[Blood-stained Cloth] +2 STR
A fragment of history, once tied to a knight's scabbard, soaked in countless battles. Wearing it evokes the legacy of its owner, displaying a silent symbol of respect for their deeds.
It was time.
A weakened yet formidable version of the White Fist Tiger materialized before Shen Liang. Even diminished, the aura of the legendary fighter was undeniable. His muscles were honed to perfection, sinews like braided steel, marred by scars that spoke of decades spent in relentless combat. A blind right eye glimmered faintly beneath a furrowed brow, a testament to battles that had cost him dearly, yet left him unbroken.
His fists ended in claws, long and sharp, like the talons of a massive tiger poised to rend anything in its path. Age had touched him, silver streaking his hair and beard, but it had not softened the predatory intensity in his gaze. Each line on his face spoke of experience, resilience, and the kind of ferocity only earned through centuries of combat.
Shen Liang remained calm, methodical. He lifted the two blood-stained cloths and wound them around his hands, the fabric whispering faintly as it touched his skin. A subtle warmth radiated from them, merging with his own energy, reinforcing sinew and spirit alike.
His Strength — once 15 — now surged to 19. Two cloths had elevated him perfectly for the trial ahead. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Not arrogance. Just quiet acknowledgment. He was ready.
...
The White Fist Tiger wasted no time. Like a predator sensing weakness, he surged forward, every movement honed and precise. Wind screamed past Shen Liang, bending as if the very air itself sought to make way for the tiger's assault. The ground trembled beneath the impact of his approach.
In that critical instant, Shen Liang's mind clicked into place. Every passive skill, every calculation honed over years of preparation, guided his movements. He sidestepped the incoming fist with uncanny precision. "Chill out, big man," he muttered under his breath, settling into the fluid stance of [Shen Liang's Fists].
He leapt forward, mirroring the tiger's aggression. Yet his strike met nothing but air. The White Fist Tiger didn't dodge—he held Shen Liang's fist mid-flight, suspending the boy's body as effortlessly as if he weighed nothing.
A cold realization struck Shen Liang. [Ignore the first attack].
It was a Top Climber's unique skill. Absolute. No restrictions. No exceptions. The first blow, regardless of its force or angle, was rendered meaningless.
"…?!" Shen Liang staggered back, eyes widening. His mind raced. "What was that…?"
Recovering almost immediately, he readied himself for the next move. Pivoting on his lead foot, he became a coiled spring, his torso twisting, his back momentarily shielding the target. Energy accumulated from the ground through his legs, through the rotation of his core, until the motion unraveled.
A whip-like extension of his leg sliced through the air. His heel traced a perfect, horizontal arc aimed to strike with devastating precision. Every ounce of force—from floor to point of contact—had been calculated, honed, and optimized in a single, fluid motion.
The clash was imminent. A meeting of brute experience and sharpened intellect, strength against strategy, legacy against ingenuity.
The heel connected with a resounding crack, reverberating through the simulated arena. A wave of force rippled outward, shaking the very air.
A neon-orange number flashed before Shen Liang's eyes:
[White Fist Tiger (Clone): 125/150][-25 HP]
He smirked faintly. The first blow that had been ignored had been a test—a probe of his reflexes. Now, the impact registered, and the clone's vitality dropped precisely as intended.
The Tiger's golden eyes narrowed, scanning Shen Liang with renewed interest. Each scar, each sinew, now seemed to glint with anticipation, the old warrior adjusting, calculating, responding to the boy who dared strike back.
Shen Liang's mind raced, analyzing distance, timing, and momentum. Every motion of the Tiger could be anticipated, every opening exploited—if he remained patient, precise, and unflinching.
This was more than strength. It was a duel of calculation against experience, a clash where intellect could pierce brute force.
Shen Liang's gaze flicked to the clone's stance. Despite the visible damage, the White Fist Tiger's posture remained unshaken—a predator assessing its prey, muscles coiled like steel springs.
