The Power of True Force

"Want to know how much of my skill I held back? You'll find out soon enough."

Yang Erhu rolled his neck, producing a series of crisp cracks, then loosened up his limbs. His voice was calm.

Though his face was weathered and furrowed, and he was already past fifty, merely standing there made him seem like an iron tower rooted firmly in the earth. His broad, solid back muscles stretched his coarse cloth jacket taut, power surging through him as though ready to burst through his clothes.

"Still, Junior Brother, you've spent all these years in the army. Your skills must have improved greatly, haven't they?"

Yang Erhu clasped his fists. His tranquil eyes sharpened like blades as he stared directly at Wu Duxiong.

"There are indeed many experts in the White Scale Guard, but the army's methods differ from the ways martial artists fight in the jianghu. This junior brother has been waiting for Senior Brother to weigh my measure as well."

Wu Duxiong chuckled, meeting Yang Erhu's gaze without the slightest fear as he returned the salute with clasped fists.

At the edge of the training ground, Yang Lie had no mind left for "lying flat." He sprang to his feet, his bright eyes fixed on the two men in the arena.

Hong Yuan held his breath as well, his eyes unblinking as he waited for this contest between martial brothers to erupt.

In the arena, Yang Erhu and Wu Duxiong drew close, and their four fists collided in midair.

The next moment.

Yang Erhu suddenly exhaled and roared, his bellow like a fierce tiger descending the mountain, its howl shaking the hills and wilderness.

Even Yang Lie, standing outside the arena, grimaced at the roar and rubbed his ears. Had an ordinary person been standing before him, they would likely have been frightened out of their wits, reduced to a little white rabbit waiting to be slaughtered.

Before the roar had faded, Yang Erhu thrust forth his clasped fists, smashing toward Wu Duxiong's face like pushing down a golden mountain and toppling a jade pillar.

"What a bastard, Old Yang! No martial virtue at all!"

Wu Duxiong cursed inwardly, but reacted swiftly. He tilted his head aside to evade the blow, yet rather than retreat from its edge, he shook his shoulder and crashed it toward Yang Erhu's chest like a collapsing wall.

Yang Erhu snorted. He withdrew his fists and shifted slightly aside, then his right arm shot out like a steel whip, lashing viciously toward Wu Duxiong's temple.

Whoosh!

Though the "steel whip" had yet to arrive, the fierce wind it carried had already tossed Wu Duxiong's hair and forced his eyes into a narrow squint.

Wu Duxiong sank his waist into a horse stance and barked sharply, bringing up his left arm in a swift horizontal block.

Bang!

Their arms collided without any flourish or trickery. Tremendous force slammed against tremendous force, and searing pain surged through them both. Their faces twitched, then returned to calm.

Their arms remained locked together rather than separating. Like two old children refusing to yield, they strained against each other in a contest of strength.

In the blink of an eye, veins bulged across both arms, and muscles coiled around them like little snakes.

"Junior Brother, does it hurt? If it hurts, just cry out. I watched you grow up, even helped you into split-crotch pants. I won't laugh at you," Yang Erhu said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Hehe! This junior brother is strong in sinew and stout in body, brimming with the vigor of dragon and tiger. This little bit of strength isn't even enough to warm me up. On the other hand, Old Yang, you're nothing but old bones now. You probably have to piss seven or eight times every night, don't you? If you can't hold out, just admit defeat. Don't let your skeleton get shaken apart..."

Wu Duxiong smiled sweetly as well.

"Bullshit! What seven or eight times? At most, I..."

"At most how many times?"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Yang Erhu and Wu Duxiong broke apart in an instant. Their faces flushed red, as if heat were rushing upward. Their four fists became afterimages; in a flash, it seemed as though eight fists, then sixteen fists, tangled together, the sounds of impact ringing out without end.

Their bodies flickered as they moved, their footwork steady and powerful. The blue bricks beneath their feet trembled, while dust and gravel scattered in all directions.

Yang Lie and Hong Yuan were both left dazzled.

"Both their speed and reactions are incredibly fast, and their strength is immense as well..."

Hong Yuan's expression turned grave. He reckoned that even if he entered the arena himself, he would gain no advantage at all.

Moreover, judging by the way Yang Erhu and Wu Duxiong fought, both were clearly still holding something back. Neither had gotten serious.

After all, this was only a sparring match between brothers. How could they truly strike to kill?

If they were truly using killing moves, Wu Duxiong, tempered in the army, should have been most formidable with a saber, not in a contest of fists and kicks against Yang Erhu.

This round of rapid exchanges lasted only a few breaths, nothing like the dozens or hundreds of bouts described in romance novels.

