As soon as I entered, a huge black shadow shot through the air toward me. I was prepared—pushing off with my toes, my whole body slid five meters to the side, dodging the giant python’s strike. Having evaded its sneak attack, I took a closer look: this Vaughn python was over ten meters long, its body about thirty centimeters thick, with a yellow “王” character marking on its head, and its body covered in fine black and yellow scales. The giant python coiled itself into a ball, its head raised high, hissing as it flicked out a nearly one-meter-long blood-red tongue. Although it looked like a behemoth, I believed that if I got the chance, just one kick would be enough to break its neck. Now, I could already break a twenty-five-inch iron pillar with a kick. Although I was still not on par with Marcus and Instructor Thompson, in terms of leg strength alone, I was still outstanding among all my former dorm mates. The python loosened its coils and slowly slithered around the cage. I stood on one foot, the other moving in sync with the direction of its head. Suddenly, a gust of wind swept from behind—I knew it was the snake’s tail. If I turned around now, I could cripple this annoying tail with a single kick, but I couldn’t turn; if I did, the python would immediately pounce, and if it wrapped around me, even if I had nine lives like a cat, I’d lose them all. I pushed off with both legs, leaping into the air. A thick tail swept beneath my feet before I landed, and before I could touch down, the tail came at me again. With nowhere to dodge, I swung my leg midair—“crack!”—and struck the tail. Instantly, a section over a meter long flew off, and foul-smelling snake blood sprayed all over me. In agony from its wound, the python lost all restraint and lunged at me. I landed, grabbed the severed tail, and threw it at the snake. The python bit down on the tail—this was my chance! I darted forward and kicked it right below the head—“thud!”—the huge snake head flew high, and its body collapsed, sprawling across the ground. I let out a long breath—close call! If that piece of tail hadn’t been right next to me, it would have taken a lot more effort. Catching my breath, I walked to the door and pulled the stone door open with force. Outside, Shawn Benson saw me come out and smiled.

“Height…” An instructor recorded data in a notebook as I stood on the machine. The display showed 183 centimeters, weight 89 kilograms—the instructor jotted it down. After measuring height and weight, we went to the training ground. The instructor asked, “How much for the squat?” I thought for a moment and replied, “Let’s start with 600 kilograms!” Several assistant trainers clanged the weights onto the barbell, and two people lifted it onto my shoulders. I took a deep breath, muscles bulging, veins popping out. “Heh!” I grunted and slowly stood up. Success! The instructor asked, “Want to try more?” “Add ten more kilograms!” I said. With the extra ten kilos, the barbell felt much heavier than before. I knew I was nearing my limit, but for now, it was still manageable. I mustered my strength and stood up again. The instructor asked if I wanted to continue; I shook my head. Actually, I could have added another ten kilos, but every fighter needs to keep something in reserve. Next was the bench press. “How much?” the instructor asked, not even looking up from his notebook. “Three hundred,” I said. My upper body strength had never been great, but that was fine; in high-level boxing matches where striking power is decisive, technique is secondary. The 300-kilogram barbell pressed down on me. I gripped the iron bar, flexed my upper arms, held my breath, and shouted, “Up!” The barbell was lifted steadily. “Add more?” the instructor asked, recording my result. I shook my head, “No more…” “Alright…” He nodded, tucking the notebook and pen under his arm. “Let’s test your speed.” Still here, at this wooden post. Back then, right here, Instructor Thompson kicked 309 times in one minute—stunning all us rookie boxers. I still clearly remember his demonic, lightning-fast kicks that day.

Now it was my turn, though the wooden post had been replaced countless times. In front of me was a brand new one. This time, I would give it my all and see just how far I was from Instructor Thompson! The instructor took out a timer and asked, “Ready?” I nodded, and he nodded back. “Three, two, one, go!” My legs flew, a rapid-fire “crack-crack-crack” like a rainstorm pounding banana leaves, the wooden post denting piece by piece. I could barely see my own legs. Finally, the instructor shouted, “Stop!” I pulled back, panting—at this speed, anyone would be exhausted after a minute. “Four hundred and thirty-one!” The instructor carefully counted twice, then announced loudly. I was thrilled: this was the one thing I surpassed both Instructor Thompson and Marcus in! Instructor Thompson, standing nearby, walked over and said to me, “Not bad! I originally thought the ‘Killer Bee’ sent over the same trash as before, but you really surprised me. You’re the fastest kicker I’ve ever seen, but remember—speed alone is far from enough!” I nodded to show I understood.