C45 Dongfang Long

Jackson's face was alight with excitement.

What did it matter if Westley had some skill?

Beneath my crushing force, defeat is inevitable for you.

Amateurs simply don't stack up to the pros.

The onlookers held their breath in anticipation.

They all understood that a regular Joe beating a professional was the stuff of fiction, not reality.

The odds were slimmer than winning the lottery.

Miracles just weren't meant to be.

Westley's arm hovered a mere centimeter above the table.

Oddly, his expression remained unchanged throughout—eerily serene.

To the casual observer, it seemed Westley had resigned himself to defeat.

Jackson eyed Westley and raised his left thumb in a gesture of faux respect.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he inverted his thumb.

A challenge!

A barefaced taunt!

The moment to seal the victory was at hand.

Jackson had the script all planned out.

No longer concealing his might, he ramped up the pressure for a decisive strike.

But he froze.

The anticipated collapse of Westley didn't happen.

It was as if Jackson's exerted force had vanished into thin air.

Westley's wrist remained suspended, utterly still.

Sensing something amiss, Jackson turned to Westley, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Westley licked his lips and cracked a smile. "My turn," he declared.

What?

Before Jackson could process the words, he felt an overwhelming force gripping his palm.

His hand seemed trapped in a vice, the grinding of his bones nearly forcing a scream from his lips.

Then, a monstrous power surged through his wrist.

His hand was wrenched over and slammed onto the table with a thud.

The sound was final, like a gavel's strike.

Instant defeat!

The turnaround was so abrupt, the crowd was left speechless.

Silence enveloped the onlookers.

They stared at Westley and Jackson, stunned, their breaths catching in their throats.

"Number fourteen wins!" The referee's voice snapped everyone back to the present.

A cacophony of voices filled the air.

This man had toppled the national champion.

He had wrought a miracle!

Jackson's gaze was fixed on his right wrist, blood streaming from his battered fingers.

Yet, he no longer felt any pain.

His mind had turned to mush.

Impossible! How could I, the national champion, lose to an amateur?

Westley stood up, gently patted Jackson's shoulder, and leaned in to whisper, "I'm a three-time champion of the Siberia Open."

"What?"

Jackson snapped to attention.

The Siberia Open was the pinnacle of arm wrestling competitions worldwide, revered as the Oscars of the sport.

Could it be him?

Westley gestured for silence.

Jackson rose, his face alight with excitement.

Before the crowd, he bowed deeply to Westley.

A full ninety degrees!

It was clear how much respect and admiration Jackson held for Westley.

The onlookers were stunned.

Bowing to your opponent after a loss? Had he lost his mind?

"I'll keep striving, Mr. Dongfang Long."

With those words, Jackson breathed a sigh of relief, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and then he walked towards the exit with a spring in his step.

"Jackson, wait for me!"

The bespectacled man barely managed to catch up with Jackson at the door.

"How can you be so happy after a defeat?"

Seeing his beaming smile, the bespectacled man seriously wondered if something was off with Jackson's brain.

"Of course, I'm happy. You'd be this happy too if you met your idol," Jackson said, his face aglow.

"Which idol?" The bespectacled man was confused.

"Ever heard of the Siberia Open?" Jackson inquired.

After a long pause, the bespectacled man replied, "I remember now. That's the top-tier arm wrestling event you told me about, right?"

"Exactly. It's the Oscars of the arm wrestling world, with a host of big names. Plus, it's always been dominated by the strongmen from Europe," Jackson confirmed with a nod.

"So how did he become your idol?" The bespectacled man was even more baffled.

"Eight years ago, a man from the East broke Europe's stranglehold on the competition. Competing under the alias Dongfang Long, he fought his way to the top and won that year's championship. And then, he went on to claim the title two more times."

"However, he stopped competing after that, and the title of champion was once again dominated by those European strongmen."

Jackson spoke with a look of longing in his eyes.

An Asian face, taking on the International League solo and coming out as the champion.

He had secured the title twice in a row!

The feat itself was nothing short of miraculous.

"Is that person Dongfang Long?" The man with glasses asked, visibly astounded.

"Absolutely. It's him."

Jackson nodded emphatically, "To face my idol in competition is a dream come true. I've made up my mind—I'm not washing this hand for a week."

With that, he strolled out the door, humming a tune contentedly.

"Don't you dare sit with me at meals," the bespectacled man grumbled, trailing behind him.

Of course, Westley wasn't Dongfang Long.

That name was just too corny.

When Rock from the Hidden Dragon Squad first chose that alias, he was teased by the team for years.

The kid was a powerhouse, unbeatable within the squad.

But when it came to arm wrestling, he only acknowledged Westley as his superior.

Every challenge ended with him as Westley's defeated opponent.

The bunny girl took Westley's hand, even giving it a squeeze.

Westley remained unfazed by the gesture.

Indeed, beauties are drawn to heroes.

Chu Bawang had Yuji, Lu Bu had Diao Chan.

With my good looks and understated charm, who wouldn't fall for me?

But bunny girl, I'm a married man.

"Congratulations to contestant number fourteen. His prowess is evident to all. It is my pleasure to declare him the arm wrestling champion of this event."

The bunny girl raised Westley's hand, her cheeks flushed and her voice pitched eight degrees higher.

A thunderous round of applause filled the air.

Impressive!

He had bested the national champion—how could he not be?

"Now, I will present tonight's top prize—the Golden Palace platinum card—to our victor."

The bunny girl took a gleaming white gold card from the tray, ready to hand it over to Westley.

Just then, a monotone, muffled voice interrupted.

"Wait a moment!"

Heads turned in unison to find the source of the interjection.

A tall, strikingly handsome man approached with an unhurried stride.

As he came into view, numerous women's eyes sparkled with admiration.

"Oh my god, he's so good-looking!"

Upon seeing this man, even Westley's usually composed expression showed a hint of surprise.