Chapter Thirty-Two: Clash of Titans

Gao Wu, training alongside Song Mingyue, acquired a wealth of invaluable martial arts knowledge. According to Song Mingyue, the body is a martial artist’s foundation, while spiritual power is the core. What is known as martial intent is the spiritual force forged through relentless cultivation on the path of martial arts. The more one’s spirit aligns with their chosen martial way, the greater the power it brings.

The old master had spoken on this subject as well, but perhaps due to differences in age and background, Gao Wu found Song Mingyue’s explanations far more lucid and profound. Despite Han Song’s mature appearance, he had already condensed a measure of genuine Tiger Form intent. The spiritual power he unleashed was solid and overwhelming, enough to disrupt the senses of others—even exerting pressure on the mental level.

Over this period, Gao Wu’s spiritual strength had more than doubled. With his relentless practice of the Azure Dragon Divine Breath Incantation, even though he had yet to comprehend his own martial intent, his vigor and spirit were remarkably robust. Not even Coach Huang Hai’s observation techniques could subdue him, let alone Han Song.

Still, it was his first time confronting the true intent of the Tiger Form, and he couldn’t help but be affected by his opponent’s imposing presence. Yet, he snapped back to clarity in an instant. The image of the Tiger Form, the illusion of muscles broad enough to block out the sky—all of it faded away, leaving only Han Song before him, muscles taut and face fierce.

He began to understand, if only faintly, the true meaning behind Song Mingyue, the old master, and Iron Dragon’s constant emphasis on the unity of form and spirit. He had always thought it meant copying the form of the dragon, imitating its spirit. But Han Song’s demonstration showed him otherwise—Han Song remained entirely human, no matter how ferocious his tiger claws. The true strength lay in condensing the essence of the tiger on a spiritual level, achieving a measure of unity between body and spirit, and thereby emanating a powerful aura.

Set aside the mystical and ineffable; in his view, it meant using the Tiger Form as the core of one’s spirit, commanding both body and mind, reaching a harmony where one’s full potential could be unleashed. The principle, though not shrouded in mystery, wasn’t so easily grasped—Song Mingyue could explain it clearly, but Gao Wu struggled to truly understand.

Martial insights must be realized personally, on both spiritual and physical levels; words, writing, images, and sounds are only tools for the practitioner to interpret. This is the wondrous nature of martial arts.

For Gao Wu, Han Song was a worthy rival—only through head-on confrontation could he sense his opponent’s transformations and learn from them. With someone like Huang Hai, who completely overpowered him, Gao Wu could barely defend himself, let alone observe and learn. If the opponent were too weak, he’d feel no fighting spirit, unable to enter the right state of mind. Besides, there’d be nothing to learn from a much weaker opponent.

The brief clash of spirits between them sparked Gao Wu’s inspiration, granting him deeper insight into the Nine Forms of the Dragon. Han Song, seeing Gao Wu’s absent gaze, believed he had cowed his opponent with his Tiger Form intent and lunged without hesitation.

Han Song’s advance covered five or six meters in one stride, his twin claws aiming straight for Gao Wu’s face. His pounce was wild and violent—truly a tiger descending on prey.

Gao Wu reacted instantly, toes digging into the ground as he retreated swiftly, arms crossed defensively to form a barrier against Han Song’s claws. Generally, scratching is a tactic women favor in a fight; true combatants use fists, which are harder and more forceful. The same logic applies to martial artists—at the same level, an open hand is never as hard as a clenched fist.

However, with ten years of Tiger Form training, Han Song’s fingers had been specially conditioned, their strength akin to iron hooks. His splayed fingers could change forms endlessly—grabbing, chopping, tearing, locking, and more. Even through the martial uniform, Han Song’s claws scorched Gao Wu’s forearms with pain.

These uniforms, tailored from special materials, could not be cut by ordinary blades and were designed to keep competitors safe. Yet, Han Song’s claws managed to scratch Gao Wu’s arms through the fabric, a testament to their ferocity.

Han Song’s claws slid down Gao Wu’s arms, transforming from a grasp to a lock, seizing his wrists. Instantly sensing danger, Gao Wu vibrated his arms, twisting them like serpents and breaking free from the iron grip. He retreated, feet digging into the floor with the agility of a dragon riding the wind.

Han Song’s side kick—sharp as a whistle—nearly grazed Gao Wu’s abdomen. Known as the Tiger’s Tail Kick, it was as swift and insidious as a tiger’s lash, a killing move of the White Tiger Fist. Had Gao Wu been a moment slower, he would have taken the full brunt—even with protective gear, it would have been difficult to withstand.

Missing his mark, Han Song pressed on, launching a flurry of attacks with fists and claws in the manner of a tiger climbing a mountain—body and limbs fully engaged. To Han Song, Gao Wu was the mountain he would ascend.

