Martial Arts Crossover: The Sweeping Monk of Wudang? That's our patriarch!

With a muffled thud, the old man had already stealthily approached Lin Daochen from behind. But just as the fist was about to strike, Lin Daochen's heart suddenly stopped beating, as if his lifeline had been severed.

The old man frowned, a look of suspicion on his face. He then closed his eyes and focused his mind, his fingertips trembling slightly as he tried to catch that faint pulse again—in just half a breath, he re-locked Lin Daochen's location.

The next instant, an iron fist, accompanied by a piercing shriek that seemed to tear through the air, pierced straight to his back! Lin Daochen had no way to dodge, so he twisted his waist and turned to the side, forcefully blocking the attack with his forearm.

With a soft crack, his joints snapped, and his entire arm went numb and lost all feeling, yet it remained unbroken and uninjured. He looked down at his slightly trembling wrist, his expression growing increasingly grave.

The old man before me was indeed a formidable figure who specialized in cultivating the physical body—the so-called "physical sainthood" was no empty boast.

Lin Daochen had long heard that in the thousand-year history of the cultivation world, there were indeed a group of people who did not cultivate their primordial spirit or their Dharma form, but instead forged their flesh and blood into divine bodies through countless trials. The most astonishing among them was Erlang Shen, the True Lord of Manifestation—while others first built their Dao foundation and then sculpted their golden bodies, he went against the grain: starting with his muscles, bones, and skin, he forged his internal organs into indestructible divine weapons, and only when his physical body was comparable to that of a heavenly soldier did he slowly hone his divine will and comprehend the Great Dao.

Ordinary people may not understand the significance of this, but Lin Daochen sees it clearly: the former is like a scholar building a rocket, first studying the theory and then using external force to take off; the latter is like bare-handed, relying on muscles and bones to blast through the atmosphere - one punch can cause mountains to collapse and the earth to crack, which is not an exaggeration, but the norm.

Such beings are all powerful figures who suppress their territories, sending chills down the spines of those they inhabit. Who would have thought that today we'd run into a living, breathing one!

"Senior, your body, strong as bronze and iron, is truly impressive," Lin Daochen said in a deep voice. "But I wonder, when the Celestial Immortal sent you to take my life, did he give you any instructions—if you perish here, do not involve others in seeking revenge?"

Before he finished speaking, he ripped open his outer robe, revealing his lean and muscular body. Although not as muscular as the old man's, every muscle was taut with the power of thunder, as if it might explode at any moment.

A smirk appeared on his lips, and a cold light flashed—"Bang!" The figure vanished instantly, leaving only a cloud of exploding dust in its place.

The old man suddenly turned his head and scanned the area, his pupils shrinking sharply: just a moment ago, he hadn't even caught a glimpse of the afterimage! His physical body was too slow to react, and even his eyesight couldn't keep up?

In the blink of an eye, Lin Daochen had already flashed behind him and slammed a powerful punch into his vital point!

Caught off guard, the old man's protective aura dissipated instantly, and he plummeted like a kite with a broken string. He spun rapidly in mid-air to dissipate the force, but still couldn't stop his descent. With a loud crash, he slammed into the ground, sending debris flying and leaving a deep, spiderweb-like crater in the earth.

He struggled to his feet, looked up at Lin Daochen, and was filled with astonishment—this speed…how is that possible?!

The surrounding cultivators were already silent with fear, and no one dared to approach within a hundred paces. They were pinned to the distance by an invisible pressure, unable to take even half a step beyond three miles. Every time they tried to get close, they were violently repelled by a transparent barrier.

"My lord!" a disciple shouted hoarsely, his voice trembling, "We can't get through! That area is like an invisible iron wall; we bounce back the moment we touch it!"

Upon hearing this, the old man turned his head and saw that everyone was trying their best to squeeze in this direction, but they were repeatedly overturned to the ground by an invisible force.

But they were all firmly blocked by an invisible barrier, unable to move an inch. The old man squinted and glanced at them, then slowly nodded—these people weren't playing any tricks; they were truly separated.

"Alright, since we can't get close, just stay there and don't move. But we're just idling around anyway. There are a few rare and precious herbs scattered around Lin Daochen. Go and gather them quickly. These treasures will be of great benefit to my healing."

