Liao Kuan's mood had changed completely by now. Alarm bells were ringing in his heart.
This mud-legged peasant really is hard to deal with!
He cast aside every trace of contempt. Instead of attacking relentlessly, he balanced offense and defense, his punches shifting between feints and real strikes. He guarded himself tightly while seeking an opening to deal Zhao Feng a fatal blow.
Zhao Feng's feet moved like the wind. As he twisted and turned, he evaded every punch as leisurely as if strolling through a quiet courtyard. His fingers were slightly curled, force gathered in his palms. Sometimes he blocked lightly like cotton fluff; sometimes he guided the blows deftly like flowing water. He brought the essence of the True Yang Cotton Palm-"yielding, soft, deft, resilient"-fully to life.
Whenever Liao Kuan's punches shifted between feints and genuine attacks, Zhao Feng always caught the true killing move. Each time, his palm met the face of the fist precisely, borrowing his opponent's fierce power to guide it onward. He either let the fist brush past his side into empty air or turned it lightly, sending the force rebounding into Liao Kuan himself.
In that brief span, no matter how Liao Kuan varied his feints and strikes, the winds of his true qi rang throughout the garden without touching so much as a corner of Zhao Feng's clothes. Liao Kuan, on the other hand, had his strength repeatedly dispersed and turned against him. His breathing grew labored, his chest heaved, and his arms began to ache faintly. Both the speed and power of his punches had noticeably diminished.
Every punch felt as though it struck cotton fluff. Liao Kuan grew increasingly agitated. Beads of sweat slid from his temples down his cheeks and dripped onto the bluestone paving, evaporating instantly.
He knew