Chapter Fifty-Nine: Release!

Beads of sweat traced down his sun-kissed skin, running along his cheeks and gathering at his chin, only to fall to the ground in rhythm with his squats. With every movement, his muscles flexed, each inch of his body radiating raw power and explosive energy.

Two hundred eleven, two hundred twelve, two hundred thirteen... He kept going, sweat pouring like rain onto the floor, yet he showed no intention of stopping. He moved like a machine, tireless and relentless.

Those working out nearby were transfixed, unable to believe what they saw. If not for the heavy breaths escaping his lips, it might have seemed a hallucination. Lifting a hundred-pound barbell, he'd completed over two hundred squats without pause—and continued. Those watching felt their own bodies weaken. Was he here to train, or to push himself to the brink?

Time seemed forgotten as everyone silently counted along: two hundred forty-three, two hundred forty-four...

With a deep exhale, Wang Zheng lifted the barbell high, brought it around his head, and placed it on the floor. He shook sweat from his hair, then wiped it away with a towel. Only now did he realize his vest was soaked through.

Three hundred—he'd done three hundred squats, and looked as if it cost him nothing. No sign of fatigue. What was he planning next? Puzzled, everyone focused on Wang Zheng; in the vast gym, he alone moved, while others stood dumbstruck.

Wang Zheng hung the towel around his neck, strode through the gym towards the boxing studio at the front—his true purpose here, to vent what weighed on his heart with his fists.

Only then did the women working out notice their flushed faces, their hearts pounding wildly as if dozens of little rabbits were darting about inside their chests.

The ability to make a woman's heart race—that, above all, determines whether a man is truly irresistible.

He was, without question, a man who made a woman's heart skip a beat.

With a loud slap, Wang Zheng pushed open the door to the boxing studio. The nearly two-hundred-square-meter room held more than thirty people. Four men stood in a corner of the boxing ring, two coaches and two trainees, studying techniques. The rest were women in white uniforms; two at the front demonstrated self-defense moves against predators to the others.

Wang Zheng paused, noticing all the women barefoot, with shoes neatly lined up along the edge of the floor. He walked along the aisle to the ring, grabbed the railing, and stepped inside.

Seeing this, the women outside rushed into the studio, eager to watch, their eyes fixed on the ring.

“Sir, are you here to learn boxing?” A man in gloves approached Wang Zheng, asking politely, though the stranger seemed somewhat formidable.

“I’m here to box,” Wang Zheng replied calmly. “Is anyone willing to be my opponent?”

The coach was puzzled—was this man here to learn, or to challenge the place?

“I simply want someone to spar with, nothing more,” Wang Zheng clarified, sensing the coach’s concern.

The two coaches exchanged a few words, then the younger, stronger one with blue gloves stepped forward. “Very well, I’ll spar with you. Please put on your gloves, sir.” Sparring was part of their job.

He signaled the two trainees to step down, then said, “Real fighting is the best teaching method. When I spar with this gentleman, pay attention to my footwork and punches, especially the jumping and dodging I taught you earlier.”

The trainees nodded; given their protruding bellies, it seemed their real aim was weight loss more than boxing.

Wang Zheng took the red gloves in hand. He preferred bare fists, and found them unfamiliar, but wore them to remind himself this was boxing, not a fight to the death.

The two fists collided twice.

It was time to vent.

The studio filled with people, all eyes on the ring. The tension rivaled a real boxing match: the coach versus the man who had done three hundred squats with a hundred-pound barbell—a clash of titans.

“Begin, according to official boxing rules!” The other coach, acting as referee, shouted, and the bout commenced.

The trainees watched closely, focusing on the coach’s footwork and arm movement. Wang Zheng stood with legs bent, unmoving, neither dodging nor showing the coach’s nimble steps.

The coach advanced on Wang Zheng, probing with several left jabs. “Here I come!” he announced, a professional’s courteous warning to his amateur opponent.

He feinted twice, then threw a right hook at Wang Zheng’s head.

A heavy thud resounded—a body flew sideways, landing sprawled on the ring.

Everyone in the studio stared, wide-eyed. The two men, matched in height and weight, had seemed destined for a fierce battle. But now... Some had blinked, and in that instant, one lay on the mat, unable to rise.

Wang Zheng looked at his own fist in confusion. He fell just like that? I haven’t even started! After a moment of bewilderment, Wang Zheng frowned deeply; he had expected a cathartic release, but with one punch, his frustration only grew.

“Xiao Li, are you alright?” The referee coach rushed to the fallen man, shouting. Seeing no response, he placed a hand before his nose—thankfully, he was only unconscious. The coach quickly laid a wet towel on Xiao Li’s forehead to help him recover.

He turned to Wang Zheng, perplexed. Xiao Li had been on the city boxing team; how could he be felled by a single punch? Even professional boxers couldn’t do that. Who was this man? Was he here to cause trouble?

Wang Zheng removed the red gloves and tossed them aside. He had feared the gloves would dampen his strength, so he’d used extra force. If not for the gloves, Wang Zheng's control would have let his opponent stand a while longer.

Wang Zheng jumped off the ring and went to the hanging punching bag. Surely this wouldn’t fall with one hit? He could safely unleash his full power.

Closing his eyes, Wang Zheng channeled all his frustration into his fists. With a loud shout, he swung both fists alternately at the bag.

Bang, bang, bang, bang—twenty kilos of sand swung wildly, like a leaf in a storm. Some even prayed for the poor bag. As the bag shook more violently, Wang Zheng’s punches grew fiercer; no one could count the blows, only the bag’s frantic motion proved Wang Zheng's fists truly struck it.

For five minutes, Wang Zheng vented, pounding the bag with all his might. He knew not how many punches he threw—only that each was delivered with his full strength.

Sweat poured from his brow, spraying as he swung.

I need to vent!

With a sharp sound, the punching bag ceased swinging—Wang Zheng’s fist had pierced it at the seam, where threads and tattered fabric protruded, evidence that the bag had been punched through.