Chapter Fifteen: The Five Elements Fist, Life-and-Death Arena

The older you get in the martial world, the more cautious you become.

Yet Yang Sheng didn’t say much.

Though he had killed entire families before, and had taken many lives since arriving in this realm, he did not consider himself a bloodthirsty man.

Killing was merely a means to an end.

He only sought a high ranking in the Longcheng Championship. As long as his opponents didn’t strike first, he wouldn’t resort to killing them on the arena every time.

Beside him, the foreigner Wen perked up when Uncle Chang spoke.

“I know the top fighters of every major faction like the back of my hand. Did you see the white-haired guy from the British Union Society just now? That’s Zuo Kun, the White-Headed Tiger.

You’ve taken down two of the British Union’s Three Tigers; only this one’s left.

He’s the godson of the former British Union leader, Chai Hongtu, skilled in Tongbei Fist and Pigua Palm.

He once helped Chai Hongtu gamble with warlords in Thailand using his fists, winning seventeen consecutive underground matches.

Those Thai little guys sometimes couldn’t land a single move on him—they’d meet him face-to-face only to be smashed bloody.”

Tongbei Fist and Pigua Palm are northern styles focused on long-range, explosive, and ferocious strikes, rarely seen in Hong Kong.

Yang Sheng looked up; within Wen’s few words, Zuo Kun had already finished his fight.

Zuo Kun was tall, nearly two meters, with long limbs and a fierce presence.

Such a physique wasted on Wing Chun but perfectly suited for Tongbei and Pigua.

His opponent didn’t even touch him before being blasted out of the arena.

The speed of the whole process was almost too quick to react to.

No wonder Chai Jiu was confident to send Zuo Kun against Yaohui—the White-Headed Tiger was clearly a tier above.

Wen continued chattering behind Yang Sheng.

Though his information contained some nonsense and personal views, Yang Sheng could roughly grasp all the top fighters from every faction in Hong Kong.

Now it was Hongsheng Union’s turn for the draw.

“Next match: Hongsheng Union versus Helian. Please send out your representatives.”

Wen quickly whispered behind Yang Sheng: “Helian’s also a declining faction, not much stronger than Hongsheng.

Helian only has one Double-Flower Red Stick, nicknamed ‘Mad Dog’ Feng Le.

This guy’s style is a messy mix; not very strong, but vicious and underhanded—be careful.”

Yang Sheng nodded and strode onto the arena.

“The death pact is signed! Victory depends on man, life depends on heaven!”

An elderly man in a long robe stepped down from the ring, and only then did Yang Sheng size up the so-called ‘Mad Dog’ Feng Le.

The opponent was in his twenties, wearing jeans and a floral shirt, with shoulder-length hair, looking less like a gangster and more like a rocker.

Feng Le squinted, smiling: “You took down two of the British Union’s Tigers. Although you carry the ‘49er’ title, your strength is standard Double-Flower Red Stick. I’m definitely no match.

How about this—we fight three symbolic moves, then I concede.

You save energy, I don’t lose face. At least give me some dignity, huh?”

Yang Sheng smiled back: “Sure.”

Feng Le cracked his joints, took two steps back, then accelerated with a high whip kick, followed by a spinning kick and a hooking sweep aimed at Yang Sheng.

The three kicks were clean and sharp, drawing gasps from the crowd below.

“Whoa!”

“Le’s got more style than Bruce Lee!”

Actually, such cheers came mostly from low-level punks; anyone with real skill could see Feng Le was just showing off.

Starting with a high whip kick left his lower body vulnerable.

Besides the first kick having some power, the next two were all speed with no solid force behind them—just for show.

From these kicks alone, Yang Sheng could tell Feng Le had some background in Taekwondo, Karate, and Muay Thai, but was a jack of all trades, master of none.

Taking a step back, Yang Sheng casually raised and blocked to dissipate the force.

But then, something unexpected happened.

Feng Le seemed to lose balance and lunged directly at Yang Sheng’s feet, wrapping his arms around his legs in an attempt to throw him down.

There was a hint of jujutsu sacrifice technique in that move.

Yet Yang Sheng seemed prepared.

Rooted firmly like an ancient tree at the Two Forms Stance, his legs locked solidly to the arena floor.

Feng Le reacted swiftly.

Seeing he couldn’t topple Yang Sheng, his right hand turned into a claw, aiming straight for Yang Sheng’s lower body!

Knee bent, leg snapped out—Yang Sheng delivered a side kick that sent Feng Le flying, his eyes burning with killing intent.

“Looking for death!”

Before stepping onto the ring, Wen warned him Feng Le was vicious and to be cautious.

Wen knew Yang Sheng’s strength; if even he needed to be wary, it showed how tricky Feng Le was.

The saying goes: no matter how skilled, one fears a butcher’s knife.

In arena fights, the contest isn’t just about skill but also ruthlessness.

Yang Luchan’s infamous reverse hand sparrow grab was dirty business.

Countless experts lost to such underhanded street-fight tactics.

Yang Sheng never believed Feng Le would concede after three moves.

As a Double-Flower Red Stick, how could he give up so easily?

If Feng Le fought fairly, Yang Sheng only sought a win.

But starting the match with such a dirty, vicious strike was courting death.

