When was it that I completely pledged my loyalty to Tama Riyadi? Chacha wondered.
Was it many years ago, in the abandoned factory holding underground boxing matches, when he, a spectator, threw a wad of cash at me—bloodied but still standing?
Was it when he offered a faint smile and invited me to join the gang?
Was it when he paid for my critically ill father's treatment?
Chacha hadn't been educated, but he wasn't as stupid as he appeared.
I know very well that a large part of Tama Riyadi's favor stems from the value I myself have demonstrated.
That's perfectly normal. People without abilities don't even qualify to be exploited.
For a lowly underground boxer like me, once trapped in the mire without a penny to my name, even the smallest kindness from someone in a moment of despair was worth repaying as if with a gushing spring.
Even if the price was abandoning my former sense of right and wrong, committing many sins I once wouldn't have dared to even imagine...
