A Scroll of Infinite Glory

When Guan Luoyang noticed Long Wuchang following him, the instructor, who was still in the small ancestral hall, also noticed the strangeness outside the door.

Ma Zhixing, holding a brocade box containing ancient paintings, sat on a futon in the small ancestral hall. Having just suffered a blow, he was now suddenly free and felt dizzy. Unexpectedly, the instructor pulled him up and was about to take him to jump over the wall and leave.

However, as soon as the two entered the courtyard, they felt a dim light in the corner of their eyes. A thin shadow was cast down from the roof, extending from the front of the house to the courtyard wall, as if dividing the entire courtyard in two.

A curly-haired, blue-eyed Englishman had somehow appeared on the rooftop, overlooking the view in the courtyard.

The courtyard gate was pushed open with a bang, the rusted iron lock was violently broken, cobwebs fluttered, dust rose, and a burly foreign man who seemed as tall as the gate walked in.

"You must be Ma Zhixing. Hello, I'm Dimon Seymour."

The blue-eyed youth on the rooftop glanced at the coach briefly before focusing all his attention on Ma Zhixing.

To be more precise, he was only staring at the brocade box in Ma Zhixing's hand, completely ignoring Ma Zhixing's appearance, while he was still talking.

"You may be unfamiliar with this name, but all you need to know is that the Guangzhou General's Mansion sent people to your home to buy ancient paintings, and the real buyer of that painting is me."

"You!?" Ma Zhixing's face showed a look of realization, and his lips trembled slightly.

He finally understood why his father, who had been holding back, would suddenly turn against the people in the General's Mansion.

Dimon Seymour spoke fluent Chinese and said, "The people from the General's Mansion had some misunderstandings with your father and did a bad job. So, to show my sincerity, I didn't bring them with me this time. As long as you hand over that painting to me, I can say to them again that you can rest easy and no longer have to hide in fear."

"Hahaha!"

Ma Zhixing laughed in fury, a faint trace of blood appearing in his mouth as he clenched his teeth until they bled. "Should I thank you for your leniency and great kindness? My ancient Chinese paintings, treasures of a thousand years, what reason do I have to hand them over to a robber like you who comes to steal them?"

Dimon Seymour said lightly, "Your country has many ancient philosophers, and someone seems to have left a saying: 'If one's virtue is not commensurate with one's position, disaster will surely follow.' Some things are beyond your ability to bear, so they should be left to those who are capable."

Seymour's gaze lingered on the coach before she abruptly changed the subject, "Speaking of which, after arriving here, I discovered that you actually have such a strong fighter by your side. He wasn't at your house before, yet he was able to meet you here and even showed a protective attitude towards you. Considering the fireworks display last night, I'm afraid his identity is a bit suspicious."

Ma Zhixing's hand tightened, and he stared intently at him.

Seymour continued, "I'm a very self-respecting person. I would never bother to provoke a fighting expert unless it's absolutely necessary. Just give me that painting, and your actions and what you do are none of my business."

"You...you..."

Ma Zhixing felt dizzy with anger, his fingertips went cold, but when he looked at the instructor and then at the painting in his hand, he seemed to tremble all over, but he still gradually loosened his grip.

The coach suddenly patted him on the shoulder: "Hold your painting tight."

Ma Zhixing said in a trembling voice, "But we..."

"You believe this foreigner?"

The coach's single question cut off all of Ma Zhixing's hesitation: "Besides, do you even remember why we came together in the first place? We wanted to avoid being robbed, bullied, and beaten. Is it right for us to willingly accept being bullied just to take a few more steps?"

"It's a desperate path, with mountains of knives and seas of fire ahead, and sheer cliffs behind. We cannot retreat!"

The hand on his shoulder seemed to bring boundless warmth and determination. Ma Zhixing responded, stopped trembling, and hugged the painting tightly.

Dimon Seymour gazed at the sky and sighed, "What a pity."

It's a pity it will take a little more effort.

A loud bang suddenly came from behind Ma Zhixing.

It felt as if two fast horses had suddenly bumped into him from behind.

That was the coach's hand, which intercepted the punch that McBoll was throwing.

