C42 Super Vip

"We've arrived—this is the spot!"

Marlon shoved open a door, his laugh sinister, and then gave Westley a hard shove in the back.

Westley feigned a stumble and tumbled forward, rolling instinctively as he hit the ground.

In that brief moment, Westley took in the room's details. It was sparsely furnished with just a table, a chair, and an assortment of security gear like batons, shields, and stun sticks mounted on the wall.

Westley surmised this must be the security equipment room, perfectly suited for doling out "private justice."

Feigning terror, Westley stammered, "I thought you said this was a massage room? Where's the masseuse?"

"Oh, we're the masseuses," Marlon replied.

He exchanged glances with the other guards, and their laughter erupted.

After a moment, two guards stepped outside to stand watch, leaving Marlon and two others in the room with Westley.

The trio eyed Westley with predatory intensity.

"I don't want a male masseur. Please, get me someone else," Westley said, his voice tense.

"You're asking for a female masseur at a time like this? I can't decide if you're foolish or just shamelessly bold."

Marlon sneered, "You've got some nerve, stealing from the Golden Palace."

"That's a lie! I didn't take anything. Go ahead and search me if you don't believe it!" Westley retorted, his anger palpable.

"A body search? Absolutely."

Marlon signaled to the guards with a nod.

Two of them stepped in, pinning Westley's arms to ensure he couldn't escape.

Cigarette dangling from his lips, Marlon advanced towards Westley.

"You've messed with the wrong person. Did you know Ethan is my cousin?" Marlon's voice was icy.

"I had no idea. What are you planning to do?" Westley feigned distress.

"Just a little lesson on what happens when you cross me."

With those words, Marlon's fist crashed into Westley's abdomen.

Just then, Westley's gaze hardened, and he suddenly tensed his arm with force.

The two security guards holding him felt an inexplicable surge of power, their bodies helplessly dragged along.

They collided head-on with each other.

Westley wasn't sure if their lips met in the process.

But one thing was certain—they had slammed into each other hard enough to make their noses bleed.

Moreover, Marlon's fist was now trapped between them, immobilized.

Marlon's face registered utter shock.

He hadn't anticipated Westley's swift reaction, nor his frightening strength.

Desperately, Marlon tried to free his fist, but no matter how hard he struggled, it was as if his fist was wedged into the guards' bellies, impossible to withdraw.

A bad premonition washed over him, and sweat began to bead on his forehead.

When he looked back at Westley, he had a sinking feeling.

The fear and bewilderment that had once clouded Westley's face had vanished, replaced by a deep, mocking amusement.

Marlon felt like Westley was regarding him as a complete fool.

"Now it's my turn to give you a 'massage,'" Westley said with a sly grin.

He delivered a kick to one of the security guard's forearms.

The impact sent the guard's arm flying up, naturally delivering a slap across Marlon's face.

The slap rang out sharply, leaving a distinct print on Marlon's left cheek.

Marlon was left reeling, his vision blurred and ears ringing.

"Little Chen, you dare hit me?" Marlon glared at the hand's owner.

"Brother Datou, it wasn't me," Xiao Liu protested, his face a picture of misery.

He was just as confused; his hand had moved on its own.

At that moment, the other hand swung fiercely at Marlon.

Now, his right cheek bore a matching slap mark.

Both sides of Marlon's face were marked with the evidence.

"It wasn't me..." the other security guard hurriedly interjected.

Before Marlon could respond, he was struck by a barrage of slaps.

The room echoed with the sound of continuous smacks.

"Stop hitting me already!" Westley called out, feigning distress.

The two manipulated security guards were inwardly cursing their luck.

How utterly shameless of you!

You used us to slap Marlon's face and now you're acting like you're breaking up the fight?

Plus, our hands are flesh and blood too, they hurt as well.

Outside the door, the two security guards heard the commotion and felt invigorated.

"Do you think Brother Marlon went overboard? Could he have killed that guy?" one guard wondered.

"Relax. They know what they're doing. Nothing's going to go wrong," the other guard assured confidently.

"Poor kid, he really got on Brother Marlon's bad side."

"Serves him right!"

Inside the room.

It wasn't until Marlon's face was a bloody, swollen mess that Westley finally stopped hitting him.

With the force removed, Marlon and the other two collapsed on the ground.

Marlon was out cold, while the other two were simply exhausted.

Westley approached Marlon and asked with a smirk, "How are you feeling? Enjoying the massage?"

Marlon's eyes were so swollen he could barely make out Westley through the narrow slits.

In that moment, he was utterly defeated.

Was this man before him a demon?

"Who the hell are you?" Marlon croaked.

"Who I am isn't important. What's important is that I have questions for you. If you're not forthcoming, then don't blame me for treating you to another full-body massage," Westley threatened.

"I'll tell you everything!" Marlon cried out.

He couldn't bear any more pain. Who knew what else this guy might do?

"Who's the boss behind Golden Palace?" Westley asked his first question.

"I really don't know. All I know is that Boss Powell used to work for Derrick. After Derrick died, Boss Powell took over," Marlon didn't dare conceal anything.

Westley nodded, his suspicions confirmed.

It appeared Ethan was right.

The woman who was like a siren must be the top boss of Golden Palace.

"I've heard there's a particularly thrilling event here every night, the Cage Fighting Competition?" Westley posed his second question.

Marlon, terrified of further beating, surprisingly had his wits about him.

"Yes, that's true."

He quickly added, "But the Cage Fighting Competition is exclusively for VIPs."

"Super honored guests?" Westley's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yes, super VIPs," Marlon replied with a hint of pride. "Guests who spend two million a year at the Golden Palace are automatically upgraded to platinum status. Only these elite cardholders have the privilege of entering the inner arena alone or with a companion to watch the cage fighting competition and place their bets."