Seeing that his attack had worked, Zhang Xiaohua's confidence swelled. His steps became lighter too, carrying the air of a leisurely stroll through a courtyard.
Speaking of Zhang Xiaohua's combat experience, that encounter on the rainy night should have been his maiden battle. Unfortunately, the situation had been urgent that night, and there had been no true exchange of fists and feet. As for the black-clad old man, he had defeated him with a single sword strike, winning for no rhyme or reason. Zhang Xiaohua's results had been tremendous, but his combat experience was scant indeed—practically zero.
Thus, the sight of several petty thugs wielding daggers made the hairs stand up in his heart.
But now that he had knocked one man's dagger flying, Zhang Xiaohua had turned the tide and seized the initiative. He began to savor the art of battle. As he fought the remaining four, he carefully put his Big Dipper Divine Fist into practice. The ancients had spoken well: practice was the sole criterion for testing truth. The more Zhang Xiaohua fought, the more delighted he became; the more he fought, the more effortlessly he handled them. Those men were practically feeding him moves, and his experience points rose like a Kongming Lantern, shooting upward with a whoosh.
How could those small-town ruffians possibly have received proper martial training? Their attacks relied entirely on instinct, without the slightest form or pattern. They happened to become the stepping stones for Zhang Xiaohua, a beginner in fist and foot techniques, to advance. Yet they remained oblivious, doing nothing but chop and stab, barely able to touch even the corner of Zhang Xiaohua's clothes.
After this went on for some time, Brother Fan, the lewd-looking leader, began to sense that something was amiss. He had assumed this was merely