Chapter 2: The Fighter

Early in the morning, Zhang Ji awoke to the sound of a flute. He quietly got dressed in the rather spacious room and washed his face with water drawn from a bucket. After finishing these tasks, he stepped outside, ready to have breakfast.

His job involved loading and unloading goods—everything imaginable—for about twelve hours a day, with hardly any breaks. Fortunately, his body was resilient enough to endure this grueling routine, and even after seven days, he had no serious health problems.

Here, they provided three meals a day, enough to satisfy hunger, with some meat included. The food wasn’t bad at all; in fact, it was better than the meals he had before his transmigration. Although these were pre-packaged dishes, their taste was not unpleasant.

He had adapted to this life. Although bathing and using the restroom were troublesome, at least he was alive.

After grabbing a tray and some food at the canteen, Zhang Ji sat beside a sturdy man with rolled-up sleeves. This man was Gu Ming, the first person to greet Zhang Ji on his arrival. A native of Shanli Island and a descendant of “criminals,” unlike Zhang Ji, Gu Ming had a family and even a son.

“Today’s payday,” Gu Ming said to Zhang Ji.

“I know,” Zhang Ji replied while eating.

“I mean, don’t cause trouble with them,” Gu Ming whispered.

“What do you mean?” Zhang Ji asked, puzzled.

Though the work here offered no hope or future, and compared to his previous life felt like forced labor, Zhang Ji had no intention of stirring up trouble—yet.

“They might shortchange you,” Gu Ming said.

“Deduct pay?” Zhang Ji caught on. “Does Uncle Cheng know?”

“He does,” Gu Ming said.

“Why doesn’t he do anything? They clearly promised this much...” Zhang Ji’s words trailed off.

He was an adult, experienced in the ways of society, far older than he appeared. He knew the world was never fair, especially not here.

He glanced at the calluses forming on his worn hands and felt a dull ache in his feet and shoulders. Something about it made him uncomfortable. Blistered hands, scraped shoulders, bruised feet—he only wanted what was originally promised.

“I’m done eating. Hurry up,” Gu Ming said, finishing his meal before standing.

Zhang Ji finished in a few bites, cleared his tray, and returned to work.

He diligently loaded and unloaded until noon.

After lunch, the workers were gathered by a leader named Yin Kun, a subordinate of the Overseer Kui, responsible for distributing the local currency—“Kui coins.” These were small, flat, battery-sized tokens with the character “Kui” stamped on them. They had some practical value for powering electronic devices but were mostly symbolic.

“Come up when your name is called to collect your pay,” Yin Kun announced. “Gao Lang, Wang Yi...” Workers stepped forward to receive their small tokens, but none received the full amount. Yin Kun would count, and the total would always be short by ten or twenty coins.

“Zhang Ji,” he called.

Zhang Ji approached.

Yin Kun sized him up and checked the records.

“You’ve been here eight days. That’s 160 coins,” Yin Kun said, pushing a small box filled with coins toward Zhang Ji.

Zhang Ji glanced inside. The box, which could hold two hundred Kui coins, contained only one hundred forty.

He did not take the box.

Reflecting on the hardships he had endured, an inexplicable stubbornness welled up within him.

“You’re wrong,” Zhang Ji said, staring at Yin Kun.

“Wrong?” Yin Kun sneered. “You’re new here. You should be grateful for twenty less.”

As he spoke, he took twenty coins out of the box.

Zhang Ji met his gaze, eyes cold and devoid of anger.

“Take it and get lost! What are you looking at?” Yin Kun snapped.

Zhang Ji removed his blue work jacket and casually grabbed a crowbar leaning nearby, which he had been eyeing.

Two of Yin Kun’s henchmen stepped forward, ready to intervene.

The other workers were startled but none moved to help.

Yin Kun locked eyes with Zhang Ji. “Don’t want to work anymore?”

“Not enough!” Zhang Ji declared.

A fire burned in his chest.

This inexplicable transmigration and the harsh life it brought made him deeply dissatisfied. He refused to accept such oppression.

Suddenly, Yin Kun grabbed a handful of Kui coins and threw them at Zhang Ji, the clinking sound ringing out as they scattered.

“Damn worthless scum, you’re only fit for hard labor your whole life,” Yin Kun spat. “What are you staring at? Didn’t I just give you enough? Pick them up!”

