Leveling Up Through Combat

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The streetlights cast a dim, yellow glow.

A cold night wind howled across the empty street.

Both men shivered simultaneously, pulling their collars tighter.

“The clues are getting clearer. I believe something happened to Mona on her way back to the South District after leaving this shop.”

Rust’s gaze followed the road outside the store. Compared to the city center, this side street, removed from the main thoroughfares, was eerily quiet. Besides this movie merchandise shop, only two or three other stores were open.

“The incident happened around here. If she’d continued downtown, the streets would have been full of pedestrians and patrol officers—something going wrong would have been almost impossible,” Rust analyzed.

Dean rubbed his hands together, the light revealing his uneasy, shifting expression.

“Do you think the shop owner could have done something to Mona?”

“Huh?” Rust turned back, glancing at Raymond’s House in surprise. “Weren’t you just getting along with him? Why are you suddenly suspicious again?”

“That guy seems like a good, warm-hearted person, but who can guarantee he’s the same inside and out?” Dean shook his head. “In a way, the more he knows about Mona, the easier it is to make a move.”

“If he hurt Mona, why didn’t he just deny it right away? Instead, he talked to you about his inner thoughts for so long—doesn’t that make him less suspicious?” Rust retorted firmly, “He’s not the problem! You shouldn’t see everyone as a villain or a suspect.”

Dean fell silent for a moment, then apologized, “Sorry, I’m just a bit on edge.”

Rust nodded, his tone softening, “Don’t you feel it yourself? You’ve been talking to yourself a lot these past two days, speaking to the air—you’re really worrying me. Listen, don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Whether we find Mona or not, you’ve already done enough for her. From start to finish, you’ve never owed her anything.”

“It was all just an accident!”

An accident?

Dean took a deep breath.

“Let’s check out every store on this street. Maybe someone else noticed Mona.”

...

This wasn’t China. By the time Mona left Raymond’s House, the flower shop and bakery on the street were long closed. As for the 24-hour convenience store, after half a month, the clerks couldn’t possibly remember an ordinary girl.

After questioning most of the shops, the two came to the center of the street where a “Barca Disco” stood. The red brick walls were covered with bold lettering—dance, drink, sex—colorful graffiti shouting for attention.

At the door stood two burly security guards in suits, each at least two hundred pounds. One had dark skin, the other pale, standing like twin guardians. They were checking the ID of a man in sunglasses and a leather jacket. Behind him, a line of flamboyantly dressed people awaited their turn.

...

Dean glanced up at a “white box” with a lens above the rolling shutter, catching a faint reflection.

“A surveillance camera… Mona had to pass the club to leave this street—maybe it captured something,” Dean thought quickly. “We need to find a way to see the footage in the surveillance room.”

...

“Excuse me, have you seen this girl?” As the black guard went inside, Dean rubbed his cheeks and walked over, trying to appear as mature as possible, but his five-foot-nine frame and beardless, youthful face made him look like a child before the six-foot-three guard.

“Sorry, haven’t seen her. Asian boy…” The black guard glanced at him, his shiny head shaking. “This isn’t your kind of place. Better go home and do your homework!”

He turned and laughed with his bald companion.

The queue broke into a round of laughter.

“Go home, kid. We can’t explain to your mommy if she comes looking for you.”

Dean’s face darkened as he discreetly handed over two dollars.

“Please… She means a lot to me…”

“You can’t go in.” The guard rubbed his gloved hands, unmoved. “Save your money for candy!”

Gritting his teeth, Dean pulled out a twenty.

That was already a fortune hard for anyone to refuse.

The light revealed a flicker of temptation on the guards’ faces, but after glancing up at the cameras, they both shook their heads.

“Sorry, we don’t want to lose our jobs. Even if you gave us ten times that, it’s not happening.”

...

“Dean, don’t be angry. They’re just doing their job. Besides, at our age, there’s no way we’re getting in,” Rust said worriedly, seeing Dean’s sullen, stormy expression—something rarely seen on his friend’s face, like a volcano about to erupt.

“I’m not angry! Wait, maybe there’s another way in.”

Dean led Rust around to a dim alley beside the club, searching for the so-called “emergency exit” that every entertainment venue was rumored to have.

But all he found was a tightly shut green metal door, impossible to budge.

Locked from the inside.

Dean sighed in frustration—the sense of hitting a wall everywhere was driving him mad.

“Forget it, it’s late. I’ll drive you home. Maybe we’ll find something new in the daylight…” Rust suggested sincerely.

Dean pressed against the iron door, unwilling to give up, his gaze drifting down the alley.

