Outside the window, on the exterior of the Syndicate Building, Jill Young was hammering away at the alloy panel with punch after punch. The Syndicate Building looked like a cluster of crystals, so Jill easily found a foothold. Using one hand and both feet to steady herself, she clenched her right fist and smashed it down at the joint between two panels. With a loud crash, the four-centimeter-thick alloy plate continued to bend under her blows.
Jill had tossed aside her jacket and shoes, now wearing only a tank top, her body still damp, looking especially slender and delicate. But up here, dizzyingly high and with winds strong enough to blow someone away, Jill pounded the alloy plate like a blacksmith at work. The specially reinforced security door was way too thick for her to deal with, but this panel was only four centimeters thick—her best shot at breaking through.
"Hah!" With a shout, she slammed her fist down, and the joint in the alloy plate finally creaked open with a crack. Titan Spirit Method: Fifth Level—Leave Claw Marks. Normally, this means you can punch a two-centimeter iron plate and leave a dent without hurting yourself. But Jill's results were way better than what the Titan Spirit Method manual promised. Just now, busting out of that underground biolab from the inside was no big deal; now, breaking in from the outside took a bit more time, but still wasn't that hard.
A couple more punches made the gap even wider. Jill reached in, grabbed the edge of the alloy plate, and yanked hard. "Argh—!" She put all her strength into it, and the alloy plate groaned and warped, the welds popping one by one.
This alloy plate, no thinner than a dictionary, was way tougher than a steel plate of the same thickness. It had been forged and sintered from multiple layers, with a special stress structure inside. Ordinary bullets wouldn't even scratch it, and even aircraft cannons would have a hard time wearing it down. The Syndicate went all out, spending big bucks and tons of effort to armor the whole building like this.
But now, Jill was tearing this alloy plate apart with her bare hands, peeling it back bit by bit. Grabbing the lifted corner with both hands, she turned sideways, braced herself against the wall, and pulled with all her might. Like a soda can being slowly peeled open, the alloy plate curled and twisted. If this happened on Earth, the whole world would freak out. Even in Steelbull City, this was jaw-dropping. With a clang, the entire alloy plate finally ripped off and was tossed into the raging wind.
Blinding light shot into the office, and in the next instant—crash!—Jill had smashed through the glass and burst inside.
Inside the office, Jill and the Syndicate faced off from across the room. No underlings, no distractions—just the two bosses. The office was spacious, but for these two, the distance wasn’t far at all.
"Mon—Monster, you’re a goddamn monster!" The Syndicate shrieked hysterically, then started laughing maniacally. "To deal with a monster, you need a monster." As he spoke, the bottle in his hand dropped to the floor—already drained to the last drop.
Crash—the bottle shattered. Rip—his clothes burst apart. With a chorus of bone-cracking noises, the Syndicate’s body broke past its limits and started to grow uncontrollably. This pure financier, once too weak to hurt a fly, now had his aura skyrocketing—Titan Spirit Method: First Level, Second, Third, all the way to Fifth, and pushing even higher.
But Jill’s expression stayed serene, not even a hint of panic. She didn’t interrupt the Syndicate’s transformation—just watched quietly, even with a touch of pity in her eyes.
"What’s with that look?" Jill’s gaze seemed to burn the Syndicate, who roared, "I can feel endless muscle power! You’re the weak one now, I’m the strong one! I’m stronger than those test subjects, stronger than you! Kneel—kneel before me now and I’ll let you die in one piece, or else I’ll… I’ll…" Suddenly, he couldn’t speak. He tried to turn his head but couldn’t budge his neck. "Wh—" Even with all his strength, he couldn’t get a word out, and panic set in. He had no idea what kind of curse had hit him.
"Take a look at yourself—pathetic." Jill pointed to a mirror in the office. The Syndicate realized he couldn’t turn his neck, and even turning around was tough. He rolled his eyes desperately but couldn’t see a thing. Jill sighed and shook her head, then yanked the mirror off the wall and stuck it right in front of him. When he saw his reflection, the Syndicate’s eyes went wide. He wanted to scream, to smash everything in sight, but he just couldn’t.
His body had definitely swollen, his muscles had definitely grown—but only the ones in his torso. Abs, pecs, traps—all ballooned to insane proportions, but his skeleton hadn’t grown at all. That cracking sound earlier was just his bones groaning under the new weight. He looked like he was wearing a giant flesh-colored vest—or maybe trapped inside a huge jar.
The overgrown muscles spread downward, locking up his thighs so he couldn’t take a step. They spread sideways, squeezing his upper arms so he could only hold them out flat. Worst of all, they grew upward, burying his neck and jaw so he couldn’t open his mouth. As the growth continued, the muscle even clogged his nose, cutting off his breathing.
