Sinister and Ruthless

But a feline is always a feline—their reflexes far surpass those of ordinary people.

Although Du Ruo’s appearance was abrupt, with barely a sound until he was at the very foot of the boulder, the clouded leopard perched atop it was still alerted. In the instant their eyes met, the leopard tensed its limbs and leapt toward the mountainside behind the boulder.

The slope behind the boulder angled at about thirty degrees. The clouded leopard landed head down, hind legs bent, tail nearly pressed to the ground, forelegs braced and ready to spring again. Lifting its head, it fixed Du Ruo with a wary glare, baring its teeth and growling—a sound rougher than a housecat’s yowl.

“If I said… I was just out for a stroll, would you believe me?” Du Ruo landed precisely where the clouded leopard had just lain. He steadied himself but dared not move further, keeping his body half-crouched, arms outstretched, eyes locked on the feline.

He’d recognized the creature as a clouded leopard even from midair. His posture wasn’t out of fear for his own safety—he knew the leopard posed little threat to him, at least not face to face. The animal before him was a textbook adult: about a meter long, its tail nearly matching its body in length, its streamlined form elegant yet strikingly lean, weighing perhaps forty or fifty pounds.

Had the leopard attacked from ambush, Du Ruo might have been in some danger. But confronting it openly like this, he was virtually safe—certainly not in mortal peril. In fact, he understood that at this moment, it was the leopard who was truly afraid.

If he had come face to face with an adult tiger—now that would have been a deadly crisis. Adult tigers weigh between three hundred and nine hundred pounds, making them an entirely different level of threat.

“Meow!” The clouded leopard, clearly startled despite Du Ruo’s gentle words, let out a louder growl and sprang from the mountainside. Its forepaws flashed, claws unsheathing from their velvet pads, and in a blur—so fast only an afterimage remained—it lunged for Du Ruo’s throat.

Fortunately, Du Ruo had been watching the leopard’s every move. The instant its hind legs tensed, he drew his arms back, forming a defensive posture at his chest—one hand high, one low.

As the leopard pounced, Du Ruo twisted from the waist, sweeping his left palm to the side to redirect the animal’s head and shoulders, while his right hand pushed away its clawed hind legs, sending them past his lower body.

The leopard’s attack missed, and its body was deflected toward the edge of the boulder. Yet, even midair, its long tail twisted with unnatural agility, righting its svelte form for a perfect four-point landing.

It paced to the side, eyes wary, as if searching for a weakness in Du Ruo’s defenses.

What Du Ruo had just used was the “Crocodile Form—Parting the Waters” from the Twelve Animal Styles of Xingyi Boxing. Though intended as both attack and defense, he had used only the palm to deflect. Had he driven from the waist and struck with his elbow, that blow would have seriously injured the leopard.

The Crocodile Form draws upon the element of water and is renowned in Xingyi for its defensive prowess. Its ability to absorb and redirect force rivals that of Tai Chi, though most focus only on its offensive applications.

“Truly a wild beast—devious to the core,” Du Ruo muttered. Though his defense had seemed effortless, a fine sheen of sweat now covered his back.

The leopard’s teeth had aimed for his throat, its claws for his shoulders. These were the obvious attacks. Yet as he deflected its head and forequarters, the feline’s hind claws had silently shot for his groin.

Had it not been for the Crocodile Form’s two-tiered guard—his right hand pushing away the hind legs—he would have been seriously injured just then. It would have been no different than striking someone’s privates with the back of his hand; those knife-sharp claws would have left a painful mark.

Du Ruo was well aware that animals like clouded leopards and lynxes, when hunting larger prey, always went for the throat, the groin, or the anus—and nearly always by ambush. That’s why he’d been so vigilant, yet even so, he’d almost been caught off guard.

“Meow!” The leopard paced a few steps, then, with a growl, spun and darted for the denser part of the woods.

“Trying to run? Not so fast.” Seeing the leopard’s failed attack and attempted retreat, Du Ruo stamped his foot and shifted his stance in a flash. His hips powered forward in a Tiger Form leap, covering several meters in two strides. His upper body morphed into Eagle Form; his right arm shot out, hand transforming into a talon. At the last second, he snatched the leopard’s tail.

“Meow!” The leopard’s fur bristled as it was caught, its body jerking back as it snapped at Du Ruo’s arm.

There was a thud as the once supple tail became rigid in his grasp. Instinctively, Du Ruo shook his right arm, then brought his left hand—still guarding his chest—down in a resounding slap.

His palm met the leopard’s head with a solid smack, the feline’s snarling face suddenly silenced by the blow.

Taking advantage of the leopard’s disrupted balance, Du Ruo released its tail, reached forward, and clamped his fingers around its neck.

With two light knocks to its skull—just the right force to daze but not injure—the clouded leopard stopped struggling. Still, it hadn’t given up; its forelegs flailed, claws tearing fabric and drawing blood on Du Ruo’s arm, hind legs kicking at his thigh, tail whipping like a lash, teeth snapping in a desperate attempt to bite his arm.

Du Ruo dared not squeeze too hard for fear of killing the animal, nor could he let go—if a big cat like this ever ambushed him again, it would be hard to guard against. So, he resorted to a trick that works on all felines: he slid his left hand behind the leopard’s head and seized the loose skin at its nape, lifting firmly.

In an instant, the fierce, struggling leopard went limp, emitting only a muted whimper.

“Well, well—turns out a clouded leopard is just a big housecat after all.” Seeing the leopard so subdued, Du Ruo couldn’t help but laugh. He hefted the meter-long cat in one hand, its long tail trailing on the ground, and stroked its head affectionately as he spoke.

(Felines are extraordinarily agile and cautious. During mating, the female often experiences pain and may retaliate, so the male typically bites the female’s neck to keep her subdued. As a result, all members of the cat family become docile when grabbed by the scruff. In theory, this applies even to tigers—so should you ever be attacked by one in the wild, and if circumstances allow, just grab it by the neck.)