Quickly conquer the martial arts world, and let your fists dominate the heavens!

The young man walked in an arc, not dodging in a straight line, but circling around the big guy's side, turning from the front to the side, his feet moving in a circle, his center of gravity always kept low.

When you get to the side, strike out with your left palm, hitting the big guy's lower back.

The big guy stumbled forward, almost tripping on the sand. He turned around to turn back, but the young man was no longer there, and he circled back to the front.

After three rounds, the young man hadn't been hit once.

He relied entirely on his footwork and body positioning to dodge attacks, striking with precision, hitting his opponent's weakest point with every punch and palm strike.

After a few more rounds, the big guy got more and more impatient, his punches got bigger and bigger, and he made more and more openings in his defense.

The young man seized an opening and punched the big man straight in the chest with his right fist.

The big guy took three steps back, his heels hit the sandbag, and he fell backward.

He struggled twice, but couldn't get up.

Some in the audience cheered, while others cursed; they were betting on the big guy to win.

Neat.

Chen Zhan looked at it very carefully.

This person's kung fu is far superior to that of the two young men in the alley during the day.

The foundation of Xingyi is more solid, the way of punching is closer to the authentic style, the twisting of the waist and hips is in place, and the twisting force of the fist is also there.

The footwork is also clearer, the arcs are rounder, and the changes of direction are clean and decisive.

Moreover, he would use Bagua footwork to complement Xingyi boxing.

Walking, turning, circling, and changing positions are all elements of Baguazhang. They are not yet fully mastered and bear the marks of my own exploration, but the fundamental principles are correct.

Form and meaning combined with the Eight Trigrams.

Chen Zhan's gaze swept to the side of the stands.

The Xinglong Society members were there, dressed the same way I'd seen them in the alley before—white vests, tattoos.

One of them was the guy in the floral shirt with the iron pipe from that day. He sat on a bench, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, looking at the stage.

Two people were standing next to the man in the crew cut floral shirt.

The shorter man had cloth wrapped around his shoulders, and the taller man had gauze wrapped around his arms; both of them looked terrible.

They were the two young men from the alley during the day.

They stood next to the Xinglong Society members, not sitting, their bodies taut, as if they had been brought there under duress, but they did not make any further moves.

The two men stared intently at the stage, their expressions tense. After winning, the young man glanced in the direction of Xinglong Society, exchanged glances with the two injured youths, and nodded slightly.

Chen Zhan glanced at it and roughly understood.

The two young men were injured and unable to go on stage. Judging from their kung fu, the people on stage were from the same school and were fighting in underground boxing matches to pay off the debts of the Xinglong Society.

Chen Zhan glanced at the Xinglong Society members.

In places like this, gangs collect money and lend it out, forcing people to fight on stage to pay off their debts. This has existed in every era, just under different names.

Xinglong Society members sat in the boxing ring, but not in the best seats, and no one went over to bow and scrape. They were just regulars here, not the owners.

The owner is on the second floor.

The boxing ring's metal warehouse had a small attic built on the north side, made of wooden planks, just big enough to fit a table and a few chairs.

The attic faces the arena directly, offering the highest position and the best view; from that angle, everything is clearly visible.

A person was sitting in the attic.

He was in his forties, wearing a dark blue long gown, his hair was slicked back, he wore gold-rimmed glasses, and he held a cigar in his hand, the smoke swirling around his face before dissipating.

Beside him was an eight-immortal table, on which sat a teapot, teacups, stacks of banknotes, and a thick ledger.

Two people at the table.

One person was keeping accounts with an abacus, the beads moving rapidly, and he would record an entry in the ledger after each round.

Another person was counting money, passing stacks of Hong Kong dollar bills through his hands, tying them up with rubber bands, and stacking them on the corner of the table.

Betting on a tournament.

On stage, boxers fight; off stage, people place bets; the bookmaker sits at the highest point and takes a cut; winners get prizes, losers lose money, and boxers risk their lives.

Chen Zhan shifted his gaze from the attic to a wooden sign standing next to the arena.

The sign was taller than a person. The wooden board was painted white and had traditional Chinese characters written on it with a brush. The characters were neat and legible. Next to it was an English translation, which was crooked and the spelling was about half correct.

The sign listed the boxers who would be taking the stage that night, one name per line, followed by odds and a brief introduction.

The top few have already finished their matches. A red cross or circle is drawn after their names. A cross means they lost, and a circle means they won.

Looking down, one line of text caught Chen Zhan's eye.

"Zhao Hongwei, Northern Fist, Xingyi School, once won four consecutive matches, with odds of 1 to 2.5."

Zhao Hongwei is the young man on the stage.

Four consecutive wins, plus the one just won, that makes it five.

The odds dropped from a certain amount to 2.5 to 1, increasing the odds of winning, and the bookmaker offered even lower odds.

