There is no system of heavenly descent, and no nobles pave the way. In the underlying jungle where neon lights and blood stains intersect, he clenches the rusty blade with his hand that has not yet healed from stitches, and uses the ruthless fists and kicks honed in street melees. Under the sticks of loan sharks and in the strangulation of the black boxing ring, he tempers his "wisdom" into a knife that calculates life and death, and forges his "faith" into a bone that defies fate. This world never leaves a way for the weak to survive, but he insists on following the law of the jungle and the strong, using his flesh and blood to carve out a counterattack path without golden fingers.
(The story is purely fictitious. Some points may be exaggerated and unreasonable. Please do not delve into it. It is for entertainment only)