The courtyard was only about ten steps square. From the gate to behind Ma Zhixing, Maiboer only had to tiptoe.

Although his punch was intercepted by the coach, the wind from the punch still ruffled Ma Zhixing's hair.

Most of the martial arts schools that exist in China can be traced back to the Song and Ming dynasties, while a few can be traced back to the late Han Dynasty, the Three Kingdoms period, or even the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, such as the White Ape Ancestor Situ Xuankong of Mount Emei.

In terms of the diversity and historical origins of Chinese martial arts, it is undoubtedly the best in the world. However, this does not mean that other countries do not have ancient and excellent martial arts traditions.

British boxing originated from the Romans. Boxing matches have been enjoyed by everyone from royalty to vagrants, flourishing and remaining relevant over time. It can be said that it is a martial art that is moving towards its peak.

Maple's boxing technique comes from a style called "Ice Flower Rock," which follows an older and more rigorous training method. He spends his days applying olive oil to his body and using only thin bandages cut from cowhide to protect his finger joints and forearms, leaving the rest of his body almost unprotected as he engages in various forms of striking against spherical rocks.

The instructor knew from Ma Zhixing's first tiptoe and punch that he was a seasoned and valiant man, so he dared not let him get close. As soon as one hand collided with Ma Zhixing's fist, the other hand flicked out a stick shadow, aiming straight for Ma Zhixing's throat.

That short stick was the instructor's usual weapon, made of the finest rosewood. This type of wood has a solid grain and a hard texture, but when used by a true master, it can produce a unique resilience.

When you swing the stick with this kind of resilience, the speed of the stick tip is so fast that it's hard to even see a shadow.

When a bloody scratch appeared on Maipol's face, he finally heard the sharp whistling sound of the stick slicing through the air.

A cold glint flashed on the tip of the stick, and a three-inch sharp blade popped out. With a flick of its wrist, another wound was added to Maipol's collarbone, forcing him to take two steps back.

But with those two steps back, his fast punches had room to maneuver again. His left fist was light, his right fist was heavy, and his left straight punch was the fastest, like a bowstring being plucked, already hitting the back of the instructor's hand.

After various regulations were introduced for boxing in the mid-19th century, to the untrained eye, boxers' techniques seemed to be no different from each other; they were all just jumping and throwing punches, as if they had all been taught by the same master.

But in the eyes of insiders, every successful boxer must have a unique style.

This is especially true of the older style of boxing like Mapol, where punches such as hooks, uppercuts, and parries are all mediocre, but the straight punch is highlighted to an extraordinary degree.

He weighs over 220 pounds, but every time he throws a punch, his chest is relaxed and hollow, his waist and hips are flexible, and his whole body is soft as if he were just a tall and thin man weighing less than 100 pounds. Only when the fist is thrown does he suddenly tense up.

It's like suddenly increasing the weight back in that extremely brief and rapid change.

Because of this punching method, he was not used to using weapons like brass knuckles, but in a previous boarding action, Maple's fists shattered the skulls, guns, blades, and iron gauntlets of thirty pirates within five minutes.

He threw punches in rapid succession and dodged frequently. In order to pursue the efficiency of counterattacks, his body moved and dodged with extremely low amplitude, so much so that it looked like he was swaying and twisting in place. His left hand punched at a slightly higher frequency than his right hand.

The air between the two men was filled with hissing sounds from Maipol's punches.

The coach's short bat was so fast in his hand that even he couldn't see the tip of the bat, yet the opponent's fists always managed to dodge the most dangerous trajectories and strike the coach's arm in the blink of an eye.

Within the span of a single breath, they each unleashed about ten attacks in quick succession, the sounds of their collisions so dense they resembled a cluster of firecrackers exploding simultaneously.

Only when the pace of both sides suddenly slowed down could you see that there were several bleeding wounds scattered all over McBoy's body, and the coach's arms, especially his right hand, were red and swollen. Although he was still holding the bat, he was already trembling uncontrollably.

At that moment, Dimon Seymour on the roof jumped down and pounced on Ma Zhixing.

The coach seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. He turned around with his left hand and grabbed the sparrow's tail. With a gentle, squeezing force, he used his whole body to push Ma Zhixing away, sending him flying to the corner of the wall.