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If it had merely been a straightforward clash of hard bridges and solid stances, it would not have been difficult to resolve. If he could not block it, he could still temporarily avoid its edge, retreating to evade the fierce attack. That was not a bad method.

However, Tie Xiongfei was an expert even among Innate Masters, with profound mastery of martial arts. While engaging in close-quarters combat, this seemingly simple move actually contained many subsequent variations. If Meng Zhao chose to dodge, he would face an even fiercer and sharper assault.

It was a chain reaction—pull one hair, and the whole body moved.

Yet Meng Zhao did not dodge. Nor did he believe Tie Xiongfei possessed the ability to force him back.

With one hand, he assumed the stance of Luohan Fist and held it across the path of the stabbing palm. It advanced slowly, yet its force grew from weak to strong, like a towering mountain stretching before him. So long as the mountain did not fall, no technique could breach him.

Luohan Fist and the palm blade had a relationship of restraint and counter-restraint. The difference between them was like that between an enormous iron hammer and an exceedingly sharp cleaver.

At the same level, no matter how fierce or capable of cutting a cleaver was, if it struck Big Iron Hammer, it would be jolted into a limp strip of metal, its edge shattered apart.

Tie Xiongfei naturally understood the marvel of this move, yet he did not believe Meng Zhao could block him.

The relationship between techniques and strength was that the former was the surface, the latter the substance. Strength was the core. Without sufficient strength, no matter how exquisite a move was, it was merely flowery fists and embroidered kicks, unfit for the