Chapter 18: Taking Your Life

Zhou Zhihan and Ryunosuke Sakamoto cast glances at each other from the corners of their eyes, both determined to gain the upper hand.

At the start, they each performed ten deadlifts, matching each other blow for blow. By the fifteenth, Sakamoto had pulled slightly ahead, but his breathing grew labored and a tightness settled in his chest. He stood up straight, exhaled a long breath, and took a deep inhalation, gathering all his strength to finish the remaining five in one go. However, just as he bent back down, he heard the student acting as the referee shout, "Zhou Zhihan, twenty deadlifts completed!"

The surrounding area erupted in noise, punctuated by the clinking of bottles.

Sakamoto stood stunned. Could this "sick man of East Asia" truly be made of iron?

Drenched in sweat, Zhou Zhihan reached for a glass on the table between them, containing 50 milliliters of whiskey, and downed it in one gulp. The students were indulging their youth, and as Zhou drank, they followed suit. Someone immediately handed him a cup of plain water. To keep the spectacle going, the onlookers were practically ready to offer them massages.

Zhou Zhihan took the water, sipped it, tilted his head back, and swished it around. Just as everyone thought he would spit it out, he swallowed it instead, wearing an expression of feigned innocence—as if it were a simple technical error.

The air was filled with shouts of "F—k!"

All eyes turned to Sakamoto. Some students even began to pity him; he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol yet, but his face was swollen and flushed a deep, stinging red.

A bet is a bet, and the one who laughs last is the victor. Sakamoto grabbed the large glass containing 500 milliliters of whiskey and drained it in one breath. Cheers and clinking glasses followed. This was no longer a competition; it had become a super-sized drinking party. Where was the "Devil's Ladder"? This was clearly a ladder for the thirsty.

Sakamoto, having suffered consecutive defeats, felt a mix of shame and white-hot rage. His confidence was shaken, and his resolve began to waver. He couldn't fathom how, in the span of a single breath, the lead he had painstakingly built had vanished, leaving him thoroughly defeated.

But a loss is a loss. He had to drink; no matter the defeat, he could not lose the Bushido spirit of the Yamato people.

The 500 milliliters of whiskey hit his stomach like a raging fire. The alcohol emboldened him, his confidence surging back as his muscles tightened. Despite the losing streak, he remained stubbornly unyielding. Sakamoto reasoned that Zhou Zhihan’s ability to perform twenty 50-kilogram deadlifts was nothing special—anyone with training could achieve that.

In fact, the students felt the same way. Fifty kilograms was merely a basic warm-up; 20 reps were well within reach for anyone present, depending only on their state of mind that day.

The real test would come with weights of 80, 100 kilograms and beyond, which would depend entirely on individual physique, body weight, and the sweat shed in daily training.

Sakamoto’s personal record for a deadlift was 130 kilograms. He was convinced that the tall, thin "sick man of East Asia" would be crushed and cough up blood once the weight exceeded 100 kilograms. Even if he lost the early rounds, as long as he won at the maximum weight, he would be the ultimate victor.

The result is what matters; the process is merely the prelude. Sakamoto had always assumed that Zhou Zhihan, knowing he lacked the raw power, was using the alcohol element to compensate for his own weaknesses—hoping to drink him under the table, unaware that his own tolerance was equally formidable.

The 80-kilogram deadlift round began, set for 15 reps.

The glasses on the table were replaced with larger ones: the small glass now held 100 milliliters of whiskey with a beer on the side, while the large bowl held 1,000 milliliters of whiskey accompanied by two beers. A basin was placed on either side of the table.

At Sergeant Jink White's command to "Start," both men lifted the 80-kilogram barbells.

The atmosphere was thick with applause, shouting, profanities, and the clatter of beer bottles. The previous 50-kilogram round had been nothing but an appetizer; the main course had finally arrived. Zhou Zhihan appeared to be about 177 centimeters tall and weighed no more than 75 kilograms. It wasn't impossible for him to lift 80 kilograms, but he was known for being lazy and sleeping in—could he really pull it off?

When they reached 10 reps, both men paused to pant heavily.

One. Two. Three.

After only a three-second pause, Zhou Zhihan continued his lifts, shattering the rhythm Sakamoto had been using to catch his breath. He never imagined that this "salted fish" could adjust his tempo so quickly.

Sakamoto scrambled to respond, managing only three more reps before Sergeant Jink White shouted, "Zhou Zhihan, 80 kilograms, 15 deadlifts completed!"

Sakamoto felt choked by his own frustration. He had lost again, his eyes burning a terrifying red.

Zhou Zhihan grabbed a basin from the table, poured in 100 milliliters of whiskey, used his teeth to pop open a beer bottle, and poured both the beer and the whiskey into the basin. He held it, casting a sideways glance at Sakamoto. Seeing Zhou use his teeth to open the bottle, the students couldn't help but twitch—did all Chinese people open beer like that?

Sakamoto gritted his teeth. He had achieved 12 reps at 100 kilograms before. He refused to believe this "sick man" could manage 10 reps at 100 kilograms. He could handle this 1,000-milliliter mixture.

Afraid of breaking a tooth, Sakamoto used an opener, poured two bottles of beer and 1,000 milliliters of whiskey into his basin, lifted it, and drank it all in one go.

The students drank along with them, but privately, many were comparing themselves to the two. Some felt they could do it too, while others began to harbor jealousy toward Zhou Zhihan. Why was he so capable? He should have remained the "salted fish" he always was.

"A ruthless man, indeed!" Zhou Zhihan applauded Sakamoto. "I hope you keep up the momentum and bring something even tougher. Let's climb straight up the Devil's Ladder!"

Sakamoto’s face turned even redder. He ignored the mockery, loosened his belt, and walked toward the 100-kilogram barbell. He had to win this round. If he didn't, the alcohol to follow would be even harder to stomach.

Everyone knew this round was the turning point. A 100-kilogram deadlift was no easy feat for anyone, and the loser would have to consume a staggering amount of alcohol. No one could afford to lose.

Watching Sakamoto down the 1,000-milliliter mixture of whiskey and beer, then flip the large basin over, the students cheered and toasted in a frenzy. They could already sense the true nature of the Devil's Ladder.

On the table between the 100-kilogram barbells, two basins—one large and one small—were already waiting, and several students were busy pouring bottles into them.

For the 50-kilogram round, it had been 50ml and 500ml.
For the 80-kilogram round, it was 100ml of whiskey plus one beer, and 1,000ml of whiskey plus two beers.
For the 100-kilogram round, the glasses were replaced by basins: the small basin held 200ml of whiskey plus two beers, and the large basin held 2,000ml of whiskey plus four beers.

With 600ml in a bottle of whiskey, 2,000ml was more than three bottles. Drinking three bottles of hard liquor mixed with four beers—what kind of concept was that?

If Sakamoto lost again, he would have to drink another 2,000ml of whiskey and four beers, totaling nearly six bottles of whiskey and six bottles of beer. My God, that was enough to kill a man.

"F—k!"
"F—ks..."

If they made it to the 120-kilogram round, would the large basin contain 4,000ml of whiskey and eight beers? This wasn't drinking; this was bathing. This wasn't a competition; it was a gamble with their lives.

The Devil's Ladder had finally bared its terrifying fangs. Zhou Zhihan was out for Sakamoto's life, and he was going to take it, fair and square.