A homeless man, wrapped in a filthy, greasy sheet, lay snoring by the dumpster. Dean approached for a closer look.

His cheeks were red from the cold. Thick beard stubble covered his face; one eye was intact, the other hidden under a black eyepatch—an unforgettable sight.

With each snore, his ragged beard twitched, and his breath stank of cheap alcohol.

A thought struck Dean.

Had this guy been living near the club all along? Maybe he knew something.

“Hey, wake up, buddy! Have you seen this girl? Open your eyes and look—I swear, I won’t ask you for nothing!”

“Give it up, can’t you see he’s dead drunk? You’re wasting your time,” Rust advised. After trying for a long time with no response, Dean had to accept reality. But before leaving, on impulse, he left five dollars for the homeless man.

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...

“You’ve been off ever since we left Raymond’s House—restless, lost, distracted. Why are you in such a hurry?” Rust asked. “The club isn’t going anywhere. Once we figure out a way in, we can come back anytime.”

Because the sooner Mona is found, the more likely she is to be alive.

Dean shook his head.

But I don’t love her.

I shouldn’t be losing control like this for her.

It’s all because of the thing still lingering inside me!

“Dean, didn’t we agree?” Suddenly, he looked up at the starless, moonless sky, mumbling vaguely, “Don’t interfere with my actions, don’t affect my emotions, just let me finish your last wish in peace?”

“Tenth time. Here we go again!” Seeing his friend talking to himself, Rust sighed and insisted, “Get in the car! I’m taking you home.”

...

Boom—

Paquay, lounging in a backyard chair, took a swig of beer and watched the Ford F-150 disappear into the distance. He gave a loud whistle.

“Nice truck. Your friend’s family must be loaded, huh?”

Dean stayed silent.

“So, no luck in the sewers?” Paquay asked.

Dean shook his head in disappointment.

“Come on, let your uncle give you some advice from my wealth of life experience!”

Dean looked at his uncle’s rugged face.

What was the point of hiding anything from the only relative this body had left in the world?

He recounted everything that had happened that day.

“So you gave all your money to your girlfriend—two thousand dollars. That’s real generosity,” Paquay said, clutching his heart with an exaggerated expression. “Naïve, pure-hearted fool. That’s how your dad conned Lena into marrying him, back in the day.”

Dean’s face froze.

Paquay didn’t dwell on the money. He sat up, his expression turning serious, fingers habitually rubbing the dreamcatcher tattoo on the back of his neck.

“You and that Rust kid got this far just by deduction and some unreliable testimonies—not bad. You both have the instincts for private detective work. If you don’t want to go to college after high school, consider getting a PI license.”

“So, our investigation is on the right track?” Dean asked hopefully. “Should I call the police?”

“Not worth it. You’d be better off hiring a private eye than calling LVPD. Those bodyguards working for rich white folks aren’t going to put much effort into investigating a sewer-dwelling girl with no family or social ties. If they did, the Vegas desert and Lake Mead wouldn’t be full of nameless corpses.”

Paquay’s tone toward the LVPD was full of disdain, clearly shaped by unpleasant memories. He shook his head and continued, “You picked the right target—a quiet street off the city center is a crime hotspot. And clubs and bars like Barca Disco are the epicenter of all kinds of crime. Just think about the kind of people who hang out there.”

“Drunks, restless young people…” Dean said anxiously.

“And don’t forget the weed peddlers and local thugs.” Paquay’s cheeks flushed strangely. “Alcohol, blaring music, raging hormones, ‘herbs’—any of those can push someone over the edge.”

“So your girlfriend Mona was probably targeted while passing by the club,” Paquay said, his words blunt as a blade.

“That’s just a hypothesis!” Dean tensed, gripping the chair’s armrest, instinctively protesting.

“What else have you got but hypotheses?” Paquay lit a Marlboro, taking a deep drag. After a pause, he exhaled a cloud of smoke, his face lost in the haze.

“All you can do is work through every possible scenario, eliminate them one by one, and find the most reasonable explanation. That’s your answer.”

Paquay exhaled and stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette.

“The club’s surveillance is a potential clue, but don’t get your hopes up. In my experience as a bodyguard, most security systems don’t keep footage for more than a week, let alone half a month.”

Dean shot to his feet, turning to the clock in the hall—11 p.m.

The club would be at its busiest.

He rushed toward the door.

“Come back, kid! I’m leaving for the north tomorrow. This job is a tough one—I’ll be gone at least half a year, maybe until next year. Stay with me tonight. You need a break.” Paquay looked at his bloodshot-eyed nephew. “Tomorrow’s Saturday—Barca Disco is open during the day, too.”

