Chapter 52: Real Tough Guys Don't Need Designer Clothes
In that narrow, secluded alley, a surreal battle unfolded.
Two dozen thugs darted around, swinging their axes with desperate speed. They aimed for every inch of Wu Yifan's body, convinced even his "invincible" frame must have a weakness. His legs, his ribs, his neck—even his groin, targeted a dozen times—each strike met with the same result: a metallic *clang* and sparks, leaving not a scratch.
For five full minutes, they hacked away, delivering hundreds of blows that would have turned a normal man into mincemeat. But Wu stood unharmed, his casual posture a silent mockery of their efforts.
"Ah! He's… he's a monster!"
Finally, one thug snapped. He hurled his axe aside and fled, screaming, vanishing into the street beyond.
Panic spread like wildfire. The remaining men stared at their blunted, useless axes, their hands trembling. Sweat poured down their faces, mixing with dirt and fear.
The bald man collapsed onto the ground, his face ashen. He panted, staring up at Wu, a cold dread coiling in his gut. He tried to shout for help, to alert passersby, but when his eyes met Wu's, his voice died in his throat. It was like staring into an abyss—calm, unyielding, and utterly terrifying.
Wu stood there, exuding a quiet, overwhelming aura—like a king surveying ants. His lips curled into a faint smile. "Done with your fun?"
The thugs froze, their throats dry.
"Y-yes," one stammered, as if hypnotized.
Wu's smile turned sharp, almost cruel. "Good. Now it's my turn."
He moved in a blur, his fists flying. In seconds, the alley echoed with grunts and crunches. Faces swelled into bruises, teeth spattered the ground, and bodies crumpled—though Wu held back, stopping short of breaking bones. He wanted them scared, not dead.
With enhanced strength coursing through him, he felt unstoppable—stronger than even the "Transformer" he'd jokingly imagined. For a wild moment, he wondered if he *was* invincible… and then chuckled at the thought of testing that theory on unsuspecting women. *Easy*, he told himself. *One fight at a time.*
The thugs didn't notice his brief distraction. They cowered, too terrified to move, as Wu circled them, delivering precise, painful blows.
He stopped in front of the bald man, bending down with a grin that sent shivers down the man's spine. "Why'd you come back? I let you walk before. Now you've annoyed me. What should I do with you?"
The bald man swallowed hard. "I-I won't do it again!"
" Heard that one before," Wu said, shaking his head. "Try something new."
"M-my crew! I've got hundreds of men! Hurt me, and they'll—"
"Boring," Wu sighed, picking at his ear. "Even gangsters should be more creative. You're embarrassing your kind."
He straightened, folding his arms. "You've damaged my 'mental health' with this little stunt. Compensation's in order."
The bald man perked up, clinging to the word "compensation" like a lifeline. "Y-yes! Name your price!"
"Five million," Wu said casually.
The bald man choked. "F-five million? I can't—"
"Fine. Five hundred thousand, then," Wu said, as if negotiating over a cup of tea. "I'm feeling generous."
The man gaped. Half a million was still a fortune—enough to cripple his operations. But he saw the cold resolve in Wu's eyes and nodded frantically. "Y-yes! I'll get it! Just… give me time!"
"Three days," Wu said, standing. "Bring it to Infinity. Late, and… well. You've seen what I can do."
The bald man scrambled to his feet, supported by two thugs, and fled, his crew trailing behind, too humiliated to look back.
Mu Xiaoyao smiled, looping her arm through Wu's. "They'll pay. They're too scared not to."
Wu shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Money's just paper. I want them to think twice next time. Fear's a better deterrent than cash."
*Though cash never hurt*, he added silently.
Mu giggled, seeing through his act, and they walked out of the alley, leaving the chaos behind.
At the entrance, the group of teenagers watched, wide-eyed.
"He's not human," one boy whispered, his earlier arrogance gone.
"The way he took those axes… like they were toys," another breathed.
The girls sighed, staring at Wu's retreating back. "Who cares if he wears cheap clothes? He's *real*. Not like those posers we hang with."
"Imagine dating him. You'd never feel unsafe," one said, dreamy.
Chen, the blond boy, stared at his shoes, humbled. He'd mocked Wu for his "lousy" outfit, for being "beneath" Mu. Now he saw how little that mattered.
As Wu and Mu vanished down the street, the teens lingered, their worldview upended.
"Guess… real tough guys don't need designer gear," one finally said.
No one argued.
In that alley, they'd learned a lesson: strength wasn't measured in logos or bank accounts. It was measured in resilience, in calm, in the quiet confidence to stand your ground—even when two dozen axes were swinging your way.
Wu Yifan? He was the walking definition of that.
And as for the thugs? They'd remember that too. For a long, long time.