Chapter 6: The Seventh Grandmaster of Cantonese Boxing (Part II)

“I remember your exact words back then: with your meager skills, if it weren’t for my carelessness and negligence, how could you have defeated me? Once I’ve healed, that will be the day you die.”

A faint smile curled at the corner of Kou Li’s mouth, as if amused by something he had just witnessed.

Liu Bo hadn’t expected such blatant disrespect. His face turned pale with a tinge of green as regret gnawed at him—if he had known he couldn’t win, he wouldn’t have uttered such harsh words, nor would he have so recklessly pressed forward like a fool.

“Master Kou, the bigger picture must come first, the bigger picture,” Hong Tielin said awkwardly. Among this group, none had escaped without being dealt with by the other side; if one were to start tallying grievances, it would be endless.

Kou Li smiled without replying, his gaze sweeping the circle. He roughly understood why Young Master Huang had summoned him—this was a gathering of hotheads meant to stabilize the scene.

“Want to spar? Test your skills against mine. You can come at me together; if you make me retreat even a step, I’ll admit defeat.”

He stood casually in the center of the arena, loose and unhurried, as if taking a leisurely stroll.

Either the opponent had no martial skill at all, or—another possibility—their mastery was so profound that nothing could be discerned on the surface.

Ren Tu Ba’s expression suddenly darkened. He slowly uttered a few words: “Northern-style stabbing foot technique, Ba Chao.”

“Kou Li, familiar with pictorial boxing and free fighting.”

In martial arts, the technique is often declared first if it’s superior; if the person is more formidable, their name is stated instead. This was the custom of the trade.

A flash of bloodthirst gleamed in Ren Tu Ba’s eyes. He growled low, clasped his palms before his chest, with palms inward, feet moving in rapid succession, opening wide with a twisting motion; his waist, abdomen, and leg muscles tensed, then a feint with his right hand followed by a fierce stomp from his left foot aimed at the enemy’s chest, driving power from arms and legs alike.

This high-raised kick was the eighth move of the stabbing foot technique—Rear Turning Circular Kick!

In the borderlands, killing skill was less about the kill itself than about the ability to flee. Vast grasslands stretched endlessly; one’s speed had to surpass that of horses to kill and escape safely.

Ren Tu Ba had killed on the frontier for three years. Even the swiftest steeds of the nomads could not catch him.

Thus, this stabbing kick was accompanied by a sharp, explosive sound.

Kou Li’s ear skin instantly retracted; his tiger palm reflexively snapped out, catching the foot just an inch from his chest. The sensation was like grasping a spinning iron cone.

He inhaled deeply; his five fingers turned purple-blue like small radishes, the fingertips hooked, piercing the foot’s surface, halting its momentum.

Unexpectedly, his claws did not penetrate deeply. At most, they grazed the skin, as if an internal force resisted his claw’s power.

“Interesting,” Kou Li’s eyes brightened. He laughed heartily, redirecting the force, releasing internal energy through his palm. A sharp clap of the palm scattered fine mist from his pores, and the opponent’s foot flicked outward like a compass needle.

If this were a southern boxing master, such overwhelming internal energy would shatter their stance instantly, sending them flying at least thirty feet.

But this opponent was a battle-hardened northern boxing expert, known for tough sinews and fierce techniques. His muscles bulged, and his skin was like marble weathered by millennia of wind and sand.

As his right foot planted firmly, his left foot shot upward like an arrow, aiming at the vulnerable earlobe—a tenth move: Left Arrow Kick!

Alas, the scene repeated itself; Kou Li’s hand brushed the opponent’s toes at the last moment again.

A whirlwind of footwork erupted, fierce and relentless. Countless shadows of feet surrounded Kou Li from all sides. Occasionally, ruthless strikes landed, leaving a trail of footprints on the ground.

Even as they landed, the foot shadows remained like blades, slashing and chopping wildly. The spinning stabbing foot technique was battlefield knowledge—used to dodge cavalry charges and disable horses’ legs.

Yet, despite such ferocity, Kou Li did not retreat an inch. At most, he met force with force. Ren Tu Ba was astonished to find that the opponent’s leg strength rivaled his own—and, more strikingly, the opponent was mimicking his moves!

“Bone refinement? No, internal style boxing? That’s not right either. Could it be the body of an invulnerable one?” Guo Jing narrowed his eyes, muttering to himself. His palms instinctively tapped the armrest. Though his face showed no change, the wooden armrest beneath was already rotted to a pulp.

Ren Tu Ba finally ceased his foot attacks, still unwilling to concede. The ground within twenty feet bore his footprints deeply. He cast Kou Li a long look and admitted, “I am no match for you.”

“Of course,” Kou Li replied matter-of-factly.

“How do you do it?” Ren Tu Ba asked. How was it that each time, the opponent could push away his attacks an inch from his body, and even the toes felt a prickling numbness?

