C44 Heartless Taunt

Westley hadn't been waiting long when the arm wrestling competition kicked off. The hostess, decked out in a bunny girl costume, had a knack for whipping the crowd into a frenzy, turning the venue into a buzzing hive of excitement.

Below the stage, those stepping up to the challenge were predominantly strapping young men, some with pectorals so comically oversized they looked like they lived at the gym. The lure of a Golden Palace platinum card had given rise to a whole industry here. Many would recruit their burliest buddies to enter the fray.

On the market, a Golden Palace platinum card could fetch hundreds of thousands. It wasn't just a status symbol; rumor had it the card came with hefty discounts and opulent year-end perks. Given that the clientele was an assembly of the affluent, it was no surprise that many a businessperson was willing to shell out big bucks for a card, hoping to rub elbows with the elite.

Westley's first challenger was a hefty fellow tipping the scales at nearly two hundred kilos. The man gave Westley a once-over, smug in his conviction of an easy win. After all, they were leagues apart in build. Westley, with his slight frame, how could he possibly outmatch him? The man figured he could flatten Westley with his mass alone.

They approached the custom-built arm wrestling table, where a man in a sharp suit stepped in as the referee and laid out the rules. Once briefed, the referee had Westley and the hefty contestant grip right hands. He then positioned their wrists on the table, ready for the bout.

The burly man shot Westley a taunting look. "I'm going to crush you," he boasted.

Westley just shook his head. The man's pallid complexion and puffy eyes were telltale signs of excess.

"Three! Two! One! Go!"

At the judge's signal, the burly man poured all his might into his arm, intent on a swift victory over Westley. But to his astonishment, Westley's slender arm was immovable, firm as a boulder.

The man bellowed, his rear end lifting off his seat in exertion, yet Westley's arm remained steady.

As the man gathered himself for a third attempt, Westley spoke calmly, "You've lost."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Westley gave a gentle flick of his wrist, and the burly man's hand was slammed to the table.

The hefty competitor didn't stand a chance to fight back.

"Victory goes to number 14!"

As the referee's voice echoed, the defeated man's face flushed with embarrassment, and he walked away, his face hidden in shame.

Westley's next challenger was a compact, muscular guy.

This time, Westley didn't hesitate and swiftly took him down.

The third match was a breeze—another win for Westley!

He advanced directly to the final round.

His adversary was contestant number 1.

The man had an average build, but his arm muscles were impressively developed.

Oddly enough, the muscle strength in his arms was uneven; his right arm was significantly more robust than his left.

Westley had been observing and noted that number 1 excelled in both skill and strength.

Clearly, he was a formidable opponent.

Westley guessed the man was likely a professional arm wrestler.

As they faced off, they exchanged glances.

A young man with glasses next to him pumped his fist, "Jackson, you've got to win. Whether our late-night snacks are plain porridge or a feast hinges on this match."

"Don't worry, I'm going to win," Jackson, the confident youth, declared.

"That's a given—you're the pro champion," the man with glasses said, flashing a thumbs-up.

Jackson nodded, then turned to Westley and offered, "You still have time to back out."

"Why would I?" Westley asked, grinning.

"Between us, I'm the national arm wrestling champion. Defeating you today wouldn't exactly be a feather in my cap," Jackson said with a casual shrug.

Wasn't a professional champion entering this contest practically cheating?

Amid the murmurs of the crowd, Jackson retorted nonchalantly, "The rules never said pros couldn't compete. If anyone objects, step up and challenge me."

That left the onlookers at a loss for words.

True, there was no rule barring professionals from entering.

Yet, Jackson's cockiness was undeniably grating.

"Remember, there are prizes for the runner-up as well," Jackson mentioned, as if offering friendly advice.

Per the competition's rules, the champion would receive a platinum card, the second-place victor a luxury razor valued at thousands, and the third-place finisher a 10% discount on their next visit.

Taking second place isn't too shabby, by any means.

Yet, that wasn't what Westley was after.

"Why should I settle for second?" Westley asked with a grin.

At those words, Jackson's expression froze.

The surrounding crowd erupted in cheers.

"Being a pro doesn't mean squat. Take him down!"

"Beat him, and his arrogance is history!"

"He's probably all talk. He might not even be a real pro!"

Despite the clear disparity between the competitors, the onlookers were eager to add to the excitement.

"Don't blame me for not holding back if you lose," Jackson grumbled, placing his hand on the table.

Westley remained silent, simply positioning his hand in readiness.

The referee, recognizing the presence of a professional champion, grew stern and solemn.

He seemed to embody professionalism in that moment.

"Three!"

"Two!"

"One! Begin!"

Jackson's legs tensed as he leaned in slightly. The principles of arm wrestling are straightforward: core strength from the waist and abdomen, and sheer arm power. Master these, and you're unstoppable.

For training, Jackson had crushed over a thousand pounds of walnuts. So, he was confident that beating Westley would be a breeze.

But things weren't unfolding as smoothly as he'd anticipated.

Despite Jackson's formidable wrist strength, Westley's hand was immovable, as though clamped to stone.

Westley's face was the picture of serenity, seemingly exerting no effort.

Jackson, a professional champion, couldn't stand such a slight. With a roar, he doubled down on his arm's force, power surging in an instant. His arm's muscles stood out like cords, veins pressed as taut as gnarled tree roots.

"He's about to lose," someone in the crowd called out.

Jackson's hand nudged Westley's wrist downward, bit by bit, inch by inch.

Westley's arm was nearly level with the table surface, appearing on the brink of collapse.

"Stop the futile resistance," Jackson said, assured of his impending victory.

He believed that with one more push, Westley's defeat was certain.

Yet, he refrained from doing so.

Westley reveled in the sight of his adversaries exerting every ounce of their strength, only to find themselves utterly helpless. It was the victor's cruelest form of mockery toward the vanquished. He savored every second of it!

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