Chapter Sixty-five: Transcendence (II)

Diao Fengsheng let out a sinister laugh, his expression saturated with a strange blend of wickedness and transcendence. His empty hands, upright posture, and feet hidden beneath his robe gave the impression of walking on air; though his figure remained three yards away, the fierce force he released crashed forward like an iron pillar.

Sixteenth Form of the Diao Family Fist—Heaven and Earth Beneath the Sleeves!

Under this sweeping sleeve, within a radius of five yards, the water vapor already scorched into white mist surged like rolling waves, like a raging dragon tearing through the forest, sweeping toward its target. This dense vapor, if it struck one’s face, would burn no less than sulfuric acid. Leveraging the harsh environment, from the very first move, Diao Fengsheng unleashed a killing strike.

With the vapor pressing down so relentlessly, even with the ability to shrink the earth by inches, escape was impossible. The opponent’s silhouette, ghostly in the mist, seemed poised to strike.

Kou Li’s expression remained unchanged, but his throat rattled and his abdomen swelled and contracted, energy rising to the crown of his head, neck rigid and straight. With each breath, the muscles on his body snapped taut, and though his physique did not change, his aura multiplied in intensity.

He resembled neither tiger nor man, but rather a tiger demon rising from the mountains, demonic energy overflowing, his fierce eyes flashing wildly.

“Roar!”

Stamping his feet on two posts, at the peak of his ferocity, he suddenly collapsed his torso, compressing the breath in his dantian to its utmost limit, forming a gale that howled like a tiger, scattering sand and stones in its fury.

To onlookers, the monstrous, surging hot mist crashed headlong into an invisible mountain, collapsed inward, and then split in two as if a sharp blade had sliced through butter. The vapor rebounded onto the boiling water, sending countless hot drops splattering in all directions, hissing as they struck walls.

When the droplets landed on people—

Fortunately, most present were seasoned fighters who deftly deflected them. Luo Yanzong circled his hand, letting five or six drops slide away into other directions.

“Secret Sound Tiger Roar!” Zhong Quan was startled; this lost ancient fist technique was legendary in the martial arts circles of Guangdong. Many claimed that, if completed, it could be the foundation of a new school.

“When did your Burning Body Hall acquire the full manual?” Master Guo exclaimed, astounded at the implications.

Yue Wuhe smiled quietly; the man before them was, after all, a living manual.

A muffled thumping echoed; a shadow flickered in the mist. Kou Li, with a cold chicken step, twisted his force, his toes gripping the pillar like claws, setting up the Five Flowers Mountain Seat—Mountain Sitting Single Whip!

Hand, elbow, shoulder—tip, middle, base—twisted together as if three bamboo nodes swelling simultaneously, then smashed down with the force of a whip, three segments of power in one strike.

Diao Fengsheng’s face flashed briefly in the hot mist; his sleeves billowed again, his legs thick as elephant’s, striking upward to counter.

With a ripping sound—

The crimson sleeve split instantly, but from within sprang a black snake, darting past the fist frame, shooting toward his opponent’s face.

Sanshou, once called fist courage, hand combat, or white fighting, is a style of boxing that changes endlessly, shifting from utmost hardness to utmost softness without pause.

To Luo Yanzong and Huo Jundong, the eruption of a venomous snake implied the force of a stormy tornado.

“Whirlpool force!”

What is whirlpool force? It is the explosive power unleashed through muscle, tendon, skin, and blood vessels, like a whirlpool at the riverbed—tremendous, without warning or preparation, a hallmark of martial mastery.

Below mastery, none are invincible; this saying has never been disproved in the fighting world.

Kou Li retreated, stamping his feet, twisting his hips and legs, channeling power between his feet. The wooden post creaked under the strain.

Foot twist, leg twist, hip twist, abdomen twist, waist twist, chest twist, shoulder twist, elbow twist.

“Boom!”

A flat thunderous tiger roar resounded, as if a subdued wild cat cried out in defiance.

Using Tiger Strike and Tiger Claw as foundation, he extracted spinning force, shook the tiger frame, caught the opponent’s thrust, then transformed his arms into jaws—opening wide to crush the adversary’s limb.

But Diao Fengsheng, not exhausting his force, flipped his hand back like a spring, simultaneously striking with his knee, using internal martial techniques.