“And Mona’s been missing for half a month. Honestly, from what I’ve seen, a day more or less won’t make a difference.”

“Shut up—what do you mean, it won’t make a difference?” Dean trembled, gritting his teeth.

“That’s just how harsh reality is. Don’t want to face it? Then convince me with your fists.”

Paquay beckoned him with a taunting finger.

...

Dean glanced at the system—fighting proficiency: 80/100.

He suddenly bent his knees to shoulder-width, lowered his head, arms extended forward, eyes cold and burning with suppressed rage. He needed an outlet.

He lunged for the big man’s reclining chair, aiming to push him off.

But the difference in strength was too great.

Unable to budge Paquay, he switched targets.

The moment his hands touched the chair, a warm, powerful hand pressed against his chest and abdomen, lifting him effortlessly off the ground.

A second hand gripped his lower back.

Both hands exerted force.

Dean’s world spun as he was flipped upside down, crashing to the ground, mouth full of dirt, bones aching as if falling apart.

Paquay stood two meters away, arms crossed like a grizzly surveying its territory.

“Rookie, don’t attack blindly before you know your opponent. All you’re doing is exposing your weaknesses! What did I teach you yesterday? Show me!”

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Dean climbed up silently, staying low, circling warily closer, hands probing for an opening.

...

Paquay shot forward, grabbing Dean’s arm like lightning, his massive body shifting back, pinning Dean’s waist with his back.

Push!

Thud!

Dean was thrown over Paquay’s shoulder, landing hard.

He hit the ground back-first, pain twitching across his face. But determination burned through the ache—he gritted his teeth and got up again.

...

Paquay charged low and fast, his massive frame plunging for Dean’s legs.

Dean retreated as fast as he could, crouching low, trying to pin Paquay’s back.

You try to escape Paquay’s takedown—proficiency +1!

Too slow, too weak. Paquay’s iron grip locked around his legs, lifting him off balance.

Paquay’s shoulder drove into his abdomen, and with a surge of brute force, Dean was slammed to the ground, his head ringing.

...

Again and again!

Paquay was like a ruthless wrestling machine, relentlessly throwing Dean down, leaving him bruised and battered.

Dean, like a training dummy, made no complaint, enduring every bit of pain.

No one knew how long it went on.

The steady trickle of proficiency points suddenly halted!

A flood of notifications flashed across the system.

Fighting lv0 (100/100). Upgrade?

Yes!

Fighting lv1 (0/200)

Level up.

Physique: 11 → 11.5

Strength: 10 → 10.5

Agility: 11 → 11.5

...

A surge of warmth exploded inside, flooding his entire body in an instant.

Dean, in his low stance, shivered all over.

Muscle fibers rippled under his skin, squirming like thousands of sandworms, stretching and itching with heat.

In a flash, the muscles beneath his clothes swelled, their definition growing sharper.

Sanda, wrestling, boxing—even tricks for knives and batons—

One after another, fighting skills Dean had barely touched before streamed into his mind.

Paquay seized the moment, leaping in for another leg tackle, intent on giving Dean a lesson he’d remember.

But suddenly, an arm shot out, almost supernaturally, seizing Paquay’s right wrist and pulling him back.

Paquay blinked—Dean’s stance was lower, faster—his left hand locked Paquay’s right wrist, while his right arm clamped down on Paquay’s left.

In a flash.

Paquay lost his target.

Dean spun left, pressing against Paquay’s back, hooked his left foot around Paquay’s ankle, borrowing his momentum—

Anger, fear, anxiety—all released at once!

Thud!

The giant crashed to the ground.

Paquay’s vision went black, his face buried in the grass—a spectacular fall.

...

Breathe… in… out…

After throwing Paquay, Dean immediately let go and backed away, knowing he couldn’t pin down this bear of a man.

“Kid, how did you get so fast all of a sudden?”

Paquay rubbed his wrist, incredulous.

“To throw me after just two days of training—maybe you’re a born wrestler?”

“I’ve been thrown by you one hundred twenty-eight times, and I’ve only thrown you once. That’s nowhere near enough!” Dean said through bruised lips, some of the frustration in his chest finally vented.

With his fighting skill leveled up, it was as if he’d undergone four or five months of intensive martial training in a single instant. The techniques were now ingrained in his muscles and bones, ready to be used reflexively.

His moves were faster, his footwork more precise, his dodges instinctive. He’d finally learned the basics of combinations—one-two, or one-two-three. He could at least spar with Paquay now.

But Paquay, without a word, pounced again, slamming him to the ground.

“Come on, keep ‘convincing’ me! Don’t act like a wimp!”