The group exchanged bewildered glances, filled with suspicion: They were currently engaged in a life-or-death struggle, yet they were being sent to scavenge for grass? Weren't they afraid of missing a crucial opportunity?

The old man's face darkened, his gaze fixed on Lin Daochen, who was stretching his limbs in the distance. The man remained motionless, yet his aura surged like waves in a deep pool, making the old man's chest feel heavy—this man's cultivation was actually on par with his own!

This contest had a strict rule: magic was forbidden; only physical strength and vitality could be relied upon. However, he knew his physical strength was far inferior to Lin Daochen's. A direct confrontation would inevitably result in injury, and injury required healing. Those spiritual herbs were precisely the lifeline for prolonging life and restoring vitality.

Everyone suddenly realized: the plan was to fight and replenish their strength simultaneously, using medicine to sustain the battle and wear down the opponent! This method, though risky, subtly followed the principle of the wheel of fortune. They nodded in agreement, their hearts warming – serving their superiors while ensuring their own safety, what could be better?

"Alright! We'll follow your orders. We need to keep a close eye on every step from now on, and we absolutely cannot afford to make any mistakes."

"What medicinal herbs does the master require? We'll bring them to him immediately. As long as he wins this round, our victory will be assured."

Lin Daochen, who was in the distance, heard every word of these words and couldn't help but shake his head and chuckle. It wasn't that he looked down on these people, but he felt it was a pity—they weren't bad people, and they were loyal enough, but they just served the wrong master and followed the wrong path.

He was too lazy to look any further, and even less inclined to point it out. There was only one thing he needed to do: take down the old man in front of him.

"Stop your nonsense. I heard you perfectly well—you think you can wear me down by taking turns attacking? Forget it."

"I won't give you any chance to be sentimental. Besides... you yourselves know that those little tricks are nothing but paper walls in my eyes."

"You really want to win? The only way is for everyone to swarm in and attack together. Unfortunately—you don't dare break that rule. Ha, well, figure it out yourselves then."

Before he finished speaking, his knees dipped slightly, and his back arched like a full moon, making him look exactly like a snow leopard poised to pounce.

His eyes were blazing brightly, radiating a chilling light, as if he were about to tear through the air and pounce on them at any moment.

The group froze on the spot, their teeth chattering, and they even held their breath. They only dared to stare at Lin Daochen, their faces as white as paper, and their legs trembling.

Shen Gongbao and Lin Daochen, suspended in mid-air, looked down with indifferent expressions and shook their heads slightly. Right and wrong? They didn't ask. They only cared about one thing: protecting their beloved disciple and winning this battle; everything else was irrelevant.

So they both closed their eyes, out of sight, out of mind.

At this moment, Lin Daochen burst forth like an arrow released from a bow—his feet slammed against the ground, creating a loud bang, and his figure swept to the center of the crowd!

So fast that he was just a blur! Before anyone could even blink, he had already closed in on the old man, his right fist swirling with the force of wind and thunder as he slammed it into the old man's cheekbone!

The force was like a raging torrent of fire, utterly devastating. The old man's eyes rolled back on the spot, his body went limp and collapsed, and fine lines appeared on his skin, as if it were about to burst open inch by inch at any moment.

Terrified, he turned and knelt down, tears streaming down his face, begging for mercy. Lin Daochen merely looked down at him coldly, a slight smirk playing on his lips, his eyes devoid of any emotion—this kind of person didn't deserve to live to see the next moment.

Lin Daochen unleashed a punch as fast as thunder. The man's head exploded, splattering red and white blood everywhere, before he could even scream. His body stiffened and he could only watch helplessly as the iron fist, accompanied by a fierce wind, cleaved open his skull.

Time passed slowly, and Lin Daochen had already taken down seven or eight opponents. His steps were like grinding mountains, and his attacks were like cleaving mountains. Before others could even see his moves, they were already dead on the ground.

The old man darted through the air, his muscles bulging, each leap tearing through the air with a muffled boom, as if a rift had been ripped open in the void. But even the fastest movements were like slow motion in Lin Daochen's eyes—he could always intercept him half a step ahead, his palms and fingers like iron gates, sealing off all escape routes time and time again.

