"You..."

  He had barely uttered a single word when Michael's eyes turned cold.

  Without any extra movement, Michael twisted his wrist sharply.

  Crack—!

  A crisp snap of bone, accompanied by the Mohawked man's agonized scream, pierced the silence of the alley.

  The steel pipe clattered loudly as it hit the ground.

  Truthfully, Michael himself was deeply surprised.

  After a lifetime of playing it safe, suddenly gaining this overwhelming power—how could anyone fully adapt psychologically in just a few days?

  His feelings were seven parts excitement, three parts fear.

  The surrounding gang members immediately erupted.

  "He dares to touch someone from the Black Bone Gang!"

  "Kill him!"

  Three underlings charged forward, yelling, brandishing knives and batons aimed at Michael.

  Michael took a deep breath, his body shifting slightly, already dodging the oncoming dagger.

  His physical attributes were far beyond an ordinary person's;

  his speed and strength were nothing these street-level gangsters could compare to.

  Facing the thug at the front, Michael sidestepped the swinging baton and simultaneously threw a heavy punch, landing it squarely in the man's chest.

  Thump!

  The thug flew backward as if hit by a truck, slammed into the corrugated iron wall beside him, slid to the ground, foaming at the mouth, unable to get up.

  Another underling, wielding a dagger, lunged at him from the side.

  Michael hooked his foot, kicking up a metal chain from the ground, which wrapped precisely around the man's ankle.

  He yanked back, the thug lost his balance, and crashed heavily to the ground.

  Michael took a step forward, stomped on his back, and with another sickening crack, another bone snapped.

  The last thug turned deathly pale, dropped his weapon, and turned to flee.

  Michael wouldn't give him the chance.

  He flashed forward, instantly catching up, grabbing the man by the collar, lifting him like a chick, and slamming him down hard in front of the Mohawked man.

  In a little over ten seconds, all four gangsters were on the ground.

  Michael brushed the dust from his hands, his gaze sweeping the onlookers.

  The other gang members who had been itching to step forward, upon meeting his icy stare, all shrank back in unison, retreating, not daring to approach.

  He bent down, fished a rusty key from the Mohawked man's pocket—the key to the underground cargo station.

  This was specifically noted on Elena's note. The Black Bone Gang was guarding the entrance; to get in, you needed their key.

  Just as Michael turned, ready to head towards the abandoned cargo station not far away, the sound of heavy footsteps suddenly echoed from the mouth of the alley.

  "Stop."

  A low, gravelly voice rang out, carrying an undeniable authority.

  Michael paused, slowly turning around.

  From the shadows at the alley entrance, an immensely burly man emerged.

  He stood nearly 190 centimeters tall, wearing a black tank top stretched tight over his frame. His exposed arms were thicker than an average person's thighs, his skin a deep brown, covered in vicious scars.

  A black mask covered his face, revealing only a pair of bloodshot eyes that glared murderously at Michael.

  Seeing this man, the surrounding Black Bone Gang members immediately bowed their heads respectfully, calling out in unison, "Boss!"

  The Mohawked man, as if seeing a savior, gritted his teeth through the pain and shouted with difficulty,

  "Boss! This punk is causing trouble! He broke my arm!"

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  The man called "Boss" ignored him, simply walking step by step toward Michael.

  With each step, the ground seemed to tremble slightly.

  He stopped about three meters from Michael, looking down at him, a cruel smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

  "It's been a long time since an Outsider dared to cause trouble on my turf."

  As his voice faded, his body suddenly began to tremble violently.

  Crack—Crack—!

  A series of bone-chilling pops and cracks echoed.

  His frame rapidly expanded, his already huge body swelling another size larger.

  The black tank top stretched and burst instantly, shreds falling to the ground.

  His skin began to harden, becoming as rough as stone, its color turning a deep gray.

  His head morphed rapidly, his nose ridge rising high, forming a thick, stout rhinoceros horn.

  His ears vanished, his head growing massive, resembling a rhino's.

  His fingers and toes thickened, his nails turning into sharp claws. His arms were covered in thick, horny plates, like hardened armor.

  In a matter of seconds, a man had transformed completely into a two-and-a-half-meter tall, several-hundred-kilogram rhinoceros-man!

  The sight felt achingly familiar to Michael, as if he'd been thrown back to the basement of VineCorp headquarters...

  The Rhino Man lowered his head.

  The thick horn glinted with a cold, deadly light.

  His bloodshot eyes fixed on Michael, and he let out an ear-splitting roar.

  The roar echoed through the empty alley, rattling the surrounding windows, even making the ground tremble faintly.

  Michael's pupils contracted sharply. The hand holding the key clenched into a tight fist.

  He could clearly sense an intensely dangerous aura emanating from the Rhino Man before him—visibly far more powerful than that Pig-Man from before...

  This Rhino Man's skin was a deep gray, its surface covered in rock-like folds, hard as iron armor.

  His limbs were thick as concrete pillars; each step made the ground quake.

  That forward-jutting horn, in particular, was half a meter long, its tip polished to a gleaming, sharp point that flashed with a heart-chilling coldness.

  It was clear it could easily pierce straight through a human body.

  Michael's grip on the key tightened, his palm slick with cold sweat.

  The sharp edges of the key dug deep into his flesh, bringing a sharp, stinging pain.

  "Kid, you messed with the wrong person," the Rhino Man spoke, his voice like metal scraping inside a rusted pipe, rough and grating.

  "Today, I'll use your bones to commemorate this useless hand!"

  He raised his left hand—a hand wrapped in bandages, the distorted shape beneath them clearly revealing an old, unhealed injury.

  Before the words had fully faded, the Rhino Man stomped the ground.

  His heavy body made the ground itself shudder, fine cracks instantly spiderwebbing across the concrete.

  He charged straight at Michael, the rushing wind from his movement whipping the plastic bags at the alley entrance into a frenzy.

  His speed was shockingly fast, utterly at odds with his enormous frame.

  Michael's pupils contracted.

  He dodged sideways almost on pure instinct, his canvas shoes scraping a long mark on the concrete.

  CRASH—!

  The Rhino Man slammed headfirst into the corrugated iron wall behind where Michael had been standing.

  The thick metal instantly crumpled inward, forming a huge, deep dent. Web-like cracks radiated out from the point of impact.

  Pieces of shredded metal clattered to the ground, ringing out sharply.