Chapter 2504: Burning the Tower (17)

When your opponent outweighs you, outpaces you, outpowers you—when their reflexes are sharper, their defense sturdier, their skills more refined—landing a clean hit becomes nearly impossible. Even with relaxed rules, the stronger and more skilled fighter will always strike vital points first. Rules, he understood, were never shackles binding the weak. They were protection.

He realized now that his opponent had no intention of following any rules. The crowd showed no signs of concern—only the eager anticipation of spectators awaiting entertainment. Even the officials in charge radiated unmistakable indulgence.

Fine, he thought. Whatever happens today, this fight will scatter the loyalty of some here. That serves the Senate well enough.

Since that's how it is, I'll give them a proper demonstration of my kung fu. In a place like this, strength commands respect. Those who rely on schemes against the strong are easily scorned.

Xu Tong attacked with explosive speed. Left jab, right straight, side kick, left hook, right uppercut, left uppercut, right straight, whip kick. His strikes fell like monsoon rain—relentless, without pause, without mercy. The exertion and the satisfaction of each connecting blow sent exhilaration coursing through him. He moved like a bee darting between blossoms, his footwork carrying him in constant arcs around the larger man. He struck from shifting angles, his fists hammering until his opponent's vision blurred with confusion. To the strong man, Xu Tong seemed to split into countless figures—each one false, yet each one real. At first, the man managed token parries. Then the barrage overwhelmed him completely. He curled inward, arms wrapped around his head, a lonely skiff pitching in a violent storm, moments from capsizing. Xu Tong's excitement mounted. Power surged through him—the intoxicating sense that he could dominate anything, knock down every obstacle with his fists alone. His body coiled tight, right fist chambered for the finishing blow. Everything would shatter beneath this punch.

A familiar voice pierced through from outside the ring: "Show mercy!"

The words struck Xu Tong like ice water. He calmed instantly. His cocked fist lowered slowly. Turning, he found Li Baiqing's anxious eyes fixed on him. He withdrew immediately, springing back a full step. The strong man stood frozen for a moment, swaying, then pitched forward. Xu Tong caught him before he hit the ground and eased him down gently. A quick examination revealed only external injuries. He exhaled in relief.

Looking around, Xu Tong saw shock written on every face. Only Li Baiqing seemed to breathe again. He sighed quietly, acknowledging how close he'd come. The bloodrush of combat had nearly cost him his self-control.

He straightened, faced Xue Tu and Ge Yaoxian, and cupped his fists in a brief salute. He opened his mouth to speak, meaning to ease the tension and smooth things over.

At that moment, two men in green robes strode briskly onto the field, approaching from behind. As they walked, they lifted their robe hems with casual deliberation. Sharp daggers glinted cold at their belts.

They advanced without hesitation, converging on Xu Tong's back from the eight o'clock and three o'clock positions. In an environment saturated with danger, Xu Tong maintained constant vigilance. Though facing Xue Tu, he had angled his body to scan the periphery. When his gaze met the green-robed man at three o'clock, every hair on his body stood rigid. Cold sweat drenched him instantly. Tight lips. Dead eyes. Only a predator truly recognizes another.

Xu Tong spun around. His throat went dry; he swallowed hard. A slight tremor ran through him—the electric charge of extreme tension and heightened alertness. He would have to face two armed attackers with nothing but his hands.

Xu Tong had always dismissed the Krav Maga practiced by the female officers of the Political Security Bureau. Impressive enough against ordinary civilians, perhaps, but in a genuine fight to the death, it would get you killed. As one of the Senate's earliest followers, he had long served as their dark messenger in Guangzhou. The underground world's brutality defied imagination. Xu Tong had rolled through filthy alleys, through mud and rainwater, under dripping eaves—locked in desperate struggles where elegance meant nothing, where theory meant nothing. Only the reek of blood and the most savage, primal violence.

