Chapter 52: Nearing Desperation (Sixth Update)

A chill ran through Wang Ling’s heart—the lead bullets from the white iron musket truly couldn’t harm A**, just as he’d feared. Though this foe was a power-type boss, his mutated muscles were so formidable that his defenses had become monstrous as well.

By now, Cheng Fu had already staggered forward, walking in drunken steps. He raised his hands in the “cup-holding” gesture, his figure swaying, his face wearing a smile that was part simple-minded, part foolish, part carefree, and tinged with a hint of joy.

“Where did this drunk come from!”

Furious over his injured fist, A** launched a powerful straight punch at Cheng Fu’s head. If this blow landed, it would shatter the smaller man’s skull like a watermelon smashed by an iron ball.

But Cheng Fu stumbled, tilting his head as the howling fist swept past his ear. He then arched his body, stepping forward, his left fist rising, right fist following, both clenched in the “cup-holding” grip, raining a rapid succession of blows on A**’s upper body, the impacts crackling like firecrackers.

Having missed with his straight punch, A** immediately bent his arm, thrusting his pointed elbow down at the much smaller Cheng Fu. In boxing, it’s said you’d rather take ten punches than one elbow. A** was a master of deadly black market fighting, and this elbow strike was as fierce as a cannon shell. Back at the headquarters of the Shadow Fighters, he’d tested the force of his elbow—one blow could cave in a five-inch-thick steel plate, fracturing it down the middle. The power of this strike was beyond question.

Cheng Fu, directly in front and below A**, twisted left in the instant the elbow came down. Stepping forward with his right foot, he adopted the “Iron Mountain Lean” stance, slamming his back into the giant’s side ribs, dodging the elbow. He spun again, falling to the ground, supporting himself with both arms and arching his legs.

At that moment, A**’s elbow crashed into nothing, the force pulling him downward. Cheng Fu’s arched legs shot up, catching A** squarely on the chin.

“Flying Foot!”

This was the Drunken Fist’s lethal finishing move. Cheng Fu’s heel struck A**’s chin, launching him skyward in a crescent arc, flying more than ten meters before crashing down.

“Boom!”

Cheng Fu, foot pressed against A**, landed on a ruined wall. The wall collapsed beneath the black giant’s massive body, bricks and stones tumbling in all directions, a billowing cloud of gray dust filling the area.

After unleashing the Flying Foot, Cheng Fu landed flat on his back. He braced his arms to leap up but found his right leg seized by a hand, black as iron.

Ordinarily, such a lethal strike, hitting the chin—a known weak point—would leave anyone dazed for several seconds. But A**’s physical constitution was absurdly strong; he resisted both the Flying Foot and the impact of being hurled over ten meters into a wall. He suffered neither dizziness nor sluggishness. The moment Cheng Fu hit the ground, A** reached out and grabbed his leg.

With a thunderous roar, A** hoisted Cheng Fu like a rag doll and smashed him into the ground. The earth caved in, spiderweb cracks radiating outward. Cheng Fu spat blood, curling up in the pit in agony.

In truth, Cheng Fu was a martial artist who had cultivated “qi” within his body—though far from projecting it externally. When slammed down, he mustered his qi to resist the blow. Without it, his bones would have been pulverized, leaving him paralyzed rather than merely in pain.

Seeing Cheng Fu’s pain, a cruel smile twisted A**’s face. He raised his foot to stomp on Cheng Fu’s head—there was a thunderous rumble as the foot and calf drove into the concrete as easily as through tofu.

Cheng Fu rolled aside in a drunken tumble, dodging the stomp and leaping to his feet. He licked the blood from his lips and spat out a mouthful of bloody foam. Once more, he raised his cup-holding fists; the veins on his wrists began to pulse—he was preparing to unleash the Drunken Fist’s “inch force,” capable of piercing flesh and muscle.

This “inch force” was born of the reckless courage of drunkenness, driven by both heart and spirit—a hidden power explosive in its release. A**’s muscle defense was so formidable that only such internal force could break through, penetrating to the organs and finally injuring this terrifying muscle monster.

But inch force was immensely draining, both physically and mentally.

As Cheng Fu raised his fists, Wang Long charged forward, swinging the “Overhead Staff” at A**’s calf, which was still stuck in the ground. A** blocked with his arm, the staff slamming into bone with a painful roar. Wang Long swiftly withdrew and jabbed the iron staff at A**’s throat.

