A thunderous, hollow boom rang out.

At the entrance to the abandoned village, this was a blow Monk Tunyun could never possibly have imagined—beyond all expectation, coming out of nowhere, as if he had stumbled straight into a trap laid in advance.

As the old man threw that single-handed punch, the force of it came whistling down upon him in an instant. In that very first moment, all he could see was that simple punch, swinging out, growing larger, forming a vortex…

But from what Ning Yi and the others could see, the old man had merely tilted his head slightly and pushed out a single punch toward Monk Tunyun—and the vortex that erupted wasn’t something the old man himself had produced, but rather Monk Tunyun suddenly curling up his own body in that very instant, his body and cassock seeming to cave inward like a vortex under the force of that punch, his massive sleeves billowing with a great roar of sound. Then he was sent flying directly backward, two or three zhang away.

Highly skilled in martial arts, and especially renowned for his lightness technique, his feet barely seemed to move at all in that instant—yet his entire body, as if struck by lightning, was flung two or three zhang through the air, even producing a thunderous whoosh of displaced wind as it went. Purely as a spectacle, it was far more impressive than the old man’s own understated sideways punch. He only came to a stop three zhang away, against the wall of an earthen hut, his expression already changed. Ning Yi, perhaps not yet able to fully appreciate the old man’s punch technique, could nonetheless clearly read the reactions on everyone’s faces, and murmured with quiet applause, “Nice lightness skill.” Beside him, Hongti gave the faintest hint of a smile.

In contrast to Ning Yi’s somewhat teasing remark at this moment, the crowd on the other side wore grave expressions, some confused, some horrified. Though Ning Yi spoke this lightly under his breath, in truth his own thoughts mirrored the shock on their faces, puzzling over the identity of this suddenly-appeared old man. He too was beginning to sense that something was amiss. Yet the old man had not yet turned his attention to him; following that single punch, the old man had already turned around.

“Lu Wenhu.” Only then did he speak. “You people really have grown less and less particular, haven’t you—even taking up with bandit trash like this now!”

Lu Wenhu’s brow furrowed, his expression turning grave. By the earthen hut, Monk Tunyun was still muttering, “Who are you…” but a name suddenly flashed through his mind, and realization dawned. “Iron… you’re—”

“Hmph. Monk Tunyun, I’ve seen your name on the government’s wanted notices around here. Since fate has brought us together, this old man shall rid this land of you, for the sake of its people.”

As the old man spoke, he drew back the hand at his side, turning it, clenching it into a fist, stepping forward—everything about it appeared as calm and unremarkable as drifting clouds, yet with that single step forward, everything suddenly changed.

The distance of two or three zhang closed in a single stride, appearing on the surface to be an utterly ordinary sight—and yet, with a stance as steady and immovable as a mountain, another punch was thrown at Monk Tunyun. Facing this punch, the monk, who had only just steadied his footing, had no time to spare for words; his body twisted and swayed wildly, seeming to shift through five or six different postures in the span of an instant, but like a mosquito desperately fluttering before the mouth of a cannon, another boom rang out as the punch landed on his iron cassock. In that instant, dirt sprayed up behind him, and Monk Tunyun was squeezed out from between the force of the punch and the earthen hut’s wall, his body slipping through like an eel, though the impact left a crumbling dent in the mud-brick wall.

His body squeezed through, wobbled, and covered another zhang or so of distance; he grabbed a nearby companion and shoved him toward the blue-robed old man, but with a bang, the old man had already closed the distance directly, his large hand reaching out to grab. A thunderous crash sounded to the side as the man Tunyun had shoved forward was struck flying by the old man’s fist, slamming straight into the earthen hut nearby. The house, already old and in disrepair, having been shoved by Tunyun’s back and now struck by this collision as well, came crashing down with a rumble.

Squeezing his way out, Tunyun shifted again, covering another zhang or so of distance, exchanging blow after blow with the old man in rapid succession—boom, boom, boom, boom—the wide-robed monk retreating steadily, his sleeves and fists flailing wildly in counterattack, yet each time he was struck open by the old man’s simple arm-swings or plain punches, his defenses broken through. But he too was a skilled fighter, and each time he was struck open, he immediately shifted his technique to counter, using speed to compensate as he retreated, seeming, at least for now, to avoid repeating the earlier embarrassing setback.

This exchange lasted roughly five or six breaths.

