Chapter 20: The Devil Emerges

Chapter 20: The Devil Appears

Ryunosuke Sakamoto was thrown into panic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zhou Zhihan pull up the ninth repetition, then set the barbell down amid the cheers of the students, gasping for breath as he composed himself.

Having gone from leading by two to trailing by two, Sakamoto’s mindset shifted completely. As he bent down to attempt the eighth lift in a last-ditch effort, he saw Zhou Zhihan do the same—legs slightly apart, hands grasping the barbell.

Sakamoto summoned all his strength.

A dizzy wave washed over him.

It felt as if a sharp dagger suddenly pierced his lower abdomen, stabbing deep into his core.

He failed to lift the barbell.

Zhou Zhihan also failed to lift it.

A collective sigh of regret rose from the students, followed by a flurry of expletives and curses echoing across the ground.

Sakamoto sensed another chance; the Chinese competitor was exhausted.

Now was the moment to fight with sheer willpower.

Drawing a deep breath, Sakamoto suppressed the stabbing pain, bent his waist, spread his legs slightly, and gripped the barbell tightly.

Zhou Zhihan was still gasping heavily.

Enduring the agonizing pain in his core, Sakamoto managed to lift the eighth repetition.

The students erupted in excited cheers!

Now, Sakamoto was only behind Zhou Zhihan by one lift.

Zhou Zhihan had just failed in his first attempt at the tenth lift.

Encouraged, Sakamoto knew that if he could pull up the ninth, Zhou Zhihan’s composure would shatter. Once shaken, his breathing would falter, making it almost impossible to lift the barbell again. Like sprinting to the finish line, even the slightest loss of strength would prevent him from raising the 100-kilogram barbell.

Both men bent down simultaneously.

At that moment, the entire field fell deathly silent.

Everyone watched intently, silently judging whether Zhou Zhihan, the Chinese, or Sakamoto, the Japanese, would prevail this time.

“Ha!”

Sakamoto hauled the barbell up, veins bulging on his forehead—an intimidating sight.

The students, all knowledgeable, knew better than to make a sound at this critical juncture. They swallowed their cheers, waiting for Zhou Zhihan.

Now, all the pressure was on Zhou Zhihan.

Most hoped he would fail, questioning why he should dominate the competition, why he should be the favored one.

Sakamoto set the barbell down, finally back at the starting line. He panted heavily, knowing that if Zhou Zhihan couldn’t lift the barbell now, victory would tilt entirely in his favor.

At this moment, the buzzing in Sakamoto’s ears seemed to vanish. As he adjusted his breathing, he kept making movements as if to bend down, constantly pressuring Zhou Zhihan.

Sakamoto saw victory within reach. Regardless of whether Zhou Zhihan lifted or not, after five more seconds of adjustment, he would give his all on the final pull.

Zhou Zhihan bent his waist, hands gripping the barbell, breathing deeply to gather strength.

The surrounding silence was suffocating.

Sakamoto took a deep breath, seized the moment, bent down, spread his legs, gripped the barbell, and prepared to exert force.

“Ten!”

An overwhelming roar erupted from the crowd.

Once again, Zhou Zhihan triumphed.

It was Zhou Zhihan who completed the tenth lift.

The students cheered anew. People were like this—most were even less steadfast than a fence-sitter.

Blood streamed from Sakamoto’s nostrils as he suffered another crushing defeat. His will shattered instantly; his legs weakened, and he collapsed onto the ground.

Zhou Zhihan immediately stepped forward to steady Sakamoto but whispered into his ear, “Either drink the wine or crawl under my legs, you butcher whose hands are stained with the blood of the Chinese!”

To the onlookers, Zhou Zhihan seemed to be helping and consoling Sakamoto.

Though victorious, Zhou Zhihan remained humble and unhurried in celebration—he first comforted his opponent. In this regard, he appeared remarkably gracious.

Grace?

Damn it, grace is for people. Talking about grace to a beast like Sakamoto, whose hands were drenched in Chinese blood, was absurd.

It was merely a show.

I just wanted him dead.

Sakamoto wiped the blood from his nose and struggled to squat on the ground, suppressing the fury boiling inside him. He said nothing.

