It was actually Hung Fist!!!
Lian Youming's eyes lit up. The one he had encountered in Cangzhou back then really had not given him a satisfying fight.
Of the various northern schools, aside from Taiji and Bagua, whose experts he had yet to fight in a true life-and-death battle, he had experienced most of the others, if not all their arts. Southern Fist alone was something he had rarely seen.
Since Hung Fist stood foremost among the southern styles, he naturally would not underestimate it.
Zhao Yunzhong's face looked imposing, but his brows and eyes were too cold and severe, giving him a sinister air. Raising both fists, he closed in with powerful, striding steps. The ten fingers of his hands curled inward, force traveling through his elbows and wrists as his hands turned and flew.
Leopard Fist.
Leopard Continuous Strikes.
"Hah!"
Bolstering his assault with a shout, he advanced extremely fast, seemingly intent on ending the fight quickly.
The instant Lian Youming heard the sound, the wind of punches struck his face. Fist shadows crowded his vision. Before their force even reached him, the series of muffled thuds alone shook his heart and lungs, their fierce, unyielding power almost piercing through bone.
His eyes flashed. He planted his feet in a stance neither perpendicular nor splayed, the ten fingers hanging naturally at his sides curling and stirring, neither clenched nor open. His sleeves contracted and expanded as well. Only a second before the punches landed did he lightly lift his arms, bringing a pair of Cotton Palms up to meet them.
Palms against fists.
The instant fist met palm, Lian Youming's sleeves seemed to come alive, contracting and drawing inward as though constantly sucking in air. His bare palms seemed to seal and close, deflect and gather. As his