Intentions

As the night grew later, the preliminary fights began, and to everyone's surprise, the sport was karate.

Not only was this a discipline where Max's friends recognized every move, but it also allowed the guests from China to showcase some of their qualities.

As soon as the matches started, a wave of adrenaline-filled sounds mixed with the smell of alcohol filled the air around them.

"Hit him! Don't let him hold on!"

"Leandro, stop backing away and hit him now! Damn it, you can't fight at all, you son of a bitch!"

"Leandro, you coward, just quit and crawl back to the trash heap where I found you!"

This lively evening turned into one full of emotions, all thanks to Ryan, who had orchestrated his participation in these fights.

In the ring, two competitors with impressive physiques were battling it out. One was retreating, while the other kept advancing.

The area around the fighting arena was packed with about a thousand people, mostly adult men, who grew irritable after drinking. They cursed loudly and expressed frustration whenever the fighters became passive.

"There's so much action here! We should've come earlier," Ryan said, thrilled by the ongoing matches.

"Even my comatose cousin fights better than you, Leandro!" Nearby, Hawk, with his eye-catching hairstyle, yelled at the retreating fighter without a care in the world about who Mario was.

"Stop shouting for no reason!" Miguel said, covering his ears and lowering his head to avoid attracting attention.

The fighters were Europeans, each weighing around 90 kilograms—essentially heavyweights.

One had a fierce expression and a bulky physique, with muscles unsuited for karate. This was Leandro, who had been retreating and drawing harsh criticism.

Leandro's opponent was equally strong, bald, and similarly muscled.

During the match, the bald brute attacked relentlessly and effectively, while Leandro evaded and repositioned constantly, often using circular movements and attacking only sporadically. His style was highly conservative.

This cautious approach frustrated the audience. In a venue like this, people preferred exhilarating fights. The more spectacular the match, the better the crowd enjoyed it, making defensive tactics unpopular.

However, to Max, Leandro's movements were strategic and well-defended, clearly demonstrating advanced martial arts training. In contrast, the bald man's approach was rushed and devoid of strategy, wasting his strength in a futile attempt to impress.

If nothing unexpected occurred, Leandro would win this match.

Indeed, minutes into the fight, Leandro delivered a successful surprise attack—a kick that knocked the bald brute to the ground. Despite struggling to get up, the brute failed, and Leandro won the bout.

"Second round! Who wants to challenge Leandro next?" The referee shouted into the microphone, addressing the crowd.

The competition rules of this venue were intriguing.

The venue owner placed an illusionary safe, requiring each participant to contribute a significant amount of money to challenge the current fighter.

With each fight, the amount in the safe grew, fueled by contributions from sponsors—wealthy patrons eager to see exciting matches.

Whenever the safe accumulated $10,000, the venue announced a new fight.

A fighter who won three consecutive matches could claim the money in the safe, with a percentage going to the venue. However, a fighter could choose to fight beyond the required matches, potentially amassing over $100,000.

"I'm in!"

A robust Black man tossed a wad of U.S. dollars onto the table where the safe contributions were being collected. His addition brought the total to $20,000.

The second match began, and the Black man, clearly well-prepared, swung his fists aggressively, bombarding Leandro's head as soon as the fight started.

In the first round, Leandro was knocked down twice. In the second round, he managed to stay on his feet. By the third round, the Black man's strength began to wane. In the fourth round, Leandro knocked him down once, and in the fifth round, Leandro secured victory.

The robust Black man was carried out of the arena.

"For the next match, who else wants to challenge Leandro?" The referee shouted excitedly.

After two fights, the bar patrons realized Leandro wasn't a pushover. Those prepared to enter the ring hesitated.

The next match was worth $40,000—a considerable sum to risk.

"Hey, who's brave enough to fight me?"

Leandro, now animated from his two consecutive victories, scanned the crowd, looking for his next opponent.

"You call me a coward, yet none of you dare to step up? Ha! You're the cowards—all of you!" Leandro clenched his fists and laughed uproariously.

Max watched him, then glanced at the money-laden table. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a $40,000 check.

"Max, what are you doing? This isn't a fight you should join," Miguel asked, perplexed.

"I'm getting in the ring. Let's shake things up around here." Max gestured toward the fighting arena.

"Are you crazy?" Miguel's eyes widened. "Don't you think you're exposing yourself to unnecessary danger? You don't even need the money, so why fight?"

"Yes, I think this is unnecessary," Hawk said, pulling out his phone and pretending to be distracted.

Max shot them a glance, initially planning to ask them to bet on him for extra winnings. But seeing their apprehension, he let it go.

Ryan smiled, tempted to fight in Max's place but ultimately letting him take the stage.

Max pushed through the crowd, reached the finance table, threw down the $40,000 check, removed his shirt, wrapped his hands, and stepped into the ring.

"Whoa, it's a blind guy!"

"Here to learn what real punches feel like?"

"Hey, kid, don't go in there and embarrass yourself!" The crowd shouted loudly.

Max ignored them. There was no need to waste energy on their remarks.

Many wanted to stop him, but when they saw his muscular physique and tattooed body, they fell silent. Clearly, Max's presence as a challenger was overwhelming.

"Hey, kid, are you sure you want to fight me?" Leandro crossed his arms and sized him up. "My punches could be lethal."

"So are mine."

"Then don't blame me for showing no mercy to someone in your condition."

"Place your bets! Place your bets! Bet on the blind kid to win—ten-to-one odds! Ladies and gentlemen, don't miss this golden opportunity to win big!" The bookmaker shouted loudly.

"Ten-to-one odds? I'll bet a dollar to win ten. Miguel, should we try it?" Hawk was excited, eager to place at least $100 on Max's victory.

As the murmurs spread, a deep voice interrupted, "One hundred thousand dollars on my boy to win."

The crowd turned to see a tall man in an expensive suit with a ponytail.

Ryan recognized him immediately, Max's uncle, Terry Silver, who had been away on business. "Mr. Silver, you're here."

"Well, I heard Max had trouble controlling his anger, so I rushed back," Silver said, his gaze fixed on Max in the fighting arena.