Right on Target (TARGET)
Su Heting swiped through his phone, trying to check the live updates of the betting scene, but his phone was too old, and the page froze for ages.
The monk watched as the cat frantically tapped at the screen before frowning and tossing it into his pocket.
The monk: "..."
This kid’s temper is way too impatient.
Su Heting stepped into the bustling street and asked the monk, "You’re coming to the arena with me?"
"Uh, yeah," the monk replied, caught off guard, rubbing his bald head. "I gotta go with you. Otherwise, if you get taken out during the match, I won’t be able to explain myself."
"Whether I get taken out or not is one thing, but you’ll definitely get recognized," Su Heting glanced back at his shiny head. "Wear a wig, old man."
Although the Colosseum was modeled after the ancient Roman amphitheater, the seating design was anything but ordinary. To ensure an immersive experience, the audience seats were sunken, with electrodes covering the headrests.
These circular electrodes were non-invasive brain-machine interfaces with limited functionality—they could only provide sensory stimulation for the live audience and couldn’t connect to other networks.
When the match began, all the audience had to do was lie back and cheer. But for the fighters, the battle started the moment they connected to the brain-machine interface. Because the arena in their vision would flip upside down, forcing them to adapt to an inverted world.
The monk was quite curious about the matches: "Can you guys see the live-stream comments during the fight?"
"Depends on the timing," Su Heting said. "Usually, they release the comments when things get intense."
The comments didn’t scroll past the fighters’ eyes—instead, they were designed as a flood, surging from above to drown the virtual arena.
When Su Heting thought of the match comments, only one phrase came to mind: "Kill him."
It was the most frequent comment, the audience’s way of venting their emotions. They often incited and goaded the fighters to go for the kill, even though they all knew that death in the match meant real death.
"I’ve watched a few matches," the monk struggled to keep the conversation going. "Online, I mean… Some recordings seem more expensive?"
"Oh," Su Heting had already spotted the Colosseum. "Recordings of matches with fatalities are priced higher. Some people buy them specifically for collections."
The monk was momentarily speechless.
He didn’t actually watch many matches—life was tight, and the armed group’s wages barely covered basic needs. But he’d assumed the Black Market would at least ensure the fighters’ safety, even though they were just commodities on display in the Colosseum.
The monk found the matches inhumane, but he wouldn’t say a word. His survival creed taught him that in this new world, never complain—especially about anything related to Hybrids.
The monk was a survivor. As long as the new world’s rules didn’t oppress survivors, he would remain silent.
Su Heting swiped his tail at the entrance to verify his identity. Two seconds later, the passage opened. Without a glance at the monk, he walked straight in.
The Colosseum’s pre-match hype had worked—though the event was still half an hour away, the venue was already packed. Attendants weaved through the audience and politely reminded them to cover up with thin blankets as the temperature inside was a bit low today. They carried trays, offering drinks and mushroom snacks.
"You’re here so early today!" The manager spotted Su Heting and stood up to greet him. "You can rest in the VIP lounge first—the match won’t start for a while."
Su Heting cut straight to the point: "Has King Shen arrived yet?"
"In the waiting area," the manager shielded Su Heting from the staff ahead before gradually raising his voice over the background music, "King Shen arrived as early as five o'clock!"
"Shen—Wang!"
Someone in the crowd screamed, their voice cracking.
"King Shen!" A heavily made-up clown suddenly appeared. Suspended in the center, he snapped his fingers, drawing everyone's attention: "Ladies and gentlemen, that's right! Tonight's contender is none other than the highly anticipated King Shen!"
The crowd erupted in cheers instantly—King Shen was even more popular than Titan.
The clown took control of the scene, cupping a hand to his ear in a listening gesture. "We've all heard of his achievements, but I must reiterate them for you. Dear audience, King Shen's current monthly ranking is—number one!"
The projection on-site switched to the leaderboard, with King Shen reigning supreme. His name was magnified threefold, dominating nearly half the screen. The crowd's roars reached a fever pitch, as if worshipping him like a savior delivering salvation to all.
At the very bottom of the leaderboard, Su Heting spotted "Mao", its size no larger than his fist.
"Welcome, King Shen!" The clown swung his arm dramatically.
The projection transformed into virtual fireworks with a loud "bang", and the camera cut to King Shen in the waiting area.
Unexpectedly, King Shen was a competitor weighing over two hundred pounds.
"Don't underestimate him," the manager shouted over the noise, briefing Su Heting. "Once you connect to the brain computer interface, you'll see his true form. He's—"
"He's the most enigmatic contender," the host interjected mysteriously, leading the audience through a retrospective. "He frequently changes his implants, but 'Cold Serpent' remains his eternal emblem. He once tore open an opponent with his bare hands, treating blood as tribute to the strong. He has also crushed skulls beneath his feet, viewing death as the ultimate prize of the game..."
"Watch his legs," the manager urged Su Heting, seizing every second. "When you see his virtual avatar, don't be fooled by his serpent! Your speed is your advantage—finish him within five minutes. After that, he'll hit his stride, and then—"
"Friends, I believe no contender understands the art of slaughter better than King Shen—not even tonight's Kitty." The host's camera cut off the manager mid-sentence. He clasped his hands to his face in exaggerated awe. "And he's still so adorable!"
"Adorable" was far from a compliment here.
Under the spotlight, Su Heting kept his hood on, but the camera zoomed in on his tail.
