Jia Zhuangyuan seemed genuinely unable to hold back any longer. He rushed over to Young Master Liu’s side, urgently saying, “Young Master, let’s not tolerate these foreign devils any further. They are nothing but treacherous and deceitful wretches.”

James let out a sinister chuckle towards Jia Zhuangyuan. “Has the famed Mr. Jia lost his nerve? Oh, I forgot, Mr. Jia possesses no martial arts skill, so naturally, his courage is rather lacking.”

The Americans behind him erupted in laughter upon hearing this. This instantly infuriated Jia Zhuangyuan; he leaped up in anger, pointing directly at James’s nose and cursing loudly, “Spit out your American mother’s dog stink! I’m scared you’ll bite me, you old bastard? If you have the guts, fight me a few rounds, and I’ll beat the stuffing out of you!”

Saying this, he was about to charge forward to strike James. The old rogue, exhibiting smart restraint, backed away several paces, then looked at Jia Zhuangyuan with a sinister smile, saying, “Mr. Jia, you’ll soon find out whether I, James, have any skill or not. I wouldn’t deign to waste my time playing games with the paltry trickery you call ‘Ghost Eye’ kung fu.”

With that, he moved, and everyone only caught a blur before James had suddenly reappeared among his own men, still wearing that same chilling grin. A shiver ran down everyone’s spine. The distance from the center of the field to his group was likely five or six meters, yet the old fellow had covered it in the blink of an eye. Young Master Liu inwardly cursed this cunning old dog, realizing he had been concealing his true strength all along. He trusted that among the few men remaining by his own side, there were probably hidden masters as well.

James’s display seemed to have startled Jia Zhuangyuan; he stood near Young Master Liu, somewhat stunned into silence, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Young Master Liu lightly patted Jia Zhuangyuan’s shoulder as a gesture of reassurance. Then he fixed his gaze on James. “I realized long ago that as the leader of these supers, you must be far more than just an official from some secret government department. I suspect few of the men behind you are true soldiers either, are they?”

James craftily spread his hands. “Now my people have shown their true colors. Daoist Master, you’ve seen us. Given who we are, have you decided whether you will engage in this competition with us?”

Young Master Liu waved his hand, silencing the clamor of dissenting voices around him, and spoke, “We Chinese have never feared foreign invasion or oppression. No matter the dynasty, incursions by foreign tribes have always ended in failure. I agree to your proposal for a contest, but only as a warning: do not attempt any treachery. If you lose, you must leave this Chinese soil and never again dream of taking anything from this land.”

James chuckled darkly. “No problem, but if you lose, you must also abide by the agreement and hand over the treasures for us to take away.”

Young Master Liu suddenly burst into a long, rolling laugh that left James and his entourage completely baffled, like monks scratching their heads.

When his laughter subsided, Young Master Liu looked seriously at the group of foreigners before him. “Do you truly believe you can win anything on our soil? A contest? Or the national treasures of China? That is simply wishful thinking!”

He then pointed directly at James. “What shall the first match be?”

James pondered for a moment. “The first match will be a test of martial arts.” He turned and pointed at a burly man dressed in camouflage fatigues. “Turandot, haven’t you always wanted to experience Chinese Kung Fu!”

The big man handed the rifle he was holding to a companion beside him and slowly stepped out, taking his place in the center of the field. He clasped his fists together, then rumbled in stiff, broken Chinese, “I am Thai, my name is Turandot. I have long admired the prowess of Chinese Kung Fu. In America and Thailand, I’ve fought many so-called masters from Shaolin temples, but alas… the so-called ‘all martial arts stem from Shaolin’ is nothing but flashy forms that look good but serve no practical purpose.”

With that, his gaze turned sharp and somewhat malicious toward the onlookers, a hint of arrogance playing on his lips.

“Damn it all,” Fan Debiao roared, about to charge forward to engage him. Cai Qingchong quickly moved to intercept him, saying, “Debiao, hold your temper. For now, everything is subject to the Young Master’s direction.”

