stonecrandall Chapter 1215: Youth and strength are more powerful than fists; Hong 4 died in battle!
Chapter 1215: Youth and strength are more powerful than fists; Hong 4 died in battle!
As their fists clashed, Hong Sixiang felt an unparalleled force penetrate his palm, causing his blood to surge and his throat to taste sweetness. He forced himself to swallow, but his body involuntarily retreated, one step, two steps, three steps—each step leaving a deep footprint on the blue bricks.
The man followed closely, pressing forward relentlessly, his fists striking out alternately, each punch faster and heavier than the last. He had actually abandoned his most proficient marksmanship and switched to hand-to-hand combat with Hong Sixiang using his fists.
Hong Sixiang was greatly alarmed.
When this person displayed his spear skills just now, he was already at the peak of the ninth rank. Now, abandoning the spear for his fists, he thought his opponent would be greatly weakened, but he didn't expect this person's fist skills to be so domineering, in no way inferior to his spear skills. What does this mean? It means that this person is not an ordinary martial artist, but a true master who has experienced countless battles and is proficient in various killing techniques.
Where on earth did such a person come from?
Before he could think further, the man's punches became increasingly ferocious. Each punch carried the power to split mountains and shatter rocks, forcing Hong Sixiang to fight back with all his might. The two exchanged blows rapidly in the courtyard, the sounds of their fists and palms clashing as dense as a torrential rain, shaking the entire courtyard.
Another thirty moves have passed.
Blood was flowing more and more from the corner of Hong Sixiang's mouth, staining his clothes red. He was old after all, and this high-intensity head-on confrontation was taking a toll on him far more than on the other man. What was worse, his right arm had been injured when he caught the gun earlier, and now, every time his fists and palms clashed with the other man's, his right arm was pierced by a sharp, stabbing pain, as if countless steel needles were stabbing into the bones.
This can't go on any longer.
Hong Sixiang suddenly changed his tactics.
He no longer confronted the man head-on, but instead used the momentum of the man's punch to retreat. His figure was unpredictable, like a withered leaf in the wind. He seemed like he might fall at any moment, but he always managed to avoid the man's punch just as it was about to hit his body.
This is a movement technique from the Turtle Breathing Technique, called "Turtle Swimming." It appears slow and clumsy, but in fact it aligns with the ultimate principles of heaven and earth. Every step is in harmony with the surrounding energy, making it impossible for the opponent to pinpoint its exact location.
The man unleashed over a dozen punches, each one missing its mark. The force of his blows shattered the blue bricks in the courtyard, yet he could not truly strike Hong Sixiang. A flicker of impatience finally crossed his eyes.
Hong Sixiang dared not relax in the slightest. He knew that this movement technique was also extremely taxing and could only temporarily buy time, not truly turn the tide of the battle. What he needed was an opportunity, an opportunity to strike a fatal blow.
This opportunity will come soon.
After missing his target once again, the man suddenly stumbled, his body swaying slightly. This sway was so slight that Hong Sixiang would not have noticed it at all if he hadn't been completely focused.
A glint flashed in Hong Sixiang's eyes.
This is what he's been waiting for.
His movements suddenly accelerated, shifting from elusive to fierce, his right palm poised to strike, aimed straight for the man's throat. This palm strike embodied his life's work; it could pierce not only flesh and blood, but even an iron plate.
Just as the palm was about to touch the man's throat, a strange smile suddenly appeared on the man's lips.
Hong Sixiang felt a chill run down his spine, but it was too late to stop his attack.
The man suddenly ducked, dodging the palm strike, and at the same time, his right hand had somehow grasped the long spear that had fallen to the ground. The spear tip thrust upwards, aiming straight for Hong Sixiang's lower abdomen.
That shot was incredibly fast.
It was so fast that Hong Sixiang had no way to dodge it; his palm strike was already too strong, and he had no time to defend himself.
The moment the spear tip pierced his lower abdomen, Hong Sixiang felt a bone-chilling cold spread from the wound, followed by boundless, excruciating pain. He looked down and saw that the dark spear had penetrated more than halfway into his abdomen, the spear tip protruding from his back, and blood gushing down the shaft.
“You…” Hong Sixiang opened his mouth to say something, but only spat out a mouthful of blood.
The man didn't speak, but simply gripped the gun barrel and twisted it sharply.
A wave of excruciating pain washed over him, and Hong Sixiang felt his vision go black, almost fainting. He gritted his teeth and, with his last ounce of strength, struck the man's head with his palm.
The man turned his head to avoid it, and at the same time drew his spear.
Blood gushed out, Hong Sixiang swayed, and finally slowly collapsed.
He collapsed in the middle of the courtyard, onto the broken blue bricks, amidst the fallen petals of the old plum tree. His eyes remained open, gazing at the darkening sky, at the old plum tree he had watched over for decades, his gaze gradually fading.
Footsteps approached.
The man walked up to him, glanced down at him, his gaze as cold and indifferent as ever, devoid of the joy of victory or the satisfaction of killing; he simply looked calmly at the man who was about to die.
"Who...sent you...?" Hong Sixiang asked with his last bit of strength.
The man remained silent for a moment before finally speaking.
"Ran Min".
He didn't say who sent him, only his own name. Then he turned around, picked up the spear from the ground, and strode out of the courtyard, his figure quickly disappearing into the twilight.
Hong Sixiang lay in a pool of blood, gazing in the direction the man had left, a complex expression flashing in his eyes.
Ran Min.
He had never heard of this name before.
This person's strength was unprecedented in his life. A half-step Grandmaster had actually been defeated by a ninth-rank expert. If word got out, no martial artist in the world would believe it. But the fact was right before his eyes: he had lost, utterly and completely, utterly and completely.
Is it because I'm getting old? Or is it because this person's martial arts are too strange and too domineering?
Hong Sixiang didn't know. All he knew was that he was going to die.
The wound in his lower abdomen was still bleeding profusely, and he could feel his life force slowly draining away. With his last bit of strength, he slowly raised his right hand and drew a few shallow marks on the blue bricks beside him.
A horizontal stroke, a vertical stroke, a left-falling stroke, and a right-falling stroke.
Those are two words.
Ran Min.
He didn't know who sent this person, but he knew His Majesty would definitely find out. As long as His Majesty had this name, he could follow the clues and find the real culprit.
This was the last thing he could do for His Majesty.
His right hand fell limply to his side, and Hong Sixiang's gaze gradually became unfocused. He stared at the old plum tree above him, at the few remaining plum blossoms on the branches, and in a daze, he seemed to have returned to many years ago.
He was young then, having just entered the palace, and was assigned to clean this secluded courtyard. The plum tree in the courtyard had only recently been planted, just a small sapling. He watered it every day, watching it grow little by little, one year, two years, ten years, decades…
Flowers bloom and wither, swallows leave and return.
How many people did he see off in this deep palace? And how many events did he witness?
Can not remember.
All he knew was that it was now his turn.
A gust of wind blew by, and the last few plum blossoms on the branches drifted down, landing on his face, on his chest, and on the crimson blood. The faint fragrance of plum blossoms mingled with the stench of blood, filling his nostrils.
So fragrant.