Seeing Uncle Hu so resolute, Wang Wende's face suddenly turned dark and cold. He spoke in a low, menacing voice, "Today, I must see your young master. This concerns my son's life and death—no one can stop me!"
Wang Wende had been in the Yanbei business world for many years and was no pushover. Since this was about his son's survival, he decided to throw caution to the wind.
But Uncle Hu's hot temper wasn't something to trifle with. He glared at Wang Wende. "What? You think you can just barge in? If you want to make trouble, at least know where you are. Get out of here!"
Wang Wende sneered and stepped back a few paces.
At that moment, seven or eight strong men emerged from behind him, moving toward Uncle Hu.
Wang Wende wasn't innocent in the death of Li Na's family. Even if the massacre was Wang Chaoyang's idea, Wang Wende had tacitly approved it. He was no good man.
Uncle Hu's eyes narrowed as he saw the men. He laughed angrily, grinding his teeth. "Alright then. If you're here to play rough, your Uncle Hu will be happy to play along."
He cracked his knuckles, his fists making popping sounds.
"Do you know what happens to those who cross my master?" Uncle Hu glared at Wang Wende again.
"I know the Feng Shui King isn't easy to deal with," Wang Wende replied, "but my son's life is hanging by a thread. To save him, I have no choice. If the Feng Shui King returns, I'll apologize in person."
With that, Wang Wende waved his hand, and his men charged at Uncle Hu.
I had seen Uncle Hu fight earlier that day—his skills were formidable. Four men couldn't last a minute against him.
The group swarmed him, but Uncle Hu fought back fiercely. Even surrounded by seven or eight men, he knocked several down.
He took plenty of hits himself, but it was as if he couldn't feel pain, hammering his fists into his opponents again and again.
Within minutes, all of them were lying on the ground.
That's when I noticed someone standing near a Mercedes, never joining the fight—just watching coldly.
Even from a distance, I could tell this man was a master. His raised temples, tall and solid frame, and broad shoulders marked him as someone trained in hard external martial arts.
After years of training under my master, I knew talent when I saw it. Uncle Hu wouldn't be able to handle this man.
Wang Wende had really gone all out to meet me, even hiring someone like him.
As Uncle Hu finished beating down the others, the middle-aged man by the Mercedes began walking over.
"I'll take you on," he said in a deep voice.
Uncle Hu's expression changed as soon as he saw his stride—powerful, steady, every step exuding strength. He knew this was no ordinary opponent.
The man stomped once, setting his stance.
Uncle Hu didn't care. He was the type to fight first, ask questions later. He charged.
The result was predictable—after only a few exchanges, the man struck his chest with a palm and sent him flying.
Still, Uncle Hu got up and charged again.
From above, I could see clearly: Uncle Hu was no match.
The man was a master of Baji Quan, with at least thirty years of training.
As the saying goes, "Tai Chi governs the world; Baji defends the nation." Baji Quan is direct, explosive, and brutally effective at close range—the perfect counter to someone like Uncle Hu.
Seeing this, I could no longer stay still. I sent Li Na back into the jade pendant and climbed down from the roof.
Just as I reached the door, the man slammed into Uncle Hu with Baji Quan's deadly "Iron Mountain Lean," sending him flying again.
I caught Uncle Hu before he could hit the ground.
The man moved in for a follow-up, intending to finish him off, but he had forgotten I was there.
As his palm came toward us, wind howling from the force, I formed a hand seal. Lightning crackled in my palm.
With a single "Thunder Strike," I met his blow head-on.
Our palms collided, and he shuddered as though struck by electricity, stumbling back several steps.
It took him seven or eight steps to steady himself, staring at me in disbelief.
He had no idea what technique I'd used—it not only neutralized his strike but pushed him back.
He fought with fists. I fought with the arcane arts. They were not the same.
My move worked just as well on the living as it did on spirits.
"Impressive," the man said, eyes fixed on me.
"Young master, this guy's pretty good. But I don't believe we can't take him," Uncle Hu growled, trying to get up.
But as soon as he moved, he collapsed again.
That "Iron Mountain Lean" wasn't a joke—true practitioners trained by slamming their shoulders into walls, trees, and posts until they could break a tree trunk in half.
Uncle Hu had taken one full-force. He was badly hurt.
"Uncle Hu, don't fight," I told him.
He was frustrated, but he simply couldn't stand.
Wang Wende, seeing me, instantly switched faces. Bringing his son Wang Chaoyang with him, he walked over with a smile.
"Young Master Wu, I'm truly sorry. I had no choice. You and my son were classmates—please, for old times' sake, save his life." He dropped to his knees.
"You're here for something, aren't you?" I asked directly.
"Yes… just one thing."
"Here, take it." I handed him the flesh-and-blood urn.