The Crane-like Form Was Hard to Match Against a Single Finger of Divine Power

"Senior Brother's disciple," Elder Unattached said, his gaze sharp as lightning as it swept over Zhu Yingxiong standing quietly in the arena, "has made even the most basic Arhat Fist heavy and forceful, its power penetrating flesh and bone. It seems his foundations are exceptionally solid."

Elder Sorrowless stroked his round belly, his smiling eyes narrowing into crescents. "His inner breath is deep and steady; his future is boundless. Congratulations, Senior Brother, on taking in such a fine disciple."

Worryless turned his prayer beads, his expression as tranquil as ever. "A small victory is nothing worth mentioning. The road of martial arts is long indeed." Though his words were mild, a nearly imperceptible trace of gratification flickered deep in his eyes.

The three eminent monks possessed exceedingly sharp eyes. Though they could all see that Zhu Yingxiong's fist force was solid and his inner breath far deeper than that of his peers, none could have imagined that he had already mastered the Muscle-Tendon Transformation Scripture.

At the edge of the arena, Yuan Hong staggered down, his face flushed red. Whether from his still-turbulent blood and qi or burning humiliation, none could say. Returning to Yuan Xing and the others, his throat bobbed as he said hoarsely, "His... his fists were freakishly heavy. I wasn't paying attention for a moment..."

The others fell silent, though they all knew the truth. What "wasn't paying attention" was there on those stakes? He had plainly been overwhelmed in a head-on clash, unable to fight back as he retreated step by step.

Yuan Xing placed a hand on his shoulder, neither too hard nor too gently. "No matter. In the next round, I'll exchange moves with him myself."

Yuan Hong looked up, hesitated, then finally said in a low voice, "Senior Brother, be careful. His fist force... is truly strange." His spirit had already crumbled; none of his earlier arrogance remained.

The corner of Yuan Xing's lips lifted slightly, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "I know." The deeply ingrained arrogance in his tone remained unshaken. He clearly still believed his cultivation far surpassed the other's.

On the other side, Yuan Cheng had already hurried over to Zhu Yingxiong. His plump face bloomed with a smile as he unceremoniously slapped Zhu Yingxiong's back. "Good! That was satisfying! Junior Brother, you won that match beautifully!"

His eyes crinkled with delight, and he seemed even happier than if he had won himself.

"But I have to take back what I said about your extraordinary accomplishments in the 'future.'" His smile faded as his expression turned serious.

Zhu Yingxiong raised a brow at him.

Yuan Cheng's eyes gleamed as he enunciated every word. "You are already extraordinary."

Zhu Yingxiong was briefly stunned, then shook his head with a laugh. This fat monk always spoke with warmth hiding sharp insight, with bluntness carrying deeper meaning. It made others feel at ease, yet reluctant to take him lightly.

He truly was an interesting fellow.

The following matches continued, but though clashes filled the arena, none stirred much excitement. The watching monks gradually lost interest, and their discussions quieted—until Yuan Xing took the field.

His opponent was a young martial monk of the same generation whose skills were not weak. Yet when Yuan Xing moved, he was like a white crane skimming the waves, light without losing swiftness or strength. In just three to five exchanges, his crane fingers tapped his opponent's Shoulder Well acupoint, releasing and withdrawing their force in an instant.

The martial monk's entire body went numb on one side, and he lost his balance and fell.

Clean and decisive, a victory without a speck of dust.

Yuan Xing drifted down from the stakes, his eyes passing over the crowd to lock onto Zhu Yingxiong once more. This time, he no longer concealed himself. The provocation in his gaze was like needles and thorns, sharp and undisguised.

Once all eighteen victors had been decided, the young novice brought out the lot cylinder again.

A new round of drawing began.

When it was Zhu Yingxiong's turn, he reached into the cylinder. The wooden lot brushing his fingertips was faintly cool. Drawing it out, he saw a bold number one written on it. Yuan Cheng leaned over to look, then showed his own lot—it was number nine.

As number one, Zhu Yingxiong entered the field first. He lightly leaped onto the top of a stake and stood quietly waiting.

At the edge of the arena, a martial monk was about to enter when Yuan Xing raised a hand and pressed it onto his shoulder. The two exchanged a few quiet words. The monk looked hesitant, but eventually nodded and traded his wooden lot with Yuan Xing.

Yuan Xing was clearly already impatient to defeat him.

Yuan Zhuo saw it and frowned slightly, yet did not speak to stop them—the rules had indeed never expressly forbidden exchanging lots.

Yuan Xing lightly tapped the ground with his toes, soaring skyward like a crane. He rose more than ten feet into the air, his robes fluttering, before landing steadily atop a stake.

Yuan Xing stood firmly upon the stake, separated from Zhu Yingxiong by three stakes, his gaze needle-sharp.

"Today, you and I can finally have a proper match." He spoke slowly, his voice carrying a sharpness suppressed for too long. "I will let everyone see—"

He paused slightly, his eyes suddenly turning fierce.

"—how I defeat you with my own hands."

The moment the words fell, he moved.

Yuan Xing stepped like a crane walking, lifting his knees high and setting his feet down lightly. Every step landed precisely in the center of a stake, producing sharp, clipped taps. He moved so fast that faint gray afterimages stretched between the wooden stakes.

Three fingers pinched together like a cone, shaped like a crane's beak, shot forth with a short, crisp, piercing whistle, stabbing viciously at Zhu Yingxiong's temple.

Before the fingers arrived, the gust of force was already upon him!

In that lightning-flash instant—

Zhu Yingxiong's right index finger had somehow extended. Neither too high nor too low, it struck squarely on the Spirit Gate acupoint at Yuan Xing's wrist.

Yuan Xing's expression changed drastically. His entire right arm went numb as though struck by lightning, and his finger force immediately collapsed.

