Charlotte Sutton thought Autumn Whitman was doomed. With the physical prowess this monster displayed, unless you used firearms and riddled it with bullets, only a top-tier martial artist could take it on—winning with skill over strength, using softness to overcome hardness. Going head-to-head was a sure path to death.

But looking at this boy, just the way he chose to make his move showed he was an amateur—at best, he’d practiced karate for a while and knew some basic techniques, but he was definitely not a master. The front kick is a basic karate foot technique, using the ball of the foot to deliver a powerful forward kick. As an entry-level move, it’s easy to learn and quite damaging, but it’s a straight-line attack, very easy to dodge, and shouldn’t be used to open a fight.

As for Charlotte Sutton, she could instantly think of a dozen ways to counter such an opening front kick, turning it into a disadvantage in a flash, even neutralizing and counterattacking in one go for an instant win. Such an obvious side-on, power-gathering front kick—unless the opponent was a straw dummy, with stable footing and no pressure, not dodging it would be unthinkable.

But sheer power is useless if you can’t land a hit—the result is zero!

Sure enough, to her dismay, the “train monster” instinctively sidestepped the fierce kick without losing any speed, and using its forward momentum, swiped a claw straight at Autumn Whitman’s face, clearly intending to rip it right off.

It’s over!

Charlotte Sutton sighed inwardly and closed her eyes, unable to bear watching Autumn Whitman die so horribly.

Autumn Whitman had managed to throw that kick only because the monster had charged from a distance, giving him enough time to react. Now, with only a few feet between them, at an ordinary person’s reaction speed and adaptability, he shouldn’t have any chance to change moves.

What a pity—he was a brave guy.

But before she could finish mourning for Autumn Whitman, she realized something was wrong—there was no scream, and instead, the sound of fists and feet cutting through the air grew even fiercer.

She quickly opened her eyes again, and at a glance at the scene, her mouth formed an “O”.

Autumn Whitman was facing the “monster’s” relentless claw attacks with remarkable agility, dodging and weaving in the cramped train car, not only evading every strike but even managing to counterattack, not falling behind at all.

She’d misjudged him—this guy wasn’t ordinary. His physical abilities were excellent—no, they were extraordinary. He was strong, fast, likely the result of both natural talent and extremely intense training. Wow, this guy had developed his body to its current limit, much stronger than the average adult.

Maybe he could defeat the monster!

Charlotte Sutton suddenly felt a surge of excitement, clenching her small fists tightly and starting to cheer for Autumn Whitman, her crescent-moon eyes fixed unblinkingly on the fight, hoping Autumn Whitman was some outstanding martial artist she’d never heard of, and could knock the monster down in just a few breaths.

However, after watching a bit longer, she quickly took out her respirator and took a deep breath, her heart suddenly in her throat again.

This boy’s physical abilities were indeed excellent, but his understanding of combat was very basic—he couldn’t be called a martial artist.

It seemed he’d never formally studied martial arts. While his basic movements were all standard, that was the extent of it. His execution was stiff, with no real “technique” to speak of, and he missed several good opportunities in a row. It wasn’t much different from fighting on instinct.

He was more like an ordinary person with exceptional physical abilities, but oddly enough, his real combat experience—his experience under high-pressure confrontation—was very rich. He showed no panic in the face of ferocious attacks, which was unlike any ordinary person.

Where did this freak come from?

Has he just been brawling on the streets all along, without any formal training?

……

Charlotte Sutton was completely baffled as she watched, and things weren’t going well for Autumn Whitman either.

Although he’d never been able to beat a group of tree spirits or climb to the top of the stone mountain, that wasn’t his fault—he didn’t have any supernatural skills, and overcoming those challenges wasn’t easy. But he had put in tremendous effort, training for two whole years under “high gravity” conditions. If it weren’t for his vampiric talent, he’d probably have trained himself to death or disability by now.

He was certain he was already very close to the physical limits of a teenager—99% of adults might not be as strong as him. If he hadn’t already reached his limit, and felt there was little room for further improvement, he wouldn’t have been so discouraged as to consider switching to basketball. Most likely, he’d still be thinking about how to improve himself and working hard to defeat the tree spirits.

His experiences over the years supported this confidence—he hadn’t lost a fight in the past two years, could easily crush his opponents, and was usually the one chasing others down.

But that confidence ended today. The monster before him was stronger, more powerful, faster, and even had a “chemical attack effect”—up close, it emitted a strong stench of rot, like something decaying, very much like old stinky tofu.

He was immediately locked in a tough battle, focusing all his attention on dodging the monster’s attacks while trying to counterattack whenever possible, but he just couldn’t find a good opening. His punches and kicks either missed or were blocked by the monster. Even when he did land a hit, it was always on some harmless part of the body, causing little to no damage.