Chapter 132: Fists Like Drums

With a dull thud, Ying Eleven’s massive fist imprint collided heavily with a punch no larger than an infant’s, unleashing a startling surge of martial energy.

It was He Changan who, at the critical moment, had struck out suddenly. His fist had barely traveled three feet when it met Ying Eleven’s strike.

In the brutal struggles of martial artists, the rule is that every extra inch of reach provides an advantage. The ability to crush an opponent from several yards away is the pursuit of many high-ranking martial artists, a feat that is truly awe-inspiring. Yet, there is a counter-truth: every inch closer brings greater peril. In moments where there is no room to retreat, each shortening of the distance makes the force of the strike more concentrated and pure. Thus, both long and short ranges have their merits; one cannot be judged by a single standard.

Caught off guard, He Changan struck out in self-defense, blocking Ying Eleven’s full-force blow, but the impact sent him flying back more than thirty feet. He used the momentum to dissipate the force of the strike, ignoring his own injuries, and resolutely took a step forward. Simultaneously, he threw another punch from a distance.

The fist imprint looked like an infant’s clenched hand—soft and lacking any formidable presence—causing the onlookers in the small town who had gathered to watch the spectacle to feel deeply disappointed. Such a punch probably wouldn't even be enough to make the Lady of the Heavenly Fox feel comfortable, let alone cause harm.

Ying Eleven curled his lip in a cold sneer and casually waved his hand, shattering the tiny fist imprint. He Changan moved step by step, punching as he went, picking up speed with every strike. Ying Eleven parried each move, waiting for He Changan to close the distance so he could crush him with a single blow.

By the time a dozen punches had been thrown, He Changan’s aura began to wane. Gradually, he appeared like an ordinary person, devoid of even a sliver of spiritual energy. Ying Eleven’s expression grew solemn. He realized that He Changan’s punches were not intended to cause immediate harm; rather, they were achieving an indescribable, mysterious accumulation of force.

Each punch was heavier than the last, like waves on a vast ocean, with the trailing waves pushing the ones ahead. Individually, they seemed insignificant, but once countless layers of force stacked together and rushed forward, even rocks that had stood for thousands of years would shatter under the unbearable pressure. This was the art of "thick accumulation and thin eruption"—the ability to penetrate stone with water—a highly sophisticated manifestation of martial intent.

As the punches landed one by one, Ying Eleven could easily dispel them with a wave of his hand, but as dozens of punches stacked up, he began to feel the strain. Overall, however, he believed that no matter how brilliant He Changan’s technique was, it could not overcome the absolute truth that "raw power breaks all laws."

With his blood surging and his vital energy erupting, Ying Eleven unleashed a full-force blow, once again sending He Changan, who was struggling against the tide, flying back twenty to thirty feet.

The moment his feet touched the ground, He Changan struck again. It was the same technique—punch after punch, each faster and heavier than the last. Most importantly, each was steadier than the one before. This time, he did not even pause to draw breath, choosing to strike continuously.

Ying Eleven faced two choices: he could seize the opportunity to catch his breath, though that would allow He Changan’s infant-sized fist imprints to close in—which, while unlikely to kill him, would certainly disrupt his rhythm—or he could do as He Changan did, hold his breath and continue the fight.

Ying Eleven chose to hold his breath. He wanted to kill He Changan on the spot. As a peak sixth-rank martial artist, he could hold his breath for fifty or sixty cycles during combat. In the savage brawls of martial artists, the creed is "kill them in one breath, or be killed in one breath."

"Strike while the spirit is high, and press forward without hesitation." This was the reason He Changan had persisted under the Dragon Gate Waterfall, teeth clenched and willing to risk his meridians rupturing just to fight against the current.

He Changan moved forward, striking with every step, advancing another dozen paces. Ying Eleven also began to stride forward, meeting He Changan head-on, punch for punch. The imprints they unleashed collided in the air, erupting in a series of dull thuds with astonishing momentum.