His pupils contracted. He spun sharply, and his left-hand finger cone flashed toward Zhu Yingxiong's neck from the other side, even faster and more dangerous than before!

Yet that same index finger was waiting there like a shadow. Neither too high nor too low, it once again pressed against the Spirit Gate on his left wrist.

A chill ran down Yuan Xing's spine. He switched steps seven times in quick succession, spinning and darting across the stakes. His Crane Cry Finger attacked east and struck west, shifting left and right as finger winds hissed through the air, every move aimed at a vital point.

Yet no matter how swiftly he attacked or how unpredictably he changed his moves, that one index finger always seemed to know beforehand. Each time, just as his force was about to be unleashed, it lightly tapped an essential acupoint on his wrist. Like a shadow clinging to his form, like a nail pinning down his wrist.

After more than ten exchanges, sweat had appeared at Yuan Xing's temples, and his face gradually turned green. Suddenly, he let out a fierce shout and stamped hard on the stake, drifting backward more than ten feet before landing again at the edge of the stake formation, his chest rising and falling slightly.

"This... is impossible..." He stared at his still-numb hands and muttered.

The monks watching below had just seen Yuan Xing move like a crane, his finger winds fierce, and assumed he held the upper hand. Yet in the blink of an eye, Yuan Xing had been driven back, while Yuan Zhen remained utterly at ease, not even shifting his feet.

At once, murmurs buzzed through the crowd.

"Didn't they say Yuan Zhen injured his meridians while training and damaged his foundation? Does that look like an injury?"

"But his complexion truly was poor when I saw him two days ago..."

"Could he have been pretending?"

"Pretending? Then you try pretending and let me see."

Amid the discussions, Zhu Yingxiong slowly withdrew his right index finger. His tone was so calm that not a trace of emotion could be heard in it.

"The move is a good one. Unfortunately, your heart is too hasty, your intent too unsteady. Before your force could be unleashed, its form was already revealed."

He raised his eyes toward Yuan Xing, who still stood atop the stakes, his face shifting from green to white. "From beginning to end, I used only one finger. And you never truly touched even the corner of my robe."

Yuan Xing's whole body shuddered. The color drained from his face, his eyes filled with shock and disbelief. Suddenly, he rasped, "That's impossible—!"

Before his words had finished, he sprang forward in a violent burst. Throwing caution aside, he lunged at Zhu Yingxiong with his whole body, three fingers forming a crane's beak once more as he stabbed straight for Zhu Yingxiong's chest with all his strength. It was a desperate, life-or-death attack!

A clear gleam flashed in Zhu Yingxiong's eyes.

He neither retreated nor dodged, merely raising his right index finger once more.

Within him, that thread of innate qi, gentle and warm as dew, quietly circulated and flooded into his fingertip in an instant. The Iron Finger Meditation Force, originally used by the Dharma Hall to temper finger strength, now revealed an entirely different aspect—before the finger arrived, its force had already condensed!

An invisible finger force tore through the air and struck directly against that fierce crane finger.

"Hiss—!"

Yuan Xing jerked as though struck by lightning. His entire right arm went limp and numb, and the force of his Crane Cry Finger instantly scattered. He lost his footing and staggered backward, but his heel suddenly found only empty air—

"Thud!"

Dust flew up as Yuan Xing fell flat on his back.

The arena fell silent for an instant before erupting into uproar.

No one had expected Yuan Xing, who had been so imposing just moments ago, to suffer such a complete defeat. From beginning to end, he had been firmly suppressed.

On the viewing platform, Elder Sorrowless's hand paused slightly upon his round belly. A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes as he turned to Unattached and said in a low voice, "Iron Finger Meditation Force cultivated to the point where its finger force can strike from the air, condensed without dispersing... that is already the realm of complete mastery. Though Martial Nephew Yuan Zhen is young, the speed of his martial progress is truly beyond expectations."

Elder Unattached's eyes gleamed as he slowly nodded. "Force is born from the heart and released through the finger. His timing has indeed matured."

Though the two spoke softly, they could not conceal the astonishment in their words.

Worryless said nothing from beside them.

A trace of surprise had initially appeared on his face, but it soon gave way to deep contemplation. His eyes, like still pools, rested upon Zhu Yingxiong as though searching for something.

Finger force striking through the air, condensed without dispersing—this was indeed the sign of Iron Finger Meditation Force reaching great mastery.

But no one knew Yuan Zhen's condition better than he did. Even with the Fuchan Salve he had bestowed, how could his injuries have healed completely in merely a few days after his meridians were damaged, only for his abilities to advance so drastically?

Unless...

A thought that even he found difficult to believe quietly surfaced in his heart.

Unless this child had truly crossed that threshold which, for two hundred years, countless astonishing geniuses had failed to truly enter.

Worryless's fingers paused almost imperceptibly on his prayer beads as he fell into silent thought.

If that were truly so...

Shaolin's fortunes for the next century might truly change because of this one finger.

Looking down at Yuan Xing with calm eyes, Zhu Yingxiong said, "Believe it or not, I never regarded you as an opponent."

Yuan Xing's lips trembled as though he wanted to say something, yet in the end he could not force out a single word. He struggled to his feet, his arms trembling slightly. The final trace of color vanished from his face, leaving only deathly gray.

He did not look back again. Staggering away, he pushed through the crowd, his back as bedraggled as a beaten dog. Yet Yuan Hong and the others, who had once been close to him, did not follow after him.

Before so many watching eyes, Zhu Yingxiong naturally could not strike heavily enough to truly injure him.

But some things were harder to heal than damaged muscles and bones.

With this finger today, he had broken not only his opponent's technique, but also his spirit.

He wanted to leave behind a heart-demon in Yuan Xing's heart that could never be erased.