The man who had been kicked fell hard to the ground, his body hitting the dirt with a dull sound that broke the tension in the air.
Before anyone could react, another figure moved forward.
Han Fuji.
He did not speak.
He did not hesitate.
He walked straight into the circle as if the men in front of him did not exist, his eyes fixed on the one who had torn Bai Ming's clothes.
The man barely had time to lift his head—
Before Han Fuji's fist came down.
Hard.
A sharp sound followed.
The man's head snapped to the side as blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
No pause.
No warning.
Han Fuji grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up slightly—
Then punched him again.
And again.
Each hit was heavy.
Controlled.
But filled with anger.
The man struggled, his hands flailing weakly, but he could not break free.
"Stop—!" one of the others shouted.
But none of them moved forward.
They hesitated.
Because the look in Han Fuji's eyes—
Was not normal.
It was cold.
