Chapter Twenty: The Ten Dragon Fists!

“You scoundrel, how dare you! Take my punch!”
A blurred shadow flashed from the shattered doorway, but swifter still was a semi-transparent fist force, sharp and cold as winter, sweeping towards Jiang An.

“Break!”
Jiang An’s sleeves fluttered as he thrust his fist forward, countering force with force. An invisible surge of fist wind struck the translucent force head-on; the collision erupted in a white blaze, followed by a thunderous crash. Fist winds scattered in every direction, shooting icy shards from the center. The room was instantly ruined—precious furnishings reduced to dust, the walls coated in frost, and every pane of glass shattered into powder.

Such was the power of a Grandmaster.

“Brother, are you unharmed?”
A middle-aged man of average height, square-faced with two white eyebrows, stood before Qi Zhenghui, head of the Qi family. His expression was calm as he asked, moving with unhurried grace, as though strolling in a garden—his confidence unmistakable, for Grandmasters were synonymous with strength.

He was Qi Zhenghao—the Qi family’s Grandmaster.

“Now that you’re here, of course I’m fine!”
The arrival of his Grandmaster brother filled Qi Zhenghui with a deep sense of security, a tacit understanding forged through decades of facing countless crises together.

Qi Zhenghao nodded, then fixed a cold gaze upon the masked figure in the long robe not far away. With a snort, he declared, “A Grandmaster resorting to assassination—how disgraceful for our kind! Who are you? If you won’t speak, don’t blame me for being merciless!”

“Then let’s see what you can do.”
Jiang An wasted no words. With a sweep of his wide sleeves, the wall behind him disintegrated as if struck by a hurricane. In a flash, he retreated, leaving the room.

“Don’t let the villain escape!”
No sooner had Qi Zhenghao spoken than a string of shadows vanished, and the air grew frigid, mist veiling the scene. Qi Zhenghao had activated his martial arts, pursuing with icy resolve. Raising his hand, a faintly visible white giant hand materialized, lunging at Jiang An, who hovered at the same height. Its force was far more terrifying than his earlier strike.

“Take my Frost Hand!”
The giant hand hadn’t yet touched, but its chill was palpable, seeming to freeze space itself. Facing this threat, Jiang An’s fighting spirit surged. He met the oncoming hand with a punch and a palm, movements slow yet swift.

Bang!

Fist collided with hand—the giant hand crumbled, but the hidden icy energy surged forth, only to meet the subsequent vigorous palm wind. There was no fierce clash as expected; instead, the powers mingled like spring breezes brushing willows, producing dense mist that shrouded all sight.

“Hmph, Frost Blade!”
The failure of his Frost Hand seemed anticipated by Qi Zhenghao, who had somehow maneuvered beneath Jiang An. Channeling his inner frost energy, he conjured a concentrated, deadly ice blade, slashing upward with lightning speed—so fast an ordinary person would barely register its passage before it struck.

Yet Jiang An was stranger still. After his punch and palm, he formed his right hand into a sword gesture, pointing downward in an ethereal, unhurried motion—no hint of aggression, merely a casual touch. But as his hand passed his waist, his posture changed—legs up, head down—and in the next instant, his fingertip met the ascending, razor-sharp ice blade. It seemed as if his finger was always meant to be there, and the blade simply collided with it, as gently as a dragonfly skimming water, sending ripples outward.

Crash.

His slender, pale fingers appeared fragile, yet they shattered the ice blade inch by inch. Shards fell freely, scattering to the ground. Witnessing this, Qi Zhenghao’s eternally cold eyes finally revealed a flicker of surprise—not merely at Jiang An’s unexpected fighting style, but at the extraordinary control he had over force. Every movement was precisely measured, no energy wasted, just enough to shatter the blade and nothing more.

Though the exchange seemed lengthy, it transpired in a flash.

Crack!

Using the rebound from the shattered blade, Jiang An somersaulted upward, landing firmly atop the highest point of the Qi family manor. Gazing down from above, his unremarkable frame now appeared as lofty and unassailable as a mountain.

“Who is that?”
“Someone’s broken in!”
“There, at the manor! Second Granduncle is fighting the intruder!”

Suddenly, lights blazed, voices clamored, and the Qi family, roused by the combat, finally reacted. They converged from all directions—skilled warriors, sleepy youths, elegant women—all forming a distant ring around Jiang An and Qi Zhenghao, curiosity and excitement on their faces. Yet these were but a rabble; the true elite lurked in the shadows, ready to support Qi Zhenghao at any moment. Jiang An’s senses told him plainly: four sniper rifles were trained on him, sealing every avenue of escape, while Qi Zhenghao’s aura locked onto him without pause, prepared to strike at any instant.

