The streetlight leading into the alley was broken, shrouding everything in darkness, with an invisible mist of murk hanging in the air.
Oliver Scott was forced against the wall, pain shooting through his left shoulder, making him hiss and furrow his brows.
Several figures approached, their breath reeking of alcohol. Each one was drunk but strong and fierce-looking.
"You haven’t even grown up and you’re trying to play hero?"
"Kid, where do you think you’re running off to?"
"Tonight, Grandpa’s going to teach you not to ddle in other people’s business!"
...
They exchanged words, rolling up their sleeves as they charged forward.
Observing their positions, Oliver Scott tightly gripped the strap hanging from his shoulder, his expression cautious yet calm, showing no panic.
As one person’s fist smashed toward him, he swiftly ducked, his elbow striking upward, hitting the opponent’s armpit hard. At the sa ti, he yanked off his backpack and swung it at another person approaching from the side, the heavy books inside smacking solidly onto the man’s head, leaving him dizzy.
Taking advantage of their montary pain, he found a gap in their formation and slipped out of their encirclent.
Without pausing, Oliver Scott made a run for it, but one of them quickly reacted, catching up in a few strides and grabbing his shoulder.
"Where do you think you’re running off to!"
The grip almost brought Oliver Scott to his knees, and as he turned to shake the person off, he suddenly saw the man behind him flying in a smooth arc, crashing to the ground like a kite with a broken string. At the sa ti, the force on his shoulder vanished.
Oliver Scott was stunned.
In the next mont, he saw a figure in black standing before him, hair tousled by the wind, clothes fluttering, creating sharp arcs in the dark night, illuminated by the cold moonlight. The scene was as beautiful as a painting.
The figure stood straight and slender, undeniably a woman.
For two seconds, Oliver Scott’s gaze moved to her face, a familiar, stunning beauty with an indescribable impact, leaving him rooted to the spot in a daze.
Marcus Shaw’s sister.
Nora Scott glanced at him nonchalantly, saying, "Get to the side."
anwhile, the other figures, upon seeing Nora Scott, paused for a mont, cursed a few tis, and then charged at her.
Without thinking, Oliver Scott imdiately wanted to step forward to help Nora Scott fend off a couple of them. However, as soon as he moved, a hand stretched out, blocking his way.
Oliver Scott looked over cautiously and suspiciously.
It was a tall man, striking in appearance, wearing the sa jacket as Nora Scott...
Her boyfriend?
The thought had just crossed his mind when Oliver Scott heard the man casually say, "Let her handle it."
Oliver Scott: "..."
You, a grown man, letting a woman charge forward while you stand to the side and watch?
But soon, Oliver Scott shafully suppressed this thought, staring blankly at the scene ahead as if he was watching a play, immobilized, feeling like he was in an arena.
This was the unparalleled beauty that Steve Singleton had been longing for since that encounter in the library...
Yet, up to this point, Oliver Scott’s impression of Nora Scott boiled down to one sentence—
She’s truly Marcus Shaw’s sister.
In no ti, the drunk n fell one after another, their burly figures utterly helpless against Nora Scott, creating a violent scene of one-sided thrashing.
As the last man tried to get up from the ground, Nora Scott raised an eyebrow, stepping on his chest with enough force to keep him pinned down.
Surveying the incapacitated n, Nora Scott curled her lips into a slow, mocking smile, "With just this much skill, and you dare to brawl?"
"..."
No one dared respond.
All that answered her were their cries and groans, as she had beaten them so thoroughly that the courage brought on by their drunkenness vanished without a trace.
Whoever has the hardest fists gets to speak.
How could they dare oppose?
"Impressive."
Watching from the sidelines, Oliver Scott sincerely uttered one word.
Her crisp and efficient movents, each strike precise and lethal, were clearly the result of dedicated training rather than re street fighting.
Despite not usually being fond of fighting or worshipping violent strength, at this mont, Oliver Scott couldn’t help but marvel—
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