This thrust, one of the twenty-four staff techniques, wasn’t as mighty as a chop or slam, but focused on precise, devastating point attacks. It required speed, lest it be dodged. With his former lacquered wooden staff, Wang Long’s thrusts were lightning-fast; but now, wielding a fifty-five-jin iron staff, his speed was diminished.

A**’s fighting instincts, forged in slaughter, were as sharp as a beast’s. He tilted his head to dodge the thrust, then snatched at the staff with his massive left hand.

Had it been an ordinary staff, its smooth surface would have allowed Wang Long to pull it free—but the Iron Dragon Staff’s surface was rough with iron powder, and A**’s grip was unbreakable. Wang Long pulled and jerked, but the staff did not budge.

“Die!”

Bloodshot rage flared in A**’s eyes. With a savage howl, he swung his free right hand—fist as big as a child’s head—delivering a blow so fierce it roared like an explosion, blasting toward Wang Long’s abdomen.

“Damn!”

Wang Ling was shocked. He raised the white iron musket and fired a crimson bullet with a sharp crack.

“Flame Shot!”

Even as the flame bullet flew at A**, the giant’s fist struck Wang Long. In that instant, time seemed to stop. The force of the punch shredded Wang Long’s clothing to tatters, and his flesh rippled outward in concentric waves from the impact.

Wang Long uttered not a sound; the blow sent him flying like a ragdoll, a shower of dark red blood trailing through the air. He soared more than twenty meters before crashing to the ground.

“Swish!”

A** hurled the Iron Dragon Staff, the weapon howling through the air like a missile, slamming into Wang Long’s fallen body and pinning him to the ground.

The iron staff, over 1.7 meters long, driven by monstrous strength, pierced through Wang Long’s abdomen and buried itself in the concrete, leaving only half a meter exposed. Wang Long, impaled, spewed another fountain of blood.

Wang Ling saw that Wang Long, lying silent on the ground, was not yet dead, but his health bar was nearly empty. He hadn’t expected that, after only a few exchanges, this vital summoned fighter would be left at death’s door.

Such was the tragedy of the martial arts master. It wasn’t a matter of skill—martial artists were, after all, only human, lacking superhuman powers. Their foe was a mutated muscle monster with unbelievable defense and strength, able to punch through steel plates. No matter how many times they struck him, they did little harm; but a single blow from him was fatal.

As for Cheng Fu—who, in the future Double Dragon tournament era, would become A**’s equal—he had yet to fully develop his inner force. In the future, he could infuse his finishing moves, like Drunken Tiger Strike and Yellow Dragon Kick, with outward-projected qi for enhanced power and defense. But now, he was still young and had not reached that level.

The Flame Shot from the white iron musket struck A** in the head with pinpoint accuracy; the ensuing explosion blossomed into a fireball five meters across. But in the next moment, A**’s massive two-meter frame strode out of the flames, a scorched dent marking his forehead where the shot had landed.

That was the full force of Wang Ling’s greatest attack—and yet, he now faced utter despair.

A** grinned hideously as he advanced on Wang Ling. After all, his prime target was this boy who had killed Linda. In the previous exchanges—whether clashing with the Iron Dragon Staff, being hit by the Flying Foot, or taking a Flame Shot to the head—the boss-level Shadow Fighter had lost less than a tenth of his health; aside from a few minor injuries to his fists, his strength was barely diminished.

Now was clearly the best chance for Cheng Fu to escape. Yet, instead, he staggered forward and shielded Wang Ling. He unfastened his now-empty wine gourd, drained the last drops, greedily swallowed them, then licked the gourd’s rim. Suddenly, he raised it and smashed it to pieces—the gourd that had accompanied him since his great-uncle’s death.

“Hoo…”

Cheng Fu exhaled deeply, his swaying growing even wilder. He beckoned the approaching black giant with a crooked finger, murmuring, “Wine steels the heart, and Drunken Fist is born—come on, then!”

“Little wretch, in such a hurry to die? I’ll send you straight to hell! Oh, I forgot—you Orientals don’t believe in God. How will you meet Him after death? Hell is all you’ll find, hahaha…”

A** closed in, towering over Cheng Fu by more than a head. His body was enormous, muscles shining black—he looked like a terrifying beast, a living demon king. As he drew near, the black giant cocked his arm and hurled a punch.

Cheng Fu watched the massive fist hurtle toward him, the whistling wind roaring in his ears, his face seemingly dazed as he swayed drunkenly. His intoxication was now in perfect harmony with his spirit, preparing his heart for the explosive release of hidden force in his next attack.