Fist Like a God, Intent Like a Mirror

Compared to Yang Cai's rough, swarthy, broad fist, Meng Zhao's fist appeared much smaller.

Its skin was fair and tender, lustrous as jade, somewhat like the palm of a newborn infant. A slight press would leave a small indentation; there was nothing remotely imposing or formidable about it.

Yet this punch effortlessly pierced through the surging qi fist, like an embroidery needle popping a balloon, producing a soft pfft.

Then that fair, tender fist collided viciously with Yang Cai's iron fist, which was like that of a colossal Vajra.

At Erniu Peak Summit, where only the sound of the wind had been heard, a long, far-reaching explosion suddenly rang out.

Ring after ring of invisible qi radiance rapidly spread outward from the collision of those two fists, one large and one small. All around them came crackling explosions of force; mountain stones shattered, fierce winds swept outward, old trees collapsed...

Meng Zhao's body was no weaker than Yang Cai's, while his Blood Qi was like that of a true dragon hatchling, boundless in strength.

Yang Cai only felt an incomparably hard force surge from his opponent's fist, numbing his limbs, weakening his sinews and bones, and scattering his Blood Qi. Anyone with an ordinary, frail physique might have suffered internal injuries from that single punch.

However, Yang Cai was no weak-bodied man. Within him, true dragon and tiger spirits coiled, while Vajra divine intent held the fort—unshakable, unmoving, upright as one. He swiftly dispelled the discomfort from the backlash brought by that supremely fierce punch.

But that punch was merely the beginning.

Over the next few breaths, Meng Zhao and Yang Cai resembled two crazed bulls, madly crashing into one another. Neither was willing to retreat even half a step. Their arms left layers of afterimages as hundreds upon thousands