Fifty kilometers off the coast of Mississippi, in the United States, lay a small, isolated island. Its area wasn't large—just two square kilometers—but everyone who knew it called it paradise.
It didn't have the fame of Las Vegas, yet it was a sacred place for gamblers worldwide. Here, they didn't bet on cards, but on something far more thrilling—fists. The world's most elite underground boxing matches were held here.
Violence and blood were the twin siblings of human desire.
An intense and brutal underground fight had reached its climax. The final, decisive battle was about to begin, and the three-hundred-seat arena was packed to the brim, the crowd roaring like a storm.
Tonight, for the world's wealthy gamblers, sleep would not exist.
Because the true king of underground boxing was about to be crowned.
"Three fractured ribs, a broken right leg, extensive muscle damage, and knife marks on the back, poisoned with strong anesthetics… Tate, do you still want to continue?"
The doctor's words carried a near-certain death sentence, extinguishing Tate's last hope of victory.
Tate was the strongest contender against the reigning underground boxing champion. Even before the match began, he had received threats and bribes to throw the fight. Refusing meant being slashed by a mysterious knife-wielder three times in the first three minutes of the match. Though Tate had torn the assailant apart with his bare hands, the poison had no time to clear from his body.
After two rounds, his body was already battered. Clenching his veins-popping fists, Tate roared, "Give me a cardiac injection! I'll rip that bastard beast to shreds!"
"No, Tate. The injection will boost your strength for only five minutes, but you'll spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair. It's not worth it. Your legs can't even move. Even with the strength, it won't help in the fight," the aged doctor protested immediately.
Tate's face twisted in fury, blood gushing from his mouth. With a thud, he collapsed from the stone bed, "Even if I die, I want to die on the stage!"
But he could no longer stand.
Blood soaked the floor beneath him. It was the struggle of a man facing inevitable defeat. Both doctor and assistant watched him with pity. In this merciless underground boxing world, it was kill or be killed. They could do nothing to change that.
"I can help you!"
Without anyone noticing, a man had appeared leaning casually against the door. His expression was cold, his attire simple, inconspicuous.
Tate looked up, a flicker of hope immediately replaced by doubt. "It's you… Why would you help me?"
He remembered only a brief encounter, a casual toast he had offered the man—not to curry favor, just respect. There was something heroic about this Eastern man, a sense of honor recognizing honor.
"I'm a doctor." His steps were light, his words simple.
As the Eastern man approached, the old doctor grew excited, carefully adjusting his spectacles, and exclaimed, "The Eastern Divine Hand… you are the Eastern Divine Hand!"
On this paradise island, the Eastern Divine Hand was a living legend. Both doctor and assistant relaxed, hope rekindled in their eyes.
The old doctor, ignoring his age, showed no concealment in his admiration for the young Eastern man.
"Are you really the Eastern Divine Hand?" the assistant asked in astonishment."Can you really make me stand?" Tate asked as well.
The Eastern man bent down and lifted the 180-kilogram Tate with one hand. His expression remained icy and unyielding, unaffected by their excitement.
"You can call me Guan Xing. You have ten minutes."
Almost throwing Tate back onto the bed, Guan Xing issued a sharp reminder: no time for idle questions.
Yes, ten minutes. Ten minutes to rise and face fate once more. Could he do it?
Three gleaming surgical knives and thirty-six acupuncture needles were all Guan Xing brought. Without the old doctor's reverence, he would likely have been thrown out. Yet the doctor still asked, "Master Divine Hand, are these tools enough? I also have—"
Suddenly, with a shriek, a strange figure fell from the ceiling, a knife piercing its neck. Blood spattered across the floor. Even Tate flinched.
Guan Xing's hand held a pistol.
"I'm a doctor. Besides saving lives, I can also take them."
After five years on this island, the brutality of the underground matches had hardened Guan Xing. Fighters who failed were merely tools for him to practice medicine on. Alive was luck; dead was misfortune. Everyone on the island knew that if even the legendary Divine Hand couldn't save someone, there was no hope left.
"Guns… in paradise?" the assistant gasped. Security checks were strict; no firearms should have entered the island.
Half of Guan Xing's thirty-six needles had been used. Time was short. To treat someone half-dead and restore them to the stage, he had to use extreme measures.
With precise control, Guan Xing guided the three remaining needles along the poisoned wounds. He drew out toxins, cleaned decayed tissue, and applied focused palm pressure to stop the bleeding.
The anesthetic's effects were neutralized, and Tate was fully conscious—clearer than ever before.
The assistant and old doctor watched in awe, unable to tear their eyes away.
Fractured ribs were fully restored. The knee, thought broken, was only swollen tissue. Guan Xing identified it instantly.
Cold and calm, he wielded the surgical knives with terrifying precision, as if he were a killer rather than a healer.
A small incision near the knee released dark red blood. Guan Xing manipulated it, a sharp click resonating as the dislocated joint returned to its proper alignment.
Though blood coated his body, Tate felt an overwhelming surge of power. Even this iron-bodied man shed tears of gratitude.
After removing the final needle, Tate stood, fists pumping strongly.
"Xing… thank you—"
No words could express the depth of his gratitude.