He Changan’s face grew increasingly pale; blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, winding down his chin and soaking his robes. Yet, he remained indifferent, his mind sinking into a state of emptiness. His only thought was to execute that ancient boxing technique again and again.

Within his heart-lake, a small figure resembling He Changan took a stance and began to box. Unlike the physical He Changan, this figure held a tiny black sword, using sword intent to replace fist intent. The sound of the punches was like a drum, whistling with wind. Ripples began to spread across the heart-lake, forming waves that rolled like a tide, eventually swelling into a raging sea.

Enduring dozens of He Changan’s punches with his thick-skinned resilience, Ying Eleven also began to pale. Compared to He Changan, however, he still appeared much more at ease. He strode forward, seemingly dominating the fight, yet he knew deep down that he had been too rash.

He Changan’s fist intent was continuous and his breath was long; every punch was followed by a second and a third, each harder than the last, striking at the heart of this eleventh prince of the Demon Court and making him feel a sense of panic. Ying Eleven was now riding a tiger and could not easily get off. He had to either persist and risk injury to kill He Changan in one go, or retreat a dozen steps to catch his breath.

Driven by a surge of ferocity, he abandoned all caution and lunged at He Changan. His fist, the size of a millstone, rained down like a violent storm, smashing toward He Changan’s head and face.

He Changan chose to evade. To fight head-on with Ying Eleven in his half-human, half-demon form would be foolish. He Changan was brave and relentless, but he was no reckless fool seeking death. He knew his limits well and would never go toe-to-toe with an opponent clearly stronger than himself.

He Changan was sent flying by one of Ying Eleven’s blows, executing several somersaults in the air before landing fifteen feet away. He had barely steadied himself when he struck out again. He repeated his previous tactic: one step, one punch, closing in step by step, confronting Ying Eleven. Once again, he chose not to catch his breath. This was the "one-breath" strategy.

Ying Eleven was already consumed by uncontrollable rage, yet he was forced to hold his breath and continue the entanglement with He Changan. In his gray eyes, fire and water were distinct, radiating an eerie, blood-red light.

One mistake led to another. In a martial artist’s life-or-death struggle, failing to catch one's breath at the right moment could mean losing the opportunity to win. This He Changan was truly a surprise. It had been over thirty cycles of breath, and He Changan was still holding on, refusing to catch his breath, striking with punches that were neither soft nor hard, but layered like crashing waves, leaving Ying Eleven unable to recover his rhythm.

Finally, the man and the demon were ten feet apart. Ying Eleven triggered his bloodline ability, his form suddenly swelling as he transformed into a nine-headed giant serpent over sixty feet long. He roared, willing to suffer a minor injury just to force a breath.

With a dull thud, He Changan’s fist imprint landed on Ying Eleven’s body for the first time. He had been waiting for this very opportunity. Whether it was a pure martial artist or a monster in half-demon form, those who relied on physical strength were at their weakest the moment they had to catch their breath. They were like sea turtles or clams protected by hard shells—the moment that shell was opened was the moment they were most vulnerable.

He Changan had been suffering immensely while waiting for Ying Eleven to breathe, but the tempering he had undergone beneath the Dragon Gate Waterfall had made his vital energy far superior to that of an ordinary martial artist. Furthermore, the breathing techniques taught by the old man of the Chen family had proven crucial. Under this immense pressure, he had forced himself to maintain his breath and unexpectedly discovered that this breathing method was miraculous; vaguely, it seemed to allow his vital energy to flow without end. As far as he knew, only the internal breathing arts of the Taoist sects possessed such mysterious effects.

He had no time to ponder this. As Ying Eleven braced himself to take the blow and force a breath, He Changan would not let him succeed. His boxing style shifted instantly. Previously, he had fought slow with slow, focusing on "precision" and "stability" to ensure he wouldn't be killed or crippled. Now, the opportunity had arrived.

He Changan’s style shifted to fast-against-fast. His punches became faster and faster, landing solidly on Ying Eleven’s chest and abdomen, like a divine being beating a drum, a relentless, non-stop barrage of force.