The next day, I didn’t see V because he was preparing for the match. I was a bit worried about how his arm was doing.

If someone can't participate in the match due to personal issues, it's considered a voluntary forfeit, so V wouldn’t give up.

On match day, I was at the venue. The people there were already familiar with me; they didn’t ignore me like before and had become quite respectful.

I didn’t pay attention to the earlier matches; V was the last one fighting, and I was just waiting to see him. I didn’t want to go into the locker room to look for him; I was afraid of disrupting his focus.

V's opponent was a Korean guy, a bit taller than V and definitely fitting the typical Korean look. At that time, Koreans weren’t as ruthless as they are now, so I didn’t think much of his opponent.

During the match, V didn’t have any wraps on his arm, but that bastard could see the needle marks on it and deliberately kicked at his right elbow. If V wanted to avoid getting kicked on the wound, he had to dodge his elbow, which would leave him open to a kick to the ribs. No matter how tough he was, if someone kicked him hard enough, he could still break a rib.

Watching from the sidelines, I wanted to rush in and slam that bastard to the ground, smashing his head into the floor.

Most fighters wouldn’t act so dishonorably; they know not to exploit an injury. That’s the code of ethics for a boxer. Even in underground fights, men should have some principles, right?

V couldn’t use his right elbow, and his whole right arm was stiff, like a dull knife that couldn’t cut. Yet he kept facing off against that jerk and didn’t take too much damage.

In the end, that bastard kicked V right on the wound, ripping the stitches out. At that moment, when V looked at his injury, he got kicked in the head and fell to the mat.

By the rules, the fight should have stopped there, but that bastard jumped on V and started pummeling his head with ten punches while V’s coach rushed in to pull him off, and he was still shouting.

That’s when I started to have a bad opinion of Koreans.

V was carried off, and I didn’t know what I could do to help; I just watched him being taken away.

That night, H told me V had a severe concussion and probably wouldn’t box again. I wondered if he’d have any lasting effects; if so, his life would be ruined.

That was when H’s trap started closing in.

After my match, I was in a terrible mood, and H suggested we go to a bar for a few drinks, so I went.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The bar had hostesses, and H called over two to hang out and drink with us. I wasn’t in the mood to play games.

One of the hostesses kept talking to me and drinking with me, and I ended up having a bit too much.

Before long, H nudged me and said, “See that Korean fighter? He’s here too.”

I looked in the direction he was pointing, and sure enough, that bastard was there. The moment I saw him, I remembered how he had been shouting and how V had been carried out.

I went over to him, and he had two other guys with him, who recognized me as well. They stood up when I approached, and I said, “Get lost! This isn’t your business!”

That Korean could speak Chinese, so I asked him, “Don’t you know you’re not acting like a man? What you did is really shameful in China, you know? If you’re my opponent next time, I’ll beat you to death!”

That jerk cursed me in their disgusting language, saying, “As long as you can knock out your opponent, it doesn’t matter what tricks you use; that’s underground fighting!”

I replied, “But don’t forget, you’re fighting a person, not an animal!”

He got angry and stood up to push me, and we started fighting right then. Honestly, if I ignored the rules, V wouldn’t stand a chance against me, let alone that jerk!

In just a few moves, he was on the ground. I grabbed a bottle and smashed it over his head, then jumped on him and started punching his head with all my strength and speed, just like he had done to V.

People in the bar scattered, forming a circle to watch. I lost track of how many punches I threw until my arm couldn’t lift anymore.

No one came to stop me, not even H; he didn’t intervene until I finally stood up and he said, “Let’s get out of here; the cops are coming.”

H moved us to another location, telling me to stay inside for a while while he checked on things. The next day, he came back and said, “You’re in deep trouble; that Korean died.”

H said it was serious since he was a foreigner, and the embassy would get involved, which could lead to diplomatic issues between the two countries.

That’s how it is—when you’re in the thick of it, you can be clueless. When you actually do something like this, and someone stirs the pot with exaggerated details, you start to believe how serious it is.

When I left S City, H even bought train tickets for me. At the train station, I saw cops patrolling and felt my face go pale.

After returning, H said I couldn’t stay at school anymore and needed to withdraw quickly. Otherwise, the school might call my family, and that would be worse. So I hid in a place H found for me, staying in all day and night, too scared to go out. H brought me food and supplies, and I was grateful to him, thinking how I used to find him sleazy. I felt bad for judging him.

One day, H told me I couldn’t keep hiding; the police would find me eventually.

I asked, “What should I do?”

H said he knew someone who could help, but I needed to understand that this person was involved in shady business.

I asked, “What kind of business? Drug dealing or arms trafficking?”

H replied, “A hitman company.”

I said, “I already killed one person; if I kill again, I’m definitely dead!”

H said, “Don’t worry; if it was a Chinese person you killed, you might find a good lawyer and potentially win the case. Even if you got sentenced, you could serve ten or eight years and get out. But don’t forget, you killed a foreigner! There were so many witnesses in the bar; how could you escape? You’re already in deep trouble. Why not take a gamble? This person can help you get through this. If you can’t even get past this, what other better options do you have?”

After hearing him, I really couldn’t think of any better choices.

I asked H, “Can that person really help me settle this? I killed someone; it’s not as simple as just stealing a wallet.”

H assured me, “Don’t worry; that person has connections.”

The greatest happiness in life is having choices, but when you have no options left, that’s the greatest sorrow.