Chapter 272 - 173: Bare-Handed Heart Plucking, a Challenge to the Heroes of the World

Chapter 272: Chapter 173: Bare-Handed Heart Plucking, a Challenge to the Heroes of the World

To conquer the Martial Dao.

Coming from Wan Ze, those four words made it sound less like a life-or-death struggle and more like a spur-of-the-moment vacation.

Zhou Xianchuan looked at him, and suddenly felt something ignite within his chest.

’Ah Ze even said I’m a genius.’

’Then I am a genius.’

’Five years... Fine, five years it is!’

"Ah Ze, I’m with you!"

Wan Ze looked at him, smiled, and nodded.

The night wind blew past, and the streetlight’s glow wavered over the two of them.

At the far end of the alley, a few stray cats were rummaging through a trash can, making soft rustling sounds.

"So, you up for sparring tonight?" Wan Ze asked.

The fire that had just surged through Zhou Xianchuan’s veins was instantly doused by that question.

"I’m tired." He let out a yawn, the gesture as theatrical as a stage play. "Gotta go, catch you later!"

With that, he spun around and bolted, faster than a rabbit.

Wan Ze stood his ground, watching the pudgy silhouette vanish at the end of the alley, and couldn’t help but chuckle.

He shook his head, then turned and headed back toward the training hall.

The night sky was clear, cloudless, with just a few scattered stars.

In this world, the moon was normal.

But in the other world, the Red Moon dominated the sky.

Wan Ze looked away and quickened his pace.

He still had Cultivation to do tonight.

He had only just started his ten thousand repetitions of the Twelve Divine Intentions Fist, was still over nine thousand punches short for the Cloud-Breaking Fist’s Intermediate quest, and had to find time to finish the last five hundred kicks for the Mountain Shattering Leg.

’Life is just so exhilarating.’

But after taking a few more steps, Wan Ze suddenly stopped.

’In the shadows at the mouth of the alley ahead, something wasn’t right.’

It was instinct.

A Martial Artist’s instinct.

It was something difficult to put into words—like how a wild animal’s ears perk up before danger arrives, or how a person subconsciously turns around when they feel someone staring at them.

Most ordinary people possessed this kind of perception to some degree, but they usually ignored it.

In a Martial Artist, however, as their neural responses grew sharper, this instinct would be amplified to a degree approaching a "sixth sense."

Wan Ze’s brow furrowed slightly. He slowed his pace but didn’t stop.

Just then, three men emerged from the shadows at the mouth of the alley, walking toward him.

The one in the lead appeared to be around forty. He wore a finely tailored, dark gray suit, the collar of his shirt buttoned up to the very top. His hair was impeccably combed, each strand plastered neatly against his scalp.

His eyes swept over Wan Ze, assessing him like an opponent.

The assessment was subconscious, an instinct carved so deeply into his bones it couldn’t be concealed.

The two men behind him were far more overt in their demeanor.

The man on the left appeared to be in his late twenties. He had a crew cut on a head as round as a cannonball, a square jaw, and high cheekbones. His skin was tanned bronze by the sun. He looked like a ferocious tiger, ready to pounce at any moment.

His feet were slightly parted, with his weight resting on the balls of his feet. His hands hung naturally at his sides, but his fingertips were pressed lightly together.

This was a typical fighting stance, ready to punch, block, or dodge at any moment.

The one on the right was younger, probably in his early twenties, and wore a small braid. It wasn’t rare for guys to wear braids in the Martial Dao Circle; some felt it gave them a more distinct look, while others were simply too lazy to cut their hair.

His presence was similar to the crew-cut man’s, though less developed. The density of his qi and blood was completely exposed to Wan Ze’s Perception.

’One at Refining Viscera, the other in the Blood Tempering Realm.’

By now, Wan Ze’s Perception Power was so acute that he could roughly gauge a Martial Artist’s Cultivation level just by the fluctuations of their qi and blood, their breathing rhythm, or even the temperature of their skin.

It wasn’t some kind of Divine Ability; it was purely the natural result of accumulated experience and heightened Perception Power.

It was like an old farmer knowing the quality of a harvest just by looking at the crops, or a seasoned doctor diagnosing an illness just by feeling a patient’s pulse.

With a single glance at a fellow practitioner, Wan Ze could roughly size them up.

These two had abundant qi and blood and strong physiques. Among average Martial Artists, they would be considered skilled.

But in front of him...

’They still fell short.’

"Mr. Wan," the middle-aged man began, his voice mild, "to reach this level of Cultivation in less than half a year since entering the Martial Dao... it truly puts one to shame."

There was nothing friendly about that statement, however.

That single sentence made two things clear.

They had investigated Wan Ze and knew his background, and they didn’t care if he knew it.

It was both a show of force and a probe.

Wan Ze’s expression remained neutral. He didn’t so much as twitch an eyebrow. He stood there, half his face cloaked in shadow, looking as if he were listening to a passing acquaintance discuss something that had nothing to do with him.

"Get to the point. Don’t waste my time."

At his words, the expressions of the two young men beside their leader changed.

The one with the crew cut frowned, the muscles in his jaw tensing, but he said nothing. His self-control was stronger than his companion’s. Or, to be more precise, his obedience to the middle-aged man was greater.

The one with the braid wasn’t nearly as composed. He took half a step forward, looking like he was about to spit some threat...

But the middle-aged man raised his hand. It wasn’t a large gesture—just a slight lift of the palm, his fingers pressing downward.

At that simple gesture, the braided man choked back the words on the tip of his tongue. He took half a step back and resumed his stance.

The middle-aged man’s smile didn’t falter; it remained perfectly, placidly mild. "I haven’t come with ill intent. On the contrary, I represent the Secret Palace, and I’d like to discuss a deal with you."