Having experienced life-and-death combat, Hong Yuan understood clearly that in a real battle, a single instant was enough to decide life and death.

Another explosive collision of arms rang out. Yang Erhu and Wu Duxiong flashed apart, each changing position.

The two men steadied themselves, rooted to the ground without swaying. With their hands behind their backs, they cut the figures of great masters.

Unfortunately, Hong Yuan, standing outside the arena, saw everything clearly. The hands hidden behind their backs were spread open, red and purple from swelling, even trembling faintly.

Hong Yuan's mouth twitched. He had thought the fight was about to end, but Wu Duxiong suddenly drew a breath, his chest and abdomen expanding. Then he shot forward, swift as an arrow leaving the bow. In a single step, he crossed the distance to Yang Erhu, his hands spread wide. With two sharp swishes through the air, they had become a pair of claws.

His ten fingers hooked like talons, his claw strikes linked one after another as they tore viciously at Yang Erhu's face, throat, and chest. Every move targeted a vital point, his attack fierce and deadly.

Even Yang Erhu was startled. Wu Duxiong's assault was too savage and too fast. He could only pull back, retreating step after step!

Wu Duxiong stamped forward in pursuit, his claws pressing closer with every step. Like a ferocious hawk that had locked onto its prey, he bit down and refused to let go. However far Yang Erhu retreated, Wu Duxiong pressed forward by the same amount.

In the blink of an eye, Yang Erhu had retreated several yards. Then his back suddenly halted against a jujube-wood stake.

But as the master of the martial arts hall, he knew every blade of grass and every tree in this training ground by heart. Even without eyes in the back of his head, he had long known where the stake stood.

Being forced against the stake was within his expectations. As Wu Duxiong's claws came grabbing at him, Yang Erhu stomped and sprang with both feet, spreading his arms wide as he soared up like a great bird.

Wu Duxiong's claws swept beneath his feet, his fingernails scraping across the stake and leaving several gouged marks.

Yang Erhu landed steadily on top of the five- or six-foot stake with one foot. Without pausing for even an instant, he flipped like a kite turning over and leaped down, landing behind Wu Duxiong. With a low shout, he struck out with his right palm.

The palm strike tore through the wind, seeming almost to rip the air apart. Wu Duxiong's back arched, his scalp tingling as he spun sharply beneath his feet, whirling like a top behind the wooden stake.

With a resounding crack, Yang Erhu's fierce palm strike landed solidly on the stake. The entire post shuddered violently, wood chips and fragments spraying out like rain.

The stake, in the end, did not uproot.

After delivering that palm strike, Yang Erhu seemed like a deflated ball. His face alternated between red and white, sweat streaming down from his forehead as he stood dazed and motionless before the stake.

Wu Duxiong stepped out from behind the stake and watched Yang Erhu, his expression shifting. After two or three breaths, Yang Erhu finally let out a long exhale, seeming to recover from his exhaustion. He sighed. "In the end, I'm old. My strength is failing. Back when I was young... no, even ten years ago, it wouldn't have been so easy for you brat to dodge that palm."

Wu Duxiong did not argue. Instead, he smiled. "If I hadn't dodged it, Old Yang, were you trying to kill me?"

"Hmph! After all those years of training, if you couldn't even dodge that palm, you wouldn't survive long wandering the jianghu anyway. Better to die by my hand than disgrace our master's school."

At some point, Yang Lie had picked up the medicine chest. He rushed into the arena in three strides and took out a medicine for promoting blood flow and dispersing bruises, applying it to Yang Erhu's palms.

Wu Duxiong did not remain idle either, taking some medicine and rubbing it on himself.

Hong Yuan stepped forward as well, his gaze fixed solemnly on the jujube-wood stake driven into the ground.

The thigh-thick stake had split open at the spot Yang Erhu had struck. Several cracks gaped there now, jagged splinters protruding from the breaks while fragments continued to fall away.

It was still far from being snapped in two, but this was already astonishing.

After all, jujube wood was naturally tough and hard. Even a strong man with an axe would have to put in considerable effort to chop through such a thick stake, yet Yang Erhu had cracked part of it with a single palm. The force behind that blow left Hong Yuan deeply amazed.

In film and television dramas, superheroes fought until heaven and earth overturned, cities crumbled, and buildings collapsed. In novels, great emperors waged war until the myriad laws of the universe were extinguished. Hong Yuan was not amazed by such things, because they were fake.

Yet now that Yang Erhu had cracked a jujube-wood stake with one palm, Hong Yuan could not keep his heart from surging.

He had seen this with his own eyes.

Running his palm over the sharp, splintered break and feeling the hardness of the wood, Hong Yuan could not help asking, "Senior Yang, is this True Force?"