Fan Debiao grumbled, “This Thai dog of an American, knowing a bit of Muay Thai, doesn’t know his own limitations. Let Uncle Fan go out there and send him back to Thailand in three punches and two kicks.”

Cai Qingchong lowered his voice. “Debiao, among us here, who doesn’t know a bit of skill? The key is this is a formal contest; we must win, do you understand? The Young Master will arrange the right person to teach this ignorant bastard a lesson.”

Fan Debiao huffed but said no more.

Just then, Young Master Liu turned and indicated Cai Qingchong with a faint gesture. “Qingchong, you shall be the one to experience the skill of Muay Thai. However, since it’s a contest, I fear our big brother Fan might be too heavy-handed and might damage this Thai-American who knows nothing of Chinese Kung Fu. If you go lighter, I’ll feel more at ease.”

The group was first taken aback by Young Master Liu’s words, then dissolved into laughter at his dark humor. The lively Fan Debiao was bouncing and laughing uncontrollably.

Cai Qingchong, struggling to suppress a smile, slowly walked onto the field. He clasped his fists toward Turandot, who was visibly growing frustrated, and said, “I have never witnessed what Muay Thai is like. Today, I am honored to meet a master of this art. Allow this insignificant junior to learn something of Thai boxing.”

Turandot looked viciously at the lean Cai Qingchong, who was at least a head shorter than him, and snarled, “I don’t fight skinny boys. Send out that fat man who wanted to fight me just now.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Fan Debiao, who had been roaring with laughter, heard his name called out. “What? He specifically called me out? Fine!” He immediately shouted, “You son of a bitch for calling me fat! Cai Qingchong, come back here, let me teach him a lesson.” He then rolled up his sleeves, ready to stride onto the field.

Cai Qingchong waved his hand. “Debiao, restrain yourself.” He then turned back to Turandot and stated, “Chinese martial arts do not distinguish between strong and weak. Enough talk; I am about to make my move.”

Saying this, he separated his hands and adopted the posture of ‘White Crane Spreads Wings’ from Taijiquan, signaling to Turandot that he was initiating the attack.

Turandot blinked, looked at Cai Qingchong again, and muttered heavily, “Then don’t blame me for bullying the weak.” With a fierce shout, he raised both arms and crossed his fists protectively over his chest. Turandot’s stance implied he was ready, but he disdained making the first move against this small opponent.

Cai Qingchong smiled slightly, tracing a circle with his palms, stepped forward, and sent a phantom flurry of palm strikes toward Turandot. Young Master Liu recognized that Cai Qingchong was employing the Taiji Baguazhang of Chinese Taoist martial arts. This style emphasizes: ‘one move transforms into eight; when the hands disappear, don’t expect to escape; when you see the hands, don’t expect to leave.’ It is a soft, yielding art—the perfect counter to the fierce, hard style of Muay Thai.

Seeing Cai Qingchong initiate his attack, Turandot rapidly retreated several steps, covered his head with both hands, and lifted his right leg, launching a connected assault using both elbows and both legs in an attempt to shatter Cai Qingchong’s storm-like barrage of continuous strikes. He simultaneously aimed to regain the initiative through sheer force. Muay Thai is actually a traditional Thai combat technique, characterized by its ability to attack at extremely close quarters using elbows and knees—a vicious martial art. In the martial world, there are categories of training: soft, hard, and conditioning. Muay Thai falls under hard conditioning, possessing formidable lethality. Muay Thai is divided into techniques such as straight punches, hooks, kicks, thrusts, elbow strikes, and knee strikes, all adhering to the principle of overwhelming, relentless offense. Generally, any part of the body struck by a Muay Thai master results in injury or severe harm.

Now, Turandot unleashed his supreme Muay Thai skills, emitting low “Hah-Hah” sounds, employing elbows, knees, hands, and feet in a rapid, forward assault. For a moment, the sound of wind from fists and legs filled the ring. At this point, however, Cai Qingchong abruptly ceased his attack and instead began circling Turandot in evasive maneuvers, his palms moving like playful dragons, never straying far from Turandot’s vital points: neck, chest, ribs, and abdomen.

