Martial Arts: My talent multiplier increased

It's not about swinging or smashing.

The force of the punch spread outwards, enveloped in a visible layer of grayish-white energy. This energy wasn't misty; it was solid, with clearly defined edges, like a moving stone wall.

The speed wasn't fast. Judging from Fang Yuan's reaction speed at the mid-stage of the Bone Refining Realm, this punch was even half a beat slower than Fang Teng's Bone Shattering Fist.

But so what?

The three martial artists from Yunyan City chose to join forces to block. The one at the front, holding a spear, threw it away and crossed his arms in front of his chest. The two on his left and right stepped forward simultaneously, their six hands overlapping, forming a three-layered defense with their six arm bones.

The gray-white energy wall crashed into the six arms.

"Crack—"

The first layer of defense's two arms cracked with a sharp sound upon contact. Not a crack, but a break. The forearm bones snapped at an obtuse angle. The gun-wielding warrior was launched into the air like a kite blown away by the wind, his back slamming into a tree trunk seven or eight zhang away. The trunk snapped in two, and he and the broken half of the tree landed motionless in the rubble.

The second level. The person on the left reacted extremely quickly, already dodging the moment the first level collapsed. His footwork was fast. But the area covered by that wall of energy was too wide.

The force of the punch swept across his left shoulder.

Just the edge.

The sound of a collarbone shattering traveled several dozen feet to Fang Yuan's ears. It was crisp and clear, like the snapping of a withered branch.

The man screamed and knelt on one knee. His left arm drooped down, and the outline of his shoulder collapsed. The abnormal angle indicated that his collarbone was not just cracked—it was shattered into several pieces.

The third person ran away.

He turned and ran. Without hesitation, without looking back. With the full speed bursting forth from the late stage of the Bone Refining Realm, he leaped three zhang in two steps, desperately rushing out towards the valley entrance.

Shi Potian did not give chase.

He stood still. His right fist was retracted to his side.

The entire process of throwing a punch and retracting the punch does not exceed two breaths.

Fang Yuan lay on the observation platform, his fingers digging into the cracks in the rubble beneath the moss layer. His fingertips felt cold.

It's not cold.

It was the physiological reaction that came from the conclusions drawn after the force structure of that punch had been completely dissected in his mind.

That's not the essence of boxing.

When Fang Yuan fought Fang Teng on the martial arts stage, he touched the threshold of fist intent. He knew what fist intent was—the resonance between spirit and muscles, producing a penetrating effect that transcends the rules of physics at the point of contact.

There was no fist intent in Shi Potian's punch.

There are no sophisticated techniques, angles, or frequency controls.

It is pure power.

His innate physique, combined with the tempering of a low-level cultivation technique, resulted in bone density and muscle explosive power reaching an unbelievable level. He then released this power in the simplest way possible.

He threw a punch.

Unreasonable pushing.

Fang Yuan quickly compared this punch to all the known power references in his mind.

Fang Teng's Bone-Shattering Fist. Fang Yuan took it head-on on the martial arts stage. That punch sent him flying back ten feet, and two of his ribs were broken.

Shi Potian's punch—

Its penetrating power is at least five times that of the Bone-Crushing Fist.

Fang Yuan's Adam's apple bobbed slightly. Five times. What would happen to his forearms if he used the same cross-block to receive that punch?

The answer is extremely clear.

broken.

It wasn't a crack, it wasn't a break. It was shattered. Bone and ligament shattered. Just like the fate of that gun-wielding warrior.

Fang Yuan pulled his fingers out from the crack in the rubble. His fingertips were covered with grayish-white moss fragments.

Valley bottom.

Shi Potian walked towards the gun-wielding warrior lying in the rubble. His steps were small, but each step landed with a heavy thud.

He bent down and pulled the storage bag from the armed man's waist. The movement was casual, like picking up a stone from the roadside.

I opened the bag and rummaged through its contents.

A few pieces of mediocre ore. Two jars of pills. A small handful of dried herbs.

Shi Potian's lips twitched downwards.

He threw the storage bag on the ground.

They walked over to the man with the broken collarbone. He was still kneeling on the ground, his left hand clutching his left shoulder, sweat pouring down his face, his lips bleeding from being bitten, but he didn't utter a second cry.

Shi Potian squatted down.

This movement allowed Fang Yuan's senses to detect a detail—when Shi Potian squatted down, his knees did not bend more than ninety degrees. The tension in his thigh muscles remained at an extremely high level throughout.

I can get up at any time. I can throw a punch at any time.

Even when facing a wounded soldier who had lost half of his body, this person's body never truly relaxed.

This is not caution.

It's a habit. A person who grows up in a violent environment has developed a habit of vigilance ingrained in their bones.

Shi Potian also pulled a storage bag from the wounded soldier's waist. He rummaged through it. This bag contained more items than the previous one—there was a fist-sized piece of refined iron ore, of good quality, with a dark silver sheen on its surface.

Shi Potian took out the ore, weighed it in his hand, and then stuffed it into the leather pouch at his waist.

The remaining items were left in front of the wounded.

From beginning to end, the Cloud Smoke City warrior kneeling on the ground didn't dare utter a single word. He didn't even dare to raise his eyes. He stared at the tips of Shi Potian's boots, his breathing rapid and shallow, like a rabbit trapped under an eagle's claws.

Shi Potian stood up.

"waste."

His voice wasn't loud. It was deep, like a stone that had rolled out from the depths of the earth.

Two words.

The only two words he uttered in the entire valley.

He turned and left after speaking. His steps were the same as when he came. Not fast, not slow. The grayish-white bone texture was faintly visible amidst the undulations of the muscles on his back.

Two men dressed in black armor and short coats were waiting at the valley entrance. They were Shi Potian's personal guards. One stood on each side, each with a black token with gold patterns at their waist. Shi Potian walked to the middle of them, and the three figures disappeared around the corner at the valley entrance.

The footsteps faded into the distance. The tremors on the ground also ceased.

Fang Yuan remained lying motionless on the observation platform.

He was waiting. Waiting for Shi Potian's vital energy signals to completely leave the range of his divine soul's perception.

Ten breaths. Twenty breaths. Thirty breaths.

That powerful surge of qi and blood, so intense it made one's teeth ache, finally slipped out from the edge of the sensory network.

Fang Yuan loosened his fingers that were digging into the gravel.

A series of extremely heavy snoring sounds came from behind me.

Tie Meng.

This veteran mercenary, a late-stage Bone Refinement Realm cultivator who had spent five years licking blood from the edge of a knife, was now sprawled on the moss, his fists pounded into the soil beneath. The knuckles of his fists bulged to their limit, and the veins on the backs of his hands were clearly visible.

He was trembling.

It's not fear.

His teeth were clenched so tightly they were grinding together. His breath came out of his nostrils in the rough, hoarse whine of a wild beast trapped in a cage.

The enemy was just a dozen feet away.

The hatred of killing one's father and abandoning one's brother.

Tie Meng's knees buckled forward an inch. It was a sign that he was about to get up.

Fang Yuan's hand reached over from the side and pressed against the back of Tie Meng's neck. The pressure wasn't great. The precise pressure, controlled by four times the stance training, was just enough to make Tie Meng willingly give up the fight.

Iron Fist's knees stopped.

Fang Yuan remained silent. The pressure from his palm lasted for three breaths.

Tie Meng closed his eyes. He took an extremely long, deep breath, as if his internal organs were being squeezed flat.