Chapter 95: The Flower of the Black Prison

The cafeteria could accommodate five hundred people, and the windows all around offered a variety of local delicacies. The chefs were busy in their respective kitchens, and one exquisite dish after another was soon ladled into large pots. In terms of appearance, the food left much to be desired, but its aroma and taste were undoubtedly perfect.

At the moment, the cafeteria wasn't crowded—just a few dozen people were eating. To be precise, they were watching someone eat.

"Brother Qin Yang, are you sure it's all right to eat this much?" Dongfang Hao swallowed hard. He had to admit, everyone locked up here was a master in their own right, each boasting an enormous appetite. Some could eat for four or five men. But when Qin Yang arrived, Dongfang Hao knew yet another record, set out of boredom by the inmates, was about to be broken.

"This is delicious, really delicious! I haven’t eaten my fill like this in days," Qin Yang said between mouthfuls of rice, barely pausing as his chopsticks shovelled food into his mouth.

"You mentioned a beautiful woman? I don't see anyone like that," Qin Yang asked, glancing around, still in good spirits and intent on verifying Dongfang Hao’s claim.

Dongfang Hao shrugged. "Actually, it’s not time for the main meal yet, so of course the beauty isn’t around. There’s plenty of time ahead, though—you’ll have your chance to meet her."

"Plenty of time? What, am I going to be locked up here for a long time?" Qin Yang asked, puzzled.

"I don’t want to crush your hopes, but that’s the truth." Dongfang Hao shrugged again. "Anyone sent to Black Prison is someone who can’t be killed. What does that mean? It means someone wants you dead, but someone else doesn’t. When both sides have enough power or influence to cancel each other out, you end up here—free to enjoy whatever an ordinary person can, except for your freedom itself. And that sentence lasts a lifetime."

"So, most people here are just sacrificial pawns?" Qin Yang put down his bowl and chopsticks. "Their so-called crimes could be solved with a fine, but in the end, they lose their freedom in this godforsaken place because of a power struggle between two factions?"

"Exactly." Dongfang Hao gave a bitter laugh and glanced at the table, now covered in empty plates. "Well, anyone who ends up here has to have a heart far stronger than most. Judging by your attitude, you fit right in. Let’s go—let’s take a walk in the gym. The several hundred people here are all top-level fighters, but after years of sparring, it gets boring. With a newcomer like you, things are bound to get interesting."

"But I’m not full yet," Qin Yang said, rubbing his stomach in frustration.

Dongfang Hao, who had just started to get up, nearly stumbled and fell. The people nearby, having heard Qin Yang’s shameless remark, almost choked on their food. Damn, how could someone eat so much on their first day here and still be so cheerful? Wasn’t that a bit too carefree?

Even the usually busy chefs stopped what they were doing to watch as the newcomer brazenly took another helping from each window and set up a second table for himself. They felt cold sweat bead on their foreheads. Earlier, he’d eaten enough for five prisoners—but by their standards, that was equivalent to the appetite of fifteen ordinary men. And now he was setting up a second round, albeit with slightly less food. Still, they were certain that this scrawny-looking young man’s appetite was at least twenty-five times that of a normal person! They always tried to cook just enough, so nothing went to waste. From now on, it seemed they’d have to prepare for ten extra people.

"Qin Yang, are you sure it’s safe to exercise after eating so much? Won’t your metabolism struggle to keep up?" Dongfang Hao asked, still unsure as he looked at the nonchalant Qin Yang.

"No problem," Qin Yang replied, waving his hand.

The two of them entered the gym, which was enormous—about the size of a football field. Incandescent lights hung from the ceiling, bathing the whole space in bright white light. Only now did Qin Yang realize that, though the inmates were kept underground year-round, they were all surprisingly healthy, and their complexions were far from the pale one might expect from a lack of sunlight. He couldn’t help but ask, "Shouldn’t people’s bodies suffer without sunlight? Why is that not the case here?"

"Oh, we do get sunlight. It’s already past two in the afternoon, but you’ll see tomorrow. That’s when we get our favorite sunbaths," Dongfang Hao replied with a smile.

Qin Yang nodded in understanding. He looked around—the gym was equipped with every kind of exercise machine, and there were more than ten fighting rings. At the moment, several people were sparring. Some fought with military-style techniques, others displayed the fluidity of internal martial arts, while some used the brute force of external styles. Most importantly, every single one of them was highly skilled—masters who would make waves in the martial world outside.

"A good number of people here are geniuses from the military. But, well, best not to talk about that," Dongfang Hao said, shaking his head. He led Qin Yang to one of the rings and introduced him to a few others. Their attitudes were cordial and polite. Even those who were aloof would nod in greeting.

As they chatted, a loud thud drew their attention. A long-haired man had been knocked to the ground. He got up, stretched, and said, "Wu Ya, you’ve won again."

"Thank you for letting me win," Wu Ya replied with a customary salute—left hand clasping the right. Han Mufeng had once forced Qin Yang to learn this etiquette: the left hand clasped over the right signified respect, the right representing aggression. To cover the right hand showed no hostility; to do the opposite indicated a challenge.