Ning Yi still hadn’t quite grasped the specifics of the overall situation, nor the relative standing of the two fighters, when he heard Monk Tunyun shout, “Zhou Tong! You go too far—”

A thought settled firmly in Ning Yi’s mind—only Iron Arm Zhou Tong could match the identity of the old man before them. And right after those words, Monk Tunyun’s figure retreated further, grabbing a millstone and hurling it at Zhou Tong. Zhou Tong swept out a palm, knocking the millstone flying into a nearby mud wall, and at the same moment, Monk Tunyun’s foot touched down to make his escape. Zhou Tong snorted coldly. “Trying to run!” and reached out to grab him.

Just as Monk Tunyun’s body leapt up, Zhou Tong’s hand had already caught hold of his robe. Amid the dust from the collapsed mud wall nearby, the two exchanged two or three more blows. Ning Yi heard a loud bang, and a figure was sent flying high through the air, rolling across the ground before spitting out a mouthful of blood and scrambling up to run.

The cassock itself remained in Zhou Tong’s grasp—Monk Tunyun had shed it like a cicada molting to make his escape, leaping over a waterway at the edge of the abandoned village, charging into an overgrown field beyond, running desperately. Perhaps sensing the danger hadn’t fully passed, he didn’t even pause to say a word. It was the first time Ning Yi had ever seen someone run that fast.

Zhou Tong frowned, casually tossing aside the iron-threaded cassock, took a few steps forward, and picked up a fragment of the shattered millstone from the ground, hurling it toward the fleeing monk in the distance. The stone fragment whistled through the air like a cannonball, covering over a hundred meters and striking the fleeing figure squarely in the back. Monk Tunyun spat out a mouthful of blood, tumbling five or six zhang through the weeds in the field, before scrambling back up and running off into the distance.

Behind Ning Yi and Hongti, the middle-aged man who had come along with Zhou Tong looked as though he wanted to give chase, but in the end held back. Watching the man disappear into the forest, Zhou Tong clasped his hands behind his back and shook his head.

After a moment’s silence, Zhou Tong finally turned his gaze toward Ning Yi and Hongti. Lu Wenhu and the others tentatively cupped their hands. “El-Elder Zhou, could it be that you’ve come here for…”

“Why I’ve come is none of your concern. Don’t let me catch you consorting with such treacherous scum again. Be off with you!”

At these words, Lu Wenhu and the others looked as though they’d been granted a pardon, hastily taking their leave. Ning Yi, however, felt a bit put out—his companion Hongti, apparently also of grandmaster-level skill herself, just wasn’t as famous, and yet this whole crowd had come charging in recklessly to kill them without a second thought. Zhou Tong too was a grandmaster, carrying the title of the world’s foremost fighter—when he’d fought Monk Tunyun one-on-one, someone like Lu Wenhu hadn’t dared make a move. With that little nerve, and they still wanted to be alliance leader? What a joke!

If they’d all ganged up together, there might have been a chance…

Even as he thought this, Ning Yi still couldn’t objectively judge the true measure of Zhou Tong’s skill—but the man had held his renowned name for many years, and clearly it wasn’t undeserved. Watching him fight Monk Tunyun just now, the way every single punch had come down like a mountain, leaving even someone as strong as Tunyun unable to dodge, Ning Yi guessed he was probably a full level above even Hongti. And as the others departed, a certain feeling had already begun to crystallize in his mind, one that made him instinctively reach toward the firearm at his thigh.

Before long, that feeling was confirmed.

The old man, hands still clasped behind his back, looked toward them, and when he spoke again, the arrogance he’d shown toward Lu Wenhu and his group was gone. “Butcher Ning, Miss Lu—this old man is Zhou Tong. I happened to be passing through today, under orders to take both your lives.”

“I should’ve joined the mob attacking you earlier…” Ning Yi sighed. “Orders from the Grand Marshal’s office?”

Zhou Tong had kept his gaze fixed on Hongti the whole time, but at Ning Yi’s remark, he glanced over at him. “No wonder they call you the demonic menace…” He turned his gaze back to Hongti and said with a smile, “So… Miss Lu, why don’t you take three punches from me.”

This grandmaster of his generation, in saying these words, carried surprisingly little of the overbearing pressure or dramatic weight one might expect. Hongti, who had been watching Zhou Tong’s earlier moves calmly all along, nodded now just as calmly, handing her long sword over to Ning Yi. “Alright.”