In this state, Han Song unleashed the full brutality, sharpness, and dominance of the Tiger Form. His fists and claws set the air crackling with explosive force. Yet, though Han Song attacked with the tiger’s fury, Gao Wu remained steady, retreating but never disordered. No matter the ferocity of Han Song’s assault, Gao Wu withstood each attack, his footwork weaving and flowing with the grace of a swimming fish or dancing dragon—infusing the match with an unexpected beauty.

For such a fierce and brilliant clash to unfold in a high school tournament arena, the thousands in the martial arts hall watched in utter silence, forgetting even to cheer.

Watching the live broadcast, Han Yang—the top martial artist of Dongjiang High—watched with newfound seriousness. The modern high-definition cameras captured every detail, more reliably than the human eye. From Han Yang’s perspective, both Gao Wu and Han Song’s techniques were a bit rough, their strength and speed still lacking, but their comprehension of martial arts was rare and praiseworthy.

Of the more than ten advanced teenage martial artists in Dongjiang, most had enhanced their bodies with chemicals. Take Yang Ru—her physical attributes surpassed even Han Song and Gao Wu, and she trained diligently. But her life had been too comfortable, lacking in experience and innate talent, so her understanding of martial arts remained superficial.

Against Gao Wu or Han Song, she might hold her own in the ring, but in real combat, she would surely lose.

Yang Ru watched intently as well, her earlier disdain fading. Even if she lacked their talent, she could see the prowess of both fighters. “Han Song is from your family’s side branch, isn’t he? He’s already captured the spirit of the White Tiger Fist. Not bad at all…”

Han Yang was about to reply when the situation in the ring suddenly shifted.

Han Song, relentless in his assault, broke through Gao Wu’s defense. His twin claws struck Gao Wu’s chest in rapid succession, each impact resonating loudly, forcing Gao Wu backward with the force of each blow. After eight consecutive strikes, Han Song’s claws flipped upward, aiming for Gao Wu’s throat—a strike potent enough to crush his windpipe.

The referee’s face darkened, ready to intervene. Yet, the match was not yet decided; Gao Wu’s eyes shone bright, his core strength gathered and ready for a counterattack.

Moreover, even if his throat was torn, it could be saved—serious, but not fatal. The tournament’s purpose was to temper young martial artists, and a willingness to face brutal combat was essential.

At this critical moment, Gao Wu twisted his body away, swinging his right palm like a blade with the force of his torso—a motion from the Swimming Dragon Sword technique, the Breaking Wave form.

He had deliberately exposed a weakness, intending to endure several strikes in order to launch this counterattack.

Han Song’s claw reached Gao Wu’s throat first, but Gao Wu twisted his neck like a slippery fish, evading the full force by a hair’s breadth. The missed distance left Han Song’s claw unable to exert full strength, leaving only three long scratches on Gao Wu’s neck.

With his attack foiled, Han Song was left exposed. Gao Wu’s counter—a slicing palm blade—struck Han Song’s cheek with both speed and power, distorting his features. The tremendous impact blacked out Han Song’s vision, his legs buckled, and his stance collapsed.

Seizing the moment, Gao Wu launched a high sweeping kick—the Dragon’s Tail Whip—cracking the air like thunder.

The audience gasped in terror as the whip-like kick arced toward Han Song’s head, but the referee intercepted, gently blocking Gao Wu and pushing Han Song aside.

The referee’s technique was masterful, his touch soft as water, dissolving all the force of Gao Wu’s kick. Gao Wu withdrew his leg without pursuing further.

“You’ve won.” The referee nodded to Gao Wu, signaling the end of the match before turning to check on Han Song.

Fortunately, Han Song was robust, his skull resilient. Though his face was battered and swollen, the injuries weren’t severe. His head, however, reeled from the concussion, his eyes unfocused and body limp. Without the referee’s support, he would have collapsed.

Gao Wu cupped his fists to Han Song. “A beautiful Tiger Form—truly enlightening.”

There was no mockery in his words. With Song Mingyue, the bouts had been fine and precise, but never fierce. This match with Han Song had been truly even, igniting his fighting spirit, and the victory brought a deep sense of satisfaction—the taste of triumph was sweeter than ever.

Han Song looked at Gao Wu dazedly, unable to respond.

Quickly, the school doctor and others from Fourth High hurried to take Han Song away, two martial arts team members casting Gao Wu fierce glares as they left.

Gao Wu bared his teeth in a grin at them, only then feeling the burning pain in his neck as the movement tugged his muscles.

He touched the wound—just a surface scratch. With a constitution over ten, he could take it.

His heart filled with the joy of victory, Gao Wu saluted those around him.

The crowd from Fourth High, witnessing their champion’s defeat, were in low spirits. Still, the fight had been brutal, and Gao Wu’s victory had been hard-won—no one jeered, and the hall remained quiet.

Far away at Anjing University, a beautiful woman, arms around Shang Qingjun’s neck, exclaimed, “Is the Dongjiang High tournament always this brutal? Our little brother’s fighting for his life—impressive, but savage!”

Shang Qingjun frowned slightly. The match had indeed been dangerous, and she felt genuine concern—Xiao Wu was too reckless…