Below Zhao Hongwei's name on the sign, several other people were listed.

"Liu A-Cai, Southern Fist, Cai Li Fo, newcomer. Odds: 1 to 3."

"Mo Zhiqiang, Hung Kuen, Iron Wire Fist, two wins. Odds 1 to 1.8."

"Huang Dashan, freestyle fighter, dockworker. Odds: 1 to 4."

There are several more, listed in order of name and odds, with the odds increasing as you go further down the list, meaning the bookmaker thinks they have a smaller chance of winning.

At the bottom of the sign was a line of small print: "The more consecutive wins you have, the higher the prize money, capped at five wins. You can take your winnings and leave, or continue playing to increase your rewards."

People kept crowding under the sign to look, and after they finished looking, they walked to a small table under the attic, took out money to place bets.

Behind the small table sat a thin old man with a stack of slips of paper and a pencil in front of him. He would take the money, write a slip of paper, and hand it over; that was considered placing a bet.

Many people bet on Zhao Hongwei to win, given his five-game winning streak and good momentum. Others bet on him to lose the next game, with higher odds and a potential doubling of their winnings.

Chen Zhan understood the rules of this place.

In a boxing ring, you don't just fight one match and then leave. The number of matches is set before you step into the ring. If you win, you continue fighting until you lose. If you keep winning, you can either retire after the fifth match or continue.

Keep playing, the more you win, the more prize money you get, but the more physical exertion you consume, and the stronger your opponents will become.

Zhao Hongwei has won five games.

They clearly have no intention of leaving; they want to continue fighting.

Chen Zhan didn't see the previous few matches, but judging from the records on the board and the playing style in the previous match, winning the previous matches shouldn't have been difficult.

Chen Zhan slowly walked away from the iron pillar, moved closer to the arena, and found a spot closer to the platform.

On stage, Zhao Hongwei's next opponent has already come up.

He was a Southern Fist practitioner, in his early thirties. He wasn't tall, but he was very compact. His bridging technique was very strong; you could tell he had practiced hard kung fu as soon as you made contact. The bones in his forearms were like iron rods, clanging loudly when they were clattered together.

This opponent's technique was tight, his parries were flawless, and when he attacked, he unleashed a barrage of punches and elbows, one after another, forcing Zhao Hongwei to have no chance to strike back.

Zhao Hongwei continued his footwork, but the space was compressed. The arena was only so big, and he couldn't go around the arc. After circling halfway, he reached the edge of the sandbag and had nowhere to retreat.

Fight them head-on.

The two men went back and forth on the stage, exchanging punches and elbows for more than twenty rounds.

Zhao Hongwei's right eyebrow was cut open by an elbow strike, and blood flowed down, covering half of his face. After a few more rounds, Zhao Hongwei found an opening.

The opponent's left arm was positioned too high, exposing an opening under his ribs. Zhao Hongwei delivered a powerful punch that struck the ribs.

The opponent grunted, the bridge hand fell apart, and the body bent to the side.

Zhao Hongwei took a step forward and slapped the man's chest with his left palm. The man took two steps back, swayed, and knelt on one knee on the sand. His chest heaved as he spat out a mouthful of blood.

The injury wasn't too serious, but I can't fight anymore; we can't exhaust the resources.

Although it's underground boxing, not everyone here is going to kill. Most of the fighters here are long-time veterans, with only Zhao Hongwei and a few others coming to make some money.

Zhao Hongwei won, but it wasn't an easy victory.

Standing on the stage, panting, blood was still flowing from the corner of his eyebrow, and his chest was heaving violently. After two matches, he had exhausted a lot of energy.

On the Xinglong Society side of the stage, a man with a crew cut and a floral shirt exhaled a puff of smoke and said something to the person next to him.

The person next to him walked to the edge of the stage and shouted a Cantonese phrase towards the stage.

The gist is: Let's fight another match.

The two injured youths looked even uglier. The shorter one's lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but the taller one pressed down on his arm and kept quiet.

Zhao Hongwei stood on the stage, glanced down at his two junior brothers below the stage, signaled with his eyes that everything was alright, then turned around to face the other side, waiting for his opponent to come up.

On the second floor attic, a middle-aged man in a dark blue robe exhaled a puff of smoke without turning his head.

How many games has he won?

The bookkeeper behind him flipped through the ledger and replied, "This is the sixth round. Five rounds have already passed, each round costing ten thousand, the next round will double."

The middle-aged man nodded and pointed downwards with his finger.

The person behind him closed the ledger, turned around, and went downstairs.

In underground boxing, if someone wins five consecutive matches and doesn't leave the ring, the betting sentiment shifts.

The more the bookmaker wins, the more people bet, and the more people bet, the more the bookmaker has to pay out.

In this situation, the dealer won't just sit and wait to lose money.

They know each boxer's background better than the spectators, and they know who can fight and who can't.

