They Hated Me in My First Life, But Now I Have the Love System
Chapter 295 - 295 If It’s a Fight You Want

Chapter 295: If It’s a Fight You Want…

Chapter 295: If It’s a Fight You Want…

“You think you’re different, but you must be just like your father, I bet.

A tyrant.

A spoiled coward hiding behind money and power.

You’re even hiding your face, ridiculous.

I’m sure you can’t wait to announce your identity to all of us.

So stop pretending already.” And that… that was it.

That was the straw that snapped the last fragile thread holding Abuchi’s patience together.

No.

His eyes narrowed, fire surging beneath his calm exterior.

You can insult me all you want.

Call me spoiled.

Call me lazy.

I can take it.

But you do not, ever, bring my father into this.

His voice dropped even lower, thick with warning.

“My father… has nothing to do with this.

And I would appreciate it,” he said, voice shaking slightly now, not from fear, but from how hard he was holding himself back “if you never mention his name again.

Not like that.” But the man only laughed.

A dry, hollow sound that echoed too loud in the space between them.

“Oh, what now?

Are you going to hit me?” the man jeered.

“Maybe you’ll call your daddy’s people to deal with me later?

Hmph.

Nonsense.” Then he leaned in slightly, face twisting with venom.

“You’re just a bastard child, aren’t you?

Because no real father would raise such a weak, entitled brat.

And if you really are your father’s son…” He spat the final words out like poison.

“Then maybe your father was a bastard too.” Silence.

Like the wind itself had paused to watch.

Abuchi’s breath caught in his throat.

What… did you just say?

His mind reeled.

His vision blurred for a split second.

His chest tightened like someone had taken a hammer to it.

His father, his pillar, his hero, the man who taught him everything about loyalty, strength, and dignity, was gone.

And he missed him every single day.

There was barely a morning he didn’t wake up thinking about him.

Wondering what he would have done.

Wishing he could still ask him.

And this man, this stranger, thought he had the right to drag that name through the mud?

You don’t know him.

You don’t know me.

And yet you speak like you do.

Abuchi stepped forward slowly.

His eyes, once soft and thoughtful, now burned with restrained fury.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t need to.

Because when he finally spoke, his voice trembled with rage so cold, so sharp, it silenced even the birds overhead.

“Take.

It.

Back.” He didn’t shout.

But each word landed like a slap.

The man blinked.

Surprised, maybe even slightly shaken now that he saw what lay behind Abuchi’s calm mask.

But he didn’t step down.

He just scoffed again, more cautiously this time.

“Or what?” he said, voice quieter now, unsure.

Abuchi didn’t move.

But somehow, that stillness was louder than any threat.

The crowd held its breath.

“What, you think you’re too good to recognize other people’s opinions—?” The man didn’t even get to finish his sentence.

Crack!

A clean, sharp thwack echoed across the open market.

His head snapped to the side as Abuchi’s fist collided squarely with his jaw.

The sound was crisp, brutal, and absolute.

Time seemed to pause for half a breath as everyone froze in place.

The man “???” Where am I?

Who am I?

What just happened?

The crowd “…” The man staggered backward, wide eyed.

He nearly toppled over, barely caught by the person behind him who instinctively reached out to steady him.

A murmur swept through the line like a gust of wind through dry grass.

Did that really just happen?

Abuchi’s chest heaved slightly, but his expression remained steady, stone cold.

His knuckles ached slightly from the impact, but he didn’t flinch.

He hadn’t even fully realized he had thrown the punch until it landed.

His body had moved before his mind had caught up.

He didn’t regret it.

Not even for a second.

The crowd began to ripple, their whispers turning into hushed conversations.

The man he had hit was bigger, older.

Easily in his 30s, tall and broad.

Abuchi?

Just a young man, probably in his early twenties.

But that punch wasn’t just muscle.

It seemed to carry years of bottled pain, grief, and unspoken frustration.

And the anger.

The crowd could feel it.

That punch wasn’t just about this man.

It must be about so many other frustrations.

And they were right.

Abuchi couldn’t help but remember everyone who had insulted him.

Looked down on him.

Whispered about his father.

Killed his father.

Overthrown Ruth’s father.

Capturing them and passing the sentence of death.

The man was finally steadied by the people behind him, holding his jaw with disbelief.

His eyes were wide, but not from pain, from shock.

“You—you hit me?” he stammered still in a daze.

Abuchi didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His silence was louder than any words.

And just like that… the mood shifted again.

The people who already hated Abuchi felt a fire light up in their chests.

This was their moment.

A small crowd began to form, more and more people gathering as the tension grew.

A few of them glared at Abuchi with sharp eyes.

They weren’t just curious passersby.

They were allies of the man Abuchi had just punched, friends, coworkers, fellow market regulars.

“You really want to shut him up, huh?” one of them said, voice hard, approaching with slow menace.

“Just because your father has power and money to burn, you think you can do anything you want?” Another stepped in, puffing his chest.

“You think you’re strong just ’cause you landed one lucky punch?” One by one, they began to close in.

The air was changing.

Thick with anger.

Bitter, simmering resentment from people who had always looked at people like Abuchi as the reason they couldn’t breathe.

“If it’s a fight you want…” one of them said, cracking his knuckles.

“…then let’s give you one.” “Yeah,” another sneered, “let’s see how good you are against all of us.”