Real fights rarely involved bare hands, and situations where both opponents held matching weapons almost never occurred. Either you were better armed, or the enemy was. Against a knife with empty hands, nearly all grappling techniques and textbook disarms were fantasies. Experienced knife fighters gave you no opportunity for technique. Their movements struck like lightning and withdrew just as fast. Their free hand wouldn't hang idle as in training drills—it would jab at your eyes, your throat, your groin. A slight turn of the blade would meet your blocking arm or grasping hand, and suddenly tendons were severed, blood vessels opened, flesh pierced. Then came the merciless follow-up stabs. Don't imagine a killer will pause after the first cut. In knife homicides, single fatal wounds are rare; most victims die after a dozen stabs or more. When enemies drew weapons, they declared their intent: this ends only in death. An armed attacker needed to seize initiative just once to ensure victory. They would exploit every opening, stabbing as many times and as rapidly as possible until their target stopped moving.

Even Xu Tong felt no confidence facing two knife-wielders simultaneously. His only chance was to drop one of them in the shortest possible time.

His gaze swept behind him, and his sharp dynamic vision captured both enemies' positions instantly. The one at eight o'clock lagged roughly five steps behind the one at three o'clock. Left hand empty, right concealed behind his back. The man at three o'clock had his right hand tucked beneath his robe at the small of his back; his left hung low, loosely gripping something. Xu Tong guessed it was lime powder or a blinding cloth, ready to throw the instant they closed distance.

He didn't hesitate. Strike first or die. While turning to guard, he dropped low, scooped a fistful of sand and grit with his left hand, and hurled it at the man at three o'clock in the same motion as he rose. The movement was so fast that before the attacker could throw whatever he held, sand filled his eyes. Instinctively, he flung the object anyway, then yanked the short knife from his waistband and stabbed blindly forward, his left hand clawing out to seize Xu Tong.

Xu Tong stepped back sharply, dodging the packet of incense ash aimed at his face. It burst beside him, shrouding both men in gray haze. Squinting through the cloud, Xu Tong exploited the moment his opponent's eyes clamped shut. He surged forward, wedging himself inside the man's reach. He made no attempt to lock wrists or trap joints—such techniques invited death. Instead, he used equally fast, equally fierce palm strikes to deflect the attacking hand, disrupting each stab while seeking openings to escape or counter. An experienced knife fighter would retract immediately after each thrust rather than leave his weapon arm extended for complex locks. Even if you managed to trap the limb, a true desperado would drive the blade into your body through the pain. You cannot predict an opponent's resolve; never underestimate an enemy in combat. Meanwhile, the attacker's free hand would pull and harry you, trying to control your body and create angles for the knife. Once grappling began at close quarters, the unarmed fighter would almost inevitably be stabbed.

Xu Tong's dynamic vision—honed to a precision rivaling a professional baseball batter—saved him again. As the short knife thrust toward him, he glimpsed a small rust spot near the blade's tip. His left hand chopped outward, slapping hard against the man's knife hand. The double-edged dagger jerked back, leaving a thin cut across Xu Tong's palm. Adrenaline flooded his system; he felt nothing. The blade retracted instantly, then stabbed again. Xu Tong showed no fear. His left hand slapped continuously, deflecting thrust after thrust. Seconds of high-intensity combat left his hands crisscrossed with bleeding cuts. Finally, in an instant that allowed no margin for error, he seized his opening. The edge of his palm collided with the attacker's forearm at full force. He thought he heard bone crack. The impact flung the man's arm backward; numbness shot through the limb. The dagger clattered to the ground.

Xu Tong followed immediately with combination strikes to establish dominance. His right hand swept aside the attacker's left. His left hand formed a fist with the middle knuckle protruding, thumb braced behind it. He delivered short, savage blows to the man's eye and throat. A wet pop accompanied the rupture of something soft. The attacker collapsed, screaming like a child, hands clamped over his ruined eye. Xu Tong didn't pause. He shoved hard against the man's shoulders and chest to create distance, then snapped his left foot up into the groin. As the man dropped to his knees, legs clamped together, wailing, Xu Tong's right leg swept horizontally into his temple. The scream cut off. The man hit the ground like a sack of grain and lay still.

By now, the second attacker had closed the distance. But Xu Tong's deliberate positioning during the struggle had denied him a clean angle of attack. By the time he repositioned a few seconds later, his partner was already down. The element of surprise was gone. He adjusted quickly—left hand forward in guard, right hand holding the knife behind, stance low—and advanced rapidly on Xu Tong.

(End of Chapter)