Zhou Zhihan stood, poured 200 milliliters of whiskey into a basin, and reached for a beer. The students expected him to bite the bottle open as before, but instead, he deftly snapped the beer cap off with his thumb, index, and middle fingers.

“Fuc...ks?”

The students thought Zhou Zhihan’s move was cool—so you bit the bottle open just to say “fuc...ks” in the end?

Zhou Zhihan raised the basin and said, “Today, I’m very pleased to celebrate with all of you in this way. I want to thank Ryunosuke Sakamoto—without his help, I wouldn’t have improved so quickly.”

His words were delivered quietly but struck a chord, painting Zhou Zhihan as a man of good character, humble and low-key. Had it been someone else, this would have come off as the arrogant boast of a victor.

More importantly, whether Zhou Zhihan’s words were sincere or a slap in Sakamoto’s face didn’t matter. What mattered was that this competition brought joy to everyone present and vented much pent-up tension.

In any contest, there must be winners and losers. Even if it slaps Sakamoto’s face, it’s not the audience’s face. The audience gained happiness, drank, cursed, and vented—fuck, drink, shout, fucks.

Though Zhou Zhihan’s deadlift wasn’t outstanding among the talented ranks of West Point, he was only a freshman. His strength was exceptional among first-year students.

Over the next three years, he had vast potential and might well become one of the school’s elites.

So everyone raised their drinks in response to Zhou Zhihan’s toast.

Who wouldn’t want to befriend a future elite?

Who would rather offend the elite to make friends with a complete failure?

Impossible.

Soldiers admire strength because on the battlefield, the gods never favor the weak.

People change so quickly.

It’s natural—survival of the fittest. Who chooses friends or comrades without picking the best?

Zhou Zhihan held up the basin and said, “I propose a toast to all, wishing everyone a pleasant day of rest.”

“...”

The students drank heartily once more.

Sakamoto knew he had to drink the entire 2000 milliliters of whiskey plus four bottles of beer. Otherwise, that cunning Chinese would never let it go; tomorrow, rumors would spread about Sakamoto losing because he refused to drink, calling him dishonest and a sore loser.

Suppressing the turmoil in his heart, Sakamoto forced himself to stand, walked to the table, and poured the whiskey and beer into the large basin.

“Ryunosuke Sakamoto, can you handle it? If not, you don’t have to drink,” Zhou Zhihan asked kindly.

Sakamoto’s face flushed as purple as a pig’s liver, his swollen eyes barely a slit. He looked utterly miserable. If he had a gun now, he would have killed this sanctimonious man without hesitation.

If he had a bomb, he would have thrown it into the crowd, making the Western witnesses to his crushing defeat meet their gods.

The drinking students immediately focused on Sakamoto as he lifted the basin.

Since this game was called the Devil’s Ladder, someone had to climb it for the devil to appear.

Now, Sakamoto was that climber.

Of course, he would be the one to become the devil in the end.

Most of the students, fueled by alcohol, were enthusiastic, eager to see Sakamoto down the entire basin in one go. Such a drinking spectacle was rare and no one wanted to miss it.

Though everyone knew that drinking this basin might turn Sakamoto into the devil immediately, this was a moment of revelry. Without the devil’s appearance, none would feel fully satisfied.

Drinking this basin wouldn’t kill him. West Point had good medics—they wouldn’t let Sakamoto die.

Sakamoto sat on the ground, holding the basin.

A bet is a bet.

“Glug glug…”

He began drinking, slow but steady, without stopping.

The surrounding noise resumed.

He downed 2000 milliliters of whiskey mixed with four beers in one go. His face turned a deep purplish red, fierce light gleaming through his swollen eyes as he glared at Zhou Zhihan, wishing to devour him alive.

Finally, the devil emerged from the ladder.

Zhou Zhihan gave Sakamoto a thumbs-up. “Ryunosuke Sakamoto, your capacity for alcohol is impressive! Do all Japanese men have such hearty drinking abilities?”

“Pfft!”

A spray of red wine burst from Sakamoto’s mouth. His willpower couldn’t withstand the potent liquor. Dizzy, his grip loosened, and the basin clanged to the ground. As he fell backward, a spray of blood arced through the air.

A gasp arose from the crowd.

“Medic…”

“Fuck... don’t let the devil turn into a dead man.”

“Damn!”

(End of chapter)