"I’m too lazy to kill you now." Jill stopped looking at the Syndicate and walked toward the office door, checking out the security door, which was over a foot thick. When she finally figured out the button and popped it open, there was a thud-thud-thud—the Syndicate, with his last bit of strength, tried to move.
His thighs wouldn’t budge, so he used his knees and calves. His upper arms were stuck, so he flailed his elbows and forearms. The blood vessels in his eyes looked ready to burst, probably from his heart muscle being way too strong and pumping insane blood pressure. Crack—his foot bones collapsed under his own weight, snapping one after another.
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But even in agony and madness, the Syndicate wouldn’t stop. He ran—straight for his target. And the thing he was staring at wasn’t Jill, but that mirror showing his reflection. As a self-proclaimed collector of beauty, the Syndicate could never allow the monster in the mirror—the pathetic, twisted, failed, dying version of himself—to exist.
Crash—the mirror shattered. Crash—the glass behind the mirror shattered too. Jill had smashed through it earlier, but the Syndicate’s impact was way bigger. And behind the glass was a bottomless void. The Syndicate fell.
When the Morning Star gang—after being chewed out by the Syndicate—finally managed to gather some people at the entrance of the Syndicate Building, a shapeless mountain of flesh plummeted from the sky, smashing into the concrete. Thud, crack, splat—a mix of sounds, shattered bones and flying blood splashing all over the Morning Star lackeys, turning dozens of square meters into a scene straight out of hell.
Clang—the mechanism was triggered, and the alloy panels of the Syndicate Building retracted. Ten minutes later, Jill Young led the No One Under Heaven crew out the front door. There were casualties—Xiao Di and Pierce needed help from two fox spirits just to stand. But right now, all the Morning Star folks saw was a squad of unbeatable death gods. They didn’t need to raise their guns or say a word to send the much larger Morning Star crowd running scared.
The lackeys stumbled back, then screamed and bolted. In a pile of red gore, Jill found the only piece that was still intact: the Syndicate’s head. The freakish muscles had killed him, but also protected his skull in the fall. Not that it mattered to him—the only use for that grimacing, agonized head was as an offering for fallen comrades. "Now, we can hold a funeral."
Three days later, in a beautiful cemetery in Queen’s District, a crowd gathered. A gravestone had been erected, bearing the name Derek Cheng. With no body, all they could do was set up a memorial. Following her hometown tradition, Jill placed the Syndicate’s head in front of Derek Cheng’s grave as a tribute, then patted Xiao Di’s shoulder and walked away.
Everyone else quietly drifted off. The cemetery wasn’t just for Derek Cheng, but also for other No One Under Heaven members lost in battle. If they’d followed Steelbull City’s usual rules, the dead wouldn’t even get a grave—probably wouldn’t even get cremated. Their final resting place would be the city dump, not a fancy little box. But thanks to Jill’s insistence, the fallen got their names carved on a stone. So everyone went their separate ways, to mourn whoever they needed to mourn.
Xiao Di, wrapped head to toe in bandages, sat alone at Derek Cheng’s grave, whispering something—maybe everything she’d ever wanted to say. No one else heard, and Jill purposely didn’t listen, so nobody knows what she said. When she finished, she got up, limped over to Jill, and called her something she’d never said before: "Boss."
In that moment, Xiao Di let go of everything from the past and became the first hall master of No One Under Heaven, heart and soul.
"Don’t call me boss. You know I don’t really like that—it sounds way too low-rent."
Xiao Di smiled. "You’re not about to make me call you Queen, are you?"
Jill laughed too. "I’ll make an exception—call me whatever you want."
"Anything I want, huh…" Xiao Di thought for a moment. "Your name’s Jill Young, right? I’ll just call you Jilly."
As soon as she said "Jilly," the fox spirit sister nearby turned around, her big innocent eyes blinking: "You need something from me?"
Jill immediately sighed, exasperated. "Pick another—having the same name’s not great."
"How about Youngie?"
"Hey, what’s with all the cutesy names? You’re not a kid."
"Then… Jilly-Young?"
"That’s almost like ‘Happy Lamb,’ you goof! No way, absolutely not!"
"You shoot down every name and still say I can call you whatever I want—total nonsense!"
"Oh, come on, kiddo. You get all worked up when I tease you? Come here, let’s settle this once and for all…"
The two of them bickered their way into the distance, with the rest of No One Under Heaven close behind. The Syndicate had fallen, Morning Star was scattered, and now, with Queen’s District unified, there wasn’t an enemy in sight. This gang, barely two months old, had pulled off what others couldn’t in years—and now, they’d planted their flag in Steelbull City as a force to be reckoned with.