"Do you really take it seriously? For you, it's a piece of cake. Shall we take a walk, stroll around the campus for a bit?" Adam Parker said with a smile, his handsome face full of eager friendliness. As for this textbook Prince Charming, Emily Brooks found herself unable to refuse, though she seemed a bit reluctant as she walked, saying, "Since when did you develop this hobby?"

"Today," Adam Parker replied with a grin.

"There's always a motive for everything. Did you get some new motivation today?" Emily Brooks laughed.

Their relationship was indeed just as Paul Carter had guessed—hovering between close and distant. Still, it was undeniable that, in the eyes of others, they made a perfect couple: a talented man and a beautiful woman. Adam Parker was drawn to this clever and perceptive beauty, and with a mysterious smile, he said, "There is a motive, but I'm not going to tell you. You can try to deduce it."

"What? Do you have some inside information about the selection?" Emily Brooks blurted out, clearly invested in the matter.

"No, you guessed wrong."

"Then... you want to give me a surprise?"

"Eh? Looks like you're getting close."

"You're not that hard to figure out. It's not just girls whose IQ drops when they're in love—guys get even dumber."

"So, does that mean we're in love?"

"Nope. It's you who likes me; I'm not ready to love you yet. The conditions for a relationship haven't been met."

Emily Brooks said with a smile. Beautiful women never mind teasing their admirers, especially when they're handsome. As they talked, they unconsciously stopped behind a holly bush. In the dim light, Adam Parker saw that she had succeeded. He looked up with a smile but said nothing.

Emily Brooks turned her head, sensing something odd, and saw three tall boys pinning another boy, who had just come out of the restroom, against the wall. The leader slapped him hard across the face. This was too much—three against one. Looking closer, the victim seemed vaguely familiar. Just as she was about to step forward, Adam Parker grabbed her arm. At this moment, Adam Parker's face wore a smug, slightly disdainful smile.

"I deduce that evil will be repaid with evil. Do you believe that?"

Holding Emily Brooks's arm, Adam Parker said this. Suddenly, Emily Brooks realized who was being beaten...

Chapter 08: The Last Straw

The one being beaten was Eric Foster. He had just come out of the restroom and was pulling up his pants, completely unprepared, when three guys pinned him against the wall. The tall, long-faced one in front slapped him hard across the face. Eric Foster's face stung, and he quickly covered it, shouting, "Bro, bro, don't hit my face! I make a living with this!"

The attacker laughed, grabbed Eric Foster's chin, and said to the other two with a grin, "This face? Not much better than a butt, and you make a living with it?"

He raised his hand again, and Eric Foster covered his face, wailing, but the slap didn't land. All three laughed. Another one, with a beard, curled his fingers and rapped Eric Foster on the head, cursing, "Don't play dumb, you know what this is about?"

"I know, I know," Eric Foster nodded, looking down at the one grabbing him, who was half a head taller. He turned sideways, afraid of being beaten up by all three.

He couldn't say he didn't know—if he did, he'd get punched and kicked right away.

"Know what?" another asked, giving Eric Foster a backhanded slap on the forehead.

Eric Foster quickly covered his head and said slyly, "Whatever you say, bro, that's what it is. Go easy on me, I'm not in great shape, can't take a beating."

The three of them lost some of their momentum because of this shameless act. They'd planned to give him a good lesson, but seeing him like this, they lost interest. The one holding Eric Foster didn't feel threatened and loosened his grip, but suddenly a sharp pain shot up from below. He let go, clutching his crotch and howling in pain, bending over.

In a flash, Eric Foster's right hand struck the guy on his left—a police-style punch, right in the eye, at perfect range, like hitting a punching bag. That guy screamed, clutching his face and stumbling back several steps. Then Eric Foster's left hand flipped around—"smack"—a crisp sound as his palm caught the incoming fist.

The guy hadn't expected this unimpressive-looking shorty to move so fast. His punch was blocked, and he couldn't change direction in time. When he tried to pull back, it was too late—his wrist was locked in a vise-like grip, the pain drilling into his bones. Eric Foster had twisted it. The pressure made him pause, and just as he cried out, his vision went black as a big foot kicked him in the face.

By the time they got up, Eric Foster had already jumped out of the encirclement, a dozen steps away. Those quick moves made the attackers realize they'd underestimated him.

"Damn it, I'm going to kill you!"

"Get up..."

The three, now truly angry, rubbed their eyes and crotches, chasing after him in a fury.

But they didn't expect to run into a tough nut today. As Eric Foster ran past the boys' dorm, he spread his arms and shouted, "Fight! Come watch the show!"

A few more steps, and he yelled again, "Mouse, Doubao, Beast, Traitor... grab your weapons!"

His shouts were hoarse and urgent, and the three were still chasing him. They thought he was bluffing and kept after him, but then the one with the injured crotch shouted something, and all three suddenly stopped in their tracks. They saw windows in a dorm building banging open, and people were already rushing out of the lobby, excitedly shouting, "Where? Who's fighting whom?"