But Jiang An had no intention of fleeing.

He regarded Qi Zhenghao below with keen interest—here was the most formidable adversary he had encountered since his return. After several exchanges, Jiang An could discern their relative strengths: in terms of physique, Qi Zhenghao’s speed and power nearly matched his own, whose body was tempered to a minor mastery. His combat awareness was impressive, and the Qi family’s ancestral Frost Force was indeed remarkable. Qi Zhenghao, a late-stage Grandmaster, was more powerful than the recently advanced Dao Mo. Yet even so, Jiang An knew Qi Zhenghao couldn’t defeat him; within a thought, Jiang An had already devised several ways to win.

First, though Qi Zhenghao’s energy was abundant and his techniques varied, the Frost Force delayed opponents’ actions. Yet Jiang An’s body was flawless, his control over force was perfect. In battle, he would waste not a single ounce of strength, his minute muscle control giving him immense endurance—he could exhaust his opponent, though it would take time, and the presence of snipers introduced uncertainty.

Second, he could employ the mysterious Skyward Tower technique during combat. While several times gravity wouldn’t bring a Grandmaster to his knees, it would certainly distort their movement and shock their mind. Such a lapse could suffice for defeat or even death, but Jiang An would not stoop to using this trick against a fellow Grandmaster.

Third, he could use sorcery—Qi Zhenghao would be utterly defenseless, dying without knowing how. But that was out of the question, for Jiang An refused to expose his mastery of magic, at least for now.

Thoughts raced by, and Jiang An knew exactly what he must do: defeat his opponent swiftly and brutally, instilling fear and awe—this was the purpose of his visit.

Behind his mask, Jiang An’s lips curled into a smile—for the fist technique he had learned in the Dragon Buddha Realm was about to make its debut in this world. How nostalgic it was.

His eyes flashed with brilliance; beneath his cloak, muscles rippled and surged, gathering blood force layer upon layer, radiating a heavy, dark golden hue that shone through his cloak, illuminating the night sky. With this transformation, a wild, domineering aura soared heavenward, then pressed down, its might so overwhelming even the wind seemed to halt. All around, every soul felt a primal dread—a terror as if facing a peerless beast, as though a mere glance would annihilate them.

“Not good, get out of the way!”
Qi Zhenghao was the first to feel the oppression of this aura, unleashing his full force, spinning like the wind, determined to contend with Jiang An. Yet he found he could only hold his own, unable to influence others. At that moment—bang, bang, bang, bang! The snipers, gripped by soul-deep fear, involuntarily pulled their triggers. Four scorching bullets shot forth, striking only Jiang An’s phantom; his true form had vanished before they fired. Looking again, he was already airborne, his body ablaze with golden light, like a rising sun. Then his right fist pressed down towards Qi Zhenghao at the center of the crowd.

A thunderous dragon’s roar echoed in every mind!

Ten Dragon Fist—First Dragon Break!

Dragon! A dragon! The sacred beast, totem of China, yet unseen by mortal eyes. In the awestruck gaze of all, Jiang An’s fist force transformed into a golden dragon’s head, plummeting like a meteor, with unrivaled arrogance, and struck Qi Zhenghao with crushing force!

Qi Zhenghao had no time to react; he could only glimpse the golden dragon’s head—lifelike, forged of gold, its indifferent eyes, fluttering whiskers, and intricate horns—all so beautiful, beauty to its utmost.

Boom!

An explosion resounded, the ground quaked as if a dragon had turned over. No one could stand. The intense golden light obliterated the icy chill, its formidable energy swelling into an expanding golden hemisphere, its wild aura poised to destroy every building and life within hundreds of meters. But suddenly, the golden light vanished, the bright sky dimmed, as if nothing had happened.

Yet, the Qi family members afar were stunned, witnessing a scene they would never forget.

Within a hemisphere ten meters wide and three or four meters deep, Qi Zhenghao lay at the bottom, his robes tattered, his body scorched and unmoving—unconscious. At the rim of the pit, Jiang An stood upright in a black cloak and white mask, the wind stirring his garments with a lonely, resounding rustle, as if he belonged to another world.

Qi Zhenghao, the terror of Lin City, had been defeated!