"Mao's current monthly ranking is thirtieth—a fine number, symbolizing limitless potential. He's won four consecutive matches this month, each executed brilliantly. Even the would-be grand slam champion Titan fell to him. And tonight, he faces the true grand slam king. I can't wait!"
Su Heting tuned out the host's rambling and the manager's warnings. His gaze traveled past the waiting area, locking onto King Shen.
King Shen was sprawled on a recliner and panting as he fanned himself. He seemed to struggle with the heat, an ice pack pressed to his waist. Despite his constant efforts to cool down, sweat still poured from his forehead.
Watch his legs.
Su Heting remembered the warning. His eyes lowered to King Shen's legs, concealed beneath white cloth.
Jiali was pondering the bets at the stall when the Hermit rushed over in a frenzy while still clutching his robe without even setting his things down. He squeezed next to Jiali and asked, "Who's this boss?"
"How should I know?" Jiali made room for him. "Isn't the name written right there? Look it up."
"The problem is, I did," the Hermit pulled up the page. "There's zero information."
The ID that had bet a million on Mao was called "Asura".
Jiali was also puzzled: "Never heard of them... must be a fake name."
The name didn't sound like a big shot.
The Hermit said, "Maybe they don’t want to offend Wei Zhixin? Made up a fake name on purpose."
"But they already bet on kitten," Jiali brushed her fingers against her temple. "And—"
Before Jiali could finish, the bet from "King Shen" moved. The name "Wei Zhixin" surged upward, the wager skyrocketing to three million. Yet the moment he moved, "Asura" followed suit—as if taunting, Asura's bet was just one more than Wei Zhixin's.
Jiali struggled to finish her sentence: "...and they're scared of Wei Zhixin my ass?"
The Hermit: "..."
How much does this guy hate Wei Zhixin???
Su Heting was completely unaware of the off-field competition. He couldn’t see what was so special about King Shen’s legs, but he guessed King Shen had come prepared today.
King Shen wasn’t nervous—he didn’t even spare Su Heting a glance. He was so overweight that standing up was a struggle, requiring the manager to push him onto the field. Throughout the process, he panted heavily, as if even sitting drained his energy.
The manager pushed aside the folds of fat on King Shen’s neck for the referee to inspect. The referee bent down, examining carefully before giving the camera a thumbs-up to confirm King Shen’s brain-machine interface was intact.
"Both contestants, take your positions," the clown pressed his hands down as if hosting a race, then suddenly raised them. "Countdown begins—ten, nine..."
The holograms readied and the audience held their breath.
Su Heting switched the tip of his tail before plugging into the live interface. That familiar surge of stimulation shot through his body in an instant, making his cat ears twitch and his eyes widened slightly.
"One!"
The virtual arena exploded into view.
The Nine-Headed Bird shrieked as it burst forth, trailing a psychedelic blur as it soared past the spectators.
The scene slowly inverted—rainwater on the ground surged like molten lava, creeping over the contestants' ankles.
By the time the Nine-Headed Bird perched on the arena’s edge, the entire setting had flipped upside down. Its nine heads craned downward, twisting 360 degrees to monitor the match in real-time.
"King Shen..."
Countless voices chanted.
The ground beneath Su Heting trembled, followed by the sound of splitting earth—a grating, teeth-jarring crack from the far end.
King Shen took slow, deliberate steps. Emerging from the darkness, he halted with a heavy "thud" beneath the inverted Nine-Headed Bird. His towering, over-ten-meter-tall frame nearly blocked Su Heting’s view—and the live broadcast’s camera.
King Shen let out a massive yawn. He clapped his hands, his entire body quaking with the motion. But that wasn’t all—as he clapped, his belly that was sagging to his calves, bulged outward. Two white-armored snakes slithered out, coiling around his flesh before rising to flank his left and right hands.
"Cat..." His voice boomed deep and resonant, like a giant drum being struck. Yet he spoke slowly, as if conserving energy: "Come... on..."
The two snakes, each as thick as a man’s waist, flicked their forked tongues.
"If you don't... get on," King Shen stomped his foot, cracking a section of the ground and splashing water everywhere, his temper flaring, "you'll miss your... chance!"
But Su Heting didn't move.
His gaze was fixed on King Shen's calves—one tattooed with "Titan Clan" and the other with "Safe Passage".
—Bizarre.
Those were Titan legs.
A pair of unmodified flesh-and-blood legs.
Author's Note:
① Nine-Headed Bird: A creature with nine heads and crimson eyes. At the start of the match, it flies out from the sleeves of a mysterious old monk. Currently known only as a monitoring device for the Colosseum matches.—"Strange Tales of Precise Sniper"
①-1 Inspiration for the setting: "Youyang Miscellany" records, "Legend says this bird once had ten heads and capable of capturing human souls, until one was bitten off by a dog."
② King Shen: Currently, only partial information about this character is unlocked in this chapter.—"Strange Tales of Precise Sniper"
②-1 Inspiration for the setting: "Youyang Miscellany" mentions, "Prince Shen suffered from obesity, his belly hanging down to his lower abdomen. Every time he went out, he would bind his stomach with white silk. During hot summer days, he would struggle to breathe. Emperor Xuanzong gifted him two cold snakes. Prince Shen would place these cold snakes in his flesh folds during summer, relieving him from the oppressive heat."
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
Advanced chapters are now available up to chapter 110 on my Ko-fi page!
If you appreciate what I do, please consider supporting me on kofi. Thank you!
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•