His intention was clear: engaging Turandot’s hard style head-on was unwise. Muay Thai, as one of the world’s most lethal fighting arts, excels at blitzkrieg and brute force engagement, using overwhelming power to subdue an opponent instantly. In historical encounters between world martial arts and Muay Thai, many celebrated masters have been defeated or injured within minutes. This is how Muay Thai earned its global reputation.

Cai Qingchong naturally understood this principle; his evasive strategy was based on it. If he could thoroughly understand Turandot’s hard-line approach within a few minutes and locate his weaknesses, a decisive blow would soon follow.

Indeed, Turandot bombarded him with punches and kicks for several minutes, yet failed even to touch Cai Qingchong’s silhouette. Frustration began to mount; the low “Hah-Hah” sounds from his throat grew more hurried and rose in pitch. He was clearly becoming impatient.

At this moment, Cai Qingchong let out a sharp cry and suddenly slowed his movement. As Turandot’s straight right punch was about to land on his chest, Cai Qingchong’s palms shifted into grips, instantly seizing his opponent’s right wrist. Using the momentum of the punch, he spun violently, wrenching Turandot’s arm behind his back like lightning. Before Turandot could stumble back to regain balance, Cai Qingchong’s palms struck solidly against Turandot’s twin shoulders.

These successive movements were executed flawlessly. Cai Qingchong employed the Ming Jin (manifest power), An Jin (hidden power), and Hua Jin (transforming power) of Taiji Baguazhang. He first used Hua Jin to neutralize the brute force of Turandot’s straight punch, then utilized An Jin to destabilize Turandot’s center of gravity, causing him to lose power. Finally came the Ming Jin, as the palm force struck Turandot’s shoulder blades.

Two sharp cracking sounds—‘Ka’ ‘Ka’—followed by a piercing scream, sent Turandot collapsing onto the crystalline floor. His body convulsed violently. He tried to push himself up with his hands, but immediately slumped back down. It was obvious that Cai Qingchong’s palm strike had employed internal force, shattering both of Turandot’s shoulder clavicles.

Cai Qingchong spared a glance of pity for the struggling Turandot on the ground, then turned to face James and his men, whose complexions were already grim. He clasped his hands in a bow. “My apologies. His injuries are not fatal; he only needs a few months of bone-setting and recovery to be fully healed.” With his head held high, he walked back to his group.

Two men dressed like special forces operatives from behind James came forward and helped the groaning Turandot, whose arrogance had completely vanished, back toward their line.

Young Master Liu stepped forward with a composed smile and addressed James. “We have won the first round of martial arts. Doctor, what shall we contest in the second round?”

James’s face was ashen, and he snorted coldly. “Turandot is the direct disciple of Nai Fo, the world’s number one master of Muay Thai. Daoist Master, you know the caliber of his skill. Your brother only won by a fluke using a tricky soft technique; it was an undeserved victory. Consider the first round a loss for us. For the second round, we shall compete with sorcery.”

With that, he turned and shouted, “Hatton, step forward!” Following his command, the young African man, Hatton, walked out with a grave expression, gave a slight nod to James, and stood quietly in the center of the field.

Seeing him take his position, Cai Qingchong turned to his companions with a serious expression and murmured, “This African sorcery is rumored to be one of the most primitive and mysterious forms of witchcraft in the world. The outside world knows little about them. But this does not mean their magic is as backward as their level of civilization. The origin of humanity lies in that mysterious, primal land.”

Young Master Liu nodded too. “I once heard my master speak of an African shaman known as the wisest man of Zambia. He once performed a ritual that caused a government official, dying from a bullet wound through his body, to stand up alive instantly, with the bullets ejecting themselves and the wound closing automatically. It was truly miraculous. Furthermore…”

At this moment, James grew impatient and shouted, “Daoist Master, who will represent your side in this round? If no one dares to step out, consider it a forfeit.”

Jia Zhuangyuan immediately retorted, “If anyone forfeits, it will be you!”