Yang Sheng’s figure surged forward like a fierce tiger, fists whistling with crisp snaps.

Feng Le’s expression shifted slightly.

He had seen the match where Yang Sheng killed Ruan Feng.

This ‘49er’s strength was terrifying; a head-on clash was impossible to win.

So Feng Le dropped low, rolling like a lazy donkey beneath Yang Sheng, then thrust both palms into Yang Sheng’s lower ribs and kidneys.

Yang Sheng turned his fists into palms, force exploding!

Forming the Five Elements of Xingyi Fist—Metal Element Chop!

Feng Le felt a gale roaring toward his head.

If he didn’t block, his skull would shatter next moment.

He raised his hands crossed above his head but still grunted as the chop struck, stepping back two paces.

Yang Sheng swept his fists horizontally, Feng Le’s arms were knocked aside, leaving his center wide open.

Earth Element Horizontal Fist!

Arms like a gun barrel, fist like a spearhead—one punch shot out like a lance, landing squarely on Feng Le’s abdomen.

Instantly, Feng Le spat a mouthful of blood.

Water Element Drilling Fist!

Yang Sheng retreated a step, delivering a cannon-like punch.

The blow was like a fired cannonball, sending Feng Le flying into the edge ropes, then bouncing back.

Fire Element Cannon Fist!

Yang Sheng’s stance tightened like a drawn bow, stepping forward half a pace, fist extended in a short, lightning-fast strike.

With a crisp crack, Feng Le’s chest caved in, his back torn through the clothing.

Half-Step Crushing Fist, force penetrating the organs!

The arena fell silent for a moment, then erupted in screams and gasps.

The most thrilling part of such no-holds-barred underground fights was seeing someone brutally beaten to death on stage.

Among all the Longcheng Championship matches, the most exciting were undoubtedly Yang Sheng’s two fights.

Others were either evenly matched, stopping short during the contest, or outright crushed like Zuo Kun smashing his opponent bloody on sight.

Though decisive, those matches lasted less time than signing the death pact—far less entertaining.

Yang Sheng didn’t know if it was luck or misfortune that both rounds pitted him against Double-Flower Red Sticks.

Not many in all Hong Kong held that title; only those in the top thirty or so did.

Using such extreme, violent methods to kill two Double-Flower Red Sticks on the arena—could anything be more thrilling?

Descending from the ring, a group of Hongsheng Union’s underlings rushed forward with towels and water, bubbling with excitement.

This made Di Wei standing behind look gloomy, with a tinge of jealousy in his eyes.

Uncle Chang frowned: “Asheng, didn’t I tell you before not to be so ruthless? How come you killed someone again?”

Yang Sheng shrugged innocently: “Old Top, I didn’t want to.

But this guy played dirty, going straight for my lower body.

I’ve never been to Po Lan Street to vent anger in my life—if I got seriously hurt, that’d be a big loss.

So I couldn’t hold back.

But I watched carefully—Helian’s a declining faction; they won’t dare cause us real trouble.”

Uncle Chang shook his head helplessly.

“Alright, as long as you know where you stand.”

Helian’s strength was roughly equal to Hongsheng’s; losing a Double-Flower Red Stick didn’t faze Uncle Chang much.

“You’ve practically secured a top fifty spot with this win.

The next Longcheng Championship match is three days from now, then every three days thereafter.

Use these three days to rest and avoid trouble.”

After his advice, Uncle Chang left with his men.

He was getting old and had no desire to spend the night at the championship.

Yang Sheng stayed, accompanied by Wen and others, continuing to watch the matches.

Learning from others could sharpen his own skills.

At the top fifty level, many formidable fighters still remained in Hong Kong’s factions.

Yang Sheng could also gather intelligence on potential opponents.

Suddenly, he felt someone locking eyes on him.

Looking up, a middle-aged man in a black trench coat, wearing an eye patch, glared fiercely before waving and leaving with a group of underlings.

Wen chuckled: “That’s the Helian faction’s enforcer, One-Eyed Leopard.

Feng Le was his top Double-Flower Red Stick.

Now that Feng Le was killed by you in the ring, this guy’s probably losing his mind.

But Feng Le was odd—where did he get the confidence to strike you so viciously?

He’s usually cautious and knows his limits.

One-Eyed Leopard isn’t strong, but he’s sharp and knows who the Longcheng Championship really favors.

In the end, the top big factions divide the spoils.

Whether Feng Le ranks in the top hundred, fifty, or thirty makes no difference.

So either Feng Le got cocky, or One-Eyed Leopard got arrogant—how could they dare strike to kill in the ring?”

Yang Sheng stroked his chin, pondering, but found no clue.

Turning to Wen and the others, he said, “Tell the brothers not to leave.

I just crushed Helian—let’s hold a banquet at Fule Restaurant.

One thousand a table, and steam a whole Dongxing grouper!”

Wen was indifferent, but the others cheered loudly.

Hongsheng Union was a dying faction, and Uncle Chang and the rest were notoriously stingy.

Even if these ‘49ers’ drew pay from the main hall, they barely made ends meet.

A thousand bucks a table was a feast some had never tasted.

Yang Sheng had scooped a fortune from killing Luo Rong anyway.

Since the money couldn’t be taken away, buying loyalty at such a moment was only natural.