One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

In the field.

Bald Bear was both surprised and furious.

He's dominated the Far East for so many years, relying on his honed martial arts skills and fearless fighting style to defeat countless skilled opponents. From Vladivostok to Moscow, from Moscow to Siberia, what kind of opponent hasn't he seen?

When have I ever suffered such humiliation?

The opponent clearly didn't use any earth-shattering moves—no dazzling lightning techniques, no powerful palm strikes—just a few light and easy moves, yet I felt like a bull running into a pile of cotton, powerless and constantly being pricked by needles, feeling terribly uncomfortable.

It felt like...like being led by the nose. He wanted to go left, but the other person led him to the right; he wanted to go forward, but the other person lured him to the side. Every attack he made was neutralized by the other person with minimal cost, and then they would give him a little "souvenir" in return—a pat here, a press there, it didn't hurt or itch, but after a while, it made him feel uncomfortable all over.

"Damn it! I don't believe in superstitions!"

The bald bear roared angrily.

The sound echoed in the empty hall, causing dust to fall from the ceiling.

He no longer holds back.

His muscles bulged again—not the natural bulge of before, but as if something was expanding and writhing beneath his skin, each muscle seeming to come alive. His skin took on a dull, metallic sheen, not Ivan's bright bronze, but a dark, matte, almost iron-gray sheen that looked heavier and more solid.

Its aura also became even more violent.

Like an enraged brown bear, every pore on its body radiates ferocity and murderous intent.

He stomped his foot—

"boom!"

The concrete floor was trampled and a shallow pit was created, with pieces exploding in all directions!

Pounce again!

This time, both fists are thrown!

The shadows of fists were as thick as mountains!

Left fist, right fist, left fist, right fist—each punch carried a "whooshing" sound as if dozens of fists were smashing down at the same time, densely packed, covering all of Nie Lingfeng's vital points!

He no longer pursues a one-hit kill.

Instead, he unleashed a barrage of attacks, attempting to force Nie Lingfeng to take the blows head-on, or to find a weakness in his palm technique. If one punch wasn't enough, he'd throw ten; if ten weren't enough, he'd throw a hundred. He refused to believe that his opponent's palm technique could be blocked so accurately and steadily with every strike.

"Cloud-Dispelling Palm - Turning Clouds and Rain"

Nie Lingfeng made a move.

His footwork shifted—not backward, nor dodging left or right, but forward. His pace was neither fast nor slow, as if he were strolling in his own backyard, each step landing precisely in the gaps between the shadows of Bald Bear's fists.

Step to the left, dodging a left hook. Step to the right, avoiding a right straight punch. Step forward, passing through the gap between the two punches. Step back half a step, just enough to dodge a sweeping punch.

His figure weaved through the dense shadows of fists, like a leaf blown by the wind. Despite being attacked from all sides, no one could hit him.

His palms sometimes stretched out like flowing clouds, gently deflecting the heavy fists—"smack!" With a few deft touches, the fist carrying immense force was deflected and smashed into the air beside him.

Sometimes, like dark clouds pressing down, a palm strike would be unleashed, carrying a heavy, concentrated force—"Bang!"—interrupting the opponent's punch mid-fight, instantly dissipating the power that had just been gathered, forcing Bald Bear to recharge his strength.

At times, it was like a gentle drizzle, with layers upon layers of palm shadows—"slap slap slap slap slap"—approaching from an unbelievable angle. Each slap was light, but it accurately hit the bald bear's most vulnerable spots: the wrist before the fist was about to come out, the joint of the shoulder, and the fulcrum of the waist and abdomen.

Each light tap halted Bald Bear's offensive, disrupting his power flow, as if a few grains of sand had been stuffed into a sophisticated machine.

"Bang bang bang bang!"

The sounds of fists and palms clashing were incessant.

But the sound wasn't very loud; instead, it sounded like patting thick leather—dull and heavy, not like a battle, but more like some kind of slow-paced exercise.

The bald bear grew increasingly terrified as the fight progressed.

The more they fought, the more frustrated they became.

He felt as if he were fighting an invisible cloud—you punch it, it disperses; you pull back, it gathers again. Every punch seemed to hit empty air, or be deflected by the opponent's slightest force.

However, the opponent's seemingly light palm strike always managed to land precisely on the point where his old strength was exhausted and new strength had not yet been generated, or on the weak point where his internal energy flow was weak.

He was beaten until his blood was boiling.

He was beaten until his muscles and bones ached.

It felt like a heavy stone was pressing on my chest, making it hard to breathe. My throat tasted sweet, a sign that my blood was surging upwards.

What drove him even more insane was—

The other party used only one hand from beginning to end!

Right hand.

His left hand hung casually at his side, fingers slightly bent, slouching, as if he wasn't going to do anything. He even occasionally straightened the hem of his clothes, which wasn't actually messy—just so nonchalantly, as if he was bored and looking for something to do.

This is no longer just a matter of disrespect.

This is an absolute and blatant insult!

"ah!!!"

The bald bear went completely berserk.

His eyes were bloodshot, the blood vessels on the whites of his eyes as dense as a spider web. He wasn't unfamiliar with losing, but he had never lost so humiliatingly, so pathetically.