Three surprise attacks, all missed; five changes of direction, all were anticipated. The old man was burning with rage, wishing he could pounce on Lin Daochen and perish together, but his feet seemed to be nailed to the spot, unable to move.

They could only watch helplessly as Lin Daochen wiped out their elite troops one by one.

"You mad dog! How long are you going to keep slaughtering us? Do you really want to bury us all here?"

He hissed through clenched teeth, but Lin Daochen didn't even lift his eyelids. The figure flashed and disappeared, reappearing as yet another subordinate collapsed to the ground, his throat bone caved in.

Each time they landed, the ground would dent with a crash, cracks spreading like a spiderweb—that deep pit was the tombstone of a life.

He felt a tightness in his chest and a bitter taste in his throat, but he could only grit his teeth and let despair gnaw at his mind inch by inch.

"If you do not die today, the souls of those I have killed will never find peace!"

He suddenly clenched his fists and slammed them into Lin Daochen's chest—the arm, as thick as an ancient tree, was enveloped in a foul stench as it crashed into Lin Daochen's chest.

The dull thud was like the sound of a heavy drum, but Lin Daochen remained completely still, his clothes unwrinkled and his skin unharmed, as if he had been struck not by a heavy blow, but by a gentle breeze.

The old man's pupils constricted, and a chill ran down his spine—he finally understood that the gap between him and Lin Daochen was not a difference in cultivation level, but an insurmountable chasm.

"So be it... only one last gamble remains. If this move is used, there is no chance of survival. But if it is not used, none of us will survive today."

His face was withered, his eyes were gray, and he looked just like a lone hero looking back at his homeland before his death. Outsiders might really think he was the tragic protagonist of a story.

Lin Daochen found it laughable. The protagonist? He had long ago grasped that identity firmly in his grasp, smugly proud of it. These people before him were nothing more than puppets on stage, destined for a few more tumbles before their curtain fell. What did it matter to him what they thought, how they shouted, how they struggled?

His only priority right now is to solidify his foundation and make this body truly unshakeable.

Suddenly, a faint blue mist rose from the old man's body, wisps and strands, eerie like an old dream rising from the depths of a cold pool. Lin Daochen raised an eyebrow slightly, not giving it much thought—he'd deal with whatever came his way, and he was never one to bother with riddles.

As long as the physical body is strong enough, no matter how many tricks one uses, it's nothing more than a moth drawn to a flame.

The blue mist gathered thicker and thicker, enveloping his entire body and making his beard and hair gleam with a cold light, like an ancient war god standing in armor.

Lin Daochen nodded slightly, somewhat surprised: This old man still had some semblance of dignity before he died.

If we're talking about what's truly needed, it's simply to sever the ties that bind this person's fate. Lin Daochen has no attachment to this—having already made his move, he only seeks to do it honorably and decisively in one strike.

Time flows silently, and the hourglass empties its last grain of sand.

The battle between Lin Daochen and the old man had long since shattered the illusion of a gentle fight, reaching the brink of life and death. The two figures moved like lightning, flashing through the ruins as if shattering the void; the ground beneath their feet cracked and collapsed inch by inch, like brittle pottery repeatedly hammered by a giant sledgehammer, crumbling at the slightest touch.

Each clash unleashed a powerful surge, like an invisible hammer slamming into everything around it—the air was torn apart, the ground was crushed into dust, and even space itself trembled and emitted a faint groan.

On the battlefield, countless transparent bubbles rose up, numbering in the tens of thousands. This was caused by an overload of power: where the fist's wind went, a vacuum was suddenly created, the airflow was brutally sucked away, leaving behind dimly lit voids, like countless silent, open eyes.

Lin Daochen fought with increasing ferocity, his mind immersed in the flow of blades and qi; but the old man opposite him was on the verge of collapse. A metallic taste rose in his throat, his lungs burned like fire, and every breath felt like swallowing scalding sand.

In the previous few rounds, Lin Daochen had been able to handle the situation with ease, but he had exhausted his strength—his muscle fibers were now quietly tearing, his fingertips were trembling slightly, and even raising his arm brought on a piercing, numb pain. The aura of death was already whistling close to his ears, so close that he could hear its cold breath.