Chapter 1: Death Express (Part 3)
My consciousness was fading. Everything blurred before my eyes, my hands no longer struggling, just flailing instinctively. I felt him reach into my pocket from behind and pull out my train ticket. "Ding dong, extra bonus secured."
Just as I was about to lose consciousness, a figure suddenly burst into the bathroom, delivering a punch straight to the high schooler. With a loud "clang," the nylon cord around my neck went slack.
It took several seconds for my mind to clear. When I looked up, I saw that my savior was none other than Quinn!
He was visibly injured too—blood covered one side of his face—but it didn't look serious. I quickly turned to look at the high schooler. He'd only taken one punch, but his entire face had exploded, and he lay in the corner twitching.
Damn. The reigning boxing champion's heavy punch was no joke.
"You alright?" Quinn extended his hand and pulled me up.
"I'm fine, thank you... but why did you save me?" After what had just happened, I couldn't help but be wary of Quinn too.
"Same invitation as before. Want to form an alliance with me?"
"Why me?" I was full of caution.
Quinn sighed, adopting a "you're more trouble than you're worth" expression. "As you can see, the passengers on this train are a mixed bag—gangsters, psychopaths, murderers... and then a very small number of martial artists. If I had to pick someone for an alliance to improve my survival odds, I'd rather choose a fellow fighter."
Though under these rules, no one was truly trustworthy, having an ally in this situation would significantly boost my chances of making it out alive. And regardless, he had just saved my life.
I didn't hesitate any longer and agreed.
"Listen, brother, I have a plan," Quinn said.
"What plan?"
"We head to the first car, the front of the train. There's a control room there. We can lock ourselves inside and ride safely to the final station."
"Sounds good, but," I questioned, "why not just go to the dining car?"
"Are you giving up your qualification willingly? If so, why did you even get on this train?"
It was a long story. I didn't know how to explain it to him, but then a thought hit me—if I actually survived to the final station and got the five hundred thousand, my debts would be covered and then some.
So I said, "Alright, let's go with your plan. We'll head to the control room."
Blood was splattered everywhere throughout the cars. Everyone was fighting like they were possessed. Without weapons, they'd unleashed the full beast within, attacking with fists, knees, headbutts, joints—even teeth. At my feet lay a body—technically not quite dead yet. A chunk of flesh was missing from the left side of his neck, clearly bitten off. Blood from his severed artery hadn't finished spurting, but he had just enough strength left to move his lips.
The sight made my scalp tingle. I clamped my hand over my mouth, barely holding back vomit.
Quinn glanced at me. "What are you afraid of? Aren't you a professional boxer?"
Damn it, I was a boxer, not a butcher.
We finally made it to the second car. Past this one lay the front of the train, and the thought of escaping this hell on earth made me breathe a little easier.
Just then, a figure suddenly slipped into the car ahead—a man in a suit wearing black-framed glasses, carrying a steel pipe torn from the luggage rack. My eyelids tightened—it was that teacher who'd ambushed Quinn at the start!
Except half his face was now horribly deformed. The lens on the left side of his glasses had shattered, embedded directly into his eye socket—a bloody, mangled mess. Yet somehow, he was still walking around as if nothing had happened.
"The reigning boxing champion's punch really is no joke," he said, tongue extending upward to lick the blood running down his face.
Needless to say, this was Quinn's handiwork.
Quinn was also startled by the sight. "What, you want to lose your other eye too?"
The teacher didn't reply. Instead, he studied Quinn and then me with his one remaining eye, and suddenly laughed. "Heh, found yourself a little helper. But do you really think grabbing just anybody off the street will keep you alive?"
As he spoke, three more burly men slipped in from the other end of the car, completely blocking our path.
"Let me introduce them—these are my buddies from the labor camp. Two life sentences, one on death row commutation—" The teacher knocked his steel pipe against the window. "That's right, we're the infamous Cell Block Four."
4
That was the first I'd heard of that name.
But these guys were no joke—they must have also been pardoned to participate in this trip.
The Cell Block Four moved with obvious coordination, flanking us from both sides.
The teacher dragged his steel pipe across the window glass, producing a nails-on-chalkboard screech. He tilted his head and smiled at Quinn. "You took my eye. I'll be taking both of yours."
To be fair, if this were an open arena, I could have easily taken down four brawlers like these, especially with a WBC champion beside me. People who'd never trained formally had no concept of how hard or fast a professional boxer's punch could be.
But this was a high-speed rail car—narrow and cramped, with zero room for actual combat technique. And these weren't ordinary thugs. They were hardened criminals. Look at that teacher—half his face was destroyed, and he didn't care at all. In terms of intimidation, they had us beat.
Quinn and I stood back-to-back, taking fighting stances, ready for combat. He faced the pipe-wielding teacher, while I faced the three aggressive felons.
"Listen, kid, this isn't a ring—it's hell!" Quinn said in a low voice. "Forget every rule you followed in competition! Don't hold back, or you're dead!"
I swallowed hard, already mentally prepared. "I understand!"
The three men roared and charged. I struck first—a rear cross straight into the face of the first attacker. I put everything into that punch—driving off the ground, torquing my hips, channeling the force of the earth through my spine and into my fist, landing squarely on his nose.
With a sharp "crack," his nose caved into his face, and he collapsed. But almost simultaneously, the second man leaped over him and tackled me to the ground.
In a street fight against multiple opponents, the worst thing that can happen is getting grappled. Even someone as powerful as Tyson, once wrapped up with no room to strike, becomes a lamb to the slaughter for the rest of the pack.
This guy locked his arms around my body, and I couldn't break free. While I was tied up, the third attacker stood over me, kicking at my head.
I could only sway desperately left and right, wriggling on the narrow aisle like an earthworm, dodging his stomps. Meanwhile, the one gripping me took the opportunity to bite down on my cheek!
A jolt of searing pain shot through my entire body!
I could swear he was aiming for my carotid artery, but because I was thrashing so violently, he couldn't find the right position and settled for my face instead. I don't know what crimes these cons committed, but I was certain that death row was too good for them!
These psychos should have been executed. Keeping monsters like this in society was just asking for trouble.
I didn't dare pull away hard—if I did, he'd tear the flesh right off my face. In desperation, I could only resort to a brutal counterattack: I gathered all my strength into the fingertip of my right index finger and drove it straight into his ear canal!
Besides kickboxing, I'd also trained in Kyokushin karate, which includes a technique called "Spearhand"—conditioning your fingers to punch through boards and roof tiles. At my peak, my Spearhand could punch a hole through a watermelon.
Compared to a watermelon rind or a board, a human ear canal is unimaginably fragile. My index finger drove in, sinking almost to the knuckle, and when I pulled it out, it dragged out a string of thick, bloody mucus.
He let out a bloodcurdling scream and released his bite, clutching his ear and rolling on the ground, completely incapacitated.
The con who'd been kicking me hesitated for a moment—maybe weighing whether to fight or flee. But I didn't give him time to think. I sprang up with a flying knee to his chin, and as he staggered backward, I followed with a devastating low kick, striking directly at his cervical spine.