Dust flew across the arena as Fist Wind and fist shadows intertwined, forming an impenetrable wall of air.
Shen Lie's Pashan Fist grew ever more ferocious. Every punch cracked sharply through the air, and wherever his fists swept past, the thick wooden edges of the arena shook and shed splinters.
He fixed his gaze on Yang Jing's elusive figure, veins bulging at his temples. Internal energy surged wildly through his meridians, yet he always fell just a fraction short.
Yang Jing was like a gust of wind. Just as Fist Wind was about to engulf him, he tapped his toes against the edge of the arena and drifted diagonally more than ten feet away, landing three feet behind Shen Lie.
Bang!
Shen Lie spun and punched empty air. His fist sank deep into a gap between the arena's wooden boards, sending splinters flying.
He wrenched his fist free. His knuckles had reddened, and his breathing had grown heavy.
They had exchanged nearly a hundred moves. His internal energy had been like a flood released through open gates, raging and surging at first, but now it was gradually showing signs of exhaustion. Each attempt to gather strength took more effort than the last.
Yang Jing, meanwhile, remained in easy control.
His footwork was so fast that his afterimages almost joined into one. Sometimes he skimmed past Shen Lie's fists like a dragonfly touching water; sometimes he used the momentum of Shen Lie's punches to spin around to his flank. Occasionally, their fists collided, but he always used his movement to deftly disperse some of Shen Lie's punching force.
Whenever Shen Lie tried to gather power for a killing move, Yang Jing immediately retreated, never giving him a chance to clash head-on. Once Shen Lie's attack was spent, he closed in again