A simple, ordinary punch—let alone any martial artist who practiced boxing, even a three-year-old child at play could throw it. It looked almost like a joke, without even the slightest superfluous movement.
Yet Meng Zhao's punch was one of great skill appearing clumsy. The intricate workings of the muscles, tendons, flesh, and skin throughout his body were comparable to unleashing hundreds or thousands of moves. With physical strength alone, he shook the air, layered force upon force, and stirred up the divine power of a hundred thousand jun. He could even launch fist-shaped air blasts through the air and shatter iron and stone thirty zhang away.
Not to mention that this punch was surging with true qi and contained a terrifying will—overbearing beyond compare, capable of suppressing Gods and Devils.
The power of his flesh, combined with torrential true qi and an incomparably tyrannical Martial Dao Will, formed an utterly peerless punch.
In a blur, the fist shot forth, accompanied by a dragon's roar. With a Heavenly Dragon Chant, the fist force transformed into a fierce, proud divine dragon. Its head was as large as a mountain gate, like a Hidden Dragon Emerging from the Abyss, roaring as it surged out and bit toward the azure tornado formed by the fist shadows filling the sky.
It was like an egg striking a stone, yet also like a blade slicing through tofu. The instant they collided, Zhang Zhichong's Thousand Shadow Fist winds, which he had considered a formidable technique, were swept away completely. The dragon-shaped fist force continued onward without losing momentum, hurtling toward Zhang Zhichong.
Zhang Zhichong's face turned pale, and he spat out a mouthful of blood. As his body swayed, he had already fled beyond the area covered by that fist force.
In an instant, a violent tremor