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墨書 Inktalez
The next morning, the sky over Shadow City was faintly tinged with the light of dawn. The streets were sparsely populated, and a sense of tranquility permeated the crisp air. As usual, Mark arrived at the Boxing Gym located in Wasteland City. He wore a loose gray hoodie, the hood pulled low over his face, revealing only a pair of cold eyes peeking out from beneath the brim.
Inside the Boxing Gym, the lighting was dim, and the boxing ring appeared somewhat empty in the early morning hours. A few Fighters were scattered about, each engaged in their own warm-up routines. Mark stepped into the gym with steady strides, heading straight for the Sandbag positioned in the corner. He said nothing; hardly anyone noticed his arrival, yet his presence seemed to cast a heavier atmosphere over the venue.
He planted his feet firmly, took a deep breath, and clenched his fists. Then, like an arrow released from a bow, his fists struck the Sandbag with rapid precision. Each punch carried power, echoing throughout the Boxing Gym with a resounding "Thud! Thud! Thud!" The sound of his fists hitting the Sandbag was sharp and rhythmic, causing it to sway back and forth from the impact.
Mark's movements were precise and forceful; every strike was clean and decisive. He had been coming here every morning for boxing training for six years now. From the moment he stepped out of the Underground Arena, he had promised himself never to abandon this discipline. It was not just about maintaining his sharp fangs but also about ensuring he never forgot every brutal detail experienced in that underground Boxing Gym—the sweat, blood, screams, and hatred—all etched into his memory.
With each punch, Mark's biceps and triceps revealed their muscular definition, powerful muscles exuding incredible explosive strength. His lats expanded slightly with each movement, giving him an imposing and fierce appearance. Every strike was not only a workout for his body but also a reminder to his spirit—a reminder that he could never forget the darkness and pain from which he had emerged.
The people in the Boxing Gym had long ceased to be surprised by this mysterious man's presence. This man with deep brown skin and a strong physique had shown up punctually every morning for six years. He remained silent, never engaging in conversation with others, solely focused on unleashing his strength against the Sandbag. Some new Fighters were curious about him, but the veterans merely shook their heads and chuckled, warning them that he was an "unfathomable monster" best left undisturbed.
As Mark's fists continued to fall in the early morning Boxing Gym, the air felt increasingly heavy with each impact. Each punch resonated like an echo of past memories, transforming six years of relentless effort and anger into those crisp sounds. There was no flicker of emotion in Mark's eyes—only calmness and focus. His breathing was deep; veins snaked around his muscles like serpents. He knew that this daily training was his only path to remaining sharp and powerful.
The air in the Boxing Gym was thick with the scent of sweat and leather as sounds of striking filled the space. Just as Mark’s fist landed heavily on the Sandbag with a low "Thud!", he suddenly found himself drawn to a news report emanating from a television in the corner.
The voice from the television was slightly muffled as it displayed live coverage from Shadow City’s local news station. The headline at the bottom of the screen read in bold red letters: "Major Explosion at Mistwood Port; Heavy Casualties."
"Late last night, a severe explosion occurred at Warehouse X17 in Jicheng Port. According to eyewitness accounts, multiple violent explosions erupted within the warehouse, causing even large Containers to fall from above and wreak havoc…" The female reporter's voice was clear yet tense as she painted a vivid picture of this tragedy.
Mark paused his punches; sweat trickled down his temples as he straightened up, slightly shifting his gaze to listen intently to the report.
"According to preliminary police estimates, more than eighty people have been killed or injured at the scene; nearly all of the warehouse has been completely destroyed. Investigations reveal that this warehouse appears to have been an arms depot for a local gang, housing large quantities of weapons and explosives…" The screen switched to aerial footage showing wreckage billowing smoke; charred debris and bloodstains littered the ground as if it were a hellish landscape.
The scene shifted as a reporter rushed toward a local police officer, microphone in hand. Several officers were erecting a barricade, trying to prevent the crowd of onlookers from getting too close.
"Officer! Is this incident related to gang activity? Has Jicheng Port been taken over by local gangs?" The reporter's questions came one after another, his tone aggressive and relentless.
The officer's expression was strained as he replied quietly, "The case is still under investigation, and we cannot disclose any further information at this time. Please remain calm and do not interfere with our work."
Unyielding, the reporter pressed on, "But eyewitnesses claim they saw someone deliberately set fire to the scene! Is that true? Are the warehouse transactions at Jicheng Port involved in illegal activities?" The police remained silent, politely offering nothing more than vague responses of "no comment."
Mark stood quietly in front of the Sandbag, his gaze fixed on the television screen. Inside, he felt a sense of calm, as if the tragedy reported in the news had no connection to him. Yet his ears were tuned to every crucial detail. A slight smirk played at the corners of his mouth, hinting at an unspoken meaning.
Mark's fist struck the Sandbag again, producing a sharp "thud!" that echoed through the Boxing Gym, mingling with the low conversations of other Fighters. However, a few Fighters nearby began to shout loudly, their voices drowning out the sound of Mark's strikes and momentarily diverting his attention.
"Did you see that? The explosion on the news! The government is useless; they can't even control something like this!" A burly Fighter said disdainfully while wiping his gloves. "This issue with illegal firearms has needed cleaning up for ages! And look at Shadow City now—who doesn't have a gun on them?" He scoffed, his tone dripping with sarcasm and anger.
"Exactly! The government is just as unreliable as the police," chimed in another tall, lean Fighter, impatience evident in his voice. "Over the years, gangs in Shadow City have become increasingly brazen. Illegal firearms and drugs are everywhere! Honestly, I wonder if those so-called Law Enforcement Officers are in cahoots with the gangs."
Their whispers grew louder, adding an unsettling noise to the previously tense atmosphere in the Boxing Gym.
At that moment, a young man practicing footwork in the Ring suddenly stopped. Dressed simply in black boxing shorts, his face flushed from training and brow furrowed deeply, he shot a cold glare at the raucous Fighters. His voice was low but carried an undeniable firmness: "How do you know that the government or police aren't doing their best?"
His words momentarily silenced the Fighters, but one quickly retorted, "Doing their best? Ha! Their best has turned Shadow City into this mess? What a joke!"
Unfazed, the young man jumped down from the Ring and stood before them, anger and disdain evident in his eyes. "You might not even realize how much they've sacrificed for this city. Some of them risk their lives every day to infiltrate gang dens just to prevent greater disasters. What you see is merely surface chaos; you have no idea about the truth behind it all."
His tone grew increasingly severe, and the others in the Boxing Gym gradually stopped their movements, turning their attention to the sudden argument. In the ensuing silence, several of the accused Fighters displayed expressions of discontent, yet they refrained from immediately retorting. They seemed taken aback by the young man's words, or perhaps they simply did not wish to continue the dispute.
Mark stood quietly beside the Sandbag, observing everything unfold. His gaze swept over the young man, and an inexplicable emotion flickered in his heart. Although he was not particularly interested in the argument, the young man's unyielding tone and fierce gaze reminded him of certain memories from his past.
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