Chapter 1: Death Express (Part 5)
I checked the time again. "We arrive at the final station at 1:10 AM. That's twenty minutes away. But at your current rate of blood loss, you won't last ten minutes. By the time we reach North Millbrook, you'll be gone."
"Alright then..." Quinn finally nodded. "I'll listen to you..."
I supported Quinn as we shuffled from the front of the train toward the dining car at the rear. By now, the death matches in the cars had reached their endgame. Bodies lay strewn across every car—some already dead, others still twitching and moaning.
So we encountered no further attacks along the way. We made it to the second-to-last car, just one step from the dining car, when three men in tracksuits with shaved heads surrounded us. The one in front, stroking his gleaming bald pate, grinned: "Well, well, look who's delivering themselves right to us."
I noticed that all three had strange, twisted expressions and vicious, bloodthirsty eyes. Looking closer, I could see nametags on their uniforms with labels like "Patient A-1256." It hit me—all three of these guys had escaped from the same psychiatric hospital!
I'd seen mentally ill people fight before. They were like wild animals—going straight for your throat without even blinking. Although they lacked formal combat training, when it came to sheer lethal ferocity, ordinary people couldn't withstand them.
There was no reasoning with people like this. I slowly lowered Quinn onto a seat and prepared for combat. To be honest, this was my first time fighting psychiatric patients, and I had no idea what my odds were. Just as I was about to strike first, a tall, imposing figure suddenly appeared at the far end of the car, speaking in a deep voice: "Well, well... quite the gathering. What is this, the last supper?"
The expressions on the three psychiatric patients instantly shifted—from savage ferocity to sheer terror. They turned their heads, lips trembling, as if summoning the courage just to utter the name: "D-Drake..."
The man called Drake approached step by step. The three patients suddenly became remarkably rational, scurrying past him like frightened rabbits.
Drake ignored them. Instead, he walked directly toward me. He wore a khaki suit with a powerfully built frame, standing at least six-foot-three, his hair slicked back immaculately. His gaunt, blade-like face was cold as frost, and a scar ran vertically across half his face from his left eye.
"Brother, you need to go..." Quinn pushed me. "Don't start anything with this guy. He's a 14K assassination consultant..."
Before he finished, Drake had already reached us. His right hand was tucked in his pocket, while his left lit a cigarette. His tone carried a trace of disdain: "Heh, the WBC's reigning champion, brought this low. This has always been a world where the strong prey on the weak. Since that's the case, I'll take your life."
"Wait!" I quickly stepped in front of Quinn. "I'm taking him to the dining car—we're forfeiting our qualifications!"
Honestly, at this point, I was thoroughly sick of this death trip. I didn't want to spend another second on this blood-soaked train. And even if I gave up the five hundred thousand prize money, that loan shark debt would still be wiped clean.
"Forfeit?" Drake slowly blew out a perfectly straight stream of smoke. "Kid, you might not have figured it out yet—on this train, whether anyone has qualification or not is decided by me."
I held out both my ticket and Quinn's ticket. "I'm done playing. Both ticket stubs are yours. That's an extra two hundred thousand for you."
Drake didn't take the tickets. Instead, he burst out laughing, his face contorting with the effort: "Is this charity? Or are you treating me like a beggar? Right now, I'm not interested in ticket stubs. I'm only interested in your lives."
"Drake..." Quinn said weakly. "I've never begged anyone in my life. Now, as the boxing champion, I'm asking you—let him go..."
Drake scratched his head, looking rather conflicted. After a moment's thought, he looked down at me: "It's not easy making the WBC champion bow his head. Alright, in consideration of the champion's plea, I'll let you go. Get lost."
When I didn't move, Drake added: "Kid, since you're on this train, forget about loyalty. Just save your own miserable life."
I wasn't standing still just out of loyalty—I was gathering power. I knew the man in front of me was a ruthless killer, but no matter how tough, he was still flesh and blood!
"Whoosh—" I launched a high kick toward his head. It was incredibly fast, generating a breeze, more than enough to shatter a jaw. But Drake casually raised his right forearm and blocked my kick.
In that instant, a piercing pain shot through my leg!
That was when I noticed that Drake's right hand, which he'd kept in his pocket this whole time, wasn't a hand at all—he was disabled. His right arm ended in a golden metal hook!
No, to be precise, it was a golden hook engraved with a coiled dragon soaring through clouds, whiskers and mane flaring wildly.
"Run!" Quinn used the last of his strength to urge me. "You're no match for him..."
"Who leaves and who stays—that's for me to decide." Drake took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt away. "I've decided. I'm collecting both your lives."
"Why?" I roared. "We're forfeiting! Why won't you let us go?"
Drake uttered that famous line coldly: "Destroying you has nothing to do with you."
I froze.
What did that mean? Am I an insect?
Well, an insect that's been pushed too far can still bite!
I let out a roar and threw a hook toward his face—but that was a feint. My real killing blow was the knee strike that followed, aimed at his liver. Even if it didn't rupture his organs, it would at least crack a couple of ribs!
But Drake didn't even bother trying to dodge my hook feint. He took the punch head-on, then grabbed my incoming knee with his right arm, and with monstrous strength, hurled me across the car!
I flew like I'd been hit by a dump truck. My back slammed into the window with a resounding "thud," and my entire body went numb.
"Ha, don't think knowing a little combat makes you a master. Your feint was half-hearted at best," Drake said with a mocking cold smile. "I've never had formal training, but by awakening my combat instincts alone, I've killed at least seven or eight fighters. Let me tell you, kid—humans are animals. Instinct will always trump technique."
"Like my superiority over you. It's pure bloodline dominance." He turned to Quinn. "WBC reigning champion, don't you agree?"
"I say..." Quinn, knowing escape was impossible, simply laughed defiantly. "I say that Drake, who's always prided himself on being cold and ruthless, is running his mouth an awful lot today—like a bitch."
Drake's face hardened. He was about to strike, but Quinn had already launched his attack. A fierce light blazed in his pupils—this was the dying light of a champion's last stand, and it was the first time I'd witnessed a reigning WBC boxer fight with everything on the line!
He was so fast. He dipped and rolled under Drake's golden hook, then unleashed two consecutive hooks to his jaw, followed by a lateral step and a devastating uppercut to his liver and midsection—in the span of just one or two seconds, Quinn landed at least six punches!
Drake absorbed every single one of those blows. His massive frame merely swayed but didn't go down. And just as Quinn was about to throw his final punch, Drake's golden hook drove straight into Quinn's abdomen, then ripped upward. With a wet "slicing" sound, he literally pulled out Quinn's intestines.
Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice.
Quinn's eyes were blood-red. He gripped Drake's hook with both hands and turned to shout at me: "Brother, run!"
6
A WBC reigning champion. A man I'd idolized in the ring. Died right before my eyes, his belly sliced open.
And his final words were: "Brother, run."
My blood first froze, then boiled over. I could no longer control my emotions as I screamed and ran.
I sprinted madly toward another car—truly like a desperate insect fleeing for its life. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to die on a train like this—caught, tortured, and crushed like a bug.
The will to survive goaded me on. I gasped for breath, my heart consumed by regret. I regretted taking two thousand yuan to gamble, possessed by the foolish dream of striking it rich. I regretted borrowing from loan sharks and being forced onto this train. I regretted forming an alliance with Quinn, regretted fighting alongside him, even regretted looking at his brother's photo...