A normal person struck by such a blow would be sent flying three or four yards away.

His figure surged forward, toes flicking, and as Kou Li forced him back, he lightly tapped a post—snapping it with a crisp sound.

Kou Li’s heart tightened; his body seemed about to fall into the water below.

Diao Fengsheng followed close, raining blows with the Diao Family’s arrow strike sanshou. His arms, like a storm of arrows, battered down, the mist scattered by the rapid strikes.

A string of muffled blows sounded, like rain on banana leaves, hidden and overt force mingling, sweat flying from the fists.

With each punch, a purple mark appeared on Kou Li’s arm, painful and burning. His opponent’s force was astounding, infused with a unique energy that penetrated the flesh.

Yet Kou Li’s eyes drooped, his gaze increasingly gentle, seemingly unconcerned by the pain.

Within three breaths, they exchanged over a dozen blows. Diao Fengsheng, astonished, glanced down to see Kou Li’s calves and thighs mysteriously glued to the post, using it as a fulcrum to contend.

To maintain such force without collapsing, mere skill was not enough—unless—

“Internal adhesive force,” Mo Yi murmured, turning to Luo Yanzong. He recalled no such ability in Kou Li’s repertoire.

“Mastering the Child’s Post,” Luo Yanzong replied without turning. Diao Fengsheng’s physical prowess surprised him, but Kou Li’s technique was equally remarkable.

Before the match, he had been pessimistic about this deadly contest. But for a fighter seeking a breakthrough, persuasion was pointless.

He had resolved: if his comrade died, he would not intervene, but he would avenge him.

Now, however, surprises abounded—mostly pleasant ones.

Diao Fengsheng spun, arms rolling and hooking, suddenly breaking Kou Li’s tiger fist. His heels and toes flushed red as he sidestepped, gliding as if skating through the air.

In a flash, he vanished into the mist.

At that moment, Kou Li’s spirit reached its peak—and its most perilous point. In his mind, dozens of bamboo joints sprouted, ten fingers grasping and releasing as if clutching objects. His bones crackled in unison.

The Tiger Riding Bamboo, leveraging the spring force of bamboo, allowed him to launch a tiger pounce with his upper body, simultaneously kicking the pillar that had bound him.

Yet, using bamboo force and striking with the upper body, he lost some power and his form began to sink.

Lin Su’e, finally glimpsing his figure, screamed, fearing he would fall into the boiling water.

But at the critical moment, Kou Li’s ten fingers flicked, palms gripping and pulling, his tailbone trembling lightly. Like a feline climbing a tree, he rapidly scaled to the top of the post.

“Something’s off,” Wolf Prince suddenly remarked.

“Indeed,” Winged Wolf Luo Yi dropped his playful demeanor. “They’re fighting as if they’re practicing.”

A boxer’s training power, in life-and-death combat, if he achieves sixty percent, he is already experienced. Eighty percent is the mark of decades of practice, but by then stamina and energy decline.

In this deadly arena, tension was extreme; a misstep meant death, and even the best could only perform at fifty percent.

Falling into the water meant being boiled alive; landing on the knife posts meant being skewered. Many boxers had been scared witless here.

Boxing does bolster courage, but never has it been heard that it renders one fearless of death.

Yet, before their eyes, both seemed to disregard life and death entirely, pushing their skill beyond tenfold, reaching twelve.

In such an environment, this amounted to a miracle.

“Something’s wrong with both their mental states,” someone summarized.

Figures flickered in the mist, but every explosive clash cleared the vapor momentarily.

The Diao Family’s sanshou, reportedly from Jiangxi, was famed for blending hardness and softness, encompassing rolling, hooking, grappling, and seizing—seventy-two forms, hundreds of variations. Its reputation as Southern China’s premier sanshou was not limited to Guangdong.

Such complexity, combined with whirlpool force and peak physical condition, thoroughly suppressed the opponent.

In the arena, apart from the four master-level boxers, none dared claim they could withstand such varied tactics.

Yet surprisingly, Kou Li, though frail in form, was powerful in presence. His palms, fists, claws, and fingers defended endlessly, his tiger shape darting, his force chaotic, relying on animal instinct to evade fatal strikes.

He had no chance of victory, but neither did he face defeat.

Both fighters’ stamina dwindled rapidly.