What is the most effective way to attack an armed enemy when you are bare-handed?
Elbows. The elbow is a natural weapon, and after Chuck's body was tempered by the potions, its hardness was terrifying. Combined with a burst of power that shattered human limits, he could reach peak lethality in a heartbeat.
This silver-haired woman had thrown spears from trees and ambushed him from behind; she was a professional who utilized every dirty trick in the book. Since they were fighting, he would show her the ultimate respect: going all out from the start, regardless of her gender.
Chuck's legs coiled like springs. He lunged forward instantly, his elbow driving straight for her face!
But the woman was no amateur. The moment Chuck moved, she sensed the danger and snapped her body backward. Chuck's elbow whistled past, grazing the tip of her high nose bridge by a hair's breadth.
So fast! She scrambled back, twin blades in hand. She touched her nose; a smear of pale red blood appeared on her fingertips. She licked her lips, her eyes flashing. This man lacked technique, but just as she had observed during his fight with the bear, he was a humanoid monster with terrifying physical stats.
Instead of fear, a feral excitement filled her pale green eyes. She gripped her knives, leaning forward, the muscles of her abs tightening under her black tank top.
Chuck didn't feel discouraged by the miss. He felt the Blood Qi surging within him, centering in his core. His newly awakened mastery over his vitality allowed for extreme stability and agility—the perfect counter to a faster opponent.
She had the knives; he had the body of a god. Both felt they had the upper hand.
Without a countdown, they collided.
The obsidian blade lunged for Chuck's throat. He leaned back, his fist flying toward her face. She anticipated it, arching her spine like a gymnast to dodge while simultaneously flicking her blade across Chuck's forearm, leaving a shallow red line.
They disengaged, their breathing heavy in the quiet cave.
Round One: Chuck was at a disadvantage. It wasn't a lack of power or reaction speed; it was a lack of experience. Every move she made—the attack, the dodge, the counter-flow—was etched into her muscle memory through thousands of real battles.
The silence was deafening. Both waited for a flaw.
"Please, stop fighting!"
Tiffany's tearful cry acted like a starting pistol. They blurred into motion again.
She went for the throat again. Chuck ducked, anticipating the arc. But she feinted, pulling the blade back and driving a heavy military kick straight into Chuck's crotch!
Fuck! A low blow? Chuck twisted at the last second. The kick missed his vitals but slammed into his abdomen, making his stomach churn. She retreated immediately.
Round Two: Chuck was still losing. He had tried to predict her, but she had predicted his prediction. Yet, Chuck found himself smiling. This high-stakes CQC (Close Quarters Combat) was exhilarating.
"Name?" she asked. It was a sign of respect.
"Chuck."
"Valentina Orekhov," the Russian woman replied with a rolling accent. She raised his stolen bronze knife, pointing it at his eyes. "Today, you die."
Chuck just smiled. This felt like his first encounter with the Clouded Leopard—being picked apart by a faster, more experienced hunter. But he knew exactly how to handle this.
Tiffany, unable to bear the sight, retreated into the shadows of the cave, hugging her knees on a grass bed. Outside, the sun was setting over the western plain, painting the sea gold.
They moved a third time.
Valentina changed her style. Instead of the throat, she thrust both blades straight for his chest. Her logic was sound: if he dodged, she'd nick him; if he blocked, she'd retreat and repeat. Against a bare-handed man, she just needed to accumulate enough small wounds until he bled out.
But she didn't expect what happened next.
Chuck didn't dodge. He didn't block.
He lunged directly onto her blades. His hands clamped onto the sharp edges of her knives, his own blood instantly coating the steel and stone.
Valentina felt a crushing, irresistible force lock her wrists in place. Her momentum died. By the time she realized her mistake, it was too late.
Chuck's left hand held the obsidian blade still, while his right fist—large as a mallet—wound up and smashed into her washboard abs with 80% of his power.
"HNG-KGH—!" Her tall frame buckled like a folding chair. Her green eyes bulged as the air was violently expelled from her lungs.
Shit. I'm in trouble. Dazed and gasping, she tried to pull away, but Chuck's grip was like a steel vice. With a clat, the bloody obsidian knife fell. Chuck shifted his grip to her slender, surprisingly smooth wrist.
"RAAAH!" Valentina let out a desperate roar, trying to stab his throat with the bronze knife in her left hand.
Chuck didn't flinch. He let the bronze blade graze his scalp as he delivered a second heavy blow to her already bruised stomach.
"BLEG-H—!" The bronze knife flew from her nerveless fingers. Her left arm went limp. She hung from Chuck's grip, her knees wobbling, dry-heaving violently.
Yet, even in this state, she tried one last desperate trick. She leaned in, driving her knee toward his groin again.
Chuck remained expressionless. He pulled his fist back and delivered a third, final punch to the exact same spot on her pulverized abdomen.
THUD. The force of the blow lifted her boots off the ground. Her body bent 90 degrees. A massive, projectile spray of vomit and bile erupted from her mouth and nose, splattering across the cave floor.
"Ugh-waaaaah!"
Her eyes rolled back, showing only the whites. Her knees gave out completely, and her head slumped forward. Chuck held her up by her right wrist; she hung there like a limp ragdoll—a six-foot-tall, muscular, battle-damaged ragdoll.
Hiss— Chuck heard a strange sound. He looked down and saw a dark, spreading stain on the crotch of her camouflage cargo pants. A faint, salty-acrid smell hit his nose.
Damn. I literally knocked the piss out of her. He knew he couldn't beat her with technique, so he chose the "meat grinder" strategy: trading blood for a decisive grip. Once he caught her, his overwhelming strength ended the game.
Round Three: Total Victory for Chuck. "No..."
Tiffany walked back out, her face deathly pale. She saw the "Silver Ghost"—the woman who had protected her—hanging lifelessly from Chuck's hand.
Chuck ignored Tiffany and looked at the unconscious Russian. Kill her or keep her?
She had tried to kill him, but she was a fountain of professional combat and survival knowledge—skills he desperately needed. If he could break her, she'd be the perfect trainer.
Plus, despite the muscle and the scars, she was stunning. High cheekbones, snow-white skin, and even under those baggy pants, he could tell she had a world-class ass. He had experienced the "athlete" type with Kaede, but a "battle-hardened commando" was a new frontier.
He wrapped his bleeding hands with a strip of cloth and looked at her toned, unconscious body. A dark smirk tugged at his lips.