Finally, after Marcus's earth-shattering roar and the beast's wail muffled by his voice, everything quieted down. We anxiously waited for the stone door to open. Although we all guessed that Marcus had probably succeeded, we couldn't be at ease until we saw him. About half a minute passed, but to me, that half minute felt longer than a century. With a loud "crash," the stone door was pulled open. Marcus stood at the entrance, covered in blood, his clothes in tatters, several bloody holes on his right chest and thigh still gushing fresh blood, and a bristle arrow stuck in his left arm. He yanked out the arrow, sucked out a few mouthfuls of black blood and spat it on the ground, then looked up and gave us a smile. Tears streamed down my face. I didn't care about anything else anymore; with a cheer, I rushed over and hugged Marcus, and the rest of the dorm rushed up as well. Instructor Thompson was furious, but he had thought that Marcus wouldn't come out before noon today, so he hadn't brought a baton or anything, thinking there would be no training time. He rushed over, shouting, "Bastards! Get back in line!" He punched me a few times, but I couldn't care less. With our backs to Instructor Thompson, we hugged Marcus, excitedly congratulating him and patting his shoulders. Morton and Hogan hurried to stop Marcus's bleeding. Behind us, Instructor Thompson's eyes turned red—clearly, he felt his authority was being challenged. He moved; the "Tomahawk" that had killed countless challengers before swung at me. I didn't see it, but Marcus did. His eyes widened in fury, he pushed me aside and swept out a kick. With a loud "bang," the trainees standing behind us all gasped in shock. Marcus and Instructor Thompson's legs collided, and both were knocked back three steps. We were stunned, and so was Instructor Thompson. That kick proved Marcus's formidable strength, enough to rival the legendary demon king—a new generation of demon king was born right here. We all knew that Marcus was destined to become the demon king, without a doubt!

"Height: 188 centimeters, weight: 98 kilograms... squat—687 kilograms... bench press—363 kilograms... six kicks per second..." On the training ground, we formed a circle, with Marcus in the center undergoing his final test—every fighter would announce these stats before a match to provide gamblers with reference data for betting. Every fighter had to go through such a test before leaving the training camp.

If Marcus's stats were made public, they would definitely shock a lot of people. The Pirate Alliance clearly had high hopes for him, hiring the best agent for him. Among black market fighters, Marcus was equally outstanding in both luck and strength!

Chapter Six

Marcus left. The night before his departure, the six of us huddled together on the floor, singing loudly. Our voices were rough and wild, and the songs we sang could probably scare away any creature on this planet, but we didn't care. We sang with abandon, late into the night. The next day, the bed closest to the door—Marcus's bed—was empty. For a while, seeing that empty bed always left us with a sense of loss. But that emptiness was soon filled. Half a month later, a small boy lay on that bed. I can't even remember his name, because he didn't stay long. He was a white boy who had just joined the ranks of the pirates, only eighteen years old, even younger than I was when I arrived. He naively thought that fighters could earn piles of cash, not knowing that this money was paid for with one's life. He greeted us enthusiastically when he arrived, and on his first night, he lay in bed chattering about his dreams for a bright future, thinking he was lucky to have come here. But the next day's training completely shattered his illusions. He didn't get anything to eat the whole day, and that night, we had to drag him back to the dorm—Instructor Thompson's whip was not something easy to endure. The next day, he didn't train; he came down with a high fever. The fever lasted a whole week before it broke, and when he finally felt he could walk on his own, he decided to escape.

That night, we were actually all awake. As soon as he moved, we woke up immediately. But none of us did anything; we just lay quietly in bed, listening as he slowly climbed out, carefully opened the door, and slipped out—life here really wasn't suitable for a kid like him, so we let him go. Less than ten minutes after he left, the alarm sounded outside, followed by the instructors' shouts. After about half an hour of commotion, everything gradually quieted down. We silently prayed for him in our hearts, though it was useless—even if he managed to escape, out there, in that environment, he was still doomed. Without the passwords, he couldn't operate either of the two spaceships. The next morning, when we woke up, we saw a hole dug under a section of the wire fence—he must have crawled out through there. It was impressive that he managed to dig such a hole in such a short time; it seemed that the will to survive had pushed him to display incredible potential.