Regardless of the consequences.

Even if it meant taking a direct hit from Nie Lingfeng's palm—he was even prepared to have two ribs broken—he was determined to headbutt Nie Lingfeng in the chest!

This is a suicidal fighting style!

Either you die or I die!

Nie Lingfeng frowned almost imperceptibly.

He seemed somewhat impatient with this underhanded tactic. The frown was so subtle that only the person closest to him could see it, and it vanished in an instant.

The footwork changed.

His figure shifted half a step to the side like a ghost—not to dodge, but just to avoid the bald bear's headbutt. The bald head brushed past his shoulder, creating a gust of wind that made his hair sway slightly.

Simultaneously.

The left hand, which had been hanging by its side, finally moved.

No palm was used.

He simply held his fingers together like a sword. His index and middle fingers were joined together, and at the tips of his fingers was a cloud of energy that was so refined that it was almost invisible. It was a more solid and purer energy than any of his previous palm strikes. It was like a transparent needle, or a beam of light that had been compressed to the extreme.

Swift as lightning.

In the instant that the bald bear slightly lost his balance due to missing his headbutt, leaving his chest and abdomen wide open—

He gently pressed on a very hidden acupoint, three inches below the Tanzhong acupoint on his chest.

"Cloud Finger - Intercepting the Pulse"

This finger.

Light and airy.

It seemed like just a casual pat between friends.

It was even lighter than the pat on the calf before, as light as a falling leaf floating on the shoulder.

The bald bear's massive body, charging forward, seemed to be frozen in place—

Suddenly, he froze on the spot!

His furious expression froze—his mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide, as if he had seen something unbelievable.

Instead, there was a sense of extreme horror and disbelief.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something—wanting to curse, wanting to roar, wanting to say what the hell you did to me—but no sound came out. His throat felt like it was blocked by something, and he could only make "hoarse" sounds.

He only felt a soft yet domineering force instantly invade the spot on his chest where he had been struck.

Unlike the previous palm strikes that penetrated layer by layer, this force was like the sharpest scalpel, precisely and without hesitation severing the key to the wildly circulating external qi within his body!

"puff--"

It's like a balloon that's been popped.

It's like a machine that's been unplugged.

The boiling blood and qi, the surging muscles, the violent power—all of it collapsed in an instant.

Like a punctured balloon.

"Thump!"

Bald Bear's towering, two-meter-tall body lost all support. His legs buckled, his knees slammed into the ground with a dull thud, and then he landed face down heavily on the cold concrete.

A small cloud of dust rose up.

He tried to lift his head and prop himself up—his fingers dug into the ground, his nails filled with dust and gravel—but his arms were as limp as noodles, and he couldn't move a single finger.

They could only lie there, their faces pressed against the cold, rough cement.

Only his eyeballs could still move, rolling around, filled with humiliation, anger, and... a trace of fear.

That fear wasn't the fear of death—he, Bald Bear, had faced so many life-and-death situations over the years that he had long since become indifferent to life and death—but rather a fear of the unknown. To this day, he still couldn't understand how the opponent had managed to do that finger strike, or why it had so easily broken through his more than twenty years of hard-earned external martial arts skills.

Quiet.

A deathly silence.

If Zhang Chulan's victory over Ivan was somewhat opportunistic, achieved through agility and underhanded tactics, allowing one to say, "That kid's pretty cunning," then Nie Lingfeng's victory over Bald Bear was a complete and utter, unsurprising crushing defeat.

From beginning to end, he used only one hand and barely moved his feet—counting them, he only took three or four steps in total, each step was small—and finally he just lightly pointed a finger.

The infamous bald bear, whose martial arts skills were almost perfected, collapsed to the ground like a dead dog with its bones removed, unable to even get up.

The visual impact is striking.

It's far more shocking than Zhang Chulan's "One-Punch Man".

That means there's at least a process of accumulating power, unleashing it, and then blasting it away.

There's nothing there.

Just for a moment.

"This...how is this possible?!"

Bald Bear's surviving men were all dumbfounded.

Some people didn't even notice their guns clattering to the ground; their mouths were agape, jaws practically dropping to their chests. Others rubbed their eyes hard, thinking they were hallucinating. Some instinctively took a step back, as if afraid the man standing in the center of the room would suddenly look at them.

They couldn't believe that their invincible leader had been defeated so easily, in such a humiliating way, and so utterly.

The expressions on the faces of people from both Japan and the United States were extremely grave.

The old man in the kimono (the attendant) had previously had cloudy eyes, but now they shone with an astonishing brightness as he stared intently at Nie Lingfeng, as if re-evaluating an underestimated opponent. The old man holding the sword unconsciously placed his hand on the hilt, not to attack, but as an instinctive defensive stance.

The man in the suit pushed up his glasses, his fingers moving slowly, as if concealing something. The woman with the gold-rimmed glasses narrowed her eyes slightly, something gleaming in her icy blue pupils.

They asked themselves, if they were in that situation, facing Bald Bear's ferocious attacks, could they handle it so easily?

I'm afraid it will be difficult.

There are probably very few people who can do that.

This quiet Chinese man, who was always holding his child, possessed unfathomable strength!