Chapter Seventy-One: The Death Threat Letter

The Fighting Tournament was the most popular sporting event in the world, a stage where countless low-ranking spirit practitioners could change their fates.

After all, not everyone could become an eighth-rank spirit practitioner upon graduating from the Shanghai Institute of Spiritual Arts. Most only reached the first rank. The second rank marked an excellent student, and the third was considered a genius.

Ordinary first-rank practitioners, unable to obtain a sword spirit’s true name and instead focusing on martial arts, had a certain chance of being recruited by companies, trained as fighters, and sent to compete in the arena.

Fighting matches were often deadly. Of course, that referred to tournaments held abroad. To hold such an event domestically, a fifth-rank practitioner was required to act as referee, ensuring that any contestant facing a fatal strike would be rescued in time.

This rule only guaranteed their lives. If a contestant were grievously injured, no help would be offered. The most thrilling aspects of the competition were preserved.

The raw power of fist against flesh was a particular kind of masculine romance.

Du Yu was currently the most famous fighter. At eighty-seven years old, he was in the golden age of his struggle, as far as spirit practitioners were concerned.

He truly intended to give it his all. If he could win tonight’s championship, he would gain the right to join the Myriad Beast Sect.

That was Shanghai’s most renowned martial sect, and one of the few with access to the Central Spirit Library’s collection.

His chance to change his fate rested on tonight’s battle!

...

In a dim basement, the only source of light was an aged bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its yellow glow stretched Du Yu’s shadow long across the mottled wall.

His fists rained down upon a wooden training dummy, the dull thuds echoing within the cramped space, like the drumbeat of a rousing war song.

Suddenly, a different, muffled sound broke the rhythm—a noise distinct from fists striking wood.

Du Yu stopped abruptly, turning alertly to scan a corner of the basement.

A stranger stood there, his expression calm. “Hello, I’m the one who took the order on the app—number 1420.”

Du Yu’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he turned back to the wooden dummy, his fists resuming their relentless barrage. The pounding filled the room once more, as if the interruption had never occurred.

On a worn-out sofa sat a portly, one-eyed man wearing a broad smile. “I never imagined we’d be able to hire someone like you for this job.”

His voice was rough but full of enthusiasm. “Hello, I’m Zhao Nan, Du Yu’s fight manager.” As he spoke, Zhao Nan took out his phone, marked the arrival of the hired protector, entered the number from the Baiyu Capital Daily, and tapped confirm. The status changed to ‘spirit practitioner currently safeguarding.’

Baiyu Capital raised an eyebrow. “You know me?”

“Of course! I’ve liked your short videos from press conferences. With heroes like you quietly watching over us, Shanghai’s safety is assured.” He made no mention of his earlier online complaints about Baiyu Capital’s “boasting,” instead laying on the flattery.

Baiyu Capital felt a secret satisfaction, though his face remained serene. “Tell me the details of this assignment.”

Zhao Nan quickly picked up a threatening letter from the table. The writing, red as blood, looked as if it had been penned with the stuff itself. “We woke up this morning to find this death threat at the door. Du Yu must lose tonight’s match—if he wins, he’ll pay with his life.”

Baiyu Capital mused, “Is this threat from his opponent?”

“Hard to say. Tiger is a famous American fighter, nicknamed The Beast, with a ferocious style—he’s hardly weaker than Du Yu. More likely, it’s the people running illegal gambling rings trying to fix the match.”

Zhao Nan scratched his nearly bald head. “All you need to do is make sure Du Yu isn’t interfered with in the ring. Let him compete as normal.”

“No problem,” Baiyu Capital nodded, glancing at Du Yu pounding the wooden dummy.

Du Yu stood about 1.73 meters tall, bare-chested, his well-built muscles gleaming bronze in the light. His hands were sturdy, knuckles thick with calluses from years of hard training. Messy black hair clung to his forehead, and his gaze was as sharp and aggressive as a solitary tiger.

That was a good look in his eyes, Baiyu Capital thought. He, too, longed for a battle where fist met flesh. Unfortunately, he had grown so powerful by accident that he could no longer find an opponent who could withstand his blows.

...

Time slipped away like fine sand.

Du Yu’s training ended at noon. Breathing heavily, his muscular frame glistening under the dull light, he said nothing to the other two. He drank his potion and collapsed onto the battered bed in the corner.

This basement, less than forty square meters, was where he ate, slept, trained, and lived.

Every reward he earned from his fighting matches was spent on his cultivation. The ordinary-looking wooden dummy was actually a five-million-dollar spiritual artifact. The bottles and jars scattered around the bed were all precious elixirs, used to restore spiritual pressure and mental energy.

Not everyone possessed the godlike talent of someone like Liu Shuangling, able to recover on their own—most people needed spiritual medicine to aid their cultivation.

Du Yu’s breathing gradually slowed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

Zhao Nan continued his flattering chatter with Baiyu Capital, weaving in stories about the fighting world and various bits of gossip.

To be honest, Baiyu Capital finally understood why some leaders enjoyed hearing such shameless flattery. It was truly pleasing—like putting on a fresh pair of underwear for the New Year.

...

It was not until five in the afternoon that the three left the cramped basement. Pushing open the exit, they emerged into a dim alley.

Litter was scattered around—plastic bags and scraps of paper rolling gently in the wind left behind by careless passersby. Still, the air outside was far fresher than in the basement.

Baiyu Capital exhaled deeply, as if emptying all the stale air from his lungs. “As planned, you two take a cab—I’ll protect you from the shadows.”

“Understood,” Zhao Nan replied, summoning a ride through his phone.

Baiyu Capital silently tailed the car to the back entrance of the Shanghai Sports Hall.

The place was packed with Du Yu’s fans, waving signs and cheering him on, with media reporters standing by.

As soon as the car door opened, Zhao Nan was the first to jump out, shouting, “Don’t crowd, please make way!”

Du Yu followed.

“Mad Tiger!” “Mad Tiger!” The fans’ cheers and reporters’ flashing cameras made the moment feel as tense and dramatic as a scene from a movie.

Even Du Yu’s cold face softened a little.

This was the glory he had fought so hard to earn.

He held his head high. Whether his future led to heaven or hell depended on tonight’s battle!