Zhang Su's offense hadn't ended yet; once completely unleashed, it became a tempest of fury. The illusory white mist danced around his body, blood surged within, and the violent power flowed through his muscles and bones, each punch like thunder, each kick like lightning.
If fists and feet were the only weapons, it wouldn't be enough. When a punch landed on a person, the force would make his shoulder crash into another, even knowing he would take a punch back, he remained fearless.
Similarly, while taking hits, you must exploit gaps in the opponent's assault to inflict terrifying damage, not merely trading injuries, but exchanging minor wounds for major ones, or even for death!
With his eyes coordinating with the white mist to sense figures, facing eight opponents, although he could predict their actions, the speed of his mind couldn't keep up. They were men, seven living people—some cunning, some impulsive, some reckless, and some who didn't care about risking their lives.
