.

“My God, this Tyrant is incredibly strong; if Zhangzhou encounters him, he's done for,” O'Neill said, his face pale, clearly intimidated by Tyrant’s sheer force.

“He’s indeed very strong. Counting pure strength, he might exceed even Caesar,” Roselle mused, astonished. Tyrant’s strength seemed to have reached, if not surpassed, a strength score of 20 points.

It was hard to believe human potential could be developed to such an extent. This person, even on a global scale, was certainly elite. The three-hundred-plus fighters came from various regions, including Thailand, Mongolia, Japan, South Korea, North Africa, and Western Europe. They all shared one trait: formidable strength and aggressive fierceness.

Each fighter was more ruthless than the other, driven by the lure of profit, making the combat terrifyingly bloodthirsty—worse than beasts. This was just the first step, the threshold.

Unexpectedly for Roselle, the number of Chinese fighters hired by wealthy families was comparatively small. Zhangzhou was one of the few, but among the three hundred participants, only a few dozen hailed from China.

“Strange, isn't it? I was puzzled too when I first encountered this. Keep watching, and you'll understand, boss.”

“Tyrant has secured his ticket qualification. His sponsor is the Guangshi Consortium,” Pingyang, standing beside O'Neill and Roselle, quietly added.

Guangshi Consortium, a giant in China's pharmaceutical industry, employed Tyrant. Such a fearsome talent is rare; money alone sometimes cannot secure one. Pingyang, a driver and assistant, was well-informed, identifying nearly every contestant’s representative, showing he had done extensive homework.

However, there were always unexpected entries, like O'Neill's sudden addition of a polar bear—Caesar—as a representative, not something that pre-compiled intelligence could foresee.

“Match thirty-seven, code 069 against 180. Contestants must enter within one minute; otherwise, it's a forfeit.”

“Whew, 069… that’s Zhangzhou.” A native Chinese man, his physique was strong but, compared to the muscular, towering black or Western contestants, Zhangzhou, at under 1.8 meters tall, seemed a stark contrast to the 180-code black competitor.

“Begin.” The referee retreated swiftly, signaling the start of the match, the process seamless and without delay.

The black contestant stood at 195 cm, with a sturdy frame and dark muscles. Ordinarily, most people would refrain from challenging him directly, even in groups, without considering weapons first. Hand-to-hand would be daunting.

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This black contestant was clearly above the mid to lower tier of the 300-something fighters, if not quite top-tier, then certainly in the upper mid-range.

“Roar.” The referee had barely stepped aside when the black fighter charged at Zhangzhou with a vicious expression.

“Thud, thud, thud...” His steps thundered across the platform, with his arms extending over two meters, effectively blocking any evasion by Zhangzhou as he maneuvered strategically.

“Roar!” With the ferocity of a beast, the black man lunged, his eyes red, but missed as Zhangzhou adeptly crouched low, moving like a sudden monkey squat to dodge, then surged forward with a series of moves: a headbutt, a grab, a pull, a slam, and a rip. Five bloody gashes appeared on the black man's left flank.

“Well done,” O’Neill shouted, standing up in approval. This attack had cut into the black man's muscles—his flank, an important area—significantly diminishing his mobility and flexibility.

However, Zhangzhou paid a price for the successful strike. In pain, the black man reacted instinctively, swinging his long arm back and flinging Zhangzhou several meters away, nearly knocking him off the platform.

This violent maneuver, coupled with the black man's dense bones, left Zhangzhou breathless. Nobody expected O'Neill's representative to face such a tough opponent in the first match.

The 180-code fighter, lacking advanced combat techniques, relied purely on a fearsome physicality and robust bones, seemingly intending to crush the inherently weaker Eastern man.

Against such an opponent, either a fighter stronger in physique or one who targets the few available weaknesses could win within the three-minute limit, a challenging task.

Fortunately, Zhangzhou, exuding confidence, presumably had more tricks up his sleeve. After narrowly avoiding several frontal assaults, the black fighter’s flank injury gradually took its toll, slowing and unbalancing him, tipping the battle's outcome.

“Heh.” Zhangzhou dodged another attack, leaped behind the black fighter, and with both hands delivered a heavy blow to his temples.

“Boom.” The large black man crashed down, unconscious, leaving Zhangzhou triumphant, gasping for breath as he raised his left hand.

“069 wins, 069 elects immediate continuation. Opponent code drawn is 133. Contestant 133 must enter within one minute; otherwise, it's a forfeit.”

The male host announced Zhangzhou’s decision for immediate continuation. Winning five matches, resting between rounds was risky as opponents later on might be stronger.

Whether fighting continuously or resting posed both advantages and disadvantages: fighting rested allowed for peak performance each match but could lead to unexpected setbacks, such as facing an unbeatable opponent late in the game, nullifying earlier victories.

Zhangzhou seemed aware of this principle and confident enough in himself to fight continuously, feeling he still held untapped potential.

“Contestant 133, you have ten seconds to enter. After ten seconds, it's a forfeit.”

For reasons unknown, contestant 133 failed to show despite being present, and with the ten-second countdown over, Zhangzhou won his second victory amid the crowd’s discontented jeers.

Having conserved energy and gained a moment to rest, Zhangzhou resumed his matches.

The third match was against another Chinese contestant, code 99. Both shared similar physiques, making it a brutal contest of Chinese martial arts prowess—precision and mastery pitted against each other.

In the previous match, Zhangzhou showcased two styles: the monkey and eagle forms of Xingyiquan. His iron palm training was evident, delivering savage, precise strikes that injured the strong black man’s muscles, disrupting his balance.

Contestant 99 employed the fierce Bajiquan. In a rapid three-minute exchange, the two martial artists showcased the essence of Chinese martial arts with agility, speed, variability, ferocity, and danger.

Ultimately, Zhangzhou revealed his most aggressive form, the tiger style, executing a sudden and successful attack to claim his third victory. However, the swift bout drained him significantly.

Thus, he stepped down to rest. Despite this, the applause from the audience was fervent. His first match was a clever triumph, the second marked by luck, but the third truly embodied the ferocity of the tiger form.

"Tsk, what a surprise. The impression Zhangzhou gave me was of a fighter skilled in guerilla tactics and precise strikes, but his tiger form is ferocious. He's well-hidden, but that's great. At least the 50,000 I spent per appearance was worth it. Gahaha," O'Neill laughed, his spirits high, the situation looking promising, his excitement palpable.

After Zhangzhou's exit, the underground arena continued with a dozen more fierce battles until Caesar’s code was announced for the first time.

"Contestant 78 elects immediate continuation. Opponent code drawn is 309. Contestant 309 must enter within one minute; otherwise, it's a forfeit."

"309?"

"Oh wow, 309 is Caesar. I remembered, hahaha. Finally, we get to see how strong the boss's bodyguard is." O'Neill was initially stunned, then erupted in joy.

The true extent of Caesar's might was known to O'Neill mostly through hearsay; now was the chance to gauge the abilities of the people surrounding his leader.