Footsteps came thick and fast, blades flashing like a violent rainstorm.
Watching the dense mass of cold steel before him, Lian Youming sharply sank his breath. Yet he did not sink it all the way down. Air entered his lungs and viscera while the breath pellet sank into his abdomen. What sank was the pellet condensed through the Toad-Fishing Skill, like a swimming fish hooked from his throat and tongue into his belly. It sank yet did not quite sink, suspended yet never still, constantly bobbing up and down to stimulate his entire body into producing a peculiar force.
The Toad-Fishing Skill was an internal "elixir art," its essence lying in the word "fishing." One hooked a breath, neither sinking nor exhaling it, and kept it alive. Only with living breath, a living body, and living force could the fists and feet come alive.
"Croak, croak..."
Two toad calls suddenly sounded in Lian Youming's throat, clear and faint, like a surging mountain spring, carrying an unusual penetrating power.
Under the light, his taut muscles abruptly seemed to swell a size larger. His short hair stood on end like halberds, his brows rose and his eyes widened, the red mole between his brows turned blood-red, and a murderous aura surged wildly from his body.
At those toad calls, the seated Eighth Master shook, and even the look beneath his oversized sunglasses changed.
First that Tai Chi Hammer technique, and now this Toad-Fishing Skill. The backs of his hands tightened as his gaze drifted toward a man behind him with a thin, drooping mustache and a skullcap, leaning against the carriage's wooden door.
Besides skill, the most important thing for those who roamed the martial world was a discerning eye. With keen judgment, one could not only weigh gains and losses but