They also support their own families.

On the stage, Zhao Hongwei stood in the middle of the ring, catching his breath, waiting for his next opponent.

After a short while, a person walked up from the passageway on the side of the arena.

Short, thin, and wiry.

He had short, dyed yellow hair that stood upright, a angular face with high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and dark skin, unlike a local.

She was wearing a sleeveless vest, revealing her arms. Her arms weren't thick, but the muscle lines on them were extremely clear, like steel wires twisted around her bones, taut with the slightest movement.

He went on stage and roared twice, as if to bolster his spirits. His voice was sharp and shrill, not like a normal shout, but more like some kind of ritual.

Then he spoke to Zhao Hongwei.

"You can win six games in a row? Not bad, not bad."

His Chinese was strange, a mix of Cantonese and English words, with his intonation fluctuating wildly, as if he had picked up pieces from several languages ​​and pieced them together.

"You're from the mainland, right? Chinese Kung Fu."

He spoke while shaking his index finger, a smile playing on his lips.

"No, no."

He wasn't Chinese. Short stature, dark skin, that strange tone of voice, plus those two short shouts before going on stage—Chen Zhan glanced at him and could guess he wasn't Chinese.

Zhao Hongwei recognized him, and his face darkened.

"Where did this yellow-skinned monkey come from?"

Huang Mao wasn't angry. He chuckled twice, took a half step back, and raised both hands in front of him, right hand in front and left hand behind, palms open, fingers together, forearms upright beside his face, elbows pointing down.

With a gesture, he flipped his palm outwards and forwards, meaning "You go first."

The two of them didn't waste any more words.

Zhao Hongwei made his move, starting with Xingyi, pushing off the ground with his right foot, twisting his waist and hips, and striking straight with a Bengquan (crushing fist).

He is good at assessing situations. When facing opponents who are bigger and taller than him, he uses hit-and-run tactics and positioning to find openings.

Against someone who is short and thin, attack head-on and use your strength and skeletal advantage to overwhelm them.

He threw a punch straight at the blond-haired man's face.

The blond-haired man dodged to the side.

It's not just a simple stepping aside; the whole body sways from side to side, like a bamboo pole being blown by the wind, shifting the center of gravity from the left foot to the right foot and back again. The amplitude is small, but the frequency is very fast.

Zhao Hongwei's fists chased after his head, striking three or four times, each punch missing its mark, grazing his face but missing by half an inch.

Zhao Hongwei exhausted his offensive and pulled his fist back.

With a "snap," Huang Mao turned around, swung his right leg up, and his calf lashed out like a whip, aiming for Zhao Hongwei's waist and ribs.

Quickly. Sink.

The entire leg generates power from the hip joint, concentrating the force on the shinbone, attacking not the instep, but the shinbone.

Zhao Hongwei bent his arm to block, his left arm was placed horizontally to his ribs, and his shin hit his forearm.

boom.

The two men each took a few steps back.

Zhao Hongwei's arm trembled twice, and his entire forearm went numb from the elbow to the wrist.

The force of this whip kick was more than twice as great as he had expected. His opponent was short, but the power in his leg was terrifyingly heavy, like being whipped with an iron rod.

This is not Southern Fist, not Hung Gar, not any kind of boxing he has ever seen on stage.

Muay Thai.

In addition, it incorporates modern combat footwork and a sense of distance.

Huang Mao looked short and thin, but his muscles were all hidden under his clothes. Once he took off his vest, he had a body of muscular, steel-like muscles. They weren't big, but they were dense, and every muscle was well-developed.

Muay Thai excels at using its hardest parts to strike its opponent's softest spots: shinbone sweeps to the ribs, knee strikes to the abdomen, and elbow strikes to the face.

Before Zhao Hongwei could react, Huang Mao had already rushed up.

No breaks are allowed.

With a left whip kick sweeping the outside of his thigh, Zhao Hongwei took a step back, and his right knee immediately thrust up, heading straight for his abdomen. Zhao Hongwei pressed down with both palms to block the knee, and the force transmitted to his palms made his knuckles ache.

Before he could withdraw his hand, his right elbow slammed down from above, aiming for his temple.

Zhao Hongwei turned his head to dodge, his elbow brushing past Zhao Hongwei's ear with a whoosh.

Using both hands and feet, he unleashed a barrage of kicks, knee strikes, and elbow strikes, one after another without pause, his attacks coming like a machine gun.

Zhao Hongwei was forced to retreat repeatedly, unable to withstand the blows head-on, and could only move around the stage using the Bagua Step.

He was still stepping on the arc under his feet, but the speed had slowed down. The physical exertion from the previous few rounds was now fully exposed. His steps were sluggish, and he paused for half a beat when changing direction.

Chen Zhan leaned against the sandbag by the edge of the platform and could see clearly.

The defeat is inevitable. (End of Chapter)