“Years of practicing internal style boxing. Skin becomes sensitive, able to achieve instant response or evasion. Pushing, shifting, and side strikes create a sensation like electric shocks.”

“But you said you practiced pictorial boxing and free fighting!”

“No choice, born this way.”

Ren Tu Ba was proud and ambitious—not the recklessness of youth, but a deep-seated scorn for life after having killed enough. Such pride was fragile and only truly tested when facing someone vastly superior in the realm of life and death.

It was clear Kou Li was such a formidable figure.

After a few steps, two middle-aged twins with blue silk headscarves and wielding paired Ziwu mandarin-duck axes blocked his path in unison.

“We are the Luan brothers of the Bagua Sect; please honor us with your teaching.”

Seeing Kou Li raise an eyebrow, they continued, “We always fight together against two opponents. You may call one ally or many to join the fray. Moreover, we only compete with weapons—”

“No need to explain. Let’s fight together.”

Before Kou Li could gesture, Zhu Ying’er came running over, holding a raised child’s fish-cutting sword, her small eyes sparkling with excitement. She clearly enjoyed the spectacle.

With a swift motion, Kou Li drew the demon blade. A black-eyed child’s head appeared on the front of the blade, while the reverse side transformed into a strange fish swimming back and forth.

This was an upgraded version of the Wordless Image ability, an external sensory extension that enhanced the connection between man and blade, blending them as one, like an extension of the fingers and arms. The downside was the demon blade’s soul-entangling effect also intensified greatly.

As the blade emerged, overwhelming murderous intent surged into Kou Li’s mind. Before his eyes was a boundless ocean of blood.

The Bagua Ziwu Yin-Yang Chicken Claw spear was the Bagua Sect’s signature weapon. Its tip was a spindle-shaped spike; the rear end resembled a rooster’s head with sharp crown and hooked beak. The spear body was sword-shaped with an outer edge blade. The handle featured a lattice guard, wing-shaped side blades, and three rooster-claw hooks on the outer edge opposite the guard, all forged from steel.

This peculiar weapon had thirty-two secret techniques, including sealing, closing, locking, grabbing, hooking, lifting, parrying, carrying, piercing, stabbing, pulling, and cloud moves.

Everyone anticipated another fierce duel akin to before, as this exotic weapon was renowned in northern martial circles.

The outcome, however, was unexpected.

Three explosive sounds rang out. The Luan brothers simultaneously tumbled to the ground, bleeding from their tiger palms. The Bagua Ziwu Yin-Yang Chicken Claw spear shattered into a dozen pieces, steel shards scattered across the floor.

When beginning their training, masters typically taught students a set of weapon forms. Weapon-wielding fighters were on an entirely different level from those without.

Young martial artists obsessed with unarmed combat often lacked proficiency with weapons. The Luan brothers had cleverly used their strengths against the opponent’s weaknesses but overlooked Kou Li’s abilities. To him, boxing and blade work were indistinguishable.

Kou Li’s saber skill was powerful enough to cut through cannons; mere tempered steel was no obstacle.

The Luan brothers stared in terror at their foe, whose eyes revealed an abyssal depth of killing intent.

After a moment, Kou Li closed his eyes, then reopened them with an icy gaze that swept the blade. The images of the child and strange fish vanished simultaneously as he sheathed the sword.

A blade that cannot be controlled loses its reason for existence.

Kou Li stepped forward once more, this time facing an elderly man with slender, pale hands and a grim, eerie visage.

“You’re not from the Central Plains?” Kou Li asked, noting the man’s wild, beast-like aura.

“I am Ruan Mingxiu, a refugee from Jiaozhi. In my youth, I was a grand attendant to the Ruan family. After the young prince’s failed rebellion, I fled Jiaozhi. I have long admired Princess Feng’s name and came seeking refuge.”

It was hard to tell, but Ruan Mingxiu spoke the Central Plains language quite well. Young Master Huang was unreserved in accepting all comers; by this man’s account, he was a wanted rebel in Jiaozhi.

“What do you want to compare with me?”

“Heh heh, martial skill, I am far inferior to you. I wish only to test my strength against yours.”

At these words, Ruan Mingxiu pulled a small chunk of dark green-black flesh from his pocket, placed it in his mouth, and chewed slowly.

Kou Li thought of Siamese warriors who enhanced themselves by consuming demon flesh; this seemed a similar method.

Suddenly, a fierce heartbeat thundered—one beat after another—like a pounding drum growing louder and louder. The old man’s expression twisted in agony. One hand clutched his mouth, the other his chest, his whole body trembling, his back hunching from the pain.

Then the astonishing spectacle shocked all present. The old man suddenly howled, his eyes bulging, saliva dripping. His right arm suddenly shot out with fierce speed, growing larger and larger—twice, five times, ten times its original thickness—finally exceeding the thickest beam in the hall by half again. Green tufts of hair sprouted like a grass nest from his skin, hanging down half a zhang from his arm’s surface.