Ning Yi took the sword, studying her expression carefully, but could read little from it. As Lu Hongti stepped forward, Ning Yi cupped his hands toward the middle-aged man in the blue robe who had approached. “Greetings, sir.”

The middle-aged man smiled and returned the gesture. “Greetings, Young Master Ning.” Ning Yi thought this man might be some kind of servant, then realized he was probably Zhou Tong’s household retainer—if he’d followed someone of Zhou Tong’s caliber since childhood, having grown up at his side into his forties, he too would have become quite skilled by now.

As Ning Yi tried to think of what to say next, the middle-aged man drew closer instead, smiling. “I wonder how Young Master Ning knew the order came from the Grand Marshal’s office?” His tone was amiable. Ning Yi shook his head. “I’ve only just made this enemy recently—it’s probably because the whole Liangshan affair caused too much of a stir… Do you think three punches will be alright?”

What he was really trying to probe, in a roundabout way, was what would happen next. The middle-aged man smiled but shook his head. “That… is hard to say. Young Master Ning should prepare himself as well.”

By now Hongti had walked to within five or six zhang of Zhou Tong, cupping her hands and bowing—a gesture that, while carrying real solemnity, didn’t come with the kind of overwhelming, world-shaking presence one might expect from novels. This clash between grandmasters looked remarkably simple; after all, this wasn’t some world where skilled fighters clashed amid wildly flying bursts of energy. But hearing what the middle-aged man had just said, Ning Yi’s expression suddenly changed. “Are you joking… Monk Tunyun didn’t even take just three punches—so shouldn’t we be drawing swords…”

Before he could finish speaking, Hongti had already settled into a stance on the other side, stepping forward lightly. Zhou Tong, too, was no longer standing with hands clasped behind his back; he smiled and stepped forward. As he advanced, Hongti suddenly surged with force, closing the distance rapidly—within that five-zhang gap, the two figures collided in an instant. In that blur of high-speed motion, Ning Yi could vaguely make out that Hongti’s footwork resembled the stances and steps of Tai Chi, only executed at a speed many times faster, seizing the initiative and pressing the attack. Zhou Tong, on his end, stepped into a bow stance and threw a punch, the strike angled downward and aimed at his opponent’s lower abdomen—about as standard and orthodox a straight punch as one could throw.

With a boom, Hongti’s palm pressed downward, and tremendous force sank straight into the ground; Ning Yi saw her body dip slightly, as if she were redirecting the force of Zhou Tong’s punch downward. Beneath their feet, ripples of dust even rose up from the packed earth. Ning Yi could clearly make out Zhou Tong’s movements, but couldn’t quite follow Hongti’s—only that, right after this deflection, her body suddenly exploded forward, and with a boom, as if using the force of her shoulder and back, she seemed to slam the world’s foremost fighter bodily backward. Dust billowed up; Zhou Tong’s body was sent flying back. Hongti spun around, settling into a light stance, arms raised in a fighting posture—and in that instant, there was almost a kind of dashing, later-era “Chun-Li” quality to her.

Ning Yi felt as though he were witnessing a miracle, never having imagined that Hongti’s skill had reached such a level—meeting Zhou Tong’s punch head-on, and even sending the world’s number one fighter reeling backward. But before this joy and astonishment could even rise from his heart to his throat, Zhou Tong’s laughter reached his ears.

“Hahaha… good—”

That laugh had come even as Zhou Tong was still being sent flying backward, but the sudden shout of “good!” that followed struck like a peal of thunder, and as Zhou Tong’s body retreated and then surged forward again, it came crashing down upon them all at once. Ning Yi’s ears rang with the force of it; across his field of vision, after being knocked back, Zhou Tong’s figure surged straight forward again, both fists slamming toward Hongti.

The punches were heavy—yet utterly silent.

Hongti’s hands moved to block and parry in a single instant, but her body was sent flying backward through the air, blood spraying from her mouth as she tumbled to the ground.

Ning Yi’s mind went blank for a moment—he simply couldn’t process that the fight between the two of them had begun and ended in the blink of an eye. Only now did the middle-aged man’s voice beside him fully register in his ears.

“The older my master gets, the deeper his mastery grows—but his body simply can’t keep pace with his skill anymore… At his very peak, he can manage at most three to five punches like that, but those three to five punches—there’s likely no more than a handful of people under heaven who could withstand them…”

Ning Yi tilted his head slightly, and walked forward toward them…