Their clash was a whirlwind of pink skirts, pale legs, and beast-hide shorts over thick, muscular thighs. Senior Sister Claire’s legs were long and slender, yet shockingly powerful—each kick like a knife or axe. Quinn’s legs were sturdier, but moved with an effortless lightness, as if weightless, seemingly lacking any brute force.
Bang! Bang! Bang! A flurry of violent impacts echoed—Senior Sister Claire’s legs were struck by countless kicks in an instant, Quinn’s leg technique so fast she couldn’t even react!
Her astonishing leg strength did her no good; Quinn’s dazzling chain of kicks landed again and again, draining her power as if his legs were devouring it.
“Not good...”
Claire’s legs went weak. Quinn’s relentless flurry of kicks hammered her waist, chest, throat, then—smack, smack, smack—his big feet landed hard across her face, like rain pounding banana leaves.
Quinn spun midair, twisting his body for a backward kick. Unlike his earlier, speed-focused strikes, this one packed terrifying power.
Claire’s face was flattened, her pretty nose nearly mashed into her cheek, her jaw shattered, mouth stuffed with strange debris. Her head shot forward, feet trailing behind, sent flying like an arrow loosed from a bow, straight back toward the ruins!
Quinn was certain of one thing: Crippled Joe’s Heaven-Stealing Leg Art really was number one!
Maybe not number one in the world, but in the village, it was unquestionably first.
Senior Sister Claire’s leg technique looked fierce and domineering, but she couldn’t even touch him before being brutally beaten!
Quinn couldn't channel even a trace of vital qi—he relied purely on his physical strength. Yet Senior Sister Claire could infuse her legs with qi, boosting her power and speed. Even so, she was crippled in a single exchange!
He had just kicked Claire away when a surge of danger prickled across his skin—every hair standing on end. Without daring to turn, he immediately sprang forward.
Behind him, Senior Brother Kurt had silently closed in, aiming to strike him down. Kurt's attack should have been certain, but he hadn't expected Quinn's vigilance!
The two raced wildly atop the beasts, leaping from one back to another. Kurt's footsteps were lightning-fast, his attacks relentless against Quinn's back, while Quinn dashed forward, his hands a blur as he blocked every strike.
Thunder Chant Eight-Form—Thousand-Hand Buddha!
Kurt was stunned—Quinn, running with his back turned, could still block every attack, as if he had countless arms. Kurt had never seen such a skill!
Quinn's Thousand-Hand Buddha couldn't match Grandpa Mark's thunderous power, but it was still as swift as wind, sharp as lightning. Even while fleeing, he met Kurt head-on with raw, domineering force, never giving an inch.
Zheng—
Suddenly, a sword rang out. Quinn's scalp tingled; blood welled from his arm where the sharp blade had cut him.
Quinn tumbled off the beast's back, rolling beneath the belly of a giant creature as he sprinted forward. Kurt followed, his hands empty, but a silver sword spun and danced around him.
Quinn's pupils narrowed—this Senior Brother Kurt's sword control far surpassed Claire's. Her sword could fly dozens of yards away, slaying enemies at a distance, but Kurt kept his blade within three feet of his body.
That was truly terrifying—and incredibly dangerous.
Controlling a sword so close in battle meant one slip could injure yourself. It demanded extreme mastery, proving Kurt's formidable skill and absolute confidence!
Without precise control over your vital qi, you wouldn't dare wield a flying sword like this!
Grandpa Butcher never taught me how to channel qi, and Village Chief never explained how to use Overlord Body's qi. In this situation, I'm definitely at a disadvantage.
His foot suddenly struck a broken branch—no doubt crushed by the stampede. Without hesitation, Quinn flicked it into his hand: a willow branch six or seven feet long, as thick as a thumb.
The boy gripped the branch, darting forward, eyes locked on Kurt's sword tip, ignoring Kurt's hands entirely.
He tried pushing his qi into the willow branch, but could only sense it for about one foot three inches before losing contact.
One foot three inches—far too short. Against a flying sword, the risk was enormous.
Kurt lunged, his sword swirling around him—thrusting, slicing, wiping, lifting, chopping, shaking, cutting. It was as if an invisible swordsman wielded the blade, attacking Quinn from every cunning angle.