He adjusted his grip on the blood-stained cloths, letting their passive energy surge through his arms. Strength: 19. It wasn't just numbers—it was every fiber of his body, tuned for precision and efficiency.
The clone lunged again, this time a flurry of clawed strikes aimed at Shen Liang's torso. Wind shredded past him, each movement carrying the weight of decades of mastery.
Shen Liang's reflexes, enhanced by [Spatial Awareness Buff] and his innate agility, guided him through a narrow corridor of escape. He ducked under a sweeping claw, rolled across the ground, and came up behind the clone in a fluid motion.
[White Fist Tiger (Clone): 100/150][-25 HP]
The system notification appeared instantly in his vision. Perfect. His attacks weren't just fast—they were optimized, calculated, every ounce of force applied with precision.
He pivoted, launching a spinning heel kick aimed at the clone's side. The trajectory was perfect, exploiting the slight shift in balance the Tiger had made during his assault.
The neon feedback appeared again:
[White Fist Tiger (Clone): 75/150][-25 HP]
A grin touched Shen Liang's lips. Each strike was a node in his web of strategy, each movement a step toward total control of the encounter. The clone moved like a master, but every movement was predictable once broken down into angles, force vectors, and timing—Shen Liang's mind calculated all three at once, faster than the eye could follow.
From his vantage point in the air, the clone's claw swung past, slicing thin ribbons of displaced wind. Shen Liang pivoted, countering with a rapid series of blows—a combination of punches and elbows, each augmented by the blood-stained cloths.
[White Fist Tiger (Clone): 50/150][-25 HP]
The clone faltered slightly, a glimmer of surprise flickering across its golden eyes. Experience met calculation, and for the first time, Shen Liang could sense the old Tiger reacting—forced to adapt.
A faint smirk crossed Shen Liang's face. This is the dance of battle. Strength and skill weren't enough. Timing, anticipation, and ruthless logic were the true weapons here. And Shen Liang, for all his youth, wielded them better than most ever could.
Shen Liang's strikes tore through the clone's guard with precision, each blow met with system-confirmed damage. Yet, before he could savor the advantage, a deep, guttural roar filled the arena—a sound that seemed to shake the very simulation.
The White Fist Tiger's golden eyes blazed with unnatural light. His scars twisted into something feral, his muscles coiling like steel bands. In a horrifying display, the clone's wounds knit themselves back together, scars fading, bruises vanishing.
[White Fist Tiger (Clone) – BERSERK MODE: 200/200]
The system flashed violently in Shen Liang's vision. What…? The Tiger's vitality had not only been restored—it had surpassed its original maximum.
Before Shen Liang could react, the clone lunged with terrifying speed. Every strike carried the weight of raw, unbridled power. Shen Liang's reflexes, his agility, even his tactical foresight, could not fully compensate.
[Shen Liang: 10/150][-140 HP]
He staggered backward, blood trickling from his lips, vision swimming. Pain lanced through his limbs, his muscles screaming under the strain. The arena blurred as he fell to one knee, forced to rely solely on instinct. The clone towered over him, claws poised, teeth bared, aura radiating absolute dominance.
It wasn't just a fight anymore—it was survival. Shen Liang's mind raced, desperately calculating angles, counters, and probabilities, but the numbers felt… insufficient. Every prediction was thrown into chaos by the Tiger's berserk onslaught.
For a moment, the young prodigy felt the cold bite of helplessness—the kind that comes when even genius, skill, and preparation seem dwarfed by raw, unrelenting force.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, a spark of defiance remained. If I die here, it's not going to be without a fight. Shen Liang gritted his teeth, bloodied fingers brushing the ground as he steadied himself, determination blazing in his ruby-red eyes.
The White Fist Tiger advanced again, and the air seemed to tremble under the weight of his power, each step heralding a storm of pain. Shen Liang's heart pounded. Every muscle, every reflex, every ounce of his strategic mind screamed in desperation—he had to survive, or this simulation would be the first time he truly tasted mortality.