Jia Zhuangyuan then turned to Young Master Liu. “Young Master, allow me to contest this round.”

Young Master Liu looked at Jia Zhuangyuan and then at the others, knitting his brow. “No, I should go. African sorcery, much like our Chinese Taoism and the Western arts of Light Magic and Dark Witchcraft, is a very ancient form of magic—extremely bizarre and malicious.”

Jia Zhuangyuan insisted, “Precisely because of this, Young Master, I should go. We already won the last round. This round involves magic, and we will be facing the most mysterious and unpredictable African witchcraft. Even if I lose, we still have the final round. You are currently the spiritual anchor for all of us; the final round is an ability contest, which requires your personal presence.”

The others agreed that Jia Zhuangyuan’s reasoning was sound. Hatton indeed gave them an unnerving feeling of the unknown. Standing in the center of the field, he was calm and composed, wearing his habitual faint smile, showing none of the typical aura of a super-powered individual—just an exceedingly ordinary young African man. But it is precisely such an unassuming person who is often the most terrifyingly reserved opponent. If Young Master Liu faltered, becoming injured or controlled by this magic, the consequences would be unthinkable. Thus, everyone joined in urging Young Master Liu to reconsider.

Young Master Liu listened to their combined persuasions, paused in thought, and finally conceded. “Very well, Senior, you will test him. But you must be extremely cautious. Losing is unimportant, but do not overexert yourself and suffer injury.”

“I know my own limits,” Jia Zhuangyuan nodded, drawing his soft whip, and slowly walked to the center of the field.

Hatton smiled very amiably, revealing his bright white teeth toward Jia Zhuangyuan in greeting, then pointed curiously at the luminous whip in Jia Zhuangyuan’s hand, speaking in broken Chinese. “Old sir, is this the treasure you use for casting spells?”

Jia Zhuangyuan returned the smile. “Indeed, this is my weapon. And yours, young brother?”

Hatton chuckled shyly, reaching into his robe and pulling out a brown leather pouch. Then, with his left hand, he performed a peculiar, devout gesture toward the pouch before slowly withdrawing several items.

Every person present widened their eyes, watching his movements. African sorcery—this was an extremely rare and mysterious ancient art.

The first item Hatton produced was a small clown mask, seemingly made of some special, very thin material. Hatton gazed at the mask serenely, then gently placed it over his face. At that moment, everyone witnessed something astonishing. The moment the clown mask touched his face, it began to subtly move as if it were alive, slowly flowing like water from Hatton’s face to his temples, down his neck, until it completely merged with the contours of his face and neck.

Hatton slowly removed his left hand, which had been pressing the mask in place. Hatton’s features were now grotesquely terrifying to the onlookers: a human face shaped like a clown’s, utterly devoid of expression. Everyone could imagine the chilling effect.

Next, Hatton slowly donned a pair of identical white gloves, which also strangely merged with his hands, as if Hatton had been born with a pair of pale hands.

The final item was cradled in Hatton’s right hand—a golden bell. As Hatton shook his hand slightly, the bell emitted an unusually clear, tinkling sound. This golden bell had a unique design; its base was much longer than a typical bell, and it was covered in concentric grooves. The top was shaped like a slender needle. The whole object looked less like a bell and more like a miniature pagoda.

Hatton gently shook the bell in his right hand. A strange sound emanated from behind the expressionless clown face: “Th-is-is-my-tool-of-power.”

As this sound transmitted, everyone present, including those on James’s side, involuntarily shivered. This voice was no longer Hatton’s; it sounded unnatural, utterly devoid of human timbre—hollow, bizarre, and almost indescribable.

Jia Zhuangyuan, standing directly before him, was certainly startled by the sound. He gave a slight twitch of his whip, watching the clown-faced Hatton with intense vigilance. “Hatton, may we begin our duel of magic now?”

Another sound issued from behind the clown mask: “Ig-no-rant-hu-mans! You-de-serve-pun-ish-ment!” As the voice faded, the golden bell in Hatton’s hand began to ring with rapidly increasing frequency, and the white-gloved hand holding it trembled faster and faster.