Zhang Ji narrowed his eyes, gripping the crowbar tightly. Gu Ming hurried over to help, gathering the coins while saying, “Thank Kun brother!”

After a moment’s hesitation, Zhang Ji put down the crowbar and picked up only his rightful share of coins. He didn’t collect a single extra one.

Having collected the coins, he and Gu Ming turned and left.

The two sat on the steps. Gu Ming advised, “Try not to make trouble with the higher-ups. It’s not easy to have work here.”

Indeed, being a loader was considered a good job in the entire Kui district, so even if some pay was deducted, no one complained.

“I want to buy roast duck rice and treat you,” Zhang Ji said to Gu Ming.

“Alright,” Gu Ming nodded without refusal.

Soon, they returned to the Wang family’s roast duck rice shop.

The restaurant was simple, with a dozen or so tables and stools. The only distinctive feature was a large television mounted on the wall—about seventy or eighty inches.

Zhang Ji noticed the dog at the door had been replaced; the previous one hadn’t survived.

The owner didn’t recognize Zhang Ji as the person who had killed his dog, probably because their encounter was brief, and Zhang Ji had kept his head down while eating the dog food. Perhaps the change of clothes also helped.

“Two roast duck rice meals,” Zhang Ji ordered.

“Ten coins,” the owner said.

Zhang Ji counted out ten Kui coins and handed them over. The owner began preparation—reheating pre-cooked roast duck from a package and placing it over rice.

There was no livestock farming here, so fresh duck was impossible. This method was the most cost-effective.

Zhang Ji did the math: working one day could afford him four roast duck meals—a relative luxury in this place.

Elsewhere, workers might earn ten coins a day at best, and their jobs might not be any easier.

“By the way, don’t go to Cat Street. Many there are sick. I’ll introduce you to a better girl later,” Gu Ming suddenly said.

Cat Street was the local red-light district.

Zhang Ji had no intention of going there for now and nodded. “I understand.”

His attention then returned to the television.

A fighting match was playing—two amateur seventh-dan fighters competing. The arena wasn’t a traditional ring but more like a gladiatorial pit, with props and obstacles.

One fighter smashed a solid concrete brick with a punch, while the other leapt over three meters high from a standing jump. Zhang Ji’s expression changed slightly.

The two soon engaged in close combat; a punch sent one flying several meters, but he quickly got up and continued fighting.

It was almost superhuman!

At this moment, Zhang Ji realized once again that he seemed to have transmigrated into a game world.

And the upper limit of this fighting game was absurdly high...

“Your food!” the owner placed the two roast duck rice meals before Zhang Ji and Gu Ming.

Gu Ming, eating, asked Zhang Ji, who was still staring at the screen, “Do you like watching fights?”

Zhang Ji hesitated, then nodded. “I want to become a fighter.”

Not just a passing fancy—he suddenly had a goal.

“It’s not easy here. Random training won’t even get you to amateur level,” Gu Ming said.

“Are the professional fighters strong? Have you seen any?” Zhang Ji asked.

“The Overseer Kui is one,” Gu Ming said. “He practices Iron Shirt technique—ordinary bullets can’t penetrate his defense.”

D-rank!

Zhang Ji mentally graded Overseer Kui.

In the version of the game Zhang Ji played, the fighting ranks were straightforward, with eight official levels.

The highest, K-rank, was a background existence with unspecified power.

SSS-rank was planetary-level strength, capable of shattering stars.

Super S or SS-rank corresponded to continental-level power.

S-rank could raze cities and nations.

A-rank had various achievements in the background story, and even nuclear missiles couldn’t kill them.

B-rank were formidable fighters, with stories of one defeating a modern military force.

C-rank vastly exceeded normal human attributes; only large-caliber sniper rifles could harm them, and the most perceptive could evade attacks in advance.

D-rank were professional fighters who had surpassed human limits; they could easily overpower ordinary gun-wielding people, and the top among them had defeated hundreds of fully armed soldiers.

Below that was amateur level—the fighters currently on television, resembling martial arts experts.

The match had ended.

One fighter feigned injury to lure a reckless attack, then landed a punch that sent the opponent flying.

That punch could shatter solid bricks but only left the amateur seventh-dan struggling on the ground for a while, not critically injured.

Was it staged?

Perhaps partially, but at least some of it was real.

The screen switched to commercials as Zhang Ji lowered his head and began eating heartily.

He silently made a decision.

Set a small goal first—to become a professional fighter!