"Qin Yang, want to give it a try?" someone asked with a smile. "Wu Ya has won more than twenty matches in a row. Honestly, out of the hundreds here, maybe forty or fifty could beat him, but they don’t bother. Why don’t you give it a shot?"

"Yeah, Qin Yang, get in there and show us what you can do," Dongfang Hao added, excited.

Qin Yang, feeling restless after his meal, didn’t even reply. He simply leapt onto the ring in a single bound, startling the others. The platform was over a meter high—his jump was impressive. Wu Ya noticed, his expression turning cautious. He saluted, "I am Wu Ya. Please teach me."

Qin Yang returned the gesture. "Qin Yang, the newcomer."

"Let’s begin," Wu Ya said in a low voice. He stamped his right foot, making the ring tremble, and in a flash, he charged forward, fists roaring like a tiger. It was clear he was a master of Xingyi Quan, his strength formidable. But Qin Yang was no slouch either—he had trained under Han Mufeng, and while his Xingyi Quan hadn’t reached the level of grandmaster, even Han Mufeng had praised his skill.

Unmoving as a mountain, swift as thunder, his fists roared like dragons and tigers. With the recent tempering of five hundred soul points, Qin Yang’s body had been greatly enhanced—speed, strength, and recovery far exceeded the norm. In the exchange with Wu Ya, he gradually gained the upper hand. Wu Ya was secretly astonished by Qin Yang’s power and the depth of his Xingyi Quan. This clash of dragon and tiger would likely end in total defeat for him.

First, a powerful palm strike hit Wu Ya’s arm at a numb point. Then, as Qin Yang shifted to his right, his right hand slipped between Wu Ya’s crossed arms at a strange angle, and while Wu Ya was unable to counterattack, Qin Yang struck, sending Wu Ya flying backward. But he landed steadily, uninjured. Qin Yang’s hands changed position, and his style shifted from straightforward attacks to lateral strikes.

"Bagua," he announced.

His footwork became unpredictable. Wu Ya couldn’t anticipate his next move. He leaped, attempting to seize the initiative, but suddenly saw Qin Yang’s body blur, his expression changing dramatically. Two phantom kicks came at him—real and illusory, impossible to distinguish. As he tried to retreat, he felt a sharp pain in his back and landed with a muffled grunt, though otherwise unharmed.

"What incredible skill! I’ve heard elders speak of this lost art—the Thirteen Lances. The strongest can deliver thirteen phantom kicks, impossible to defend against. I can’t believe you’ve mastered it. I concede wholeheartedly," Wu Ya said, rising and offering a salute. "No wonder you’re the one who entered with the highest kill count, Qin Yang. Remarkable, truly remarkable."

"Thank you," Qin Yang replied with a smile.

"Haha, let me have a go!" Suddenly, a booming laugh sounded, and a burly man leapt onto the ring. But before he could speak, Qin Yang waved his hand. "Your right leg is injured. Judging by your movements, your right leg is your strongest weapon, but the injury has reached the bone, so its power is greatly diminished. It wouldn’t be much of a fight. Once you’ve healed, we’ll have a proper match."

"I can still fight, even with an injury. Besides, this wound can’t be fixed," the burly man said, a hint of regret in his voice. Then, with renewed excitement, he added, "A newcomer and already so skilled—this is Black Prison’s style! Let’s fight anyway!"

"Who says your leg can’t be healed?" Qin Yang replied proudly. "I’ve been studying medicine lately. For me, this injury is nothing—one prescription will heal you most of the way, two and you’ll be fully recovered within three months. Then we’ll have our match."

"What did you say?" The big man was taken aback. "You can really heal it?"

"Remove the question mark," Qin Yang said, hopping off the ring. "Come here and let me take a look."

The burly man nodded and rolled up his pant leg, revealing a mass of dense scars on his right leg—like a tangle of centipedes, a gruesome sight. Most people here had seen plenty, but an ordinary outsider would have turned pale at the sight.

"It’s not too serious," Qin Yang said, clicking his tongue. "Give it a few more years without treatment and you’d need amputation. Do you have pen and paper?"

"I do," came a crisp voice. Everyone turned to see a young woman in a white chef’s uniform, gracefully handing over a notebook and a black pen. She wasn’t as breathtakingly beautiful as Liu Yan or Qi Mengwei, but she was by no means less attractive than Liu Molan and the others. Like a lotus blooming out of muddy waters, she preserved her feminine charm even in a place full of men. She stood out at a glance—a girl whose very presence brought beauty to this drab world.

"Xiao Ran, you came without saying anything," the burly man said, quickly rolling down his pant leg and scratching his head in embarrassment.

The girl chuckled. "I didn’t see anything, don’t worry. By the way, can you really heal his leg?"

"Are you the Flower of Black Prison?" Qin Yang asked curiously.

"And are you the curiosity who can eat thirty times as much as a normal person in one sitting?"