Chapter 8: The Invincible Iron Shirt
As Wu Yifan left Ye Xiwen's office, he spotted the hostess from the private room lingering in the hallway, her hands clasped tightly. She was small, almost fragile, with delicate features softened by a light layer of makeup—too understated for a place like Infinity, where most girls leaned into bold lipstick and short skirts. They called her Xiaoya, barely 18, here only a month. From the first time he'd seen her, Wu had thought: *She doesn't belong here.*
"Thank you," she mumbled as he passed.
Wu paused, studying her. "You're not cut out for this, y'know," he said gently. "The other girls—they play up the charm, show a little leg. You're… too quiet. Customers don't tip for quiet here."
Xiaoya's chin dipped. "I don't have a diploma. This pays 2,000 a month. It's enough." Her voice was small, but steady. "I don't need to… perform. Just pour drinks. That's okay, right?"
Wu sighed. He'd seen too many girls start that way—"just pouring drinks"—only to get tangled in the mess of late nights and greedy men. But who was he to judge? He nodded, pushing open the door to his security booth. "Stay safe."
That night, after his shift, Wu headed home through Beitian's old quarter—cramped alleys, peeling wallpaper, the kind of neighborhood where streetlights flickered like dying stars. He'd grabbed a bowl of noodles on the way, his mind wandering to Xiaoya, to Ye's warning about the man in the suit, to the 5 enhancement points burning in his watch.
Then he hit the alley.
No streetlight here. Just moonbeams slicing through the cracks between buildings, casting long shadows. Halfway down, two figures stepped out, blocking his path. Cigarettes glowed in the dark; in their hands, something silver glinted—steel pipes, cut down to two-foot lengths. Wu tensed, glancing back.
Eight more men had fanned out behind him. And more were pouring in from side alleys—20 in total, by his count.
*Fast work*, he thought. The suit guy hadn't wasted time.
Wu's first instinct: run. But 20 goons? Even with agility ×3, he'd get cornered. No—survival first. Always survival.
The Enhancer's voice hummed in his head, as clear as a bell: *"5 enhancement points available. Enhance muscle strength?"*
"Yes," Wu thought, no hesitation.
*"Enhance muscle strength ×5, duration 1 hour. Confirm?"*
"Confirm."
*"Enhancement successful. Muscle strength ×5, duration 1/1. 4 points consumed. 1 point remaining."*
An hour would be plenty. But… he felt nothing. No surge, no heat, just the same old ache in his knees from standing all day. Panic flickered—had it failed? He fumbled with his belt, scraping the metal buckle against his forearm.
*Screech.*
No pain. Just a high-pitched whine, like two pieces of steel grinding together. A grin spread across his face. This wasn't just "strong"—this was *invincible*.
The goons closed in, their sneakers scuffling on the gravel. Then the suit guy pushed through, his head wrapped in bandages, a cigar clamped between his teeth. Blood still seeped through the gauze, staining it brown.
"Tough guy, huh?" he sneered, blowing a smoke ring. "You think a KTV security guard can take on my boys? I own this block, pretty boy. You broke my nose. Now I break *you*."
He flicked the cigar, aiming for Wu's eye—payback for the cigarette burn earlier.
Wu dodged, then backhanded him.
*Crack.*
The sound echoed. The suit guy crumpled, spitting out two teeth, blood bubbling from his lips. His eyes went wide, like he couldn't believe he'd been hit—let alone by a *slap*.
"Fuck him up!" one of the goons yelled.
They charged. Pipes swinging, machetes glinting in the moonlight. Wu didn't move. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, and pulled out a cigarette.
*Click.* He lit it, the flame flaring briefly, illuminating his calm face.
The first pipe connects with his ribs. *Thud.* Wu inhales, smoke curling from his nostrils.
A machete slams into his shoulder. *Clang.* It bounces off, leaving not a scratch. The goon gapes, like he's never seen metal bend before.
Another pipe smashes into his back. Wu stumbles—from surprise, not pain. He turns, exhaling a cloud of smoke, and smiles.
This was the part he'd later call "performance art." Not just winning—*dominating*. Making sure they'd never forget the night they messed with a man who didn't bleed.
A goon swings a pipe at his head. Wu tilts his chin, and it hits his temple with a sound like a hammer on an anvil. The goon yelps, clutching his vibrating hand—his pipe's bent.
"Is that all?" Wu murmurs, taking another drag.
Two more rush him, machetes slashing at his legs. He steps forward, letting the blades bite into his jeans. They slice through the fabric… and stop. The metal edges curl, as if they've hit a steel plate.
"Wh-what the fuck?" one goon stutters.
Wu grabs his wrist, squeezing. The goon screams—the sound of bone grinding. He drops the machete, cradling his hand.
The suit guy, still on the ground, crawls backward, his eyes wild. "Monster… you're a *monster*."
Wu kicks a pipe toward him. It skids to a stop at his feet. "C'mon. Your turn."
The man whimpers, shaking his head.
Wu sighs, stubbing out his cigarette on a goon's shoe (the guy freezes, too scared to flinch). "Tell your boss—whoever sent you. I don't want trouble. But I don't run from it, either."
He steps over the cowering goons, their weapons scattered, their courage shattered. One tries to grab his ankle—Wu doesn't even look down, just keeps walking. The guy yelps, falling back—his fingers are bruised, like he'd grabbed a brick wall.
By the time he reaches the end of the alley, the suit guy is still sobbing, and the others are helping each other up, casting terrified glances at his back.
Wu checks his watch. *Muscle strength ×5, duration 58 minutes remaining. 1 point left.*
Good.
He walks home, whistling off-key, his ribs still humming from the blows. No cuts, no bruises. Just a faint ache, like he'd leaned against a wall too long.
In his apartment, he strips off his jeans—ripped, but his skin underneath is flawless. He grins, flexing his arm.
*Iron shirt*, indeed.
But as he lies in bed, the grin fades. 1 point left. Not enough for another big enhancement. What if the suit guy's "boss" sent *real* muscle? What if the Enhancer's next task required more than brute strength?
He'd need to earn more points. Fast.
Outside, a cat yowls. Wu closes his eyes, the memory of the goons' faces—fear, confusion, awe—burning in his mind.
Maybe being a "monster" wasn't so bad.
For now, at least, it kept him alive.
And alive, he could earn more points.
Alive, he could keep playing the game.
Tomorrow, he'd report to work like nothing happened. But tonight? He let himself feel it—the thrill of invincibility, the quiet satisfaction of knowing he'd just turned 20 attackers into a cautionary tale.
The city slept. But Wu Yifan? He was wide awake.
And ready for whatever came next.